Stained Glass

by Ralph McInerny

  Jane said, “I asked him to come today and stand by for any questions you might wish to put to him.”

  “Did he answer?”

  “He did not.”

  Susan chirped, “Shouldn’t that be sufficient to forfeit the grant?”

  “What do you mean, he disappeared?” Hugh asked. Before Jane had called them to order, by tapping on the tabletop with her pen, Hugh had expressed the hope that this wouldn’t take long. “He could be on a trip. He could be taking a little vacation. He could be paying another visit to Angelo Menotti.”

  “Has he been there?” Jane asked.

  “Getting a warm reception, in several senses of the term. Menotti thinks he can stop Borloff’s project.”

  “I know. That isn’t so.” Jane seemed saddened by the realization. “He has moral rights, I suppose, but no legal ones. Amos?”

  “An artifact is the property of the purchaser.”

  Susan professed to be shocked by this.

  Margaret tut-tutted. “Photographing a window is scarcely to do violence to it.”

  The table at which they sat was not quite ovoid; its curved sides were joined at their ends by straight edges. Amos sat at one of these, Jane at the other, and facing one another across the middle were James and his sister-in-law, Margaret. Susan sat next to her father, Hugh next to his aunt.

  “Who is Carl Borloff anyway?” James demanded.

  Amos intervened. “I take it that your question is the beginning of our discussion of the arrangement entered into by the foundation and Carl Borloff.”

  Jane nodded. “So ordered.” She had once glanced through Robert’s Rules of Order and from time to time employed a phrase from it.

  Susan provided a very negative account of Carl Borloff, her language judged tendentious by Amos.

  Jane slapped a hand on the table. “This foundation has been supporting the work of Carl Borloff for some years. We provide an annual subvention to keep his journal Sacred Art afloat.”

  “It would sink without it, Grandma.”

  “That may or may not be true. My point is that it is ridiculous to refer to Carl Borloff as someone hitherto unheard of around this table.”

  “We’re not discussing the subvention to his magazine,” James said.

  “We are, however, referring to an individual to whose magazine we have given a subvention at least three times. He is not a stranger.”

  “He couldn’t be any stranger.”

  “Now, Susan.”

  In the manner of such meetings, the discussion was a scarcely coherent flow of remarks, short speeches, crisp reactions, interventions by Jane, inquiries put to Amos, with repetitions frequent. Susan was sketching on a pad. Hugh looked frequently at his watch. James had all the ardor of someone fighting what he himself considered a lost battle. Margaret, seated very erect in her chair, might have been an observer. She might have been gathering herself to speak, and finally she did.

  “The underlying problem is this family’s long attachment to the work of Angelo Menotti. I do not question, of course, the soundness of that attachment, but perhaps it makes us vulnerable to such proposals as that before us. Is there any pressing need of or demand for a collection of photographs of Menotti’s windows?”

  “Margaret, all you have to do is look at them.”

  “In church. Where they have their native habitat. Those churches are all accessible. Anyone with the least bit of interest could easily visit them all in a matter of days.”

  “Are you against reproductions of great works of art?”

  “In this case, the artist apparently is. You say he has no legal right, Mother, but you added that he has a moral right to say what is done with his work. You say Borloff visited Menotti. Did he receive permission to proceed?”

  “Menotti told him he would sue him if he did,” Hugh said, smiling. “He is quite a character.”

  “Then you’ve made the pilgrimage, too?”

  “I have.”

  “Hugh,” Jane cried. “You must tell me about it. Not now, of course.”

  Margaret said, “I have told some of you that I met a grandson of Menotti’s on a freighter.”

  “A grandson!”

  “Yes, Jane. Susan has met him since.”

  “You have!”

  “Would you like to meet him, Grandma? I’ll bring him here.”

  It was Amos who tapped the table with his pen. “I fear we are wandering rather far afield. Let me propose that the board confirm the discretionary grant made by our chairman, after which I will draw attention to features of the agreement with Borloff that will remove any suspicion you may have that this is carte blanche.”

  “He has probably made off with the money already given him.”

  Amos brought his long fingers down across his mouth and stroked his chin. “I am afraid he has squandered a good portion of it already, James. At the time we discussed his project, he had made no arrangements with a publisher, and he had yet to interview possible photographers. The discretionary grant was meant to cover any number of start-up costs. It seems that Borloff made arrangements with a publisher whose president was recently found murdered in her office.”

  “You mean Argyle House,” Susan said.

  “I do. It seems to be a very unusual publishing house.”

  “Tell it to Madeline Schutz.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re robbing her blind. Her books sell like crazy, but her royalties only start after the first zillion copies, and she’s committed to writing ten novels.”

  “Good Lord,” Margaret murmured. “Argyle House? I never heard of it.”

  “It’s been in the news.”

  “I wonder if Borloff turned over any money to them?”

  At that moment Mrs. O’Grady came to the doorway and beckoned Margaret, mouthing, “Phone.”

  Margaret rose. “I’m sorry, but I have been expecting this call. I thought we would be done by now.”

  Margaret’s question was answered after she left the room.

  “A check for one hundred thousand dollars signed by Borloff has already been cashed,” Amos said. “I am a joint holder of the account, another precaution of the agreement, James.”

  “A check made out to Argyle House?”

  “To Charles Ruskin.”

  “Who is Charles Ruskin?”

  Susan said, “No doubt an accomplice.”

  “It sounds more like an alias, Susan. Ruskin?”

  After it was over, James suggested to Amos that they should hire an investigator to locate Borloff.

  “I shall aid and abet you,” Amos said.

  James laid a hand on the lawyer’s arm. “Uncle Amos, I think you’re as suspicious of that fellow as I am.”

  Uncle Amos. How long had it been since James had called him that? It warmed his heart.

  11

  Edna spoke with obvious reluctance, and Father Dowling understood why. Any reference to Willie could create the impression that he and Edna’s Earl were similar cases. Of course, that was absurd.

  “Have you yourself seen any of his old associates here?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t been here.”

  “That’s true. Of course, Willie can have visitors. I never told him otherwise. Would you want me to tell him that now?”

  She looked at him with anguish. “Oh, this is awful. I know it is because I couldn’t possibly mention it to Earl. How is anyone to be rehabilitated if they’re treated as if they can’t be?”

  “Tell me about the man who asked about Willie.”

  Edna seemed happy for the slight change of topic. “He was very handsome. He used his looks, too, if you know what I mean. He could wrap anyone around his little finger. He had me chattering away like an idiot, and I had never seen him before in my life.”

  “Did he say why he was interested in Willie’s visitors?”

  “As soon as he mentioned that, I got him out of here. I sent him down to Willie if he wanted to know such
things.”

  “What did Willie say to you about that?”

  “He’s never mentioned it. I don’t blame him.”

  Father Dowling thought he might ask Willie that when he talked with him.

  “Oh, another thing. He said he had gone to school here—at least he gave that impression—but he didn’t.”

  “Did you ask Marie?”

  An unwise question. He was kept busy trying to keep relations between Marie Murkin and Edna civil.

  “I looked at all the class photographs downstairs, at least all of them in which he might have appeared. He wasn’t in any of them.”

  “He would have changed since eighth grade.”

  “Not him. I am sure he was as pretty a boy as he is a man.”

  “I’m glad you told me this, Edna.”

  “It must sound silly to you.”

  “Not at all.”

  When Father Dowling left, he went down the stairs. At the bottom he hesitated. He felt drawn to those rows of photographs of St. Hilary’s graduates, but what would he be looking for? A pretty boy? That was so vague as to be useless.

  He continued down to the lowest floor and tapped on Willie’s door. Silence. Then movement within. The door opened slowly, and Willie looked out. “Father Dowling. Come in, come in.”

  In a corner was a television set with a muted ball game on. Portrait of a maintenance man at work.

  “Marie tells me you do a good job in the church, Willie.”

  “What did she say?” Willie asked, his voice rising.

  “Well, she did say she had to put away your ladder and mop and things.”

  “Oh, she told me that. Is she my boss, Father?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I wish you’d tell her.”

  Father Dowling took the straight-back chair, facing Willie, who had collapsed into a very comfortable-looking recliner. He seemed to shrink in its embrace.

  “This must be a lonely life for you, Willie.”

  “Father, for years I dreamt of living alone.”

  Father Dowling smiled. “I’m sure you did. Do you ever see any of your old friends?”

  “Old friends.”

  “From Joliet.”

  Willie banged the arms of his chair. “She saw him, didn’t she?” “I don’t understand.”

  “Marie. She saw Holloway. I knew it. I was dusting the stations and suddenly he was there, at the foot of the ladder. I brought him over here right away. I was sure no one had seen him.”

  “Holloway is someone from Joliet?”

  Willie nodded. “The way he talks, he’ll be there again.”

  Purists would say that parolees getting together were breaking the rules. Father Dowling asked Willie if that was what he meant.

  “Father, if I were you, I would get one of those security outfits to look after the parish.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “Do you know what Holloway wanted to do? He wanted to lift one of the stained glass windows from the church, one of those everyone seems interested in now.”

  “Good grief. Wouldn’t that be difficult?”

  “I told him it would be impossible. I did everything but tell him I’d snitch to his parole officer.”

  Ah. “I think he was talking to Edna, Willie.”

  “He? No, Holloway’s parole officer is a woman, He claims she’s nuts about him. She’d have to be.”

  “Willie, the next time Holloway, or any of your old friends, shows up, bring him to the rectory. I’d like to meet him.”

  Willie smiled a grudging smile. “He is a character.”

  When he got back to the rectory, Marie told him he’d had a call from Amos Cadbury.

  “Is he in his office?”

  “I suppose. He didn’t say.”

  Amos was in his office. “Father Dowling, can I give you dinner tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not, Amos. I’m giving you dinner.”

  So it was arranged that Amos Cadbury would dine with the pastor of St. Hilary’s that night, in the rectory.

  After dinner, with Marie fussing around the table, looking in from the kitchen at regular intervals, her antennae eager to pick up praise from Amos, praise that unfailingly came, Father Dowling and Amos adjourned to the study, the lawyer with a glass of Courvoisier, the pastor with his umpteenth cup of coffee for the day. The conversation turned to the Devere family, and Amos gave an account of the recent board meeting of the Devere Foundation. “I can speak freely because, of course, the minutes can become a public record.”

  “What was on the agenda?”

  “Support for the project of photographing Angelo Menotti’s stained glass windows.”

  “They’d better hurry. Willie is afraid one of the alumni from Joliet would like to steal one.”

  “What on earth would one do with a stained glass window?”

  “I hope that’s a problem I will never face.”

  “No word from the cardinal?”

  “No.” He was tempted to go on, but that would only prompt grousing about being in such suspense. “I suppose there must be a market for one of Menotti’s.”

  “Father, there are times when I wish I had never heard of Angelo Menotti. His presence broods over that family. Jane Devere is excessively devoted to the man. Of course, she knew him well, long ago. He is a difficult fellow. I suppose it is the artistic temperament. Jane urged me to draw up his will, and I did. It gave him a chance to review his accomplishments, and his checkered life.”

  “Has he children?”

  “Children? The man is excessively philoprogenitive. At least he was.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t think he is sure himself.”

  “How could he get them all into his will?”

  “Exactly. The one he omitted was furious. Angelo offered him a bust of his mother.”

  “That must be worth something.”

  “It is worth a great deal, but it was not the boy’s mother. His fury only increased.”

  “He is ninety-something?”

  “Ninety-four. A man my age should not begrudge longevity in others, but there are times …” Amos waved the thought away and drew on his cigar. “Back to the board meeting. The recipient of Jane’s generosity, Carl Borloff, is nowhere to be found. Of course, it is imagined that he took the money and ran. I doubt that. He very imprudently turned over a good part of the discretionary grant to a man who does seem to have debouched. James Devere has conceived a great resentment against Carl Borloff. He asked me to hire an investigator to find him.”

  “Have you done so?”

  “A strange thing. Margaret drew me aside after James’s suggestion. ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I have already hired someone.’”

  12

  After increasingly anxious days in which he had not heard from his client, Tuttle blamed only himself. Had he not told Borloff to get out of sight? Of course he had. Wasn’t that good advice? Of course it was. He should have specified that Borloff was to let his lawyer know where the hell he was.

  “I hope you got a hefty retainer,” Hazel said. For a while there she had been a regular cheerleader, but now she was slowly reverting to her virago vices.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Better let me bank it.”

  “I’m using it for expenses.”

  “Remember to keep records.”

  Tuttle escaped his office and went slowly and meditatively down the four flights to his car. Retainer. He pulled out the single he’d asked Borloff for, to seal their bargain, lawyer and client. For all he knew, Borloff was at the bottom of the Fox River. This cheerless prospect turned his mind to Peanuts Pianone. He called Peanuts from his car. “I’ll pick you up in front of the courthouse.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Are you in uniform?”

  A pause. “I can change.”

  From what to what?

  Peanuts was in uniform. Tuttle rolled down the window. “I’ll put this in the g
arage. We’ll need a cruiser.”

  Peanuts actually saluted. Uniforms do that to people. Tuttle slid down the ramp into the basement garage, putting his car in Chief Robertson’s spot. Tuttle got out of the car and stretched, trying not to think. He was better when he was spontaneous. How can your conscience bother you if you don’t let it know what you’re planning? Peanuts rolled up in a gleaming cruiser, and Tuttle got in. “This car makes getting arrested almost attractive.”

  Peanuts said nothing, but Tuttle had not expected to engage his old friend in lively repartee. “Why the uniform?”

  “My suit that was at the cleaners? They lost it.”

  “Sue them.” A Pianone for a client? Whoa.

  “That takes too long. You should have heard my brother.”

  “I hope the cleaners are insured.”

  Peanuts grinned as if he were modeling for jack-o’-lanterns. “They better have fire insurance. They had a fire last night.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” Tuttle did not want to hear more. The Pianone family’s activities were at once notorious and unnoticed, officially. An idea came. “The Pianones got connections in Kenosha, Wisconsin?”

  “Where we were?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe.”

  Tuttle let it go. His friendship wth Peanuts, the white sheep of the Pianone family, was based on the fiction that Peanuts was just another cop rather than an affirmative action hire on behalf of the Pianones.

  He gave Peanuts directions to the building in which Borloff lived. Maybe the guy was dumb enough not to follow his lawyer’s advice. Peanuts squeezed into a space at the curb, easing the vehicle ahead of him forward, despite the protest of its brakes.

  “You’ll never get out of here, Peanuts.”

  Again the jack-o’-lantern grin. Tuttle had a sudden image of a cleaner’s establishment in flames. He erased it and followed the uniformed representative of law and order to the entrance of the building. Peanuts pulled open the door and hurried in as if he were making a raid.

  Inside there was a long hallway dwindling into darkness like an illustration of perspective and, to the right, a door marked STAIRS.