A single folder concealed what remained of the Sean O’Flanagan Collection in Parktown College.
Barrett parted the folder. The tab was marked ‘Ephemera.’ The contents were ephemera: calling cards, citations, address books, postcards. He went through it all hastily, item by item. No Jadway, no Cassie, no Paris, no 1930s. A half-dozen postcards, one, two,
three, four, five, six - and then back to five. Not Jadway, not Cassie, but another name had rung a bell.
It was not a pictorial postcard. It was a plain prestamped one, a light-brown one that had been purchased at the post office, with one side imprinted ‘This side of the card is for address,’ and the other side blank and for a message.
The other side was not blank. It carried a brief message, written in purple ink, and it read: ‘Dear Uncle Sean. Tomorrow I marry. My address will be - 215 E. Alhambra Road, Alhambra, Calif. I am happy. Hope you are, too. Love - Judith.’
Judith!
He had found the illegitimate wraith borne by Cassie McGraw as the result of accepting J J Jadway’s love. Judith Jadway, or Judith McGraw, or Judith whatever-name-given-to-her if Cassie’s later husband had adopted her. Judith would be the instrument to open the door to Jadway’s past and to tell what had happened to Cassie McGraw.
Barrett examined the front of the card once more. The postmark and cancellation lines were blurred, but the stamped date of the mailing could be made out. It said 1956. Barrett did some rapid calculations in his head. Jadway’s daughter had been nineteen years old, and about to be married, when she had mailed this card. Today she would be thirty-three years old. Fourteen years had passed since she had given her address as 215 East Alhambra Road, Alhambra, California. Suddenly she seemed wraithlike again. Most Southern Californians do not live at one address for fourteen years. Especially young married ones. Still, it was possible. And, at worst, Alhambra Road mi ght be the beginning of a trail that would lead him to an informant and witness who could be the match of any that the prosecution had produced or would yet produce.
Placing the precious postcard atop the mutilated photograph, he restored the loose folders to their box. He knew what must be done.
He would have Virgil Crawford order photocopies of both sides of the snapshot and both sides of the postcard. Toward what end, these photocopies, he was not certain. But he was an attorney, and he was thorough.
His next move was foreordained. He must return to Los Angeles immediately, and drive directly to 215 East Alhambra Road, where his question for a confrontation with Jadway’s daughter might be resolved.
Rising, he glanced at his wristwatch. He could be in Los Angeles by late afternoon.
He took up the postcard and the photograph. His eyes held on the three boxes, and silently he gave his thanks and blessing to the Sean O’Flanagan Collection. Then, almost gaily, he went in search of Virgil Crawford. He was filled with optimism once more.
He was back in Los Angeles.
Following his automobile-club map of Los Angeles County, Mike Barrett had spent three quarters of an hour driving his Convertible from the airport to his destination. He had lost his way once, been delayed by a detour another time, but now he was on East Alhambra Road.
And now he was puzzled.
This was a quiet old residential street, shaded by hoary oak trees and palms, and the address he sought was the only number on the opposite side of the street from where he had parked.
Peering through the window on the driver’s side, he read the metal sign a second time. It stood between a row of bushes and a step leading to a walk. It read:
215
CARMEL OF ST THERESA
Behind the sign and the walk stood a chapel with high stained-glass windows. To the left of the chapel and adjoining it was a red brick building with shuttered cell-like windows on the second floor and an ornate Victorian-type bell tower rising above the rooftop.
Barrett’s bewilderment intensified. Fourteen years ago, Jadway’s daughter had given 215 East Alhambra Road as the address of her honeymoon home. Now the address had become a church and a -well, whatever that adjoining red brick building was called.
Barrett had enough of the mystery. He wanted the solution. Quickly easing out of his car, he crossed the street and hastened up the walk. Off to his right was a solid wood gate overlaid with black iron grillework, and the gate was set in a five-foot wall. Ahead of him was the chapel door. To his left was another cement walk leading to the red brick building. Barrett veered left and followed the cement walk around the chapel toward porch steps that led up to an entrance between arched pillars.
He rang the bell. A moment later the door opened to reveal a young nun in a floor-length brown habit.
‘Yes?’ she inquired softly.
Utterly disconcerted, Barrett stammered, ‘Uh -I -I was - was given this address to look up someone. But it doesn’t seem to be a private residence.’
‘This is a Carmelite monastery of cloistered nuns. You must have the wrong address.’
‘No. I believe that I have the right address. I may have the wrong year. Do you have any idea whether this was a private residence fourteen years ago?’
‘Nothing has changed since then. Fourteen years ago it was as it is now.’
‘You’re sure ?’ But Barrett knew that she was not mistaken, and a suspicion of the truth had entered his head. T must trace someone who once gave this as her address. Is there any person here who might help me?’
‘Perhaps the Mother Prioress.’
‘Could I see her?’
‘If you will wait.’ She indicated a stone bench on the covered porch. ‘I will try to find her.’
Barrett strolled over to the bench, took out his pipe, then put it away, and sat down on the edge of the bench. He gazed past the pillar to his right and saw the wire fence and the hedge which ran along the side street until they met the low retaining wall fronting Alhambra Road, and then together the two walls encompassed the green lawn before him.
He heard a door squeak, and saw a plump woman, veiled, attired in white choir mantle, white giumpe, and thick brown habit, briskly coming toward him. Barrett leaped to his feet.
‘I am Sister Arilda,’ she announced. ‘May I be of assistance to you?’
Barrett saw inside the veil a full, round authoritarian face, as agelessly waxen and contented as the countenances of all nuns he had ever observed. These faces always made him feel inexplicably uncomfortable. Perhaps it was that their devotion to God’s work, their communion with the final mystery, made his own knowledge and purpose seem pointless and petty. Or perhaps it was something else: that their way was unnatural and anti-life, a permanent prolongation of childhood/They were probably saints or maybe some were sinners, but, regardless, their presence had always embarrassed him into awkwardness.
Here was the Mother Prioress, and she waited placidly for an explanation of his visit.
After introducing himself, Barrett went on. ‘I - I’m an attorney in Los Angeles. I’m trying to locate a young lady, someone I must see about a rather critical matter. The last address I have for her is fourteen years old. It is this address. The sister I spoke to first said that this was a monastery fourteen years ago. Could she be mistaken?’
‘She was not mistaken,’ said the Mother Prioress. ‘The sisters of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, as well as the Carmelite monastery itself, were here fourteen years ago.’ She paused, and then she said, The young lady who gave this address - can you tell me more about her?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’ Barrett reached into his inside breast pocket and extracted the photostats of the postcard that Jadway’s daughter had sent to Sean O’Flanagan fourteen years earlier. Unfolding the two sheets, Barrett handed them to the Mother Prioress. ‘Here are copies of both sides of a postcard she sent to a family friend. You can see that she gave this address.’
Taking the pages, the Mother Prioress sat down on the porch bench. ‘Do sit down, Mr Barrett,’ she said. As he lowered himself to the bench beside her
, the Mother Prioress studied the photocopies.
Watching her read, Barrett said, ‘All I can add are a few fragmentary facts. You can see, she signs her name simply Judith. I have no idea what last name she used fourteen years ago. She was born out of wedlock in Paris to a woman named Cassie McGraw and a man named J J Jadway. So she may have been called either Judith Jan Jadway or Judith Jan McGraw. And then later, in the United States, her mother married and Judith’s stepfather may have adopted her, although we have found no legal record of that in Detroit. She may or may not have taken his name, whatever it was. Shortly after Cassie McGraw’s marriage, Judith’s stepfather was killed in the Second World War. After that, we don’t know what happened, until Judith mailed this card fourteen years ago. Of course, she may have been mistaken about the address she gave. Because if this was a convent - or, rather, a monastery - at that time, it certainly doesn’t jibe with the fact that Judith was getting married the following day.’
The Mother Prioress had finished studying the photostats, and she handed them back to Barrett. Now she folded her smooth hands in her lap and considered Barrett levelly from the security of her veil.
‘She was married the following day, and she did give the right address,’ said the Mother Prioress. ‘She and five other sisters were wedded to Our Lord Jesus Christ in that year.’
Despite his earlier suspicion, Barrett sat stunned and speechless.
‘After formal training and experiencing the contemplative life according to the primitive rule given to the hermits of Mount Carmel by Albert of Jerusalem in the year 1207 and according to Saint Theresa’s Constitutions, she completed her novitiate and then took her temporary vows. Finally; in 1956, she took her final vows, and she was consecrated to God forever.’
Trying to recover his poise, Barrett asked, ‘You mean Judith is here in this monastery right now?’
There is no Judith, Mr Barrett. There is a Sister Francesca.’
‘Whatever her name, it’s urgent that I speak with her. Could I see her, even briefly?’
The Mother Prioress’s hand had gone to the scapular hanging over her brown habit. She looked off beyond the porch at a cluster of sparrows on the lawn. Finally she spoke. ‘A sister who takes the solemn vows of this order, who becomes a Carmelite nun, has offered her person in total dedication to God. In the spirit of Saint Theresa, she thereafter pursues the contemplative life, pursues an intimacy with the divine, embraces the entire world through her apostolate of prayer and penance. It is this intimacy with God that makes her self-sacrifice effective and lends power to her prayer. To become a true collaborator in the redeeming work of Christ, the discalced Carmelite nun must renounce all that is on the outside. In her habit, and barefooted, she spends each day in fasting, in manual labor, in mental prayer, in spiritual reading, in chanting
the Divine Office in Latin. One so consecrated, Mr Barrett, would not be personally tempted or officially permitted to concern herself with the secular matters you consider so urgent. I am sorry.’
‘But I only wish to know from her anything that she can relate about her father and perhaps the whereabouts of her mother, assuming her mother is still alive. Aren’t exceptions ever made in special cases?’
“There may beexceptions. It is not for me to say. You would have to apply to the office of Cardinal MacManus, who is the Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. However, I doubt that you would have any success in persuading His Eminence.’
‘May I ask why you doubt it?’
He thought he saw a cool smile within the frame of the veil. Then the Mother Prioress spoke. ‘Mr Barrett, this is a cloistered order, but in my role as head of the monastery my contacts are frequently more worldly than those of the other sisters. It is necessary for me to be as informed as the sisters of our Third Order, who dwell and toil in the Little Flower Missionary House and go out among people as social workers. I have followed recent events. 1 have had reason to refer to the Index Librorum Prohibitomm. I have been appraised of Father Sarfatti’s testimony in court. I have become familiar with the name of Jadway and, indeed, with your own name, Mr Barrett. Knowing the circumstances, I strongly doubt that an exception wouid be made because of your application. I doubt it very much, Mr Barrett.’
Barrett smiled. ‘I doubt it, too.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’
She rose. ‘I cannot wish you luck. I can only hope you will find God’s path.’
He started to go, then hesitated. ‘Does Judith - Sister Francesca - does she know of the trial ?’
‘She has her own trial,’ the Mother Prioress said cryptically. ‘Her sole interest is to achieve divine intimacy. Good day, Mr Barrett.’
He left the porch and walked slowly to the corner. Glancing back, he saw that the Mother Prioress had disappeared inside the monastery. Then, on the side street, he could see three nuns picking up cartons at what appeared to be a delivery gate. He halted to watch them, their robes flowing as they moved silently back through the gate toward the cloistered building.
He wondered, could one of them be the daughter of Jadway and Cassie McGraw?
Then, swiftly, he walked away from this place of God and its sisters who collaborated with Christ. He was ready to re-enter the ruder worid beyond, where most men had no time for heaven in their unremitting struggle to survive hell on earth.
After picking up a pastrami sandwich and coleslaw at the delicatessen in the Vicente Food Market, Mike Barrett had gone on to
his apartment. Munching the sandwich, and drinking root beer, he had propped the telephone receiver between his ear and shoulder and tried to locate Abe Zelkin.
There was no response at the office, and he left word with the answering service for Zelkin to call him when he checked in with the service. Then he tried Zelkin’s residence, and the baby-sitter explained that Mr Zelkin had driven his wife and son somewhere. Again Barrett left word to be called.
After that, Barrett stayed in the apartment, concentrating on the transcripts that Donna had made of Zelkin’s and his own pretrial taped interviews with their own witnesses. He lost himself in this, and time flew by, and it was nine-fifteen in the evening when the telephone finally rang.
The caller was Abe Zelkin, at last.
‘Where have you been, Abe?’ Barrett demanded. ‘I’ve been anxious to know what really happened at the trial yesterday. The newspapers seemed to shy away from a lot of the testimony.’
‘Because it wasn’t for family audiences. More important, Mike, I’ve been waiting to hear how you made out. Not very well, I gather, or I’d have heard from you.’
‘Not very well.’
‘If you’re free now, we can catch up. I had to drive my wife and boy and leave them at the Griffith Observatory earlier. Leo was with us, and then he and I went out to dinner and we started reviewing some new stuff that’s come in and I guess we forgot the time. But I finally checked with the message service, and here I am. Look, I’ve got to pick up my wife and kid in a half hour - it’ll take that long to get there - so why don’t I pick you up first and we can gab on the way? Leo’s still with me and we’re in your neighborhood. We can bring each other up to date on everything.’
‘I’ll be waiting downstairs.’
Now, twenty-five minutes later, with Zelkin at the wheel of his station wagon and Barrett sitting beside him, and Kimura in the rear, they were spiraling up toward the summit of Mount Wilson. Through the windshield, Barrett could make out the domes of the observatory and the planetarium a short distance above them.
Barrett had been recounting his adventures with Dr Hiram Eberhart and Sean O’Flanagan in New York, with Virgil Crawford at Parktown College, and with the Mother Prioress of the Carmelite Monastery in Alhambra. Concluding his recital, he said, ‘So all that heavy traveling and high hopes and what have I got to show for it ? These lousy photostats of a photograph and a postcard and not a damn thing more. Ask me about poetry, special collections, Carmelite nuns, and I’m an expert. Ask me about Jadway and Cassie
and Judith and anachronisms, and I’m a bum. Gentlemen, I’ve just run out of leads. The bottom of the barrel. The only one I can think of who could help us now would be Cassie McGraw, and the odds are she’s six feet deep in some plot of ground, and if she
isn’t, where in God’s name is she? I hate to be the voice of doom, but I don’t see any ray of light. Until late this afternoon, I always had some hope, but not tonight.’
He heard Kimura stir behind him. ‘Hope is not everything,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should heed the old English proverb - he who lives on hope will die fasting. Maybe we have enough without needing to hope for more.’
‘Sure,’ said Zelkin. ‘We’ll just go with what we have. Well, here we are. The Griffith Observatory. No relation to their Attila, Frank Griffith.’ He parked the station wagon. ‘I guess the planetarium show isn’t over yet. Ever been in that theater ? Crazy. The ceilmg of the dome is the screen. The night I went they projected the Star of Bethlehem in the sky as it was supposed to have been the night the Three Wise Men followed it.’
‘What about the Three Wise Guys in this car?’ asked Barrett. ‘What star have we got to follow?’
‘It does look like Elmo Duncan has cornered the market on stars,’ said Zelkin. ‘He spent most of yesterday clearing the way for his second big star.’
‘I’ve been waiting to hear what happened while I was gone,’ said Barrett.
‘I’ve been waiting to tell you,’ said Zelkin, ‘only you wouldn’t stop talking.’
Suddenly Barrett grinned. ‘You’re right, Abe. Go ahead.’
‘Let me find my notes,’ said Zelkin. He found them and reviewed them. ‘Like the newspapers reported - no top performers. Most of it was a buildup for what’s coming. Duncan brought out two more literary experts, a professor from Colorado, Dr Dean Woodcourt, and some syndicated book reviewer, Ted Taylor, and they pronounced the book obscene and damned it for its prurient appeal. There wasn’t much I could do. It was their opinion. I took a few stabs at their authority and prejudices, but I don’t think that made much impression on the jury. Where Duncan really scored was when he elicited from his witness, Taylor, things the newspapers didn’t print, concrete examples of instances where specific books supposedly have led individuals to acts of violence. All groundwork for -‘
(1969) The Seven Minutes Page 54
