Sinners and Shrouds
Page 21
‘Worst thing about a city,’ Diffendorf hissed. ‘Pigeons!’
‘Worst thing about cities is cities.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ Diffendorf raised an arm. Under the impression peanuts were being flung, the pigeon waddled away. ‘Why’d she dress as a nun?’
‘Worked before. Perfect disguise, too, for a woman as well known as Mrs Palmer.’
‘Parliaments?’
‘Planted there … by Benson & Hedges.’
The pigeon came back, eyed them blearily. Dust, a paper bag, some leaves slid by the steps. The cathedral remained silent.
‘One thing I don’t get,’ Clay whispered. ‘Mrs Bruce. She knew me.’
‘We had a talk after your name came out in the open. Seems she had blackmail in mind, too.’
‘That was a break.’
‘Not for Mrs P.’ After a pause, Diffendorf murmured, ‘Should have junked that recorder.’
‘Widdecomb probably fouled that up. He was in her study Sunday morning—when she came downstairs pretending to have been in bed all night.’
‘You think the recorder was in her study?’
‘Where else would she keep it?’
‘How do you figure Widdecomb?’
‘She sent him to Laura’s studio. Some kind of an errand. Wanting to see what gave on her death.’
‘In the whole picture, I mean. How come he fitted so well for a frame?’
‘She planned it that way. Just in case. Could be he left the poor farm with Larry and put the bite on her when she became Mrs Palmer. Account for the big job he held. Or …’
A shadowy figure coming from the cathedral’s side passed other shadowy figures farther along the landing, approached them. The figure had Sergeant Storm’s voice.
‘Men are all set, Lieutenant.’
‘Whisper, goddam it!’ Diffendorf whispered and turned back to Clay. ‘Or?’
‘Or could be he was just an innocent bystander.’
‘We’ll have to check.’
‘What difference does it make?’
Diffendorf thought this over. ‘None, I guess.’ He nodded to the waiting Storm. ‘Let’s go.’
In one of the massive doors was a smaller door on double action hinges so that it could be swung both ways. Diffendorf pushed the small door in slowly, hesitated, then went through the opening. Storm followed, his right hand moving to the shoulder holster under his coat. The men went next and Clay was left alone with the pigeon.
The sky had turned the colour of cigarette smoke. The wind had gone. The city slept. August 25 was going to be a scorcher. Clay went through the door.
In slow stages his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. First he saw only the stained glass windows at the far end of the central nave, reds and blues glowing softly. Then he saw the altar under clerestory windows in the rounded bay, saw arches and buttresses and the gilded tracery of walls and then the nave itself, the wide aisle flanked by benches that seemed squat under the soaring vault. He saw men moving down the aisle, saw them fan out quietly among the benches until only one was left. Tip-toeing down the aisle, he saw the man was Diffendorf, now motionless.
He slid into one of the benches, his eyes on the lieutenant. He had expected the inside of the cathedral to smell of incense, but there was only a stone-earth smell. The smell of a clean cellar. He had expected candles, but there were none. He had expected priests …
The lieutenant was moving again. Clay could see ahead of him a dark irregularity on the dark line made by one of the front benches. The bowed head of someone praying. The lieutenant moved closer; men appeared around the altar; other men converged from doors and walls, but the head didn’t move.
By the bench now, Diffendorf gently touched the shoulder of the one praying. No word was said. But at the touch, Mrs Palmer rose, crossed in front of the lieutenant and started up the aisle. Diffendorf joined her and back of them, filing into the aisle from other rows as they went by, came the others. The shoes of one detective squeaked.
Clay watched the procession approach, unable to turn away. He had a queer feeling he was witnessing a marriage, and maybe he was. A proxy marriage with a bridegroom who’d be around later. He stared at Mrs Palmer, hoping she wouldn’t see him. She didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the door that a detective was holding open. Drugged eyes in the drugged face of a woman neither dead nor alive.
The procession went by, went out the door. Clay sat motionless, drained of all feeling. A hush settled down on the vaulted chamber. Reds and blues in the stained windows, merged by the brightening sky outside, cast a purple light over the altar. A hand clapped Clay on the back.
‘Brother!’ exclaimed Sergeant Storm. ‘What a job you did on that dame!’ He whacked Clay’s back again. ‘How’re you gonna spend the reward?’
Clay said, ‘Go——yourself!’ using a word never before used in Holy Name Cathedral.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1956 by Jonathan Latimer
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8612-6
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