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The First Deadly Sin

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Absorbing, shocking, and boldly original, The First Deadly Sin set the standard for the modern novel of psychological suspense. Now the novel that launched the author's bestselling career is available in trade.

Author Biography: Lawrence Sanders, one of America's most popular novelists, was the author of more than twenty-two bestsellers.

A well-dressed man stalks the high-class neighborhoods of New York City. He is armed with an ...

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The First Deadly Sin

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Overview

Absorbing, shocking, and boldly original, The First Deadly Sin set the standard for the modern novel of psychological suspense. Now the novel that launched the author's bestselling career is available in trade.

Author Biography: Lawrence Sanders, one of America's most popular novelists, was the author of more than twenty-two bestsellers.

A well-dressed man stalks the high-class neighborhoods of New York City. He is armed with an ice ax. His victims are strangers. And one cop, Captain Ed Delaney, must solve a series of bizarre murders that defy logic. Commemorating their 25th anniversary, the Deadly Sins novels have been repackaged with a slick new look. Reissue.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780425093108
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
  • Publication date: 2/15/1986
  • Series: Edward X. Delany Series , #1
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Product dimensions: 7.00 (w) x 5.00 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Lawrence Sanders, one of America's most popular novelists, was the author of more than twenty-two bestsellers.

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Read an Excerpt

The First Deadly Sin

The Edward X. Delaney Series


By Lawrence Sanders

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1973 The Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9836-7


CHAPTER 1

THERE WAS QUIET. HE lay on his back atop a shaft of stone called Devil's Needle, and felt he was lost, floating in air. Above him, all about him stretched a thin blue sac. Through it he could see scribbles of clouds, a lemon sun.

He heard nothing but his own strong heart, the slowly quieting of his breath as he recovered from his climb. He could believe he was alone in the universe.

Finally he stood and looked around him. Waves of foliage lapped at the base of his stone; it was a dark green ocean with a froth of autumn's russet. He could see the highway, the tarred roofs of Chilton, a steel ribbon of river uncoiling southward to the sea.

The air has the bite of Fall; it moved on a breeze that knifed lungs and tingled bare skin. He gulped this stern air like a drink; there was nothing he might not do.

He moved over to the cleft in the edge of the stone and began hauling up the nylon line clipped to his belt. At the end of the rope was his rucksack. In it were sandwiches, a thermos of black coffee, a first aid kit, spiked clamps for his climbing boots, pitons, an extra sweater, and, buckled to the outside, his ice ax.

He had made the sandwiches himself, of stone-ground whole wheat said to be organically grown. The filling of one was sliced onions, of the other white radishes and plum tomatoes.

He sat on the smooth granite and ate slowly. The coffee was still warm, the sandwich bread fresh with a crunchy crust. Out of nowhere a blue jay appeared and greeted him with its two-note whistle. It landed on the stone, stared at him fearlessly. He laughed, tossed a crust. The bird took it up, then dropped it immediately and was gone in an azure flash.

Finished, he replaced sandwich wrappings and thermos in his rucksack. He lay back, using it as a pillow. He turned onto his side, bowing his spine, drawing up his knees. He determined to awake in half an hour. He was asleep almost instantly and dreamed of a woman hairless as a man's palm.

He awoke in half an hour and lighted a cigarette. The day was drawing on; he must be down and out of the park before dark. But there was time to smoke, time for silence, a final coffee, cold now and gritty with dregs.

He had been recently divorced. That was of no concern; it had happened to a stranger. But he was perplexed by what was happening to him since he and Gilda had parted. He was assembling a jigsaw puzzle. But he didn't have all the pieces, had no conception of what the completed picture might be.

He pulled off his knitted watch cap, exposing his shaven skull to watery sunlight. He pressed fingers to the smooth; soft skin slid on hard bone.

The divorce had just been obtained (in Mexico) but he had been separated from his wife for almost two years. Shortly after they agreed to live apart, he had shaved his head completely and purchased two wigs. One ("Ivy League") he wore to the office and on formal occasions. The other ("Via Veneto") was crisp curls and ringlets. He wore it to parties or when entertaining at home. Both wigs were in the dark brown shade of his own hair.

It was true his hair had been thinning since he was 24. At the time of his separation from Gilda, when he was 33, the front hairline had receded into a "widow's peak" and there was a small tonsure at the back of his head. But he was far from bald. His remaining hair had gloss and weight.

Nevertheless, he had shaved his entire skull when he purchased the wigs, though the coiffeur assured him it was not necessary; the artificial hair could be blended ("Absolutely undetectable, sir") with his natural hair.

When climbing, or swimming, or simply alone in his apartment, he preferred the shaven pate. He had developed a habit—almost a nervous tic—of caressing it with his fingertips, probing the frail cranium and that perilous stuff that lay beneath.

He pulled on his cap, tugging it down over his ears. He prepared for the descent by donning horsehide gloves, rough side out. He then lowered his rucksack to the boulders below. The end of the line was still clipped to his belt, a wide canvas band similar to that used by professional window washers.

The cleft, by which ascents to and descents from the flat top of Devil's Needle were made, was a chimney. It was a vertical crack in the granite shaft, four feet across at the base. It narrowed as it rose until, at the top, it was barely wide enough for a climber to scrape through to the summit.

The climber braced shoulders and back against one wall of the chimney. He bent his knees, placing the soles of his boots against the opposite wall. He then, literally, walked up the cleft, depending upon the strength of buttocks, thighs and calves to maintain sufficient pressure to keep from falling.

As he took small steps, not relaxing one foot to scrape it upward until the other was firmly planted, he "walked his shoulders" slowly higher—right, left, right, left. He continued tension in his bent legs to keep himself jammed between opposing walls of the chimney.

As the cleft narrowed toward the top of the 65-foot shaft, the climber's legs became increasingly bent until his knees were almost touching his chin and gains upward were measured in inches. At the top, it was necessary to apply pressure with knees instead of feet. The climber then reached up and grabbed two heavy pitons a previous conqueror of Devil's Needle had thoughtfully left embedded in the stone. With their aid, the man ascending could pull himself out of the narrow chimney, over the lip, onto the flat top. It was a bedsheet of stone.

The descent, though more difficult, was not excessively dangerous for an experienced climber. Gripping the pitons, he allowed his body to slide down into the cleft. He started by bracing his knees against one granite wall, his back against the other. Releasing the pitons, he then slowly "walked" downward, until the crack widened sufficiently so he could put the rubber-ridged soles of his boots against the opposing wall.

At this time of day, in September, as he began the descent, the top of Devil's Needle was washed with pale sunshine. But the slit into which he lowered himself was shaded and smelled rankly.

He braced his knees, took a deep breath, released the pitons. He was suspended in gloom, emptiness below. He hung a moment in blemished light, then placed flat hands against the facing wall to take some of the tension off his knees. He started the slow wiggle downward and out.

The cleft spread until it was wide enough to press his feet against the wall. Moving faster now, he twisted, struggled, writhed, his entire body in a steady left-right rhythm, shifting from foot to foot, shoulder to shoulder, until the stretched stone thighs popped him out and he was in murk.

He rested five minutes while his breathing eased. He coiled his nylon line, slung his rucksack. He hiked across boulders, through a meadow, along a dirt road to the ranger's cabin.

The park guardian was an older man, made surly by this visitor's refusal to heed his warning about climbing alone. He shoved the register angrily across the wooden counter. The climber signed in the Out column and noted the time.

His name was Daniel Blank.

CHAPTER 2

UNDER THE TERMS OF the separation agreement, Gilda Blank had retained possession of their car: a four-door Buick sedan. Daniel thereupon purchased for himself a Chevrolet Corvette, a powerful machine of racy design. Since buying the sports car he had twice been arrested for speeding. He paid a fine in each case. One more similar violation would result in suspension of his license.

Now, standing beside his car to strip off canvas jacket, wool sweater and cotton T-shirt, he admired the car's clean feminine lines. He toweled off bare skull, face, neck, shoulders, arms, upper torso. The evening air was astringent as alcohol. He had a sense of healthy well-being. The hard climb, sculpted day, simple food all had left him with the exhilaration of a new start. He was beginning.

Daniel Blank was a tall man, slightly over six feet, and was now slender. In high school and college he had competed in swimming, track (220 high hurdles), and tennis, individual sports that required no teamwork. These physical activities had given his body a firm sheath of long muscle. His shoulders, pectorals and thighs were well-developed. Hands and feet were narrow fingernails and toenails long. He kept them shaped and buffed.

Shortly after his separation, he had taken a "physical inventory," inspecting his naked body minutely in the full-length mirror on the inside of his bathroom door. He saw at once that deterioration had begun, the flesh beneath his jaw had started to sag, his shoulders slumped, the lower abdomen protruded, it was soft and without tone.

He had at once begun a strict regimen of diet and exercise. In his methodical way he bought several books on nutrition and systems of physical training. He read them all carefully, making notes and devised for himself a program that appealed to him and that he felt would show almost immediate improvement in his physical appearance.

He was not a fanatic, he did not swear off drinking and smoking. But he cut his alcohol intake by half and switched to non-nicotine cigarettes made of dried lettuce leaves. He tried to avoid starches, carbohydrates, dairy products, eggs, blood meats. He ate fresh fruits, vegetables, broiled fish, salads with a dressing of fresh lemon juice. Within three months he had lost 20 pounds, his ribs and hip bones showed.

Meanwhile he had started a program of daily exercise, 30 minutes in the morning upon rising, 30 minutes in the evening before retiring.

The exercises Daniel Blank selected for himself came from a manual based on the training of Finnish gymnasts. All the movements were illustrated with photographs of young blonde women in white leotards. But Blank felt this was of no import; only the exercises counted, and these promised increased agility, pliancy, and grace.

The exercises had proved efficacious. His waist was now down to almost 32 inches. Since his hips were wide (though his buttocks were flat) and his chest enlarged from his youthful interest in running and swimming, he had developed a feminine "hourglass" figure. All his muscles regained their youthful firmness. His skin was smooth and blood-flushed. Age seemed stayed.

But the diet and exercise had also resulted in several curious side effects. His nipples had become permanently engorged and, since he ordinarily wore no undershirt, were obvious beneath the stuff of thin dress shirts or lisle pullovers. He did not find this displeasing. A heavier garment, such as a wool turtleneck sweater worn next to the skin, sometimes resulted in a not unpleasant irritation.

Another unexpected development was the change in appearance of his genitals. The testicles had become somewhat flaccid and hung lower than previously. The penis, while not growing in size (which he knew to be impossible at his age), had altered in color and elasticity. It now seemed to be slightly empurpled in a constant state of mild excitation. This also was not disagreeable. It might be caused by agitation against the cloth of the tighter trousers he had purchased.

Finally he found himself free of the diarrhea that had frequently plagued him during his marriage. He ascribed this to his new diet, exercise, or both. Whatever the reason, his bowel movements were now regular, without pain, and satisfying. His stool was firm.

He drove toward Manhattan. He had pulled on a fresh velour shirt. The radio was no more than a lulling hum. He followed an unlighted two-laner that led into the Thruway.

The speedometer climbed slowly: 50, 60, 70, 80. The car roared to catch the headlight glare. Trees flung backward; billboards and ghost houses grew out of darkness, blazed, flicked back into dark.

He loved speed, not so much for the sensual satisfaction of power as for the sense of lonely dislocation.

It was Saturday night; the Thruway was heavy with traffic pouring into the city. Now he drove with brutal hostility, switching lanes, cutting in and out. He hunched over the wheel, searching for openings to plunge through, for sudden breaks in the pattern enabling him to skin by more cautious drivers.

He came over the bridge; there were the hard edges, sharp corners, cheap lights of Manhattan. Slowed by signals, by trucks and buses, he was forced to move southward at moderate speed. He turned eastward on 96th Street; his city closed in.

It was a city sprung and lurching. It throbbed to a crippled rhythm, celebrated death with insensate glee. Filth pimpled its nightmare streets. The air smelled of ashes. In the schools young children craftily slid heroin into their veins.

A luncheonette owner was shot dead when he could not supply apple pie to a demanding customer. A French tourist was robbed in daylight, then shot and paralyzed. A pregnant woman was raped by three men in a subway station at 10:30 in the morning. Bombs were set. Acid was thrown. Explosions destroyed embassies, banks, and churches. Infants were beaten to death. Glass was shattered, leather slashed, plants uprooted, obscene slogans sprayed on marble monuments. Zoos were invaded and small animals torn apart.

His poisoned city staggered in a mad plague dance. A tarnished sun glared down on an unmeaning world. Each man, at night, locked himself within bars, hoping for survival in his iron cage. He huddled in upon himself, hoarding his sanity, and moved through crowded streets glancing over his shoulder, alert to parry the first blow with his own oiled blade.

The apartment house in which Daniel Blank lived was a raw building of glass and enameled steel. It was 34 stories high and occupied an entire city block on East 83rd Street. It was built in a U-shape; a black-topped driveway curved in front of the entrance. A stainless steel portico protruded so that tenants alighting from cars were protected from rain. The entrance step was covered with green outdoor carpeting.

Inside, a desk faced plate glass doors. Doormen were on duty 24 hours a day. They were able to inspect the underground garage, service entrances, hallways and elevators by closed-circuit TV. Behind them was a wide lobby with chairs and sofas of chrome and black plastic. There were abstract paintings on the walls and, in the center, a heavy bronze sculpture, non-representational, entitled "Birth."

Daniel Blank pulled into an alley alongside the curved driveway. It led down to the garage where tenants, for an additional rental, could park their cars, have them washed, serviced, and delivered to the main entrance when required.

He turned the Corvette over to the attendant on duty. He took his rucksack and outdoor clothes from the car, and rode the escalator to the main lobby. He went to the desk where tenants' mail was distributed, deliveries accepted, messages held.

It was almost 10:00 p.m.; no one was on duty at the mail desk. But one of the doormen went behind the counter. There was no mail in Blank's cubbyhole, but there was a small sheet of paper folded once. It said: "Brunch Sunday (tomorrow) at 11:30. Don't miss. Come early. Thousands of fantastic pipple. Love and kisses. Flo and Sam." He read the note, then tucked it into his shirt pocket.

The doorman, who had not spoken to him nor raised his eyes to Daniel's, went back behind his desk. His name was Charles Lipsky, and he had been involved with Blank in an incident that had occurred about a year previously.

Daniel had been waiting under the portico for a taxi to take him to work. He rarely drove his own car to the office since parking space near Ninth Avenue and 46th Street was almost non-existent. Doorman Lipsky had gone down to the street to whistle up a cab. He halted one and rode it up the driveway. He opened the door for Blank and held out his hand for the usual 25-cent tip.

As Daniel was about to pay him, a man he recognized as a tenant of the building came up the entrance step hauling a German shepherd pup on a long leather leash.

"Heel!" the man was shouting. "Heel!"

But the young dog hung back. Then he lay on the driveway, muzzle down between his paws, and refused to budge.

"Heel, you bastard!" the man screamed. He then struck the dog twice on the head with a folded newspaper he had been carrying under his arm. The dog cringed away. Whereupon the man kicked him heavily in the ribs.

Daniel Blank and Charles Lipsky saw all this clearly. Blank leaped forward. He could not endure the sight of an animal being mistreated; he couldn't even think of a horse pulling a load.

"Stop that!" he cried furiously.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The First Deadly Sin by Lawrence Sanders. Copyright © 1973 The Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 25 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 25 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 3, 2013

    Loved it!!

    This is the first time I've read this author and I plan to read more of his books. Had my attention all the way thru - hated to put it down. You won't be sorry buying this one!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 4, 2013

    Loved this series when I originally read it and it is just as go

    Loved this series when I originally read it and it is just as good the second time around., I rarely read books more than once,  but enjoyed this as much as the first time. I am happy that I can add Lawrence Sanders work to my Nook  collection.      

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2013

    I read this book many years ago and was so happy to see it avail

    I read this book many years ago and was so happy to see it available as a Nook book becauseI loved the whole series. Its still a very
    good mystery. I loved Edward X Delaney when I read it the first time and I still do. It was written in a different time, less politically
    correct so some of the language maybe jarring but once you remember that it was written in a different time, I think readers who a
    good police procedural will really enjoy this book! I intend to re-read the whole series again.  I am just sad he stopped at 4 Deadly Sins.
    I was hoping for all seven! 

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 23, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    "The First Deadly Sin"

    As usual, Sanders is such a good story teller. His research is so thorough, one can tell he's a real stickler for authenticiy.
    It seemed to drag on a bit in the middle, but when the story picked up again, it was a real page turner. I couln't put it down. Two thumbs up for good writing. Dor

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 12, 2002

    Wonderful Book!

    This was such a wonderful book. I could not reccomend it more. Even though it is a little hard to follow in the beginning.. and you'll probably need to keep a dictionary handy.. it all pays off in the end!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 7, 2014

    Very slow read too detailed

    I almost moved on from it. It was a very slow read.

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  • Posted December 29, 2013

    Caution: This novel contains very graphic descriptions of sexual

    Caution: This novel contains very graphic descriptions of sexual encounters, including encounters between an adult male and a young boy. The first six chapters of the book never mention Captain Edward X. Delaney. Also, the book contains grammar errors, and some spelling errors. It was, IMO, not a particularly well-written book. The ending was anticlimactic and jagged. Loose ends were not tied up neatly by the author. I do not intend to read any of the other books in the series.

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  • Posted December 7, 2013

    Interesting mystery. This is the only book I have read by this

    Interesting mystery. This is the only book I have read by this author. It did moderately well holding my interest. The few sex scenes were overly described, it just wasn't necessary for the story and I don't read that type of smut so I skipped them. There initially were few curse words, near the end they were frequent unnecessary and particularly offensive. Would I recommend it, only with those those warnings and only to certain people.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 2, 2013

    Oh how I miss the elaborate sandwich descriptions in these books

    Oh how I miss the elaborate sandwich descriptions in these books !!  I read the series when first published and to this day, 30+ years later I still remember ... "oh life wasn't all that much of a joy. It was a job you worked at and didn't often succeed in." Get the ENTIRE SERIES (so wish he'd written all 7 sin books !). As an avid decades long reader of crime novels, you won't regret it !  Seriously Saunder's Sin's series is tops in the genre.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 2, 2013

    Have not read yet

    I havnt read this book yet, but it sounds really good!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 26, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 13, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 5, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 2013

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    Posted December 3, 2013

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    Posted February 6, 2009

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    Posted February 9, 2011

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