by Dan Walsh
Presently, Hammond was on his way back across the bridge to an apartment house on Grandview Avenue. Hank didn’t know where Coleman lived now but remembered where he’d lived his first few months in town. Hank thought his old landlady might know where he stayed now. Hammond had asked him about this girl Claire, where she lived. Seemed like she was the romantic interest and would know exactly where to find this guy Coleman. He might even be with her now.
But Hank wouldn’t talk about Claire, no matter how hard Hammond had pressed. Not a problem. He could find out where she lived in the telephone book.
He pulled into a parking space by the curb next to the apartment house. A little breezier over here, but a nice area surrounded by several blocks of small bungalows and beach houses. Stepping out of the car, he heard waves breaking off in the distance. He might like to come back to this area sometime with his wife, Angie. She’d love a place like this. But he’d need a few more pay raises before he could afford vacations in Florida. He walked around the car and up the steps.
A little note said the manager lived in apartment 101. She opened the door immediately after he knocked, then stepped back, startled by his presence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was expecting Alfred, the plumber.”
“Special Agent Victor Hammond, ma’am.” He held out his ID.
“FBI? Oh my.”
“I need to ask you a few questions about a young man who lived here a few months ago.”
“You want to come in?”
“Sure. This will only take a few minutes.”
“I’m Mrs. Arthur, by the way. Evelyn Arthur. Sorry, it’s such a mess. I wasn’t expecting proper company.”
Hammond tried not to notice, but it was a mess. Newspapers strewn about, dishes stacked in the sink. Laundry on the coffee table.
“So who you looking for?”
“Do you remember a young man named Ben Coleman?”
“Ben? Sure I remember Ben. Nice fella.”
“You remember when he came, the date? And how long he stayed?”
“Can’t say I remember the actual date, but it was in August, the middle of August, I think.”
“Any chance you could look that up?”
Mrs. Arthur shook her head. “He paid by cash, said he didn’t need a receipt, so I never wrote one up. Is Ben in some kind of trouble?”
Paid by cash, Hammond thought. That fits. Didn’t want to leave a record of his stay in writing. “Probably not, but I can’t really say. Anything about Ben strike you as odd or unusual?”
“You mean the way he looked?”
“No, I’m thinking more about his conduct, things he might have said or done that seemed out of the ordinary.”
She thought a moment. “He was a very nice young man. I was sad to see him go. I guess one thing was, he seemed to have plenty of money but didn’t have a job. I found that odd. He might have got one since he moved out, but he didn’t have one then.” A look came over her face. “But you know, he did mention one time that his parents had died a few months ago. I figured maybe they had left him some money. Wished someone would die and leave me some.”
Hammond jotted down a few lines. “Anything else?”
She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “He left kind of suddenly. He paid me for a full week but moved out two days into it. When I asked him if he wanted a refund—not that he had it coming, but he was just so nice—he said, No, you keep it, Mrs. Arthur. Then he thanked me for being such a nice landlady.”
“When he left, did he seem nervous or panicky?”
“No, wouldn’t say that. And he just moved around the corner from here on Vermont Avenue. I’ve seen him drive by a few times. Always waves.”
“Do you know the address?”
“I’m not sure which house it is. He drives a Ford coupe, two-door kind, I think. It’s black. Can’t be but a few of those on the street.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful.” He waited a moment. “Can you think of anything else? Anything at all? Was there ever a time he seemed upset?”
“No . . . well, wait. There was one time. Come to think of it, this was a little out of the ordinary.”
“What’s that?”
“I was heading off to confession, at St. Paul’s across the river. He was asking me all kinds of questions about it.”
“What kind of questions . . . if you don’t mind me asking?”
“The oddest one was, he wanted to know if priests had to keep your secrets. You know, if you could tell them things in confession, knowing they’d never tell anyone.”
Guilty conscience, Hammond thought as he wrote. “Did he tell you what he wanted to see the priest for?”
“No, but if I recall, he said he was Lutheran. We don’t have a Lutheran church in this town, and I don’t even know if they do confessions in that church. Do you know if they do?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Baptist.”
“I think he might have gone over there, anyway, because he asked for directions.”
“He did? Do you know which priest he met with?”
“No. We only had the one conversation. He seemed a little edgy so I didn’t ask him anything more about it. Religion’s kind of a personal thing. To me, anyway.”
Hammond handed her his card. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Arthur. You think of anything else, just call this number.”
“I will, sir.”
He turned and walked toward her front door.
Mrs. Arthur added, “But I gotta say, I can’t see Ben being your man, no matter what he’s supposed to have done. Not Ben. I’m a good judge of character. Lord knows, this place is full of ’em. But Ben . . . not a mean bone in his body. I can’t see him committing any kind of a crime.”
“Well, thanks again, Mrs. Arthur.”
Hammond walked out to his car, jotted down a few more details in his pad. He drove around till he found Vermont Avenue, then rode up and down the street a few times. Didn’t see any black Ford coupes. He looked at his watch. He might have enough time to interview one of the priests at the church.
Guess I’m heading back over the bridge, he thought. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Priests were notorious for clamming up when questioned, especially about something they heard in a confession. But Hammond knew, you ask the right questions the right way, and it’s amazing how much you can get them to say.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At least his hair looked nice.
Father Flanagan smiled at his reflection in the mirror as he stood in the foyer of the rectory. He’d just taken off his hat and coat. He didn’t really even need the coat, it was such a nice day. He’d just come from a walk to the barbershop downtown, about a half mile away.
His soul had been troubled the whole way home.
It wasn’t the conversation at the barbershop—for the most part, anyway. Chatting with Joe and the customers was a pleasant experience. He’d been going there once a month since he’d come to Florida, and went out of his way to disarm the tension that always accompanied his black attire and white collar. Now they greeted him cheerfully when he came in, and except for the considerable effort expended to restrain their profanity, the conversations were mostly light and cheery.
What had troubled him was the content in a Life magazine he’d read while awaiting his turn in the barber chair. It was a two-page article in the July issue. The banner headline read: THE EIGHT SABOTEURS SHOULD BE PUT TO DEATH. It talked about how the FBI had captured the “eight Nazi terrorists.” The whole tone of the article centered on the outrage people felt toward these evil men the Nazis had sent to our shores. The last sentence said something about how much these men deserved to die, and that nothing short of death would satisfy patriotic Americans.
Joe and some of the men at the shop had seen what he’d been reading, and a conversation started about it. It was clear and unanimous: everyone at Joe’s Barber Shop felt the same way.
One of the men pointed out that a military tribunal had convened a month after the arti
cle was written. All eight men were found guilty, but only six were executed. The men at the shop expressed outrage that two of the “stinking Nazis—pardon the expression, Father” had been spared. They’d been given long prison sentences instead.
The point was . . . Ben had been right, and Aidan had been wrong.
He had urged Ben to turn himself in to the authorities, to tell them what he knew about the other saboteurs and let them handle it. Ben had said they wouldn’t listen. They’d arrest him and probably execute him. Now he had to agree; Ben was right.
As he stood there in the foyer, one of his favorite psalms floated through his mind, a comforting verse in Psalm 131: “O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.”
Lord, he prayed, this situation with Ben is much too great for me. Help him, Lord. And help me know how I might help him . . . if there is anything I—
The doorbell interrupted his prayer.
Hammond waited a few moments, then a few moments more. He was just about to ring the rectory doorbell again when it opened. He already had his FBI badge in hand.
A priest answered. “Good afternoon, how can I—” The priest took one look at Hammond and froze.
“Hello, Father, I’m Victor Hammond, special agent with the FBI.” He held out his ID. “I wonder if we could talk. Are you the parish priest or the one in charge?” Hammond had a hard time discerning the look on the priest’s face. Almost seemed like fear. But that didn’t make any sense.
“Why, no . . . do you need to speak with Father Murphy?”
“Possibly, but maybe you can help me. I’ve been told by one of your parishioners that a young man may have come here for . . . some advice.” Why mention the word confession so soon? he thought.
“Do you know the young man’s name? Oh, pardon me, where are my manners. Would you like to come in?”
“I could, but this will only take a few minutes.”
“As you wish.”
“The man’s name? It’s Coleman, Ben Coleman.” There was that look again in the priest’s eyes. A strong reaction to Coleman’s name.
“I . . . I remember that name. I’ve talked with him. But it wasn’t for advice exactly. I spoke with him in the confessional.”
“I see. But from what I understand, Coleman is a Lutheran, correct?”
“I think he may have said that.”
“Isn’t that somewhat . . . irregular?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But we don’t have a Lutheran church in town, so I suppose that’s why he came here. But I’m sure you know, Agent Hammond, what a parishioner shares in the confessional is privileged information.”
“But he’s not really a parishioner, Father. You’ve just said it. He’s not even a Catholic.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I think it might.”
“I suppose we’ll have to disagree on that point.”
“I mean no offense, Father, but we’re concerned about this young man and need to know his whereabouts, and his plans. Can you at least tell me if you’ve spoken to him recently?”
“Yes, I guess I can answer that. I spoke with him earlier today.”
“Today? Do you know where he is now?”
“No, I don’t. May I ask what this is about?”
“Well, guess we have the same problem, Father. I can’t share that with you . . . privileged information.”
“You can’t tell me anything?”
“I really can’t. It’s a national security matter. I can say that much but nothing more.” Hammond waited a moment. It wasn’t what the Father said next that intrigued him, but what he didn’t say.
“I see.”
He knows something. He definitely knows something. Both Miss Jane and Mrs. Arthur had instantly risen to Coleman’s defense when Hammond even hinted that he might be in some kind of trouble. But all the Father said was “I see”? “Father, if you know something about Coleman, you need to tell me.”
“But I can’t tell you, sir. You know that I can’t.”
“Father, lives could be in danger. We just had an explosion in a shipyard this morning near Savannah. If we don’t find Ben Coleman soon, more—”
“Are you implying Ben had anything to do with that?”
“No, I’m not. But we don’t know that for certain, do we?”
“Yes, we do. I’ve just told you, I saw Ben today. Ben wasn’t anywhere near Savannah this morning. It takes the better part of the day just to drive—”
“I’m not saying Ben had anything to do with the explosion personally, but he may know the men who did. He may be in cahoots with the men who did.” He regretted saying that. He was supposed to be getting this priest to spill the beans, and here he was saying way too much himself. But then . . . Father Flanagan’s silence just now seemed to be speaking volumes. Hammond waited a moment more, allowed an uneasy tension to build.
There, there was that reaction again in the priest’s eyes.
“I believe there’s nothing more to be said, Agent Hammond.”
Hammond was certain now: Ben Coleman was his man. He was the partner to that Nazi corpse they had just uncovered at the beach. Coleman was a Nazi saboteur. And here Hammond was, on the verge of breaking the entire case open, all by himself. This was just the thing needed to solidify the Bureau’s confidence, after giving him his promotion. “I suppose we’re done for now, Father. Again, I had no intention of upsetting you. But when lives are at stake . . .”
The priest began closing the door, then stopped. “I will tell you this, sir. Ben Coleman is no threat to this country. He loves it here. I believe he is prepared to give his life for it.”
“What are you saying, Father? Is he planning to do something? You must tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Agent Hammond. I don’t know Ben’s plans, not anything specific. I’m just telling you, he is one of the finest young men I’ve ever met. I may not be able to tell you anything Ben confessed to me, but Ben is not the way you’re making him out to be, not in the least. He would never harm a citizen of this country.”
This wasn’t going anywhere else. Hammond had gotten all he was going to get from this conversation. But he’d gotten plenty. “Here’s my card, Father. If you think of anything else.”
The priest took the card. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said. “I hope you don’t find Ben. But if you do find him, remember what I said. Please . . .” Hammond saw moisture in the old priest’s eyes. “Please don’t hurt him. He’s not our enemy.”
He closed the door.
As Hammond walked away, he thought, I’m sorry, Father. I beg to differ.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Claire had cried so hard and for so long, she was near exhaustion.
First at the riverfront park, after Ben left. Then on the way home. Then at home, she’d cried for another thirty minutes. She was glad her mother wasn’t there. If asked to explain herself, she wouldn’t have been able to put two sentences together. She lifted her head off the pillow when she heard the back door open and close downstairs.
“Claire? Claire, are you home? Are you all right, dear?”
She heard her mother’s voice through the closed bedroom door. Then footsteps up the stairs. How could she know Claire was upset?
A knock on the door. “Claire, are you in there? Can I come in?”
Slowly, Claire pulled herself up from the bed. “I’m in here.”
The door opened. “I found your sweater on the living room floor. What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?”
Claire burst into tears. “Oh, Mother. Everything is wrong.” She fell back on the bed, facedown.
“Oh, my.”
She felt the other side of the bed drop slightly as her mother sat down and began gently rubbing her back. “What is it, honey? Did you and Ben have a fight?”
Claire didn’t know what to say.
“Your father and I had this big fight onc
e, before we were married. It doesn’t mean it’s the end, sweetheart. What’s this?”
Claire waited, her face still turned toward the wall.
“Is this a ring, Claire?”
Claire looked up. She’d forgotten; she’d put the ring Ben had given her—still in the box—on the bed beside her. She heard her mother lift the lid.
“Claire, it’s beautiful. And it looks so expensive. Did Ben propose?”
“Oh, Mother . . . yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”
“Come here,” her mother said, holding out her arms. “I don’t understand, but you don’t have to explain right now.” Claire slid forward into her arms and cried into her shoulder.
She sat there a few minutes. Then felt a slight calmness come over her. “Ben met me after work,” she said.
“To propose?”
“No.” Claire sighed deeply and pulled back enough to see her mother’s face. “I don’t know how to tell you what happened.” Her mother’s face showed equal parts care and confusion. “When will Dad get home?”
“It won’t be long. I had a planning meeting with some of the women at church and we went a little long. I called him at work, and he said not to worry. When he gets home, he’s going to take us out to dinner.”
“I can’t go out.”
“No?” she said gently.
“I can’t even think about food. I can’t even think.”
“What’s the matter, Claire? Let me see if I can help.”
Claire looked at her. Her mother wouldn’t understand. This wasn’t something she could fix. “I know I need to tell you, but I think I want to wait till Dad gets home. I don’t think I can bear to explain it twice.”
Forty minutes later, Claire sat across from her parents in the den. Her mother had made meatloaf sandwiches from leftovers. Claire felt bad that her mother didn’t get to go out for dinner. She always worked so hard.
