by Jon Cleary
Malone nodded and winked and she gave him a smile that invited him back. She stood at the doorway of her small office, an autumn girl in an autumn day, and waved to them as they drove away.
“I hope the bastard gave her a good dinner,” said Clements.
“I hope that’s all he gave her. Do you ever feel like her, being a bachelor?”
“It’s different being a man.” But Clements sounded neither convinced nor convincing.
They stopped at a phone box and Malone made a call to the Hourigan mansion. “May I make an appointment to see Archbishop Hourigan?”
“No,” said Mrs. Kelly, belligerent as ever. “He’s at the cathedral all day today. There’s a special Mass at five o’clock and he’s preaching the sermon.”
“What’s the special Mass for? Some saint’s day?” St. Fingal, maybe?
“It’s a Mass against The Threat of Communism.” She sounded as if she were reading from some pamphlet, all capitals and italics.
“Will you be there, Mrs. Kelly?”
“No, I’ve got the house to look after.” She knew the priorities and the dangers. Communism was not likely to strike in Vaucluse.
At five o’clock Malone was at St. Mary’s Cathedral, alone but for about a thousand worshippers. Either the fame of Kerry Hourigan as a speaker had spread wider than Malone had anticipated or there was a greater fear of the threat of Communism than he had imagined. In the last year or two conservatism, never far below the surface of the Land of the Easy Going, had started to rise like methane gas from some marsh hidden beneath the beaches and the sports ovals. The congregation this evening looked ready for a crusade, so long as they weren’t taxed for it. Malone could not control his cynicism even in church.
The Mass was a straightforward one, though the hymns were sung with more fervour than Malone remembered and the words sounded martial. Then Archbishop Hourigan climbed into the pulpit like an overweight pilot into a fighter-bomber. Malone had thought of him in the drawing-room of his father’s house as urbane, sophisticated, low-key. In the pulpit this evening he was another man, all brimstone and rhetoric. He carved the air with his hands like a man slashing his way through the entire Soviet Presidium; he thumped every Marxist since Karl himself into the pulpit railing with a bunched fist. The chill air in the cathedral began to warm up under his harangue and the response of the congregation; Malone looked up at the huge vaulted ceiling, waiting for battle flags to flutter and fall, but a lone pigeon, disturbed by the unusual fervour, was the only sign of movement there. Communism got a going-over that it had not experienced since the days of Hitler and Franco, and Malone looked up again, waiting this time for the roof to open and the Lord Himself to come floating down. Malone had once attended a Billy Graham revival meeting, looking for pickpockets helping themselves to worldly goods while the born-again Christians were in a state of spiritual ecstasy and ready to give away everything but their children. The American evangelist had been like a bronchial crooner compared to the bellicose wizard up there in the cathedral pulpit.
Then Archbishop Hourigan called for donations to the cause. Baskets were passed round; money and cheques fluttered like manna into them. The Archbishop, a man of the financial as well as the spiritual world, had come prepared; for those with credit cards there were appropriate slips of paper. American Express and Diners Club could now pay your heavenly dues. The baskets were taken up to the altar, Kerry Hourigan gave a blessing of thanks and the celebrant priest came back to finish Mass. It was an anti-climax and Malone, a rebel but still an old-fashioned Catholic in many ways, wondered what The Lord, as the Host, thought of being on the lower half of the vaudeville bill.
When it came time for communion, he went up to the altar. He hadn’t been to confession in at least three years, but he took advantage of the new philosophy of conscience: he didn’t feel a sinner. But then, he guessed, neither had Stalin. He stood in the line waiting to be given the Host by Hourigan and was surprised when he saw Father Marquez up ahead of him. The celebrant priest, two other priests and the Archbishop were all giving communion; Malone had positioned himself to be in the line for Hourigan and so, it seemed, had Marquez. The young priest stood in front of the Archbishop; Malone, only four behind in the line, waited for some reaction from the prelate, but there was none. Marquez took the wafer and walked away; Hourigan’s eyes did not follow him, not even for an instant; they could have been complete strangers to each other. Then it was Malone’s turn.
He chose the old-fashioned way of lifting his face for the wafer to be put on his tongue rather than having it placed in his hands. He looked straight at the Archbishop and said quietly, “I’d like to see you after this, Your Grace.”
“The Body of Christ,” said Hourigan and for a moment his hand shook.
“Amen,” said Malone and went back to his seat and prayed, not for himself but for his family, as he always did.
When Mass was over he got up and moved across to where he saw Father Marquez still sitting. He sat down beside him. “Was that the sort of stuff that upset Sister Mary Magdalene?”
“Not that so much—that was pretty much bulldust tonight. No, she used to argue with his specific accusations about the Sandinistas, about their atrocities against the Church and the campesinos. From what my father used to tell me, I don’t think they’re any worse than the Somoza gang was. Maybe nowhere near as bad.”
“Did he recognize you as a friend of hers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you hang on a minute? I’d like him to meet you.”
Father Marquez looked uneasy. “Do I have to?” Then he saw the look of reproach on Malone’s face and he nodded. “Yes, I guess so. I owe Mary that. Okay, I’ll wait.”
Malone went round to the vestry. Kerry Hourigan was in there in the middle of an admiring throng; the Cardinal, the head of this archdiocese, stood in the background like an umpteenth Apostle. He was a modest man, part of the wallpaper of the Church, and Hourigan, wearing the aura that Rome alone gives, knew it. Then the Archbishop caught sight of Malone and the light in his eyes, if not the aura, dimmed.
He detached himself from the almost blasphemous adoration; Communism, tonight, was responsible for more sin than it knew of. He crossed to Malone, who stood against a wall like a wooden effigy that hadn’t been blessed.
“Not here, Inspector. Can’t you see I’m holding court?” The arrogance, Malone guessed, would never be dimmed.
“Is that what it is, Your Grace? I thought it was a meeting of NATO.”
Hourigan smiled. “You love your little joke, Inspector. Meet me at the rear of the cathedral, in one of the back pews. No one will interrupt us. They’ll think I’m trying to convert you.”
It was Malone’s turn to smile. “You didn’t do that from the pulpit. I don’t think you’ll do it in a back pew. Ten minutes, or I’ll come back and start showing my badge. Your New Right friends here are supposed to be all for law and order.”
Ten minutes later, almost on the dot, the Archbishop came down to the back pew where Malone waited for him. He pulled up sharply when he also saw Father Marquez.
“A friend of your niece’s,” said Malone. “He won’t be staying. I just thought you’d like to meet him.”
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” said the Archbishop.
“Possibly, Your Grace,” said Marquez. “But I was usually in Sister Mary’s shadow.”
“She’d have had the world in it if she’d had her way.”
Here we go again with the rhetoric, thought Malone. “Father Marquez is Nicaraguan. He’s had two death threats since your niece died.”
Hourigan was resting a hand on the back of a pew; Malone saw it tighten grimly. “I’m upset to hear that. One tragedy is enough. I hope you are being very careful, my son.”
“Oh, very much so, Your Grace. Inspector Malone is seeing that I get police protection.”
He may be politically innocent, Malone thought, but he’s a shrewd young bugger. Hourigan nodded
and said, “Let’s hope we have a quick end to this dreadful business. I’ll pray for your safety.”
“Thank you,” said Marquez, but didn’t sound reassured. “I must go now, Inspector. I’ll be in touch. Good-night, Your Grace. That was an interesting sermon tonight.”
“You agreed with it?”
“I doubt if it would go down with those I have to work with,” said Marquez and turned on his heel. “Good-night.”
Hourigan looked after him as he disappeared out the big doors. “The young are so blind, aren’t they?”
“So are some of the middle-aged,” said Malone.
“Meaning me or thee?” said Hourigan with a smile. Then he said, though not aggressively, “Are you a Communist sympathizer, Inspector?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Your Grace.” It was as if they were using their titles of rank to draw up the battle lines between them; there was a hint of mockery in the voice of each. “I’ve probably seen more sin, or anyway the results of it, than you have. I’m not sure any more that everything is cut and dried. Which was what you were preaching tonight.”
“Communism is still the biggest threat to the world, bigger than all the health threats, the economic recessions . . . Out here in Australia you just don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the world.”
“Sister Mary Magdalene knew what was going on in Central America. We think that was why she was silenced.”
That silenced Hourigan for the moment. He sat surrounded by the huge silence of the cathedral; it was empty now but for the small figure of a warden putting out the last of the candles on the main altar at the far end of the great church. He was always affected by an empty church, especially a cathedral; he found less peace in it than when it was filled by an overflowing congregation. The bare pews, the vaulted ceiling reaching towards God, the stillness of the air, all of it troubled him. Solitude is no place for a reluctant conscience.
In his heart he believed that religion was a philosophy, something he had never confessed to any confessor. He had been born two centuries too late; since there was no Voltaire these days to debate with, he had chosen to exhibit fervour and faith, as tonight, instead of reasoned argument; the latter never caught the public eye. He had been immodestly ambitious ever since he had first entered the seminary; he had chosen a career, not a vocation. The celibacy had worried him at first, but he had in time become accustomed to it, though sin occasionally lingered in the groin. Yet he loved The Lord and His ways; it was just that he expected The Lord to compromise. He had had no ambition to be a saint, he had just wanted to be a cardinal. It was his father, the make-believe Catholic, the sinner who knew no sin, who had raised his sights. He had chosen as his path his own war against Communism, a philosophy that sometimes masqueraded as a religion.
At last he said, with no hint of arrogance this time, “Are you accusing me of the murder of my niece, Inspector?”
“I didn’t say that. But I think you know more about her and her death than you’ve told me.”
“You came to communion this evening, but are you a true Catholic?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have my doubts about certain things. But I didn’t come here to make my confession.”
Hourigan nodded. “No, I suppose not.” He looked up and about him, then back at Malone. “Do you know what this edifice represents? It’s the Church in stone, the monument to God. I’d stand outside there and defend it with my life if someone tried to burn it down. That’s how I feel about the Church as a whole.” He believed what he said; or tried to. But he sounded convincing, at least to his own ears.
“Let’s stick to Mary Magdalene. I don’t think she was trying to burn down the Church, neither this cathedral nor the Church as a whole.”
“The people she believed in, the ones she worked for, are trying to do just that. Not only the Church but the whole of democracy, too. You live in a fools’ paradise here in Australia. If we don’t stop the spread of Communism we are dead, Inspector. Dead!” His voice rose and he thumped the back of the pew in front of him. “My niece was a menace. So are the religious like her, the ones with their Marxist views and their contempt for the Church’s authority!”
“Simmer down,” said Malone quietly. “The Marist brothers told me never to raise my voice in church, except to sing a hymn. We were taught never to ask questions, too. Your job, and the priests’, might have been easier if we had been taught to ask questions. But I didn’t come here to debate the threat of Communism with you. All I’m interested in is who killed Mary Magdalene. Did you ever visit Nicaragua while she was there?”
“You asked me that. I told you—no.”
“So you did. What about Honduras? I believe that’s next door.” At school geography had been his favourite subject; he knew where the world was, unlike most of his countrymen. “When were you last there?”
Hourigan hesitated. The lights in the cathedral had been dimmed and it was almost impossible to read his expression. At last he said, “I was there three months ago.”
“Did you know your niece was in Nicaragua then?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to see her?”
“I sent for her. She was brought to Tegucigalpa. That’s the capital.”
“Brought?”
“Perhaps I used the wrong word there.” He sounded uncomfortable. “Escorted. She had to travel through dangerous country getting out of Nicaragua.”
“And what happened?”
“We had a debate—an argument, if you like. She was a stubborn, reckless young girl. Like her mother,” he added, then looked quickly at Malone, as if regretting having said that. “It’s a family trait.”
“It must come from your own mother. I’ve never heard your father described as reckless.”
The Archbishop looked at him with a shrewder eye. “You’re not a dumb cop, are you, Inspector? You know much more than you show.”
“We’re just like priests, Your Grace. It doesn’t pay to show you’re a know-all till you’re at least a bishop. Did you threaten your niece?”
“Threaten her? I’m not a violent man.”
I wouldn’t put money on that. “Threaten her with excommunication, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Why did she come back to Australia then? I mean if you saw her in Honduras three months ago, then it must have been immediately after that that she left for Australia. Who ordered that?”
“I have no idea.” He turned his head, faced Malone directly. The challenge might just as well have been spelled out. Prove that I did. “Now you must excuse me. If he’s on time, and he always is, a most un-Irish thing, my father is waiting for me outside.”
He stood up and Malone followed him. They both genuflected; Hourigan crossed himself, but Malone didn’t. They walked down the side aisle, passed a stone bowl into which the Archbishop dipped his hand and crossed himself again.
“You don’t believe in the power of holy water, Inspector?”
“I’m afraid not. I told you I had doubts. But if it upsets you—” He put his hand in the bowl, then crossed himself with the water. His mother would have been pleased to see him do that: she threw holy water around like a religious market gardener.
“It doesn’t upset me, Inspector. Symbols have their uses, but true faith can survive without them.”
“You have true faith?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He smiled, turned it into a deep chuckle. “It’s a pity you and I are on opposite sides.”
“I didn’t know we were.” Malone chuckled, too, just to show he was joking. But the Archbishop, looking at him sideways, almost fell down the wide steps in front of the cathedral and Malone had to grab his arm. “Steady there, Your Grace, I’m no Communist.”
As they reached the bottom of the steps a dark Rolls-Royce drew up at the kerb. It was a Phantom V, the biggest model, and Malone knew there were only one or two in the whole of the State. A uniformed chauf
feur jumped out of the front seat, came round and opened the rear door. A light came on and Malone saw Fingal Hourigan sitting in the back seat. Beside him was a handsome, olive-skinned, grey-haired man.
“Good evening, Mr. Hourigan,” said Malone. “And it’s Mr. Paredes, isn’t it?”
It was not such a wild guess, and he knew, as a policeman, that shots in the dark sometimes hit home. Even if they didn’t, they could cause the target some uneasiness. Paredes’s chin came up as if he had been clipped there.
Fingal Hourigan leaned forward. “Good-night, Inspector. Who our friends are is none of your business.”
The Archbishop stepped by Malone and got into the car, putting his bulk down on the jump-seat. The chauffeur closed the door, went round, got in and the car silently drove off. Malone looked after it, then turned and looked back up at the dark towers of the cathedral.
“Don’t fall down,” he told the stones. “You’ll outlast me.”
5
I
SYDNEY IN the 1930s reminded Fingal Hourigan, ex-Jimmy Mulligan, very much of Chicago. Its police and politicians could be bought, though not its judges. There were criminal gangs, but they were amateurs compared to the Chicago mobs; they knew nothing of organization. Australians, it seemed, had a sardonic attitude towards being organized, especially their criminals. There were, of course, sections of the population that were organized: political parties, trade unions, returned soldiers, certain crooked trainers and jockeys. By and large, however, the voters preferred to think of themselves as individuals, resentful of being told what they should do, and nowhere was that more apparent than amongst the criminal elements. Though certain crims admired Al Capone from afar and dreamed of imitating him if Prohibition ever came to Australia, none had yet shown his organizational ability. They spent their energies in sly grog selling, prostitution rackets, some uncoordinated bank holdups and assorted razor slashings amongst themselves. They were a poor lot, proper descendants of the convict gangs of the past, and Fingal Hourigan decided to have nothing to do with them.
