Matt smiled. “That’s nice.”
Beneath the headdress gleamed a responsive smile. “I don’t blame you for sounding doubtful. But you see I am not inexperienced at detection. The Mother Superior was quite astounded when I proved what had been happening to the sacramental wine. And then there was that little business of vandalism when someone slashed the missal which Sister Perpetua was illuminating. In fact, Sister Immaculata always calls me—” She stopped short, her cheeks reddening. “Oh, dear me!” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “that everyone has a particular Deadly Sin—one out of the Seven to which his moral self is peculiarly susceptible. Mine is Pride. As Saint Paul says, ‘There was given me a sting of my flesh, an angel of Satan, to buffet me.’ And I’m afraid I cannot even glory in my infirmity, because to glory would be the infirmity itself. So please, Mr. Duncan—accept me, and don’t force me to indulge in my sin.”
“Very well, Sister. I accept you—if my acceptance means anything. Now what?”
“I should add—and console my conscience by claiming that it is simply a statement of fact—that I know a good deal about police methods and criminology.”
“I suppose you’re a great reader of mystery novels and always solve them in chapter two?”
“You’re making fun of me. No, I am not too fond of mystery novels; but my father was a police captain, and when I was twenty I was going to be a policewoman. That was before my health broke, and that long convalescence showed me the other way I could take.”
“It’s funny to think of you planning to be a policewoman. I imagine we generally think of nuns as just being and always having been nuns. If I tried to think of you as a little girl, I’d see you about so high, but still in your habit, and still meek and mild.”
“And you think nuns are meek and mild?” Sister Ursula laughed quietly. “Some are, of course; look at Sister Felicitas. (Don’t think I’m embarrassing her—she’s deaf, poor thing.) But on the other hand—no, I won’t say any names; they wouldn’t mean anything to you and besides I shouldn’t. But there are nuns who could make the staunchest policewoman quail in her regulation boots.”
“Very well. I stand rebuked. I shall henceforth look upon nuns as holy terrors until proved otherwise. And now, Sister Ursula, what do you want from me?”
“Information. As much as you can tell me about the case without violating the Lieutenant’s confidence.”
“Mm. I don’t see why not. But first, would you tell me why you are so anxious to solve this case?”
“That is hard, Mr. Duncan. Partly because I love Wolfe Harrigan and his family, partly because our order is deeply indebted to them, partly out of an absolute desire for justice, partly to destroy a still-menacing danger, partly, I confess, because of the sting of my flesh, but most of all, I think—yes, this is the chief reason: I do not want what now seems a miracle of evil to go unsolved.”
Matt was delighted and impressed by Sister Ursula’s alert response to his narrative and by her shrewdly interposed questions. He began to feel that her pride might be deadly and sinful, but was certainly not unjustified. This was no otherwordly innocence before him, but a lively, sensible, and wise woman.
Especially was her interest aroused by “the mammon of iniquity.” “I see what he meant,” she murmured half to herself. “It is not impossible, of course—but it is not a happy thought.”
“What did he mean?”
“Mr. Duncan, have you ever read the translation of the New Testament made at Rheims—often loosely called the Douay version?”
One other time she fobbed him off without an answer. That was when he had concluded the exposition of the locked room with, “The Lieutenant seems driven to the conclusion that Ellen Harrigan must be shielding someone.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Duncan.” Sister Ursula was positive. “Miss Harrigan is telling the strictest truth. That we know and must rely on in solving this problem.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
“Did Mary—No, I suppose you call her Concha. The child is so proud, poor thing, of her Spanish blood. Did Concha tell you of my sending her to mass?”
“Yes.”
“And of all that happened there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why we must believe Miss Harrigan. Go on, please.”
When he had finished, Sister Ursula sat for a moment in reflection. Sister Felicitas, Matt noticed with amusement, had fallen sound asleep. “There are little questions,” Sister Ursula roused herself to say. “Why was the codicil stolen? Who tried to burn the yellow robe? Why did Arthur visit the Swami? Such things as these. But they will probably become clear of themselves if only we can solve the major questions.”
“And those are?”
“Let me speak like a memorandum:
A: Is this crime rooted in Wolfe Harrigan’s work or in his family?
B: In either category, who is the murderer?
C: Who is Ahasver, and who, if anyone, is behind him? (though this may well prove irrelevant to the case).
D: Why did the murderer wear the yellow robe?
E: How did he leave this room?
Is that a satisfactory list?”
“Yes. Answer those and—”
“Just a moment. You forgot to tell me, Mr. Duncan, if Lieutenant Marshall received my note Sunday night?”
“He did.”
“And did you hunt for another pricked book?”
“He said he was a fool not to have done that in the first place. Score one for you, Sister.”
“And,” her voice was excited, “did you find one?”
“Yes. But it was no good.”
“What was it?”
“Not one of the files at all. A book about the crusades. Mr. Harrigan must have been practicing.”
“Perhaps. But please—may I see it?”
Matt fetched the volume from the shelf and handed it over. Sister Ursula glanced at the title page, then all but dropped the book. She sat back on the couch trying to catch her breath, an expression of pure physical pain on her face. “No!” she gasped. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” It was not an oath, but a prayer for deliverance. Her hand sought the comforting beads of her rosary and her lips moved silently.
At last she rose. “I am going to the chapel,” she said. Her voice was calm again, but horror was only half hid in her eyes.
Matt frowned. “Do you mean that—”
“I mean that now only the last question remains, and I am afraid.”
“But how—”
“Tell the Lieutenant,” she forced herself to say, “tell him to remember the name of our memorial chapel.”
Sister Felicitas was still placidly sleeping. Matt opened the French windows, stepped out onto the croquet lawn, and lit a cigarette. He wished—in fact, he came as near as he was able to praying—that he knew what that title page had conveyed to Sister Ursula. She was obviously not a woman easily frightened, but fear had been her dominant reaction to that harmless inscription.
But even she had confessed that the last question still remained unanswered. Matt strolled across the lawn to the bench and sat there staring at the windows. There was no doubt that he had seen something actual in that room, something that had no longer been there when the police broke in. It was difficult to see into the room now; but then, with the fire blazing …
He broke off his puzzling. There was something moving in the room now. He could not see it clearly, but well enough to know that it was not a nun. He threw the cigarette away, dashed across the lawn (as best as one can dash across a space sprinkled with wickets), and burst into the room.
Arthur Harrigan stood in front of the case of letter-files, his hand outstretched. He froze in that position as Matt entered the room. Slowly his dull eyes turned.
“Well?” he drawled.
“What the devil do you think you’re up to?”
Arthur smiled a lackluster smile. “Sentiment, y
ou know. My father’s room. Natural enough act on returning from his requiem, isn’t it?”
“Touching as all hell. Now get out of it and stay out.”
“Of course,” said Arthur slowly, “I’m only his son. You’re the Lord God Almighty surrounded by seven hundred seraphim.”
“I’m the man who’s looking after this room. So get out.”
“Are you? Seems to me that codicil you talked so much about never showed up. Funny anybody should take that—if it ever existed.”
“I’m warning you—”
“You’ve got no more right here than I have. A damned sight less, in fact. And what are you so jittery about, Duncan? What is there in this room that you’re so afraid I might find? Do you think I might guess how you left it locked after you had—”
“Another crack like that, Arthur my pet, and you get what’s coming to you. If you don’t want trouble, you’ll leave this room now.”
“Urgent, aren’t you? No, I don’t believe you think I’m clever enough to work out your locked room. That wouldn’t be worrying you. What else could it be? A clew to what? Not something my sister left here after you’d—”
“I warned you,” said Matt.
It was a neat punch, intended to stun rather than to annibilate, and it did its job neatly. Arthur was still on the floor, shaking his head in groggy incredulity, as Sister Ursula reentered.
“I’m sorry,” Matt told her. “It had to be done.”
“And nicely done, too,” she observed calmly. “You didn’t even wake Sister Felicitas.”
Arthur lurched to his feet and held on to the desk. “Nuns!” he muttered, and staggered off through the French windows.
“I don’t doubt,” said Sister Ursula, “that that was necessary. But please let me warn you against needless violence in this house. Remember what has happened here. There are already passions enough warring about us; do not add to them.”
As she went over to rouse Sister Felicitas, Concha came in. “I was hunting for Arthur to drive you home,” she said, “but I can’t find him.”
Sister Ursula smiled. “We’ll get back all right. Oh, and by the way, Mary—who in this family plays croquet?”
“Are you spoiling for a game, Sister? I’ll play you.”
“I’m not certain that this habit would allow of such activity. No, I simply wanted to know.”
Concha looked toward Matt for enlightenment, but received none. “Well, there’s me of course. I think I like it the most. Mr. Duncan isn’t bad—no, really you’re not. Aunt Ellen doesn’t play at all, I don’t think. Arthur can, but he won’t unless we play for money and I think that spoils the fun. Uncle Joseph plays sometimes if he can forget his dignity.”
“Thank you.” Sister Ursula was grave out of all proportion to the subject. “Is your aunt in her sitting room?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to see Miss Harrigan!” she shouted at Sister Felicitas, and led the older nun to the door. As they were leaving, she turned back for an instant. “Thank you, Mr. Duncan,” she said. “If I want to see you again, I can find you here?”
“For a while anyway, Sister. And I hope—”
Her glance warned him against saying more in front of Concha. “Again thank you,” and she was gone.
“What was she thanking you for?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Concha perched on the desk and dangled her slim bare legs. “Greg called me today. I had Bunyan tell him I wasn’t home.”
Matt crossed to the French windows, closed them, and started shooting the bolts in place. “You’re a fool, darling.”
“Does that mean I’m a darling fool? All right, don’t answer. What are you doing now?”
He went back to the hall door and turned its knob. “Locking up.”
“Locking …” Abruptly Concha stopped and shuddered. “You mean, the way it was …”
“I’m not reconstructing the crime, if that’s what you mean. I’m just plain old locking up. People seem to want to get in here.”
“What people?”
“Your darling brother for one, and a friend of mine with a funny name who keeps dropping his automatics in the damnedest places. Who has the key to the chapel door?”
“Uncle Joe, I guess.”
“I’ll stop by his office this afternoon and get it. Come on.” He took her by the arm and led her out into the chapel.
“You’re going out?”
“Dinner engagement.” He pushed the button of the springlock, drew the door to, and rattled it. It was reassuringly solid.
“Oh …” She sounded downcast.
Matt checked over the entrances in his mind, gave one last jerk to the chapel door, and was satisfied. “And I just hope,” he said, “somebody tries that trick again.”
Chapter 13
It was probably the subconscious awareness of Ahasver that made Matt notice the beard. Not that it was anything like the Master’s Assyrian spade—this one was a luxuriantly flowing mass of deep reddish brown. But Matt had become what advertising jargon might call beard-conscious; and even such a different form of beaver attracted his attention.
This was in the elevator as he rode up to R. Joseph Harrigan’s law office; and that magnificently odd beard provided matter for amused reflection while Matt, having been told that Mr. Harrigan would see him in a minute, waited a quarter hour in the sumptuously chaste ante-room. He was about to lay his case for admission before the receptionist once more when a near bellow resounded from inside R. Joseph’s private office.
It was the Harrigan voice—there was no mistaking it—but now no longer suave and politic. The pink of Joseph’s face must have turned bright red to accompany such a roar. And, like the projectile hurtled forth by this detonation, Gregory Randall shot out of the door.
Matt rose and extended his hand; but Gregory sped past him, whether deliberately cutting him or simply blinded by his own tense preoccupation, Matt could not tell. He had only a glimpse of Greg’s too handsome features twisted by a blend of rage and chagrin; and then R. Joseph, almost his usual bland and formal self, was standing in the doorway inviting him into the office.
The business about the key was simply transacted, with no reference to the scene just past. Joseph agreed that locking the room was a sensible precaution (even though Matt thought it tactful not to mention Arthur’s snooping) and that Matt, despite the absence of the codicil, was the logical custodian.
As he unsnapped the key from his ring, R. Joseph Harrigan fixed Matt with a glance he might bestow on the opposition’s star witness. “You are a friend of Gregory Randall’s?”
“Yes. Though I haven’t seen much of him for years till just recently.”
“Would you know … I realize that this is a personal question which you might not care to answer, but would you know anything of his present financial status?”
“Not a thing, I’m afraid. But after all, a Randall …”
“Yes, yes. Of course. But this is a perverse world, young man. Even Randalls and Harrigans are not above the reverses of fortune. … Perhaps I had best be frank. You saw that unfortunate scene, and you are entitled to an explanation.”
“I assure you, sir, there’s no need …”
“I can understand now why Mary was so cool to young Randall yesterday. There is something positively indecent in this pressing haste for marriage which he displays.”
Matt tried to come to his friend’s defense. “Your niece is a charming girl; there isn’t necessarily any hidden motive in being eager to marry her.”
“Even in view of the will? And in view—I tell you this in confidence, Duncan—in view of the fact that my brother, if not actually opposed to the marriage, was at least strongly in favor of putting it off for several years? Now that he is gone, young Randall, presuming on my friendship for his father, seems to think that he can bludgeon me as trustee into giving my consent to an instant wedding. He has much to learn, that lad, much to learn.”
&nbs
p; R. Joseph nodded sagaciously to himself, like Polonius in modern dress. Then rousing himself, he handed over the key. “Forget my ruminations, young man,” he advised brusquely.
When Matt stepped out into the hall, there, waiting for the elevator, was the beard again. This time Matt looked at him more closely, noticed the dark glasses, the turned-down hat brim, and began to wonder and to smile.
There was still a half-hour to kill before he needed to leave for the Marshalls’; and there is no better place to kill a half-hour in downtown Los Angeles than Pershing Square. Matt hoped the beard might enjoy it, too.
Pershing Square has sometimes been called the Hyde Park of Los Angeles. This is a well-intentioned metaphor, but almost as inaccurate as it would be to describe Aimee Semple McPherson’s Angelus Temple as the Los Angeles Westminster. England, to be sure, is fertile in eccentrics, in characters; but the denizens of Pershing Square need newer and more vivid words to describe them—sound American words like screwball and crackpot.
There is no formal speaking in the square, no official addressing of the populace from stands. In fact, there are even signs (completely disregarded by all) warning you that any blocking of the walks is strictly forbidden. If you feel the urge to exercise your right of free speech, you have simply to buttonhole any passing stranger and being speaking loudly. In five minutes you will have an audience of at least two dozen, audibly representing some three dozen conflicting views.
Usually Matt could find battles raging on a half dozen or so different fronts—one group debating Roosevelt, another the Communist party line, another fundamental religion, and at least a group apiece on the Townsend plan and Ham-&-Eggs. But today Pershing Square was dominated by a strange unanimity. Every topic broached came back to one single theme:
Fascism: “Sure, that’s what the upper classes want—we should worry so much about fascism in Europe we don’t even see it here in our own country. What do you think this Ahasver it? A little Hitler, that’s what he is; and it’s time somebody stepped on him.”
Communism: “Whatever else they say about this guy in the yellow robe, he’s got one good idea: Wipe out the Communists. If they don’t like it here in America …”
Nine Times Nine Page 14
