Paper work in the morning: requisitions, reports, vouchers-the whole schmear. Then over to the hospital to sit awhile with Barbara, reading to her from “Honey Bunch: Her First Little Garden.” Then he treated himself to a decent meal in one of those west side French restaurants: coq au vin with a half-bottle of a heavy burgundy to help it along. He paid his bill and then, on the way out, stopped at the bar for a Kirsch. He felt good.
It was good; everything was good. He had no sooner returned to his home when Blankenship came in to display Danny Boy’s Time-Habit Pattern. It was very erratic indeed: Arrived at the Factory at 11:30 a.m. Skipped lunch completely. Took a long zigzag walk along the docks. Sat on a wharf for almost an hour-“Just watching the turds float by” according to the man tailing him. Report from Stryker: He had taken Mrs. Cleek to lunch, and she told him she had found Danny Boy weeping in his office, and he had told her there had been a death in the family. Danny Boy returned to the White House at 2:03 p.m.
“Fine,” the Captain nodded, handing the log back to Blankenship. “Keep at it. Is Fernandez on?”
“Comes on at four, Captain.”
“Ask him to stop by to see me, will you?”
After Blankenship left, Delaney closed all the doors to his study, paced slowly around the room, head bowed. “A death in the family.” That was nice. He paused to call Monica Gilbert and ask if he could come over to see her that evening. She invited him for dinner but he begged off; they arranged that he would come over at 7:00 p.m. He told her it would only be for a few minutes; she didn’t ask the reason. Her girls were home from school during the holiday week so, she explained, she hadn’t been able to visit Barbara as much as she wanted to, but would try to get there the following afternoon. He thanked her.
More pacing, figuring out options and possibilities. He walked into the radio room to tell Blankenship to requisition four more cars, two squads and two unmarked, and keep them parked on the street outside, two men in each. He didn’t want to think of the increase in manpower that entailed, and went back into his study to resume his pacing. Was there anything he should have done that he had not? He couldn’t think of anything, but he was certain there would be problems he hadn’t considered. No help for that.
He took out his plan and, alongside the final three items, worked out a rough time schedule. He was still fiddling with it when Lt. Jeri Fernandez knocked and looked in.
“Want me, Captain?”
“Just for a minute, lieutenant. Won’t take long. How’s it going?”
“Okay. I got a feeling things are beginning to move. Don’ ask me how I know. Just a feeling.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve got another job for you. You’ll have to draw more men. Get them from wherever you can. If you have any shit with their commanders, tell them to call me. It’s a woman-Monica Gilbert. Here’s her address and telephone number. She’s the widow of Bernard Gilbert, the second victim. There was a guard on her right after he was iced, so there may be a photo of her in the files and some Time-Habit reports. I want a twenty-four hour tap on her phone, two men in an unmarked car outside her house, and two uniformed men outside her apartment door. She’s got two little girls. If she goes out with the girls, both the buttons stick with them, and I mean close. If she goes out alone, one man on her and one on the kids. Got all that?”
“Sure, Captain. A tight tail?”
“But I mean tight. Close enough to touch.”
“You think Danny Boy’ll try something?”
“No, I don’t. But I want her and her children covered, around the clock. Can you set it up?”
“No sweat, Captain. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Good. Put your first men on at eight tonight. Not before.” Fernandez nodded. “Captain…”
“Yes?”
“The Luger’s almost ready.”
“Fine. Any problems?”
“Nope, not a one.”
“You spending any money on this?”
“Money?” Fernandez looked at him incredulously. “What money? Some guys owed me some favors.”
Delaney nodded. Fernandez opened the hallway door to depart, and there was a man standing there, his arm bent, knuckles raised, about to knock on the Captain’s door. “Captain Delaney?” the man asked Fernandez.
The lieutenant shook his head, jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Captain, stepped around the newcorner and disappeared.
“I’m Captain Edward X. Delaney.”
“My name is William T. Willow, Detective lieutenant. I believe you wanted to consult me.”
“Oh yes,” Delaney said, rising from his chair. “Please come in, lieutenant, and close the door behind you. Thank you for coming up. Please sit down over there. Sergeant MacDonald tells me you’re the best man in your field.”
“I agree,” Willow said, with a sweet smile.
Delaney laughed. “How about a drink?” he asked. “Anything?”
“You don’t happen to have a glass of sherry, do you, Captain?”
“Yes, I do. Medium dry. Will that be all right?”
“Excellent, thank you.”
The Captain walked over to his liquor cabinet, and while he poured the drink, he inspected the handwriting expert. A queer bird. The skin and frame of a plucked chicken, and clad in a hairy tweed suit so heavy Delaney wondered how the man’s frail shoulders could support it. On his lap was a plaid cap, and his shoes were over-the-ankle boots in a dark brown suede. Argyle socks, wool Tattersall shirt, woven linen tie secured with a horse’s head clasp. Quite a sight.
But Willow’s eyes were washed blue, lively and alert, and his movements, when he took the glass of sherry from Delaney, were crisp and steady.
“Your health, sir,” the lieutenant said, raising his glass. He sipped. “Harvey’s,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And very good, too. I would have been up sooner, Captain, but I’ve been in court.”
“That’s all right. No rush about this.”
“What is it?”
Delaney searched in his top desk drawer, then handed Willow the photo Thomas Handry had delivered, with the inscription on the back: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.”
“What can you tell me about the man who wrote this?” Detective lieutenant William T. Willow didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he looked at the Captain with astonishment.
“Oh dear,” he said, “I’m afraid there’s been a frightful misunderstanding. Captain, I’m a QD man, not a graphologist.”
Pause.
“What’s a QD man?” Delaney asked.
“Questioned Documents. All my work is with forgeries or suspected forgeries, comparing one specimen with another.”
“I see. And what is a graphologist?”
“A man who allegedly is able to determine character, personality, and even physical and mental illness from a man’s handwriting.”
“‘Allegedly’,” Delaney repeated. “I gather you don’t agree with graphologists?”
“Let’s just say I’m an agnostic on the matter,”’ Willow smiled his sweet smile. “I don’t agree and I don’t disagree.” The Captain saw the sherry glass was empty. He rose to refill it, and left the bottle on the little table alongside Willow’s elbow. Then the Captain sat down behind his desk again, regarded the other man gravely.
“But you’re familiar with the theories and practice of graphology?”
“Oh my yes, Captain. I read everything on the subject of handwriting analysis, from whatever source, good and bad.”
Delaney nodded, laced his fingers across his stomach, leaned back in his swivel chair.
“Lieutenant Willow,” he said dreamily, “I am going to ask a very special favor of you. I am going to ask you to pretend you are a graphologist and not a QD man. I am going to ask you to inspect this specimen of handwriting and analyze it as a graphologist would. What I want is your opinion. I do not want a signed statement from you. You will not be called upon to testify. This is completely unofficial. I just want to know what you think-putting yourself in the place of a graphologist, of course. It will go no further than this room.”