Stained Glass (26 page)

Authors: Ralph McInerny

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Stained Glass

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Edna went over to the rectory to tell Father Dowling that the story in the
Tribune
must be about the man who had come to the center to ask about Willie. “I told you he lied to me about having attended the school.”

“I remember.”

“All the awful things he's done, Father.”

“Like not graduating from St. Hilary's?” He smiled when he said it.

He went back to the school with her, remembering what Willie had told him of Holloway. Edna went up to her office, and Father Dowling went down the stairs to the lower floor where Willie's room was. He found the maintenance man slumbering in his chair, with the
Tribune
scattered on either side of him. He had cut something from the paper and pinned it up alongside the story of the attempted bank robbery that had put him in Joliet. He jostled Willie's shoulder.
The little man grumbled and turned away. There was an impressive number of empty beer cans scattered among sections of the paper.

“Willie?”

Willie came awake with a start, looked wildly at Father Dowling, and tried to get up.

“Stay in your chair, Willie.” He drew up the straight-back chair and sat. “I see you've read the story in the paper.”

Willie admitted that he had.

“Is that the man who visited you, the one who wanted to steal a stained glass window?”

“Holloway? Naw, that's Floyd.”

“Floyd?”

“Pretty Boy Floyd. It's a good thing he knew how to take care of himself. Even so, the chaplain had him moved.”

“Father Blatz?”

Willie nodded. “For his own protection. Joliet is a zoo, Father.” “Tell me about Floyd.”

“It's funny they didn't mention Joliet in that story.”

“Yes. I wonder if the police haven't arrested the wrong man.”

“Oh, that's Floyd, all right. He talked circles around the chaplain, acted as altar boy, the whole bit. Spent most of the day in the library. The sonofagun was a VIP down there.”

“Floyd's name wasn't Floyd?”

Willie shook his head. “Charles something.”

“When did he get out?”

“Before I did. Months before.”

Before calling Phil Keegan, Father Dowling thought he would run down to Joliet and talk with Tubby Blatz.

His old classmate had drawn an assignment few would envy, prison chaplain, but maybe in the Joliet diocese it was regarded as
a plum. Tubby was in his office, talking with an inmate, and Father Dowling waited until the man left.

“You've been waiting, Roger? You should have let me know you were here.”

“You looked busy.”

“They come to me just to break out of the routine.”

“Have you been reading about events in Fox River?”

“What events?”

Father Dowling was glad he had thought to bring along the rectory copy of the
Tribune
, over Marie's protests. (“I want to save that.”) He opened the paper and showed Tubby the story.

The chaplain shook his head as he read. “So Charles will be coming back.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Of course he was innocent, like everyone else here. He might have gotten away with it, too. The woman he had robbed changed her story and said she had given him the money. The fact that he had been found with her jewelry and checkbook made that less persuasive.”

“That's his photograph?”

Tubby studied it again. “He doesn't look a day older than when he was here. He was known as Pretty Boy. You can see why. I got him out of harm's way and had him assigned to me. He stayed in a little room off the sacristy.”

“A Catholic?”

“More or less.”

“How more and how less?”

“He knew a lot about the Church, but then he'd say something that rang false. He thought absolution was an indulgence.”

“So he practiced?”

Father Blatz was silent for a moment. “Roger, he was a con man.
I came to think he wasn't a Catholic at all. I told him he had to stop receiving communion.”

“He accepted that?”

“He said he had been about to suggest it himself.”

“What was his real name?”

“Menotti. Charles Menotti.”

The drive back to Fox River was one of the times that Father Dowling wished he used a cell phone. Phil Keegan had to be told that they were very likely holding the wrong man. Phil had chuckled when he told the pastor of St. Hilary's that Fulvio had said they were looking for his brother.

“Amos Cadbury called,” Marie said when he got back to the rectory.

“Any message?”

“He wants to see you. He actually asked where you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“In prison.” Marie never smiled when she was pleased with herself. “I told him I didn't know when you'd be back.”

In his study, Father Dowling put through a call to Amos Cadbury.

Amos told him that James Devere and his sister, Margaret, were anxious to talk to him. At the Devere house. “I'll come by for you, Father.”

“No need for that. I'll meet you there.”

“In an hour?”

Before giving the paper back to Marie, Father Dowling opened it on his desk and studied the photograph. Family resemblance is often a mysterious thing. He looked forward to talking with James Devereâand Margaret, too.

Cy Horvath listened to the message Agnes had left on his phone and sprang to his feet. The message had been recorded almost an hour ago. He bounded from the room and took the stairs to the roof and the police heliport.

Biederbeck was in his little office, feet on the desk, scowling at a television set. “Wouldn't you think reception would be better up here away from all the interference?”

“Warm it up, Beady. We're going to Skokie. You got a map of it?”

“In the copter.” Biederbeck, the welcome but infrequent prospect of flying before him, got up and ran out to his craft. Cy picked up the phone and called Keegan.

“You're flying?” Keegan had a horror of defying gravity.

“She called an hour ago.”

“Keep me posted.”

The great blades of the helicopter were turning lazily when Cy came onto the rooftop. Biederbeck was aboard, grinning in anticipation.

Cy climbed in. “No stunts.”

“Have I ever?”

Cy could count the times he had flown with Biederbeck, but
every one had been an adventure. Prayer came easily in a copter. Biederbeck revved the rotor and then, magically, effortlessly, they lifted, fifty, then a hundred feet above the great encircled
X
on the rooftop. At sufficient altitude, they shot ahead, the cabin tipped forward, over the edge of the roof, and then there was the vertiginous sight of the streets below. Biederbeck gained more altitude, and soon they were whirling west.

“You know the place?”

“We'll be looking for one of our cruisers.”

“Stolen?”

Cy ignored him, examining his conscience, assuring God he would be good as gold from now on. The only consolation was that he could never have covered this distance in less than an hour by car. He had found a map of Skokie in a leather pocket beside him. Opening it blotted out the swiftly passing scene below. When they got there, Beady identified the main street, and Cy guided him from the map.

“Thar she blows,” Beady cried, and they began to descend. The cruiser with FOX RIVER POLICE suddenly legible on its side was parked in front of a house.

“The lawn?”

“Anywhere,” Cy said.

Beady brought it down gently on the lawn, and Cy got the door open and ran crouched under the blades toward the house. He had his weapon out before he began beating on the door. Behind him the great blades turned slowly to a stop.

“Around back,” he shouted to Beady.

He knocked, he rang the bell, and then, lowering his shoulder as he had playing offense for Illinois, he crashed into the door. It gave on the second try. He stumbled through and had trouble coming to a stop. Agnes stood staring at him. The man who was
more behind than next to her held a mean-looking steak knife to her throat.

“Drop that!” Cy barked.

“No, you drop that.”

“It's all over, Charlie.”

The man considered that. “In that case, what do I have to lose?” The answer came in multiple form. Agnes turned and brought her knee into his groin, just as Beady came in from behind and wrested the man away from Agnes. He still had the knife in his hand when Cy got the cuffs on him.

“You all right, Agnes?”

“I am now.” If Pippen ever looked at him like that, Cy would be a goner.

Biederbeck was disappointed that he wasn't going to carry Charles whoever back to the heliport. “I could give him a pretty good ride.”

It was tempting, but Cy shook his head. “We'll use the cruiser.” “Aw,” said Beady.

Cy followed Agnes and the prisoner, giving her the satisfaction. From the next yard, a man yelled, “What's he done?”

“Jaywalked,” Agnes called back.

Before putting Charles in the backseat, Cy got leg irons out of the trunk. When those were on the prisoner, Cy put him in the backseat, enjoying it when he pushed the man's head down as he did so.

Once inside, before Cy closed the door on him, Charlie tried to smile. He said in a strained voice, “I don't think I'll ever play the violin again.”

“But you'll be able to sing soprano.”

Beady had started his rotor, and the man next door backed away. It was a beautiful sight, watching the chopper rise, seemingly orient itself, and then prattle away to the east.

“I'll drive,” Cy said. “You keep an eye on your prisoner.”

Tetzel was the emperor of the pressroom in the courthouse. He was hailed when he entered the Jury Box across the street.

Even Lyle Menteur, editor of the
Tribune
, drifted dangerously close to praise. “More interviews,” he suggested but it sounded like hip-hip-hooray to Tetzel.

Tetzel flapped his notebook and flourished his tape recorder. “As many as you want.”

Menteur chewed a mouthful of gum morosely. Was he picking up the scent of cigarette smoke from Tetzel's clothes? His resentment at the exemption of the courthouse pressroom from the no-smoking ordinance would always be a barrier to fulsome praise.

“I haven't seen much of Rebecca lately,” Tetzel said offhandedly.

“She's on sick leave.”

“In Amsterdam?” Rebecca's piece on the hookers of Holland had been spiked by Menteur.

“Ho ho.” Nicotine deprived as Menteur was, male solidarity survived in the editorial breast.

Success, when it comes late, is a bittersweet thing, and Tetzel
grew philosophical. “Gone with the wind,” he said to Tuttle. “Look at this monitor. Letters, words, sentences.” He punched a key, and the screen cleared. “That's news, Tuttle. Snowflakes on the warm sidewalk of life.”

“Have you thought of poetry?”

“It is my consolation. Do you know Kipling?”

Tuttle wrinkled his nose. Never answer a direct question. “After I finish my novel I shall turn to verse.”

“I'd keep that quiet if I were you.”

“You may be right.”

Tetzel's story as originally written had crested with the arrest of Fulvio Menotti in Barrington. The arrest of Fulvio's brother changed all that, and the story as run ended with the look-alike brothers. Tetzel would have likened it to
A Tale of Two Cities
, but at the time he was alone in the pressroom, and talking to himself was something he only did while writing.

He heard that Father Dowling had enquired about Charles, so Tetzel drove out to St. Hilary's to get his take on the man.

“Confessions are Saturday,” the housekeeper said, sweeping Tetzel with an assessing glance. “Unless it's an emergency.”

“I
would
like to see him now.”

Mrs. Murkin threw up her hands. Her job did not include the care of souls or the discernment of spirits. Another sweeping glance and she sniffed. “You've been drinking.”

“It's my mouthwash.”

Frowning, she led him down the hallway and tapped on a door. “Father, a penitent to see you.”

Father Dowling looked up, his look welcoming, then puzzled. “Aren't you Tetzel of the
Tribune
?”

“I confess.”

“Any other serious sins? Sit down, sit down.”

The housekeeper expelled airâ“Humph”âand clomped off down the hall.

“She misunderstood me.”

“It's when she understands you that you're in trouble. Quite a dramatic story you wrote.”

“Thank you. I'm working on a follow-up. We know more of the innocent brother than we do of Charles. I understand you were down in Joliet recently.”

“Have you talked with Father Blatz?”

“Not yet.”

Father Dowling began to fill his pipe. Tetzel got out his Pall Malls and looked a question.

“By all means. Why settle for secondhand smoke?”

“Father Blatz is the chaplain at Joliet?”

“That's right. Charles was his assistant during much of his stay there.”

Having lit up, Tetzel scrambled to get out his notebook.
Accused Murderer Chaplain's Assistant.
“Can you tell me about that?”

“It would be secondhand. Talk with Father Blatz. I was surprised that you made so little of the connection to the artist Angelo Menotti. Both young men are his grandsons, you know.”

Tetzel scribbled. “That will be in future articles. Right now I'm interested in the man who tried to shift blame for what he did onto his brother.”

“I'm sure you remember Cain and Abel.” A smile and then a rising cloud of smoke. “Once at an international conference Graham Greene said that every time he heard the phrase âbrotherly love' he thought of Cain and Abel.”

“I'll use that. Have you talked with the suspect, Father?”

“If you don't inquire into my professional secrets I won't inquire into yours.”

“Of course, of course.”
Pastor of St. Hilary's Invokes Seal of the Confessional.

“I enjoyed the series by Rebecca Farmer on her adventures in Europe.”

“That's been discontinued,” Tetzel said evenly. “She went too far when she submitted a piece on Amsterdam.”

Father Dowling puffed on his pipe. After a moment, he said, “Angelo Menotti lives in Peoria.”

“I was on my way there when I learned of the murder of Carl Borloff.”

“His funeral is tomorrow.”

“Here?”

“The rosary is tonight at McDivitt's.”

Tetzel made a note.