“That’s not much of a favor, Captain. That’s just routine. Is it your license?”
“No. It’s Frank Lombard’s.”
Dorfman stared at him again, then slowly began to button up his uniform jacket.
“Lombard’s?”
“Yes. Lieutenant, if you want to ask questions, I’ll try to answer them. But please don’t be insulted if I say that in this matter, the less you know, the better.”
The tall, red-headed man stood, began to pace about the kitchen, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, He counted the walls, didn’t look at Delaney.
“I’ve been hearing things,” he said. “Rumors.”
“I imagine you have,” Delaney nodded, knowing there was scarcely a man in the Department, down to the lowliest probationary patrolman, who wasn’t dimly aware of the feuds and schisms amongst high-level commanders. “You don’t want to get involved in it, do you?”
Dorfman stopped and gripped the top rail of a kitchen chair with reddish hands, knuckles bulging. Now he looked directly at Delaney.
“No, Captain, I don’t want to get involved at all.”
“What I’ve asked so far is pure routine, is it not? I’m asking you to report a missing driver’s license. That’s all.”
“All right. I’ll call Thorsen, get the name of the man at the Traffic Department, and file a report. Do you know the license number?”
“No.”
“What is the second favor you want, Captain?”
There was something in his voice, something sad. The Captain knew Dorfman would do as he, Delaney, requested. But somehow, subtly, their relationship had changed. Dorfman would pay his debt as long as he was not compromised. But once he paid what he felt was enough, they would no longer be mentor and student, captain and lieutenant. They would no longer be friends. They would be professional associates, cautious, pleasant but reserved, watchful. They would be rivals.
Delaney had, he acknowledged, already destroyed a cordial relationship. In some small way he had corrupted faith and trust. Now, to Dorfman, he was just another guy who wanted a favor. But there was no help for it, no turning back.
“The second favor,” Delaney said, accenting the word “favor” somewhat ironically, “is that I would appreciate it, lieutenant-” and again he deliberately accented the word “lieutenant”-“if you would keep me personally informed of any assaults or homicides in the Two-five-one Precinct in which the circumstances and particularly the wound are similar to the Lombard homicide.”
“That’s all?” Dorfman asked, and now the irony was his.
“Yes.”
“All right, Captain,” Dorfman nodded. He hooked his collar, tugged his jacket straight. The stains and crumbs were missing now. He was Acting Commander of the 251st Precinct.
He strode to the door without another word. Then, hand on the knob, he paused, turned to face Delaney, and seemed to soften.
“Captain,” he said, “in case you’re interested, I already have orders to report any assault or homicide like that to Chief Pauley.”
“Of course,” Delaney nodded. “He couldn’t do anything else. Report to him first.”
“Then to you?”
“Then to me. Please.”
Dorfman nodded, and was gone.
Delaney sat without moving. Then he held out his right hand. It was trembling, a bit. It had not gone as well as he had hoped or as badly as he had feared. But, he assured himself again, it had to be done-and perhaps it would have happened in the ordinary course of events. Dorfman was a natural worshipper, almost a hanger-on, and if he was to make anything of himself, eventually he would have to be cast adrift, sink or swim. And Delaney laughed ruefully at his own rationalizing. There was, he admitted disgustedly, too goddamn much Hamlet in him.
It was almost time to leave for the hospital. He consulted his little pocket notebook and checked off the items Mary had taken care of. He had already donned his overcoat and hard Homburg, his hand reaching for the outside doorknob, when the phone rang. He picked up the extension in the hall and said, “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Captain, this is Christopher Langley.”
“Mr. Langley. Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”
“Very well, and you?”
“Fine. I’ve been intending to call, but I didn’t want you to feel I was pressuring you. So I thought it best to say nothing. You understand?”
There was silence for a moment, then Langley said, “I think I do understand. Gee, this is great! But it’s been over a week since we met. Could we have lunch today, Captain? There’s something I’d like your advice on.”
“Oh?” Delaney said. “I’m afraid I can’t make lunch. My wife is in the hospital, and I’m just leaving to visit her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Well…we don’t know. But it will take time. Listen, Mr. Langley, what you wanted to talk to me about-is it important?”
“It might be, Captain,” the thin, flutey voice came back, excited now. “It’s not anything final, but it’s a beginning. That’s why-”
“Yes, yes,” Delaney interrupted. “Mr. Langley, would it be possible for you to meet me at the hospital? I do want to see you. Unfortunately, I can’t have lunch with you, but we’ll have a chance to talk and discuss your problem.”
“Excellent!” Christopher Langley chortled, and Delaney knew he was enjoying this cloak-and-dagger conversation. “I’ll be glad to meet you there. I hope you may be able to help me. At least it will give me an opportunity to meet your wife.” Delaney gave him the address and room number, and then rang off. The Captain stood a moment, his hand still on the dead phone, and hoped, not for the first time, that he had acted correctly in entrusting the important job of weapon identification to this elderly dandy. He started to analyze his motives for enlisting Langley’s aid: the man’s expertise; the need to recruit a staff, however amateur; Langley’s plea for “important” work; Delaney’s need-
He snorted with disgust at his own maunderings. He wanted to move on the Lombard homicide, and it seemed to him he had spent an unconscionable amount of time interrogating himself, probing his own motives, as if he might be guilty of-of what? Dereliction of duty? He resolved to be done, for this day at least, with such futile searchings. What was necessary was to do.
Barbara was seated in a wheelchair at the window, and she turned her head to give him a dazzling smile when he entered. But he had come to dread that appearance of roseate good health-the bright eyes and flushed cheeks-knowing what it masked. He crossed the room swiftly, smiling, kissed her cheek, and presented her with what might have been the biggest, reddest Delicious apple ever grown.
“An apple for the teacher,” he said.
“What did I ever teach you?” she laughed, touching his lips. “I’d tell you, but I don’t want to get you unnecessarily excited.”
She laughed again and turned the enormous apple in her slim fingers, stroking it. “It’s beautiful.”
“But probably mealy as hell. The big ones usually are.”
“Maybe I won’t eat it,” she said faintly. “Maybe I’ll just keep it next to my bed and look at it.”
He was concerned. “Well…yes,” he said finally. “Why not? Listen, how are you? I know you must be bored with me asking that, but you know I must ask it.”
“Of course.” She reached out to put a hand on his. “They started the new injections this morning. Two days before they know.” She was comforting him.
He nodded miserably. “Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously. “I mean the food? The nurses?”