Irish Gilt (16 page)

“What kind of name is Esperanza?”

“A noun.”

“It means hope.” Armitage Shanks again.

“The wife seems to want to hang him,” Debbie said.

“How so?”

“She's been babbling to the press about her husband's insane jealousy.”

“Marriage as temporary insanity.”

“Everything's temporary.”

A gloomy pause. Rush began to speak on the nature of time. The past is no more, the future is not yet, the present is merely the division between them, so what is time?

Armitage Shanks looked at his watch and answered the question.

Debbie rose. “Who wants another drink?”

“On the house?”

“Oh, you can have it right here.”

Off she went, stirring distant memories in old bodies, as Goucher recited Whitman.
Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking
 …

18

Paul Lohman's firm was located in Chicago, but he had kept the books for Boris Henry's business as well as his personal finances during all the years since Henry had been left a widower. This made him privy to many things in his old roommate's personal life that he suspected not even Clare Healy knew. It was because of Clare that Paul's visits to Kansas City had become a labor of love. Thanks to her, Henry Rare Books was a solid money earner—nothing dramatic, not enough to bail Boris out of his gambling debts, but sequestered, thanks to Paul, from Boris's personal finances so that, in the event of a crash, it would float free as an eventual life raft. When Paul had made these arrangements, he had been thinking only of Boris, but over time he came to see it as a favor he had done for Clare.

Had she any inkling of the madness that gripped Boris when he entered a casino? The spread of gambling opportunities across the nation increased temptation exponentially for one with Boris's proclivities. Once one had to go off to the fleshpots of Las Vegas, and then New Jersey, but now the rivers of the nation harbored gambling boats and the shores of the Great Lakes were dotted with them. Even in the wilderness a glitzy building emerged from a background of primeval forest, a casino run by a local tribe of Indians. It was not a matter of being led into temptation but of needing to be led out of it.

Of course, concupiscence, an all but universal weakness, was addressed constantly by advertising, fashion, and music, if you could stand it, but there was a natural limit to such vice, whereas gambling was halted only when one's money had been exhausted. Perhaps there was an analogy there.

At table in the Morris Inn, with the Nobiles and their lovely daughter, Boris, and Clare, Paul had marveled at the facade Boris showed the world. Portrait of a rare book dealer whose mind was ever on transcendent and lasting things. He had fashioned a business that enabled him to combine the keen pleasure he had in learning with a nice return on his investment.

David Nobile clearly envied him. “What better life could there be?” he said, sighing.

“That of a professor,” Rebecca said firmly.

“Please don't get started on Roger Knight,” her mother pleaded.

David Nobile nodded to his daughter. “You're right. But what Boris does comes right after it.”

Paul Lohman's eyes met Clare's across the table. The expression in hers was uncommunicative, but he suspected that she was contrasting this public portrait of Boris with his hectic private life.

From the restaurant, after bidding Rebecca good night, they drifted into the bar. As he turned from the bar with his drink, Paul saw Clare holding a long-stemmed glass of wine, moving away. He followed her to where she stood looking out at the courtyard.

Paul pushed the door open. “Let's get a little air.”

Her serene eyes were briefly on him. She nodded and went outside.

There were tables there, and an odd sort of privacy. Through the windows of the restaurant and bar they could see diners and drinkers but were invisible to them. Clare sighed.

“A sad business,” he said.

“I have to remind myself that he was your roommate.”

“And Boris's. You must have met him.”

“Oh, yes.”

“There was always competition between Eggs and Boris.”

“Competition?”

“I mean long ago.” Had she thought he was referring to her?

“Paul, do you know what I would really like to do?”

“What?”

“See the Grotto. Is it far?”

“A pretty long walk.”

“I have a car.”

“Let's go.”

They left their drinks on the metal table and went inside, passing the open door of the bar. When they emerged on the opposite side of the inn, Paul realized he had been holding his breath, fearful that someone would see them and call out. Of course, it was ridiculous to think of this otherwise than as what it was, a visit to the Grotto, no one's idea of a rendezvous. Even so, as she drove, following his directions, he was suddenly conscious of his life. Returning to Notre Dame always brought memories, of course, but it was here that Paul had fallen in love and failed to win the girl. His reaction had been to throw himself into his work. He flattered himself that he had done better financially than either of his roommates, but suddenly that seemed hollow. What an odd trio they were, the Three Musketeers. None of them had a family; Eggs had never had a wife, either, and Boris's marriage had been tragically brief. The death of his wife had left him rich, but he had frittered the money away on the stupidest habit in the world.

“Where can I park?”

“Anywhere. Campus security won't bother a visitor to the Grotto.” He picked a briefcase up off the floor and was about to put it in the backseat.

“Is that your briefcase?” she asked.

“Mine?”

“It must be Boris's. Let me see.”

He gave it to her, and she snapped it open. “It's his,” she said, looking inside. She was closing the top when she stopped and opened it again. She took from it a plastic bag.

Light from a streetlamp illuminated the inside of the car. She held the bag up. It was the kind used to store things in a freezer. “For heaven's sake. Why would he have his wallet in his briefcase?” She slid the bag open and brought forth a wallet. After she opened it, she turned toward Paul, her face in shadow now.

“What is it?” She handed it to him. He held the wallet for a moment, then opened it as she had. “My God.”

The wallet belonged to Xavier Kittock. His keys and other items were also in the bag.

PART THREE

T
HE
G
OLDEN
R
ULE

1

Having put the plastic bag filled with Eggs's effects back into the briefcase, Clare snapped it shut. After she locked the car, she and Paul Lohman went on to the Grotto, where they sat on a bench and stared at the flickering votive candles. Beyond an initial expression of surprise, neither of them had said anything.

“There has to be an explanation,” Clare murmured now.

“Of course.”

Eggs's pockets had been empty when he was found, and what had been in his pockets was in a bag in Boris's briefcase. It was difficult for Paul to see what innocent explanation of that could be found.

“Someone must have put them in his briefcase, Paul. After all, it wasn't locked.”

“Who?”

“Whoever killed poor Eggs.” Clare's thoughts seemed to be racing. “And it could have been anytime, anywhere. He left the briefcase in the car—we had gone several places together—but before that, it would have been in his room.”

“They think that maintenance man, Esperanza, killed him.”

Clare turned to him suddenly. “Paul, I think I know what happened.”

“What?”

“One of the places Boris and I went was to Eggs's room. As soon as I arrived from Kansas City. It was two in the morning, and we went to the Jamison Inn, and they let us in. We went there to look for the diary. Boris was sure Eggs had stolen it.”

“But you didn't find it.”

“No. Look, I was in the bathroom, looking around. I think Boris must have found that bag and taken it then.”

“Clare, you realize that doesn't make sense. Why would the stuff from Eggs's pockets be in a plastic bag in his own room?”

She stared at him as her explanation crumbled. She turned away. “I don't know.”

“The question is, what are we going to do?”

“Paul, we have to keep it quiet!”

A tempting course of action. What Paul really wished was that they had not found that bag. Now they faced a terrible dilemma. If they kept quiet about it, they would reinforce the case against Esperanza. But what if he were innocent?

“I'm going to talk to Boris,” he said.

“Oh my God.”

“Clare, it's the only way. If there is an explanation, he can provide it.”

She fell silent, then said in a small voice, “And if he can't?”

“What possible motive could he have for killing Eggs?”

She gasped when he said it so bluntly. “That's the problem.”

“You'd better tell me everything.”

“Why do you suppose Eggs was on campus in the first place?”

Paul listened to her account of Eggs and Boris talking in Kansas City about the Zahm diary and about South American gold and El Dorado. Eggs had already been bitten by the bug of lost treasure; he had invested in and gone on an expedition that had hoped to locate a Spanish galleon, loaded with gold on its homeward voyage, sunk off the coast of South America. “Boris was positive that the diary provided accurate information on the location of El Dorado. He must have convinced Eggs,” she concluded.

“Did Boris show him the diary?”

“No. That's why Eggs must have hoped that Zahm's letters of the period might contain whatever information was in the diary.”

“Did he show you the diary?”

“Paul, I have to tell you that, apart from the diary's historical importance, and the interest it would have for Notre Dame or others connected with the university, I was sure that all this talk about El Dorado was nonsense.”

“So you didn't see the diary?”

“Oh, I saw it. It's real. But he wouldn't even let me read it. And he stashed it in his safe-deposit box in the bank until he brought it here, even though we have a vault in the store.”

“And while he was here, the diary was stolen?”

“That's what he said.”

“Don't you believe him?”

“Paul, he had high hopes for that diary. He was sure the university would make a handsome bid for it. Its being stolen would have enhanced its value and spurred more interest.”

“Quite a gamble.”

She looked at him. “I know all about that, Paul.”

That saved him having to tell her that her boss was a compulsive gambler. “You two were very close, I suppose.”

“Not like that.”

The words seemed to drift toward the Grotto and mingle with the wisps of smoke rising from the votive candles. Paul found that he was elated by her remark. “I wish there were someone I could talk to about this.” He fell silent. “A priest.”

“There are plenty of them here.”

“I've got it. Father Carmody. He called me recently about contributing to the founding of a Zahm Center.”

“That was Boris's idea. I mean the center.”

“So I can talk with him about that and hope for an opportunity to bring up our dilemma.”

Our dilemma. At table earlier, struck as always by Clare's cool beauty, he had wondered what miracle could bring them together. Nonetheless, lovely as she was, and no matter how close this puzzle had drawn them, Paul would give it all up in return for not having found that plastic bag in Boris's briefcase.

2

Father Carmody was still at breakfast when Paul Lohman came to see him at the Holy Cross retirement house. It was not yet eight o'clock, and the priest had timed his breakfast so that he would have fasted for at least an hour before saying the funeral Mass at Sacred Heart.

“Ah. Are you my ride?”

Paul Lohman seemed surprised at the question, and Father Carmody explained.

“Of course, Father. I'll be glad to take you to Sacred Heart.”

“Are you going like that?”

“I'll have to change first, of course.” Lohman acted as if he had forgotten about his old roommate's funeral. “Father, I have to talk to you.”

The old priest felt a tremor of premonition. In the nature of things, he had become reconciled to the violent death of Xavier Kittock on campus. Dreadful things have a way of being domesticated by the passage of time. But Lohman's manner suggested that more bad news was in the offing. He pushed back from the table, then did not rise.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“No. Thank you. I can get something later.”

The priest rose then and took Lohman outside to the patio, where they sat on chairs facing the lake, with the golden dome and the spire of Sacred Heart Basilica visible above the trees. Lohman began immediately. Listening to him, Father Carmody felt the weight of this new information pressing on him. When the story was told, they sat in silence for a moment.

“Who have you told?”

“I wanted to see you first.”

“That was wise. Now I know. I will take it from here.”

Lohman actually slumped in his chair with relief. “There must be an explanation, Father.”

“No doubt. And I will find out what it is. In the meantime, there is no need for you to tell this story to others.”

“Of course not. Father, the three of us were roommates.”

Father Carmody took the point. It was on the face of it absurd that these events were explained by the falling-out of old friends. Notre Dame alumni did not fall out. This article of Father Carmody's creed was easier to state than to apply to Boris Henry.

“And the lady, Clare Healy? She must trust me, too.”

“She will be as relieved as I am that you're taking responsibility in the matter.”