“Sure. I’m good. I admit it. Now let’s get to New York’s best mountain climber. Two years ago-about eighteen months, to be exact-that would have been an easy question to answer. Calvin Case, thirty-one, married, internationally recognized as one of the most expert, bravest, most daring mountaineers in the world. Then, early last year, he was the last man on the rope of a four-man team climbing the north wall of the Eiger. That’s supposed to be the most difficult climb in the world. The guy I spoke to on our Sports Desk said Everest is pure technology, but the north wall of the Eiger is pure guts. It’s in Switzerland, in case you’re wondering, and apparently it’s practically sheer. Anyway, this guy Calvin Case was tail-end Charlie on the rope. He either slipped or an outcrop crumbled or a piton pulled free; my informant didn’t remember the details. But he did remember that Case dangled, and finally had to cut himself loose from the others, and fell.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. Incredibly, he wasn’t killed, but he crushed his spine. Now he’s paralyzed from the waist down. Bed-ridden. Can’t control his bladder or bowels. My man tells me he’s on the sauce. Won’t give any interviews. And he’s had some good offers for books.”
“How does he live?”
“His wife works. No children. I guess they get along. But anyway, I got another guy, active, who’s now the number one New York climber. But right now he’s in Nepal, preparing for some climb. Who do you want?”
“Do I have a choice? I’ll take this Calvin Case. Do you have his address?”
“Sure. I figured you’d want him. I wrote it down. Here.” He handed Delaney a small slip of paper. The Captain glanced at it briefly.
“Greenwich Village,” he nodded. “I know that street well. A guy took a shot at me on a rooftop on that street, years ago. It was the first time I had ever been shot at.”
“He didn’t hit?” Handry asked.
“No,” Delaney smiled. “He didn’t hit.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Kill him?”
“Yes. Another ale?”
“Well…all right. One more. You having another drink?”
“Sure.”
“But I’ve got to go to the John first. My back teeth are floating.”
“That door over there, in the corner.”
When Handry came back, he slid into the booth and asked,
“How did you know I want to write poetry?”
Delaney shrugged. “I told you. Just a guess. Don’t be so goddamned embarrassed about it. It’s not shameful.”
“I know,” Handry said, looking down at the table, moving his glass around. “But still…All right, Captain, now you talk. What the hell is this all about?”
“What do you think it’s about?”
“You ask me for a run-down on Trotsky, killed with an ice ax. A mountaineer’s tool. Then you ask me for the name of the top mountain climber in New York. It’s something to do with mountain climbing, obviously. The ice ax is the main thing. What’s it all about?”
Delaney, knowing he would be asked, had carefully considered his answers. He had prepared three possible replies, of increasing frankness, still not certain how far he could trust the reporter. But now that Handry had made the Trotsky-ice ax-mountain climbing connection, he went directly to his second reply.
“I am not on active duty,” he acknowledged. “But Frank Lombard was killed in my precinct. You may think it’s silly, but I consider that my responsibility. The Two-five-one Precinct is my home. So I’m conducting what you might call an unofficial investigation. Operation Lombard is handling the official investigation. I’m sure you know that. Whatever I do, whatever I ask you to do, is outside the Department. As of the date of my leave of absence, I have no official standing. Whatever you do for me is a personal favor-you to me.”
Thomas Handry stared at him a long moment. Then he poured himself a full glass of ale and drained off half of it. He set the glass down, a white foam mustache on his upper lip.
“You’re full of shit,” he informed Captain Edward X. Delaney.
“Yes,” Delaney nodded miserably. “That’s true. I think Lombard was killed with an ice ax. That’s why I asked you for background on Trotsky and mountain climbers. That’s all I’ve got. I asked you to look into it because I trust you. All I can promise you is first whack at the story-if there is a story.”
“Do you have a staff?”
“A staff? No, I don’t have a staff. I have some people helping me, but they’re not in the Department. They’re civilians.”
“I’ll get the story? Exclusively?”
“You’ll get it. If there is a story.”
“I could get a story published right now. Leave-of-absence police captain personally investigating a murder in his old precinct. Harmonicas and violins. ‘I want revenge,’ states Captain Edward X. Delaney. Is that what you want?”
“No. What do you want?”
“To be in on it. Okay, Captain? Just to know what’s going on. You can use me as much as you want. I’m willing. But I want to know what you’re up to.”
“It may be nothing.”
“Okay, it’s nothing. I’ll take the gamble. A deal?”
“You won’t publish anything without my go-ahead?”
“I won’t.”
“I trust you, Handry.”
“The hell you do. But you’ve got no choice.”
3
It was a faint dream. He followed a man down a misted street. Not a man, really, but something there, a bulk, in the gilded gloom. Like the night when Frank Lombard was killed: orange light and soft rain.
The figure stayed ahead of him, indecipherable, no matter how fast he moved to see what it was he chased. He never closed. He felt no fear nor panic; just a need, a want for the shadow moving through shadows.
Then there was a ringing; not the siren of a squad car or the buffalo whistle of a fire engine, but the ringing of an ambulance, coming closer, louder; he drifted up from sleep and fumbled for the telephone.
Before he could identify himself he recognized Dorfman’s voice.
“Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Dorfman. There’s been an assault on East Eighty-fourth. About halfway between First and Second. Sounds like the Lombard thing. A man tentatively identified as Bernard Gilbert. He’s not dead. They’re waiting for the ambulance now. I’m on my way.”
“Did you call Chief Pauley?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You want to meet me there?”
“No. You can handle it. Go by the book. Where they taking him?”
“Mother of Mercy.”
“Thank you for calling, lieutenant.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then he switched on the light, stepped into slippers, pulled on a robe. He went down to the study, flipping wall switches as he went, and finally lighted the lamp on his desk. The house was cold and damp; he pulled his overcoat on over his bathrobe. Then he consulted his desk calendar; 22 days since the Frank Lombard homicide. He made careful note of this on a fresh sheet of paper, then called Deputy Inspector Thorsen’s answering service. He left his name and number.
Thorsen called him in minutes, sounding sleepy but not angry.
“What is it, Edward?”
“I’m calling from my home, but it’s important. There’s been a Lombard-type assault in the Two-five-one. Eighty-fourth Street. A man tentatively identified as Bernard Gilbert. He’s still alive. They’re taking him to Mother of Mercy. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Jesus,” Thorsen breathed. “Sounds like you were right.”
“No comfort in that. I can’t go over there.”
“No. That wouldn’t be wise. Is it certain it’s a Lombard-type thing?”
“I told you all I know.”
“All right, assuming it is, what will Broughton do now?”
“If the wound is similar to the one that killed Lombard, Chief Pauley will try to establish a link between Lombard and this Bernard Gilbert. If he can’t, and I don’t believe he will, unless it’s pure coincidence, he’ll realize they were both chance victims, and he’s faced with a crazy. Then he’ll check every mental institution in a five-state area. He’ll have men checking private doctors and psychiatrists and recently released inmates. He’ll pull in every known nut in the city for questioning. He’ll do what he has to do.”