The Sentinel

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  It took him slightly under ten minutes to finish, during which time Michael fidgeted nervously, looking at books he’d never heard of, let alone read, and doodling aimlessly on a piece of paper that Ruzinsky had given him, after Ruzinsky had caught him writing on his desk.

  “Are you almost done?” Michael asked after some time.

  “Yes, just one more word, I think, right here and…good! The remainder are repeats of the first segment.”

  Michael sat forward in his chair, expectant. Ruzinsky held out the translation and read:

  “To thee thy course by Lot hath given

  Charge and strict watch that to this happy Place

  No evil thing approach or enter in.”

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied the scholar.

  “But the page was…?”

  Ruzinsky interrupted. “The phrase was repeated five times.”

  “I see,” Michael said nodding. “Happy place,” he repeated thoughtfully.

  Ruzinsky began to straighten the desk.

  “What does it mean?” asked Michael.

  “I don’t know,” replied Ruzinsky, shrugging. He paused. “Though I can’t help but feel it is familiar.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe it’s from some piece of literature, at least that’s what a little voice keeps telling me.”

  “What piece?”

  “That I wouldn’t know. I’m a linguist, not a historian or literary expert.”

  “Ask the voice.”

  “Americans have such a piquant humor,” Ruzinsky observed, unmoved. “As it is, I read very little that is not written in Latin, Greek, Hebrew or Chinese, and that piece is not from anything I’m familiar with.”

  “Who might know? Someone in the literature department?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m sure most have left for the weekend. Let me see.” He consulted his directory. “Mr. Scheffer or Mr. Paulson might know.” Ruzinsky turned and picked up the phone. He dialed one extension, waited, redialed, waited again, then hung up concluding that the man was not in. He consulted the book again for the other number and then dialed once more. No one was there either.

  Michael stood and began to pace about the room.

  “Where did you find the passage?” asked the professor.

  “Where? An old book.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  “That’s unfortunate. It might have proven helpful. Why don’t we do this? Leave the translation with me, and on Monday, I will speak with someone, who might be able to identify it, that is assuming it is from some piece of recorded literature. I will call you.”

  Michael nodded; he had no choice, even though he didn’t relish the prospect of waiting until Monday for his answer.

  “Don’t you know anyone else we could ask about the passage? It’s important.”

  The professor shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Michael picked up the translation and copied it on another piece of paper. Then he folded it in thirds, added the original transcription, and put both in his pocket. “Here’s my number,” he said, writing it down. “If you do find out anything on Monday, please call me.”

  Ruzinsky placed the paper in his pocket. As Michael turned to leave, the professor smiled and said, “It was my pleasure.”

  Stepping into the hall, Michael walked down the staircase and onto the campus, his thoughts weighing heavily. He drew the paper from his pocket and studied it. Interesting, but meaningless. What puzzled him more than the meaning was the source. Allison! If she was going to dream up something, why such gibberish. And in old Latin. It had no relation to anything that had happened or to anything she’d said. But then again, if she’d perceived it, it must have some meaning. And there must have been a coincidental stimulus.

  He studied the paper again. Who was charged? She? To watch what happy place? Certainly no place they’d been around recently. The brownstone happy? Ridiculous. And what evil thing? He knew no answer; each question led to another puzzle.

  He left the campus, found a telephone booth, pulled another piece of paper from his picket, and dialed the number that was written in red ink. He waited as the phone rang several times. Then there was a click and a recorded voice said, “This is William Brenner. I’m not in at the moment, but should be returning soon. Please leave your…” He hung up and called Miss Logan’s agency. There was no one there. He dialed information, and asked for the number and address of David Caruso, the landlord. The operator replied that both were unlisted. He dropped the phone and leaned against the glass and metal frame, thinking. He wanted to speak to Miss Logan, but she was obviously unavailable. He also wanted to talk to David Caruso. But to do that he needed the owner’s address, which, unfortunately, according to Allison, was not posted in the hall of the brownstone. He could ask the police, but they probably wouldn’t tell him, and even if they did, there’d be questions. He stepped out of the booth, concluding that he’d have to locate the owner by more circuitous means.

  He crossed the Broadway uptown lane onto the central mall, entered the 116th street station of IRT, took the subway downtown to Foley Square, and located the Bureau of Licenses, where he examined Joan Logan’s license registration. Everything seemed in order; there was nothing to indicate anything clandestine, nor was there any indication of a registered associate. He also stopped at the Department of Taxation, where he culled David Caruso’s address from the tax rolls. From there, he went uptown to Miss Logan’s office. Having verified Allison’s observations, he then taxied back across the park to the west side to David Caruso’s apartment, only to be told by the doorman that the landlord had left earlier in the day after the departure of a Detective Gatz.

  The last hour had been hectic. He took a deep breath, concluding that he’d try to get back later to speak to the landlord. The chance was slight, but the man might know something or at least admit something he would be reluctant to tell the police.

  He began to walk up the street, but hesitated, as a vivid image crossed his mind. He shook his head, but the thought persisted.

  Father Mathew Halliran.

  21

  The cab had just exited the Park on Seventy-ninth Street when Michael ordered it to the curb. He sat for several minutes deep in thought, while the meter ticked away and the cab driver fidgeted; then he canceled the order for Seventeen East Seventy-first Street and ordered the driver down to Fiftieth Street and Madison.

  While crossing the park, he’d examined the possibilities. Sifting the facts and clues, he’d placed them one on top of the other, and then had shuffled them, hoping to arrive at a rational theory that might accommodate events. He’d found nothing. Frustrated, he’d questioned where to start. But all he could think about was the priest. If there was something sinister, the priest had to be involved. How and why he couldn’t guess. But yes, the priest was involved!

  The cab stopped on the corner of Fiftieth. He stepped out, slammed the cab door, then looked up a the massive old building that filled the entire block between Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets. Across the entrance in bright gold letters were the words: ARCHDIOCESE OF NEW YORK.

  The chapel was small.

  A priest kneeled in front of the alter, his hands clasped and his head bowed.

  Save for the low hum of his liturgy, the room was quiet. The priest’s attention to his prayers was absolute. Even the sound of the rear door opening and closing failed to break his concentration.

  Michael walked to the front pew and sat down.

  The priest murmured some final words, crossed himself, and got up.

  “Monsignor Franchino?” Michael asked.

  The priest nodded. “Can I help you, Mr. Farmer?”

  “Yes, you can,” Michael replied and after a pause added, “I hope I didn’t
interrupt.”

  “No,” assured the priest. “I was informed of your arrival.”

  “You are a difficult man to find. I must have spoken to a dozen people before one led me to you.”

  “I am a very busy man. And a very personal one. I prefer to perform my services for God in an atmosphere of anonymity.” The priest stepped to the pew and laid a gentle hand on Michael’s arm. “Shall we go to my office?” he asked.

  They left the chapel, climbed the stairs to the first floor, and walked down a busy corridor. The activity was surprising…what one would expect in a brokerage house or large corporation, rather than in the offices of the Archdiocese.

  “The church supports many of its clergy, who no longer live in rectories or convents,” explained Franchino. “It is our obligation to sustain those, who have given their lives to our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  “I see,” said Michael, his mind marveling at the maelstrom of organized movement.

  The Monsignor stopped in front of an office. Opening the door, he said, “Who is the particular individual in question?”

  “A Father Matthew Halliran.”

  Franchino walked to his desk, turned, and reflected. His expression remained blank, suggesting his inability to place the name. “Father Matthew Halliran?”

  “Yes, Halliran. H-A-L-L-I-R-A-N.”

  The priest pulled up his chair and sat down. He motioned with his hand toward the seat, which stood directly across from him.

  Michael sat.

  The office was large and lavishly furnished, befitting a man of the Monsignor’s position and stature. A beautifully carved crucifix hung on the wall. On one side was a picture of the Pope, on the other the Cardinal of the New York Archdiocese. The resemblance was remarkable, as if by some grand design God had chiseled the features of his disciples from the same pattern. Even Franchino’s face was somewhat…Michael shook his head. His mind was wandering, perhaps prompted by the surroundings. But right now he had to keep his thoughts focused. He examined the rest of the room. It consisted of two more chairs, a coffee table, a series of file cabinets, and one heavy metal cabinet immediately to the right side of the desk that seemed to be double locked.

  “Halliran?” the priest repeated. “No, the name isn’t familiar.”

  “The address is Sixty-eight, West Eighty-ninth Street, and he lives on the fifth floor.

  “Let me look in the files.”

  Monsignor Franchino stood, stretched his long athletic body, and walked to the filing cabinets from which he removed a master folder marked G-J. Returning to the desk, hesifted through the contents, until he’d located the specific manila folder in question.

  He removed it.

  “Matthew Halliran,” he stated, reading the information on a long statistic sheet. “Yes, I recall the name now. It’s been years since I’ve dealt with any matter connected with him. You see, most of the accounts are not handled from this office. They are kept up to date and are systematized, so that the work may proceed automatically. Now let me see…Matthew Halliran. Lives at Sixty-eight, West Eighty-ninth Street in Apartment 5A. As I remember, a kindly gentleman.”

  “I wouldn’t know,’ said Michael. “I’ve never seen him. Nor has the rental agent or the present landlord.”

  “Mr. Farmer, your clients should try to maintain some type of contact with their tenants.”

  “Only if the tenant is willing. This priest seems to only prefer a constant view from the window.”

  “I see.” Franchino looked back at the file. “A view from the window would be difficult for Father Halliran. These records indicate he is blind.”

  “I meant that he sits in the window all day and night.”

  The Monsignor nodded, satisfied with the correction. He continued to review the file. “No living relatives. Was pastor at the Church of the Heavenly Angel in Flushing, Queens, for many years; retired in 1952, after the congregation was disbanded and the church torn down. It seems that his decision to leave the church was prompted by a slowly deteriorating mobility caused by a chronic case of palsy. Father Halliran has, obviously, led a very difficult life. It is understandable that he would become sedentary.”

  Franchino dug into his desk and removed a long print-out. He searched the list carefully and circled something in red. “I think you can see from the this doucment that your client must have been mistaken.” He handed the prrint-out to Michael. “There are no errors in the rental payments.”

  Michael glanced at the sheet. “Could there possibly be a mistake?”

  Franchino shook his head. “I doubt it. In fact, I’m sure there is no mistake. As I said, we are very organized here.”

  “I don’t see how the landlord could have made such a mistake.” Michael handed the list back. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Monsignor Franchino smiled with forced affability. “No, please. Landlords are often negligent in their recording practices. The good Lord sorts these things out eventually.”

  “No doubt,” Michael agreed. “Could I look at the priest’s file for a moment?”

  Franchino hesitated, then handed the manila folder to him. Michael sat back, read the file, and then handed it back to the Monsignor.

  “You don’t have any other information on the man?”

  “No, but even if I did, I don’t see the relevance.”

  “Just curiosity. I’ve been closely associated with the landlord and the building for many years and I still know nothing about one of our prize tenants.”

  Michael studied the room. Could some additional information be locked in the files? Something that might strip the mystery away from Father Halliran? But even if there was something, Franchino certainly wouldn’t volunteer the information.

  “No, there’s nothing,” concluded the Monsignor.

  Michael stood up. “I’ll see that the rent records are corrected,” he said apologetically.

  “We will appreciate that,” responded Franchino.

  “Thank you,” said Michael uncomfortably.

  “It was my pleasure. Let me show you out.” The Monsignor walked around the desk and across to the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Michael. “Would you know a gentleman name Charles Chazen?”

  The priest thought for a moment. “No, should I?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And who, may I ask, is he?”

  “A neighbor of Father Halliran. He lives down the hall in apartment 5B!”

  “As I said, it’s been years since I’ve had any contact with the man, let alone his neighbors.”

  “You should advise the good father to contact Mr. Chazen, if he hasn’t already. A perfectly charming old gentleman. Would make a wonderful companion.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I will note that for my staff. Good day now.”

  Michael hesitated. “There’s one more thing, if I might ask your advice.”

  “Yes.”

  He searched his pocket. “There’s this inscription I had translated from the Latin.” He unfolded the paper. “I was wondering if it might be familiar to you, from some religious writing or something.” He held it out.

  Monsignor Franchino took the paper and held it in the light. He blanched, his lips tightening. Recognition! Without a doubt! The priest quickly assumed his earlier composure. But there was something. And perhaps the clues were in this room.

  “No, it’s not familiar.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It does seem religious in context.”

  “Yes and no. It probably isn’t. In any case, I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Never mind,” said Michael, as he left. “Thank you for your trouble.”

  The priest shut the door and stood frozen. Nervously, he rubbed the little tufts of white hair on the back of his freck
led hands. Then he began to tremble. He crossed himself and stepped back.

  His expression constricted; it was one of terror.

  22

  Monsignor Franchino and Father Halliran were the sole focus of Michael’s thoughts, as he raced down the hall toward his apartment and opened the door. “I just….” He stopped, hatred mirrored in his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked angrily.

  “Lovely apartment,” said Gatz. He was standing in front of Michael’s desk. He lifted Michael’s gold pen, held it in the light, read the inscription, then replaced it in its holder.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I like the coloring. The style of furniture. I was telling Miss Parker that after living in a boardinghouse for so many years, I…you know, a cop, especially one who’s been busted by a departmental commission, doesn’t make much money and can’t afford more… I come into a place like this and I can’t help but be impressed.”

  “What do you want?”

  Gatz picked his teeth with a plastic toothpick. “I’m glad you’ve returned. I’ve been here waiting patiently for a half an hour on the city’s money. I couldn’t have waited much longer. In fact, I was about to leave.” He placed the toothpick in his shirt pocket.

  Allison writhed uncomfortably on the couch.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” said Michael. He threw the door keys on the dining room table and walked into the living room.

  “I wouldn’t think of leaving now. That would show a lack of manners.”

  “You’re so considerate you sometimes amaze me!” Gatz turned. “That’s Detective Rizzo. I don’t think you two have ever met.

  “Fortunately not!” said Michael, glaring at the impassive detective.

  Rizzo shifted a packet of papers from his left hand to his right and extended them toward Gatz.