“Oh no. I doubt that very much. I’ll look into it, of course, but I don’t think there’s anything there.”
“But you think Lombard may have been killed with an ice ax?”
“Let me freshen your drink,” Delaney said. He went over to the liquor cabinet, came back with new drinks for both of them. “Mr. Langley, I don’t know whether being a detective is a job, a career, a profession, a talent or an art. There are some things I do know. One, you can’t teach a man to be a good detective, anymore than you can teach him to be an Olympic miler or a great artist. And two, no matter how much talent and drive a man starts out with, he can never become a good detective without experience. The more years, the better. After you’ve been at it awhile, you begin to see the patterns. People repeat, in motives, weapons, methods of entrance and escape, alibis. You keep finding the same things happening over and over again; forced windows, kitchen knives, slashed screens, tire irons, jammed locks, rat poison-the lot. It all becomes familiar. Well, what bugged me about the Lombard killing, nothing familiar in it. Nothing! The first reaction, of course, going by percentages, was that it had been committed by a relative or acquaintance, someone known to Lombard. Negative. The next possibility was that it was an attempted robbery, a felony-homicide. Negative. His money hadn’t even been touched. And worst of all, we couldn’t even identify the weapon. But now you walk in here and say, ‘Ice ax.’ Magic words! Click! Trotsky was killed with an ice ax. Suddenly I’ve got something familiar. A murder weapon that’s been used before. It’s hard to explain, I know, Mr. Langley, but I feel better about this than I’ve felt since it started. I think we’re moving now. Thanks to you.”
The man glowed.
“But I’m sorry,” Delaney said. “I interrupted you. You were telling me what the clerk at Abercrombie amp; Fitch said when you asked him what the ice ax was used for. What did he say?”
“What?” Langley asked again, somewhat dazed. “Oh. Well, he said it was used in mountain climbing. You could use it like a cane, leaning on the head. The spike on the butt of the handle bites into crusty snow or ice, if you’re hiking across a glacier, for instance. He said you could get this ice ax with different ends on the butt-a spike, the way I saw it, or with a little wheel, like a ski pole, for soft snow, and so forth. So then I asked him if there was a shorter ice ax available, a one-handed tool, but with the head shaped the same way. He was very vague; he wasn’t sure. But he thought there was such an implement, and he thought the whole thing might be made of steel. Think of that, Captain! A one-handed tool, all steel, with a spike that curves downward and tapers to a sharp point as it curves. How does that strike you?”
“Excellent!” Captain Delaney crowed. “Just excellent! It’s now a familiar weapon, used in a previous homicide, and I feel very good about it. Mr. Langley, you’ve done wonders.”
“Oh,” the old man smiled, “it was mostly luck. Really.”
“You make your own luck,” Delaney assured him. “And my luck. Our luck. You followed through. Did the clerk tell you where you can buy a one-handed ice ax?”
“Well…no. But he did say there were several stores in New York that specialized in camping and mountain climbing equipment-axes, hatchets, crampons, special rucksacks, nylon rope and things of that sort. The stores must be listed somewhere. Probably in the Yellow Pages. Captain, can I stick with this?”
Delaney took two quick steps forward, clapped the little man on both arms.
“Can you?” he declaimed. “Can you? I should think you can! You’re doing just fine. You try to pin down that one-handed, all-steel ice ax, who sells them, who buys them. Meanwhile, I want to dig into the Trotsky murder, maybe get a photo of the weapon. And I want to get more information on mountain climbers. Mr. Langley, we’re moving. We’re really doing now! I’ll call you or you call me. The hell with security.
I just feel-I know-we’re heading in the right direction! Instinct? Maybe. Logic has nothing to do with it. It just feels right.”
He got Langley out of there, finally, bubbling with enthusiasm and plans of how he intended to trace the ice ax. Delaney nodded, smiled, agreeing to everything Langley said until he could, with decency, usher him out, lock the front door, and come back into the study. He paced up and down in front of his desk, hands shoved into hip pockets, chin on chest.
Then he grabbed up the telephone directory, looked up the number, and dialed Thomas Handry’s newspaper. The switchboard operator gave him the City Room where they told him Handry had left for the day. He asked for Handry’s home phone number, but they wouldn’t give it to him.
“Is it an unlisted number?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department,” the Captain said in his most pontifical tones. “I’m calling on official business. I can get Handry’s phone number from the telephone company, if you insist. It would save time if you gave it to me. If you want to check on me, call your man at Centre Street. Who is he-Slawson?”
“Slawson died last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good reporter.”
“Yes. Just a minute, Captain.”
The man came back and read off Handry’s home phone number. Delaney thanked him, hung up, waited a few seconds, then lifted the receiver again and dialed. No answer. He waited ten minutes and called again. Still no answer.
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator: half of that same baked ham he had had for lunch and some salad stuff. He sliced two thick slices of ham, then sliced a tomato and cucumber. He smeared mustard on the ham, and salad dressing on the rest. He ate it quickly, crunching on a hard roll. He glanced several times at his watch as he ate, anxious to get back to the hospital.
He slid plate and cutlery into the sink, rinsed his hands, and went back into his study to call Handry again. This time he got through.
“Hello?”
“Thomas Handry?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh. Hello, Captain. How are you?”
“Well, thank you. And you?”
“Fine. I heard you’re on leave of absence.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“I understand your wife is ill. Sorry to hear that. I hope she’s feeling better.”
“Yes. Thank you. Handry, I want a favor from you.”
“What is it, Captain?”
“First of all, I want some information on the murder of Leon Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty. I thought you might be able to get it from your morgue.”
“Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty? Jesus, Captain, that was before I was born.”
“I know.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing heavy. Just what the newspapers of the time reported. How he was killed, who killed him, the weapon used. If there was a photograph of the weapon published, and you could get a photostat, that would help.”
“What’s this all about?”
“The second thing,” Delaney went on, ignoring the question, “is that I’d like the name and address of the best mountain climber in New York-the top man, or most experienced, or most skillful. I thought you might be able to get it from your Sports Desk.”
“Probably. Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“Can you have a drink with me tomorrow? Say about five o’clock?”
“Well…sure. I guess so.”
“Can you have the information by then?”
“I’ll try.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you about it then.” Delaney gave him the address of the chop house where he had lunched with Dr. Ferguson. “Is that all right, Handry?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do. Trotsky and the mountain climber. Right?”
“Right. See you tomorrow.”
Delaney hurried out and got a cab on Second Avenue. He was at the hospital within fifteen minutes. When he gently opened the door of his wife’s room, he saw at once she was sleeping. He tiptoed over to the plastic armchair, switched off the floor lamp, then took off his overcoat. He sat down as quietly as he could.