“Jesus Christ. And if that doesn’t work, I suppose you’ll investigate every one of those hundred thousand customers in the big file?”
“There won’t be that many. There have got to be people who bought things at Outside Life several times over the past seven years. Notice that Sol Appel estimates a hundred thousand sales checks in storage, but only thirty thousand on his mailing list. I’ll check with him, or you can, but I’d guess he’s got someone winnowing out repeat buyers, and only new customers are added to the mailing list.”
“That makes sense. All right, suppose there are thirty thousand individual customers. If you don’t get anywhere with the sales checks I pull, you’ll investigate all thirty thousand?”
“If I have to,” Delaney nodded. “But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Meanwhile, how does the plan sound to you-I mean your making two files: one of ice ax purchases, one of general mountaineering equipment purchases?”
“It sounds okay.”
“Then can I make arrangements with Sol Appel to have the sales checks sent up here?”
“Sure. You’re a nut-you know that, Captain?”
“I know.”
The meeting with Monica Gilbert called for more caution and deliberation. He walked past her house twice, on the other side of the street, and could see no signs of surveillance, no uniformed patrolmen, no unmarked police cars. But even if the guards had been called off, it was probably that her phone was still tapped. Remembering Broughton’s threat to “stomp” him, he had no desire to risk a contact that the Deputy Commissioner would learn about.
Then he remembered her two little girls. One of them, the older, was surely of school age-perhaps both of them. Monica Gilbert, if she was sending her children to a public school, and from what Delaney had learned of her circumstances she probably was, would surely walk the children to the nearest elementary school, three blocks away, and call for them in the afternoon.
So, the next morning, he stationed himself down the block, across the street, and waited, stamping his feet against the cold and wishing he had worn his earmuffs. But, within half an hour, he was rewarded by the sight of Mrs. Gilbert and her two little girls, bundled up in snowsuits, exiting from the brownstone. He followed them, across the street and at a distance, until she left her daughters at the door of the school. She started back, apparently heading home, and he crossed the street, approached her, raised his hat.
“Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Why, it’s Captain…Delaney?”
“Yes. How are you?”
“Well, thank you. And thank you for your letter of condolence. It was very kind of you.”
“Yes, well…Mrs. Gilbert, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee? We could go to a luncheonette.”
She looked at him a moment, debating. “Well…I’m on my way home. Why don’t you come back with me? I always have my second cup after the girls are in school.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
He had carefully brought along the Xerox copy of the Outside Life mailing list, three packs of 3x5 filing cards, and a small, hand-drawn map of the 251st Precinct, showing only its boundaries.
“Good coffee,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. Gilbert, you told me you wanted to help. Do you still feel that way?”
“Yes. More than ever. Now…”
“It’s just routine work. Boring.”
“I don’t care.”
“All right.”
He told her what he wanted. She was to go through the 30,000 names and addresses on the mailing list, and when she found one within the 251st Precinct, she was to make out a typed file card for each person. When she had finished the list, she was then to type out her own list, with two carbons, of her cards of the Precinct residents.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked her.
“Do they have to live strictly within the boundaries of this Precinct?”
“Well…use your own judgment on that. If it’s only a few blocks outside, include them.”
“Will this help find my husband’s killer?”
“I think it will, Mrs. Gilbert.”
She nodded. “All right. I’ll get started on it right away. Besides, I think it’s best if I have something to keep me busy right now.”
He looked at her admiringly.
Later, he wondered why he felt so pleased with himself after his meetings with Calvin Case and Mrs. Gilbert. He realized it was because he had been discussing names and addresses. Names! Up to now it had all been steel tools and cans of oil. But now he had names-a reservoir, a Niagara of names! And addresses! Perhaps nothing would come of it. He was prepared for that. But meanwhile he was investigating people, not things, and so he was pleased.
The interview with Thomas Handry was ticklish. Delaney told him only as much as he felt Handry should know, believing the reporter was intelligent enough to fill in the gaps. For instance, he told Handry that both Lombard and Gilbert had been killed with the same weapon-had apparently been killed with the same weapon. He didn’t specify an ice ax, and Handry, writing notes furiously, nodded without asking more questions on the type of weapon used. As a newspaperman he knew the value of such qualifiers as “apparently,” “allegedly,” and “reportedly.”
Delaney took complete responsibility for his own investigation, made no mention of Thorsen, Johnson, Alinski or Broughton. He said he was concerned because the crimes had occurred in his precinct, and he felt a personal responsibility. Handry looked up from his notebook to stare at Delaney a long time, but made no comment. Delaney told him he was convinced the killer was a psychopath, that Lombard and Gilbert were chance victims, and that the murderer would slay again. Handry wrote it all down and, thankfully, didn’t inquire why Delaney didn’t take what he had to Operation Lombard.
Their big argument involved when Handry could publish. The reporter wanted to go at once with what he had been told; the Captain wanted him to hold off until he got the go-ahead from him, Delaney. It developed into a shouting match, louder and louder, about who had done more for whom, and who owed whom what. Finally, realizing simultaneously how ridiculous they sounded, they dissolved into laughter, and the Captain mixed fresh drinks. They came to a compromise; Handry would hold off for two weeks. If he hadn’t received the Captain’s go-ahead by then, he could publish anything he liked, guess at anything he liked, but with no direct attribution to Delaney.
His biggest disappointment during this period came when he happily, proudly brought Barbara the two Honey Bunch books he had received in the mail. She was completely rational, apparently in flaming good health. She inspected the books, and gave a mirthful shout, looking at him and shaking her head.
“Edward,” she said, “what on earth?”
He was about to remind her she had requested them, then suddenly realized she obviously didn’t remember. He hid his chagrin.
“I thought you’d like them,” he smiled. “Just like the ones you sent to Liza.”
“Oh, you’re such an old dear,” she said, holding up her face to be kissed.
He leaned over the hospital bed eagerly, hoping her cheerfulness was a presage of recovery. When he left, the two books were alongside her bed, on the floor. When he returned the next day, one was opened, spread, pages down, on her bedside table. He knew she had been reading it, but he didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad sign. She made no reference to the book, and he didn’t either.