Cynthia Manson (ed) (43 page)

The knuckles of Charley’s hands
grasping the ledge whitened. “The cops are going to say I murdered Mr. Everett—”
He broke off in agitation.

“Go on, Charley.”

“They’re going to arrest me. Put me
away.” Abbott’s voice rose hysterically. “And this time it’ll be forever. I can’t
stand that, Father.” Abruptly he turned his head away from the priest and made
a move as if to rise to his feet. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“Stay where you are!” Father
Crumlish commanded. “You’ll not take your life in the sight of God, with me standing
by to have it on my conscience that I wasn’t able to save you.”

Cowed by Father’s forcefulness,
Abbott subsided and once more turned his stricken gaze on the pastor’s face.

“I want you to look me straight in
the eye, Charley,” Father said, “and answer my question: as God is your Judge,
did you kill the man?”

“No, Father. No!” The man’s slight
form swayed dangerously. “But nobody will believe me.”

Father Crumlish stared fixedly into
Abbott’s pale blue eyes which were dazed now and dark with desperation. But the
pastor also saw in them his parishioner’s inherent bewilderment, fear—and his
childlike innocence. Poor lad, he though compassionately. Poor befuddled lad.

“I believe you, Charley,” he said in
a strong voice. “And I give you my word that you’ll not be punished for a crime
you didn’t commit.” With an effort the priest leaned further out the window and
extended his hand. “Now come with me.”

Hesitatingly Abbott glanced down at
the priest’s outstretched, gnarled fingers.

“My word, Charley.”

Abbott sat motionless, doubt and
indecision etched on his thin face.

“Give me your hand, lad,” Father
said gently.

Once again the man raised his eyes
until they met the priest’s.

“Give me your hand!”

It was a long excruciating moment
before Charley released his grip on the ledge, extended a nailbitten, trembling
hand, and permitted the pastor’s firm warm

clasp to lead him to safety.

* * *

It was Father Crumlish’s custom to
read the
Lake City Times
sports page while consuming his usual breakfast
of coddled egg, dry toast and tea. But this morning he delayed learning how his
beloved Giants, and in particular Willie Mays, were faring until he’d read
every word of the running story on John Everett’s murder.

Considerable space had been devoted
to the newest angle on the case—Charley Abbott’s threatened suicide after the
police had received an anonymous telephone tip and had sought to question him.
Abbott, according to the story, had been taken to Lake City Hospital for
observation. Meanwhile, the police were continuing their investigation, based
on the few facts at their disposal.

To date, John Everett still remained
a “mystery man.” With the exception of his lawyer, banker, and the
representative of a large real estate management concern—and his dealings with
all three had been largely conducted by mail or telephone—apparently only a
handful of people in Lake City were even aware of the man’s existence. As a
result, his murder might not have come to light for some time had it not been
for two youngsters playing in the wooded area which surrounded Everett’s
isolated farmhouse. Prankishly peering in a window, they saw his body sprawled
on the sparsely furnished living-room floor and notified the police. According
to the Medical Examiner, Everett had been dead less than 24 hours. Death was
the result of a bullet wound from a .25 automatic.

Although from all appearances
Everett was a man of modest means, the story continued, investigation showed
that in fact he was extremely wealthy—the “hidden owner” of an impressive
amount of real estate in Lake City. Included in his holdings was the Liberty
Office Building where Charley Abbott had almost committed suicide.

Frowning, Father Crumlish put down
the newspaper and was about to pour himself another cup of tea when the
telephone rang. Once again it was Big Tom Madigan— and Father was not
surprised. It was a rare day when Madigan failed to “check in” with his
pastor—a habit formed years ago when he’d been one of the worst hooligans in
the parish and the priest had intervened to save him from reform school. And in
circumstances like the present, where one of St. Brigid’s parishioners was
involved in a crime, the policeman always made sure that Father Crumlish was
acquainted with the latest developments.

“I’ve got bad news, Father,” Madigan
said, his voice heavy with fatigue.

The priest braced himself.

“Seems Everett decided to demolish
quite a few old buildings that he owned. Turn the properties into parking lots.
I’ve got a list of the ones that were going to be torn down and the Liberty is
on it.” Madigan paused a moment. “In other words, Charley Abbott was going to
lose his job. Not for some months, of course, but—”

“Are you trying to tell me that any
man would commit murder just because he was going to lose his job?” Father was
incredulous.

“Not
any
man.
Charley.
You know that he didn’t think his porter’s job was
menial. To him it was a ‘position,’ a Big Deal, the most important thing that
ever happened to him.”

Father Crumlish silently accepted
the truth of what Big Tom had said. And yet... “But I still can’t believe that
Charley is capable of murder,” he said firmly. “There’s something more to all
this, Tom.”

“You’re right. Father, there is,” Madigan
said. “Abbott lived in the rooming house run by his sister and brother-in-law,
Annie and Steve Swanson.”

“That I know.”

“Casey—the detective who tried to
question Charley yesterday—went over to the house to do a routine check on
Charley’s room. Hidden under the carpet, beneath the radiator, he found a
recently fired .25 automatic.”

The priest caught his breath.

“Casey also found a man’s wallet.
Empty—except for a driver’s license issued to John Everett.”

“What will happen to poor Charley
now, Tom?” Father finally managed to ask.

“In view of the evidence I’ll have
to book him on suspicion of murder.”

After hanging up the phone, the
priest sat, disconsolate and staring into space, until Emma Catt burst into the
room, interrupting his troubled thoughts.

“I just went over to church to put
some fresh greens on the roof of the crib,” Emma reported. “Some of the
statuettes have been stolen again.”

Wincing at her choice of the word,
the pastor brushed at his still-thick, snow-white hair, leaned back in his desk
chair, and closed his eyes.

In observance of the Christmas
season St. Brigid’s church traditionally displayed a miniature crib, or manger,
simulating the scene of the Nativity. Statuettes representing the participants
in the momentous event were grouped strategically in the stable. And to enhance
the setting, boughs of fir, pine, and holly were placed around the simple
structure.

So while Father Crumlish was pleased
by Emma’s attention to the crib’s appearance, he also understood the full
meaning of her report. It was sad but true that each year, on more than one
occasion, some of the statuettes would be missing. But unlike Emma, Father
refused to think of the deed as “stealing.” From past experience (sometimes
from a sobbing whisper in the Confessional), he knew that some curious child
had knelt in front of the crib, stretched out an eager hand, perhaps to caress
the Infant, and then...

“What’s missing this time,” the
priest asked tiredly.

“The Infant, the First Wise Man, and
a lamb.”

“Well, no harm done. I’ll step around
to Herbie’s and buy some more.”

“It would be cheaper if you preached
a sermon on stealing.”

“ ‘They know not what they do’,” the
old priest murmured as he adjusted his collar and his bifocals, shrugged
himself into his shabby overcoat, quietly closed the rectory door behind him,
and walked out into the gently falling snow.

Minutes later he opened the door of
Herbie’s Doll House, a toy and novelty store which had occupied the street
floor of an aged three-story frame building on Broad Street as long as the
pastor could remember. As usual at this time of the year, the store was alive
with the shrill voices of excited youngsters as they examined trains, wagons,
flaxen-haired dolls, and every imaginable type of Christmas decoration.
Presiding over the din was the proprietor, Herbie Morris, a shy, slight man in
his late sixties.

Father Crumlish began to wend his
way through the crowd, reflecting sadly that most of his young parishioners
would be doomed to disappointment on Christmas Day. But in a moment Herbie
Morris caught sight of the priest, quickly elbowed a path to his side, and
eagerly shook Father’s outstretched hand.

“I can see that the Christmas spirit
has caught hold of you again this year,” Father Crumlish said with a chuckle. “You’re
a changed man.” It was quite true. Herbie Morris’ normally pale cheeks were
rosy with excitement and his usually dull eyes were shining.

“I know you and all the
store-keepers in the parish think I’m a fool to let the kids take over in here
like this every Christmas,” Herbie said sheepishly but smiling broadly. “You
think they rob me blind.” He sighed. “You’re right. But it’s worth it just to
see them enjoying themselves—” He broke off, and a momentary shadow crossed his
face. “When you have no one—no real home to go to—it gets lonely—” his voice
faltered. “Especially at Christmas.”

Father Crumlish put an arm around
the man’s thin shoulder. “It’s time you had a paying customer,” he said
heartily. “I need a few replacements for the crib.”

Nodding, Morris drew him aside to a counter
filled with statuettes for the manger and Father quickly made his selections.
The priest was about to leave when Herbie clasped his arm.

“Father,” he said, “I’ve been
hearing a lot about Charley Abbott’s trouble. I room with the Swansons.”

“I know you do,” Father said. “I’m
on my way now to see Annie and Steve.”

“George says Charley had been acting
funny lately.”

“George?”

“George Floss. He rooms there too.”

“The same fellow who’s the
superintendent of the Liberty Office Building?” Father was surprised.

“That’s him. Charley’s boss.”

Thoughtfully the priest tucked the
box of statuettes under his arm and departed. Although his destination was only
a few minutes’ walk, it was all of half an hour before he arrived. He’d been
detained on the way in order to halt a fist fight or two, admire a new
engagement ring, console a recently bereaved widow, and steer homeward a
parishioner who’d been trying to drain dry the beer tap in McCaffery’s Tavern.
But finally he mounted the steps of a battered house with a sign on the door
reading:
Rooms.

He had little relish for his task.
Annie and Steve were a disagreeable, quarrelsome pair, and the pastor knew very
well that they considered his interest in Charley’s welfare all through the
years as “meddling.” Therefore he wasn’t surprised at the look of annoyance on
Steve’s face when he opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you, Father,” Steve said
ungraciously. “C’mon in. Annie’s in the kitchen.”

Silently Father followed the short,
barrel-chested man, who was clad in winter underwear and a pair of soiled
trousers, down a musty hallway. Annie was seated at the kitchen table peeling
potatoes. She was a scrawny, pallid-complexioned woman who, Father knew, was
only in her mid-forties. But stringy gray hair and deep lines of discontent
crisscrossing her face made her appear to be much older. Now, seeing her
visitor, she started to wipe her hands on her stained apron and get to her
feet. A word from the pastor deterred her.

“I suppose you’ve come about Charley,”
she said sulkily.

“Ain’t nothing you can do for him
this time, Father,” Steve said with a smirk. “This time they got him for
good—and good riddance.”

“Shut up,” Annie snapped, shooting
her husband a baleful glance.

“First time the crazy fool ever had
a decent-paying job,” Steve continued, ignoring her. “And what does he do?” He
cocked his thumb and forefinger. “Gets a gun and—”

“Shut up, I said!” Annie’s face
flamed angrily.

“Hiya, Father,” a jovial voice
interrupted from the doorway. “You here to referee?”

Father turned and saw that the tall
burly man entering the kitchen was one of the stray lambs in his flock— George
Floss. Murmuring a greeting, the priest noticed that Floss was attired in a
bathrobe and slippers.

“It’s my day off,” George
volunteered, aware of Father’s scrutiny. He yawned widely before his
heavy-jowled face settled into a grin. “So I went out on the town last night.”

“That explains your high color,” Father
remarked dryly. He turned back to the table where Annie and Steve sat glowering
at each other. “Now if you can spare a moment from your bickering,” he
suggested, “maybe you can tell me what happened to set Charley off again.”