“Good. Smoking dulls the palate. Do you know what the secret of good French cooking is?”
“What?”
“A clear palate and butter. Not oil, but butter. The richest, creamiest butter you can find.”
Delaney’s heart sank. The old man caught his look of dismay and laughed.
“Don’t worry, Captain. I’ve never believed you had to eat a lot of one dish to enjoy it. Small portions and several dishes-that’s best.”
He was as good as his word; the portions were small. But Delaney decided it was one of the best dinners he had ever eaten and told the host so. Langley beamed with pleasure.
“A little more dessert? There is more, you know.”
“Not for me. But I’ll have another cup of coffee, if you have it.”
“Of course.”
They had dined at a plain oak table covered with a black burlap cloth, a table, Delaney was sure, doubled as Langley’s desk. Now they both pushed back far enough to cross their legs, have a cigarette, drink coffee, sip the strong Portuguese brandy Langley had served.
“About this-” Delaney had started, but just then the apartment doorbell rang, in the familiar “shave and a haircut, two bits” rhythm, and the Captain was surprised to see Langley’s face go white.
“Oh gracious,” the old man whispered. “It’s her again. The Widow Zimmerman! She lives right below me.”
He bounced to his feet, trotted across the room, looked through the peephole, then unlocked and opened the door.
“Ahh,” he said. “Good evening, Mrs. Zimmerman.”
Delaney had a clear view of her from where he sat. She was perhaps 60, taller than Langley by about six inches, certainly heavier than he by fifty pounds. She balanced a beehive of teased brassy hair above her plump face, and her bare arms looked like something you might see on a butcher’s block. She was so heavily girdled that her body seemed hewn from a single chunk of wood; when she walked, her legs appeared to move only from the knees down.
“Oh, I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” she simpered, looking at the Captain boldly over Langley’s shoulder. “I know you’ve got company. I heard you go out to shop and then come back. I heard your bell ring and your guest arrive. One of your fantastic foreign dinners, I’m sure. Now I just happened to bake a fresh prune strudel today, and I thought you and your guest might enjoy a nice piece for dessert, and here it is.”
She held out the napkin-covered dish to Langley; he took it with the tips of his fingers.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Zimmerman. Won’t you come-”
“Oh, I won’t interrupt. I wouldn’t think of it.”
She waited expectantly, but Langley did not repeat his invitation.
“I’ll just run along,” the Widow Zimmerman said, pouting at Delaney.
“Thank you for the strudel.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy.”
She gave him a little-girl smile. He closed the door firmly behind her, bolted and chained it, then put his ear to the panel and listened as her steps receded down the stairs. He came back to the table and whispered to Delaney…
“A dreadful woman! Continually bringing me food. I’ve asked her not to, but she does. I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself. Been doing it for fifty years. And the food she brings! Strudel and chopped liver and stuffed derma and pickled herring. Gracious! I can’t throw it away because she might see it in the garbage cans and be insulted. So I have to wrap it like a gift package and carry it three or four blocks away and dump it into a litter basket. She’s such a problem.”
“I think she’s after you,” Delaney said solemnly.
“Oh my!” Christopher Langley said, blushing. “Her husband-her late husband-was such a nice, quiet man. A retired furrier. Well, let me put this in the kitchen, and then please go on with what you were saying.”
“Did you read in the papers about the murder of Frank Lombard?” the Captain asked when Langley had rejoined him.
“Goodness, I certainly did. Everything I could find. A fascinating case. You know, whenever I read about a real-life murder or assault, I always look for a description of the weapon. After all, that was my life for so many years, and I’m still interested. But in all the accounts of the Lombard killing, the description of the weapon was very vague. Hasn’t it been identified yet?”
“No. It hasn’t. That’s why I’m here. To ask your help.”
“And as you know, I’ll be delighted to give you every assistance I can, dear boy.”
Delaney held up his hand like a traffic cop.
“Just a minute, sir. I want to be honest with you. As I told you, I am not on active duty. I am on leave of absence. I am not part of the official investigation into the death of Frank Lombard.”
Christopher Langley looked at him narrowly a moment, then sat back and began to drum his dainty fingers against the table top.
“Then what is your interest in the Lombard case?”
“I am conducting a-a private investigation into the homicide.”
“I see. Can you tell me more?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“May I ask the purpose of this-ah-private investigation?”
“The main purpose is to find the killer of Frank Lombard as quickly as possible.”
Langley stared at him a long, additional moment, then let off his finger drumming and slapped the table top with an open palm.
“All right,” he said briskly. “Was it a striking weapon or a swinging weapon? That is: do you visualize it as a knife, a dagger, a dirk, a poniard-something of that sort-or was it a sword, pole, battleax, club, mace-something of that sort?”
“I’d say the percentages would be in favor of the swinging weapon.”
“The percentages!” Langley laughed. “I had forgotten you and your percentages. This is a business to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s a business. And sometimes the only things you have to work with are the percentages. But what you said about a striking weapon-a knife or dagger-surely a blade couldn’t penetrate a man’s skull?”
“It could. And has. If blade and handle are heavy enough. The Marines’ combat knife in World War Two could split a man’s skull. But most blades would glance off, causing only superficial wounds. Besides, Lombard was struck on the head from behind, was he not?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then that would probably rule out a striking weapon. An assailant using a blade and coming from behind would almost certainly go in between the shoulder blades, into the ribs, sever the spine, or try for the kidneys.”
Delaney nodded, marveling at the gusto with which this impish man ticked off these points on his fingers, an enthusiasm made all the more incredible by his age, diminutive physique, elegant appearance.
“All right,” Langley went on, “let’s assume a swinging weapon. One-hand or two-hand?”
“I’d guess one-hand. I think the killer approached Lombard from the front. Then, as he passed, he turned and struck him down. During the approach the weapon could have been concealed beneath a coat on the killer’s arm or in a newspaper folded under his arm.”
“Yes, that certainly rules out a halberd! You’re talking about something about the size of a hatchet?”
“About that.”
“Captain, do you believe it was an antique weapon?”
“I doubt that very much. Once again, the percentages are against it. In my lifetime I’ve investigated only two homicides in which antique weapons were used. One was the crossbow case in which you were involved. The other was a death caused by a ball fired from an antique duelling pistol.”
“Then we’ll assume a modern weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Or a modern tool. You must realize that many modern tools have evolved from antique weapons. The reverse is also true, of course. During hand-to-hand combat in Korea and Vietnam, there were several cases of American soldiers using their Entrenching tool, shovel, or Entrenching tool, pickmattock, as a weapon both for offense and defense. Now let’s get to the wound itself. Was it a crushing, cutting, or piercing blow?”
“Piercing. It was a penetration, about three to four inches long.”