Cecilian Vespers (35 page)

“Robin.
Wie gut kannst du Deutsch sprechen
?”

“You really must learn the art of making small talk, Brennan,” Robin admonished him as we entered the hospital room. “How is my German, you want to know? I am competent in the language of the Hun, but barely so. Are you asking for any particular reason, or is it just idle curiosity? Do have a seat, won’t you? What a pleasure to have visitors. Well, it’s part of your calling, isn’t it, Father Burke, to visit the sick?”

“Did you write this?” Brennan handed him the German note without the limericks attached.

Robin did not take the time to read it. “No, I did not. Is there any
other way I can be of assistance to you gentlemen today?”

“Have you seen this before?”

“No.”

“How about this?”

He handed over the three pages of limericks, and Robin read through them.

“Very droll, Brennan. Are you the author? I can’t help but notice the anachronistic references to Guinness being swilled by the Irish saints, though that bit of doggerel is not quite as clever as some of the other verses. If you did write it, you may want to rework —”

“I didn’t write it. Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t take notes while it was being recited. I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t where?”

“I’m glad you asked. The Daphne and Steven Hotel in London.”

“London. Is that why your inquiries have brought you once again to me?”

“I’m asking myself if you might have been there that night.”

“How should I know, if I don’t know what night it was?”

“So, you’ve been to the Daphne and Steven Hotel.”

“Not that I recall. Can’t say one way or the other. When was this, and why are you here disturbing the rest of an invalid about something so silly?”

“We don’t know exactly when it was, but it was before 1967. Though the letter of complaint is more recent.”

“I see. Why is this of interest?”

“We believe Reinhold Schellenberg was the author of these verses, perhaps with help from others around a table in the bar.”

“He did like to lift a beer stein from time to time, or so I heard. And I do have it on good authority that he was fond of a jest. I wish I had been there. Sounds like fun. But no. I’d never met Schellenberg until he made his entrance here. Or, there.” He pointed out his window to Halifax across the harbour.

Once again, Brennan and I were none the wiser after an encounter with Brother Robin. We had nothing to say on the ride over the
bridge from Dartmouth. I thought of all the saints who were named in the limericks. Most were names I had never heard. In fact, the saints I knew probably constituted a very small proportion of the realm of the sanctified. I had been surprised to learn there was a Saint Reinhold, but I shouldn’t have been. Weren’t all Catholics in former times named after saints? Saint Reinhold, like the more recent Benedictine monk by that name, had been murdered. Normally, I would find it difficult to write that off as coincidence. But, given the number of saints who had suffered gruesome deaths at the hands of others, I was forced to conclude it likely
was
a coincidence. I wondered if Schellenberg’s choice of the Benedictine order was influenced by his namesake. The first Reinhold had been drowned. No, that’s not what Mike O’Flaherty had told me. Wasn’t there something about a construction site? When I was back in my office, and had cleared some work from my desk, I got Mike on the phone and asked him to refresh my memory.

“He was done in by masons, Monty. God rest him.”

“Masons? The guys with the secret handshakes?”

“No, real masons. Stonemasons, back in the tenth century. The story is that he was supervising the building operations at an abbey being constructed in Cologne. Reinhold was more industrious than his workers, and made them look bad in comparison. They beat the poor man to death with their hammers! Then his body was thrown in the Rhine River. Legend has it the body was found through divine revelation. Reinhold is the patron saint of stonemasons. I’d advise them to take a humble approach when they pray for his intercession!”

“I don’t know about you, Mike, but I was never taught this kind of stuff in Catechism class!”

“Nor was I. The dear old nuns didn’t want to frighten us off!”

“Isn’t Lou Petrucci a stonemason?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Monty. I believe he’s an electrician.”

“That may be it. But I remember him telling me generations of his family built the church that he eventually torched in New Jersey. Kind of hard to overlook him under the circumstances.”

“Yes, but wasn’t he able to give a good account of his whereabouts?”

“He didn’t have a watertight alibi, but he had a witness to say he
was in a tavern that afternoon. He was a little sketchy about the times. I think I should talk to him again.”

“I’ll let you get on with it then.” “Thanks, Mike. Bye for now.”

I searched my notes for Lou Petrucci’s phone number. I remembered meeting him at the Park Vic on South Park Street. A young woman had answered when I called to set up the appointment. I wondered whose apartment it was. Probably his nephew’s, and the woman may have been a girlfriend. It might be more instructive for me to talk to the nephew, Giorgio; after all, he was Petrucci’s alibi witness. I dialled the number, and again it was answered by a female voice. I asked to speak to Giorgio.

“Just a sec. Georgie! Phone!”

When he came on the line, I explained who I was and asked whether I could stop by and talk to him for a few minutes. He hesitated, then suggested we meet in the Victory Lounge at the Lord Nelson Hotel.

He was waiting for me with a beer in front of him when I got there ten minutes later. I ordered one for myself and sat down. Giorgio Spano was over six feet tall and must have weighed two-fifty. He had black hair parted in the middle and falling to just below his jawline.

“Hi, Giorgio. Thanks for meeting me. What position do you play for Saint Mary’s?”

“Defensive tackle. I didn’t have a very good season.” “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, better luck next year maybe.”

“I just wanted to check with you about the afternoon of November 22.”

“My uncle was with me at the Bulb.”

“The Lighthouse Tavern.”

“Yeah. We were watching this old guy do a coin trick. He put it in his fingers and squeezed and water dripped out. There’s a picture of the Queen on it, right? Well, he said he was making the Queen pee. So that guy was there, and he can say he saw us.”

“That guy’s always there, Georgie. Now, can you remember what time you got there, and what time you left?”

“Uh, well, not exactly. I think it was around noon hour when we
got there, but then …”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure how long we were there.”

“Do you remember where you went afterwards?” He looked at me without responding, then took a sip of his beer. Then took another. “What’s the matter, Giorgio?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “The alibi was as much for me as it was for Lou.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, see, I left kind of early. I left Lou there. I was meeting this girl and, uh, I didn’t want Alice to know. Alice and I are living together, but I saw this other girl Tracy a few times. Not anymore, but I was with her that afternoon. So I said I was with Lou the whole time.”

There goes the alibi
. I said: “I understand. So, what time did you leave the Lighthouse?”

“I was meeting Tracy at two o’clock. So I would have left the tavern a few minutes before that.”

“And what did your uncle do?”

“I don’t know. He still had a draft in front of him when I left.”

I thanked Giorgio for his help. I got up to go, and he stayed in the lounge. It wouldn’t take long to confirm his version of events. I drove down Spring Garden Road to Barrington and turned right. The old Lighthouse Beverage Room was near the end of the street, south of downtown. I went in and asked around. One of the waiters had been on duty that day and he remembered Georgie Spano, because he followed the fortunes of the Saint Mary’s football team. Georgie had been drinking with an older fellow. Georgie left first, and the waiter had a bit of conversation with the older guy, who turned out to be Georgie’s uncle. They talked about the football season. Then the uncle finished his draft and left the tavern.

I was able to track Petrucci down at the schola later that day. I decided to do a little bit of covering for the nephew, so I didn’t mention my conversation with him. As far as Petrucci was concerned, I had come
by some unwelcome information in conversation with a waiter at the Lighthouse. Lou’s face went grey.

“Did you know how Saint Reinhold died?” I asked him.

“Who? I never heard of Saint Reinhold.”

“Are you sure? He’s the patron saint of stonemasons.”

“First I heard of it. I’m not a stonemason.”

“Somebody in your family was, though. Your grandfather? Your father?”

“So what?”

“So Saint Reinhold was beaten to death by stonemasons, using their hammers as weapons.”

“You’re shittin’ me!”

“No, I’m not. And here we have the descendant of stonemasons who’s so upset with the activities of the Catholic authorities that he set fire to a church. Then he shows up in Halifax, and a monk named Reinhold is murdered.”

“I didn’t kill Schellenberg! You’re crazy with this stonemason stuff! You’re probably making it up.”

“Why did you lie?”

“Because I was sticking up for the kid. He took off to meet some girl. He didn’t want Alice to know, so we fudged the times.”

“No problem. Now, where did you go afterwards?”

“I don’t know. Nowhere! Fuck off and leave me alone!” With that, he shoved me aside and ran from the building, nearly taking out a group of choir school kids in his haste to flee.

Chapter 14

Omnes sancti martyres, orate pro nobis
.
Sancta Philomena, ora pro nobis
.
All ye holy martyrs, pray for us.
Saint Philomena, pray for us.
— “Litany of the Saints”

“Police were at Logan’s place last night, the house he’s staying in.”

I was in the office Friday morning and was so intent on my medical malpractice file I didn’t hear Moody Walker come in. My secretary must have let him through.

“What happened, Moody?”

“Had a break-in.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Logan and his wife were out. Went to dinner with a bunch of other Yanks from the choir school. When they got back they found black ice in their driveway, so Logan went into the shed to get some salt. Things didn’t look right in there. Some tools had been moved around. Whoever did it was a good locks man. He picked the lock, went in, did whatever he wanted to do, and locked up again when he left.”

“Was anything taken?”

“Not that Logan could see. He and his wife checked through the house and didn’t notice anything wrong in there till they got to the basement. There was a small hatchet and a larger axe that had been hanging on hooks along the wall. Somebody had put them side by
side on the workbench. The back door of the house was left open. Looks as if the perp was real careful about the way he got in, then had to leave in a hurry. May have heard something, thought it was Logan coming home.”

“Did the neighbours notice anything?”

“Guy next door saw lights in the basement. Flashes of light, he said.”

“But he couldn’t see in?”

“No, it wasn’t the basement light going on. It was more like a camera flash. Happened a couple of times, then nothing. He didn’t think any more about it.”

“What time was that?”

“Around nine o’clock. And a few minutes after nine, a cabbie met a small car peeling out of Logan’s street, jumping the stop sign. The neighbour never saw any car in front of Logan’s. So if it was the perp, he had enough sense to park farther up the street. But there’s no way to know whether it was connected. Could have been anybody.”

“What happens now?”

“Forensics are out there, looking for prints on the axes and the doors.”

“What does Logan have to say?”

“He’s in a snit. Says somebody’s out to get him.”

“Out to get him why?”

Moody shrugged. “He clammed up when they questioned him. This may be about the Schellenberg murder, but who knows? It may have nothing to do with Logan at all. It’s not even his house. Just a house with nobody home. Random hit.”

“But it looked like a pretty skilled operator.”

“We do have our professionals, you know. You see some of the messes I’ve seen in houses that have been hit, you come to appreciate the pro, the guy who takes pride in his work.”

My malpractice case kept me tied up for much of the weekend; I had a blues gig on Saturday night, and the rest of my free time I spent with the kids. But I found a bit of time Monday afternoon and made a
point of locating William Logan in one of the classrooms at the schola. “Heard you had a burglar out at your place, Bill.”

“Yeah, right. A burglar. Somebody taking pictures of the axes in the basement. What do you think that’s about?”

“What do
you
think it’s about?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? I’m being set up for the murder.”

“How have you been set up? Those axes, they were already at the house, weren’t they?”

“Yeah. But think about it. The cops never found the murder weapon. Now they find axes in the house where I’m staying.”

“Did the police take the axes?”

“No.”

“Well, then. They must not have seen anything suspicious about them.”

“They were clean.”

“Clean in what way?”

“Every way.”

“How do you know? Did they sparkle or —”

“I cleaned them!” “You cleaned them. When did you do that?”

“Before the police arrived.”

“Why did you do that, Bill?”

“Because I was afraid somebody came in and put something on them. Contaminated them. Blood or something.”

“Did you share your fears with the police?”

“No way.”

“Yet you called the police in, knowing their attention would be drawn to the axes if you described what had happened in the basement.”

“I didn’t call them. It was Babs. She freaked out and called them before I had a chance to calm her down.”