Preach No More

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  “Pretty vague description,” Farmington said. “The regulars, the ones who travel with us, no. Oh, a few blondes. But—well, most of them aren’t all that young, Lieutenant. Take the locals, yeah. Maybe a third of the girls, if you stretch the ‘attractive.’ A few of them, you wouldn’t have to stretch it.”

  “Any particular one come to your mind?”

  “No, Lieutenant. I listen to them, see? We don’t try to set up a chorus line. Be no point to it anyway, with these surplices they have them wear.”

  Shapiro nodded his head. Farmington turned and took another step toward the bedroom door and then stopped and turned back again.

  “The Reverend Prentis was a man of God,” he said, and spoke firmly.

  “You told me,” Shapiro said, and waited behind the desk while Farmington went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. Then he went out into the corridor to see how Cook and the others were getting on. He hoped better than he was. He couldn’t see that he was getting anywhere at all.

  Tony Cook was coming along the corridor. As soon as he saw Shapiro he began to shake his head. Apparently he hadn’t been getting anywhere either. Shapiro stopped and waited for him to come up.

  “Been going over these singers,” Tony said. “Carl and I. Nobody knows anything about anything, except, a couple of them, that now they’re out of jobs. And that they got a hundred and fifty a week, plus travel expenses when they were on the road. Last night—”

  Last night the twenty-four permanent choir members had come to the hotel from the Garden, arriving at a little before eleven. They had come in a chartered bus. They had gone to the rooms spaced along the central corridor near the end most distant from the two corner rooms occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Prentis. There were twelve of the rooms, each occupied by two men or two women.

  And all twenty-four had gone in to their rooms and gone to bed, and each roommate vouched for the other. None had seen the Reverend Mr. Jonathan Prentis after the meeting. None knew until Mrs. Mathews had come to tell them about nine that morning that the Voice had been stilled.

  “Way one of them put it,” Tony Cook said. “All very proper people. Mostly in their forties. Mostly talk Middle West, or something.”

  “Any pretty youngish blonde?”

  “Like the one at the Brawl? No, Nate. You figure he was a chaser? And, maybe, chased the wrong dame?”

  “I don’t figure anything at the moment,” Shapiro said. “He apparently was with a blonde. And not his wife. Unless—this Mrs. Mathews say she gave Mrs. Prentis a sleeping pill?”

  “Yeah,” Tony Cook said. “And that’s about all she will say. To me, anyway. She says she’ll talk to whoever’s in charge, only she won’t help anybody pry into what’s not their business. What it comes down to, she’s damn difficult.”

  “Has Maloney talked to her? Or any of his boys?”

  “Captain Maloney took one look at her and left her to us,” Cook said. “Can’t say I blame him. But—you’ll find out, Nate. In room six twenty-three’s where we left her. Mrs. Flanders and I. Up that way.”

  He gestured up that way.

  “You might,” Shapiro said, “dig up a man named Acton. In charge of transportation for the troupe. See if he knows anything we ought to know.”

  “Sure,” Cook said and started on along the corridor in the direction he had been going. But after a few steps he stopped and then walked back to Shapiro.

  “When you’re talking to this Mrs. Mathews,” Cook said, “you’d better not smoke. Because I lighted a cigarette in this room of hers, without thinking about it, and got a five-minute lecture. Because, way it seems, smoking’s a sin. Against the will of God.”

  “I can’t remember that He mentioned it,” Shapiro said. “Nothing about it in the Talmud. Of course, I’m not a scholar.”

  He went on to Room 623. The door was closed, and he knocked on it. He knocked twice before he was answered, and then it was in a low, rather scratchy, voice. The voice said, “I’m busy.”

  “Police,” Shapiro said through the door. “Like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Mathews.”

  “You’re this man Maloney? Captain or whatever they call him?”

  “No,” Shapiro said, and turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

  It opened to a largish room, again evidently the living room of a suite. There was an office desk in the middle of it and a stocky woman sat behind the desk. She had black hair, pulled straight back to a knot behind her head. She also had a slight mustache. She looked at Shapiro through hard black eyes.

  “Well,” she said, “at least you’re not that papist. Who are you?”

  Shapiro told her who he was. He said, “Papist, Mrs. Mathews?”

  She said, “Well, isn’t he? With that name of his?”

  “He may be a Roman Catholic,” Shapiro said. “I never asked him. Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. This is a Protestant country. Free to worship God. Free from the Roman yoke. Don’t you know that priests of the Catholic Church are permitted to drink intoxicating beverages? Which is a sin against God.”

  Cook had, Shapiro thought, rather underestimated the difficulty presented by Mrs. Mathews.

  “Shapiro,” Mrs. Mathews said. “You’re Jewish, I take it?”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said and waited for an explosion. It did not come. Mrs. Mathews said, merely, “I thought so.” Then she said, “I am busy. There is much to be done in these tragic hours. What questions do you want to ask me?”

  “You gave Mrs. Prentis a sleeping capsule last night,” Shapiro said. “That’s right, isn’t it? Insisted that she take it?”

  “She is not well. She needed to sleep. It is not sinful to seek sleep.”

  “No,” Shapiro said. “About what time did you give her this pill?”

  It had been about eight-thirty.

  “You left the bottle of capsules with her?”

  “Yes. In case she wakened in the night. But at eleven she was sleeping peacefully.”

  “You went in to make sure?”

  “I was concerned about her. She is a true Christian woman. I went to make sure she was well. And, if she wished, to join my prayers with her.”

  “But you did not waken her?”

  “No. As it says in the Scripture, sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.”

  Shapiro had been resisting a good many temptations since he had got to the Hotel Wexley and the evangelical atmosphere. He did not resist this one. He said, “Shakespeare, I think, Mrs. Mathews. Not the Bible.”

  “I am quite certain it is from Holy Writ,” Mrs. Mathews said. “Quite sure. In John, I think. I can look it up if you—”

  “Don’t bother,” Shapiro said. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, Mrs. Mathews. You went to Mrs. Prentis’s room. After you had returned from the meeting at the Garden?”

  “I did not attend the meeting. I had tasks to perform. Today we were to have continued on our pilgrimage. There were many details to attend to. Business details.”

  Shapiro said he was sure there had been. She had not seen Mr. Prentis at all during the evening?

  She had not.

  She had gone to Mrs. Prentis’s room that morning to tell her what had happened?

  “The Reverend Higgs came to tell me of the tragedy. It was my sad duty to tell Mrs. Prentis.”

  “A difficult duty,” Shapiro said. “She took it hard, of course?”

  “She cried out—cried out, ‘No! No! No!’ I prayed with her.”

  “And, perhaps, suggested she take a sleeping pill? As—sedation?”

  “I may have.”

  “Very wise of you if you did,” Shapiro said. “I’ll try not to keep you much longer, Mrs. Mathews. A few questions we always have to ask. Did Mr. Prentis have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Only the forces of evil. And those who profit from evil.”

  “And can you think of anyone who gains by his death? In a financial way? Or in any other way?”

  “You
mean among men? Since Satan profits.”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said. “Among men.”

  She did not. All Christianity was the loser. All mankind.

  “Of course,” Shapiro said. “Now I wonder, Mrs. Mathews—”

  6

  You collect bits and pieces and spread them out and try to shuffle them into a pattern. In his office at a little after one that Thursday afternoon, Nathan Shapiro shuffled and could not see that anything came of it. Or, he morosely thought, ever would.

  There were a few more pieces by the afternoon, few of which Shapiro had collected on his own.

  Mrs. Florence Mathews had refused to discuss the financial setup of the Mission of Redemption, Inc. She was not authorized to discuss it. It could not have anything to do with the death of Jonathan Prentis, minister of the gospel. Hence, it was none of the business of the New York police. In any event, she was not authorized. Mr. Pruitt—Mr. Henry Pruitt, treasurer of the Mission of Redemption, Inc.—might divulge what he chose. Mr. Pruitt remained in St. Louis.

  The St. Louis police were cooperating. They had, so far, verified that the headquarters of the Mission were in St. Louis. They had established that the Reverend Jonathan Prentis had been president and the Reverend John Wesley Higgs vice-president and Henry Pruitt, a mere “Mr.,” treasurer. Mr. Pruitt had not reached his office when the police reached it. His secretary did not know when, under the circumstances—the dreadful circumstances—he might be expected. Nobody else was authorized to give any information.

  The office was reasonably large and well equipped. It was not very extensively occupied when the St. Louis police visited it. Everybody of importance, except Mr. Pruitt himself, was with the Voice in New York. Or, of course, had been. Yes, that was what the Reverend Mr. Prentis was called—“the Voice.” Had been called. When meetings were being held away from town, there were only enough people in the office to handle the mail. Yes, the mail was heavy. The mail was always heavy. Yes, many contributions did come by mail. But they would have to ask Mr. Pruitt himself about that. When he came in. If he came in. He might have decided it would be necessary for him to fly to New York.

  Bits and pieces. Bits and pieces. And no pattern to them.

  There had been two waiters in the coffee shop of the Hotel Wexley the night before. They were the night men and had to be found and waked up. Both knew Mr. Ralph Farmington by sight. He had been at the hotel for a good many weeks and had often dropped in late for coffee. Last night? Neither was sure about last night. Maybe he had come in and maybe he hadn’t. If he said he had, they guessed he had. He was a religious man. The whole hotel was full of religious people. It was sure too bad about the Reverend Prentis.

  There was a bar at the hotel. The night bartender—who also had to be found and waked up—had never, so far as he knew, seen any Mr. Farmington. Of course, he didn’t ask customers their names. Their names were none of his business. If this Mr. Farmington was one of that crowd on the sixth floor, he couldn’t see him coming in for a drink. Talked like the stuff was poison, that crowd did.

  There were several bars within a few blocks of the hotel and a few places where a thirsty man might get coffee. A couple of detectives were going from place to place, at first with only a verbal description of Ralph Farmington; later, when his former agents—Talent, Incorporated—had been located, with photographs. But the photographs had been taken ten years earlier, when Farmington’s blond hair had had no gray in it. And had, as it turned out, been longer. Nobody recognized the photograph.

  Copies of the photograph had gone downtown and then, as they were rounded up—waked up—been shown to waiters and bus boys and the hat-check girl at the Village Brawl. Nobody remembered seeing anybody who looked like that.

  None of the waiters remembered seeing anything else the night before, except a lot of customers. Nobody saw anybody stick an ice pick into anybody. Emile Schmidt, who had the station nearest Booth 22, remembered giving André a hand up and taking two drinks to the booth. Sure there was a girl there. Yes, she was a blonde. Yeah—m’sieu—she was what you’d call good-looking. Maybe he’d know her if he saw her again and maybe he wouldn’t. Sure, if a girl who looked like her came in and he happened to notice he’d give the police a ring.

  Jonathan Prentis had been a well-nourished male in, probably, his early fifties. Cause of death, a stab wound which had penetrated the heart, slightly nicking a rib in the course of entry. The wound was consonant with one which might have been inflicted by the purported weapon. There had been extensive internal bleeding and probably very quick loss of consciousness. Analysis revealed 0.17 per cent of alcohol in the blood, which might have produced mild clinical symptoms of intoxication. In some men, but not necessarily in others. Tests to determine the alcoholic content of the brain and other organs were proceeding. Post-mortem examination had revealed no anatomical abnormalities except for a slightly enlarged thyroid gland.

  Adele Lorraine, the singer with the combo, had been located and waked up—and had been pretty sore about it. She had seen nothing unusual the night before from the low stage she stood on to sing. The usual mob out front. Talking through her songs, like always. If she’d seen a tall dark man in Booth 22 she hadn’t paid any attention to him and why for God’s sake should she? She sure as hell hadn’t seen anybody stick an ice pick into him. An ice pick, for God’s sake!

  The ice pick had a shaft four and a half inches long, which had been long enough. The octagonal wooden handle had been of the same length and three inches in circumference. The pick apparently was fairly new and had been inexpensive. The wooden handle revealed no identifiable fingerprints—only a few smudges. Hardware stores in the neighborhood of the Village Brawl were being checked, but with no special optimism. There was little demand nowadays for ice picks, which was a plus factor. The ice pick in question was indistinguishable from thousands of others and might have been bought anywhere in the city. Or, for that matter, in any city. Which was a minus factor.

  The four elevators at the Hotel Wexley were automatic. The doorman went off at nine o’clock at night. The desk, which was staffed twenty-four hours a day, was set so that it did not command a view of the elevators or of most of the stretch of lobby between them and the door.

  The night clerk, wakened in his small room on the hotel’s top floor—and not at all pleased about it—did remember that Higgs and Prentis had picked up their keys at a little before eleven. Or maybe ten-thirty. Or he thought he remembered it. He didn’t remember anything about Farmington. Sure, Higgs’s key would unlock the door to the suite he and Farmington shared. So Farmington wouldn’t have needed to ask for his duplicate to get in. Provided, Shapiro had thought, he didn’t mind waking Higgs. Also, there was this—a lot of guests just put hotel keys in their pockets, instead of leaving them at the desk. No, he hadn’t seen Farmington in the lobby after the others had gone up. If they had gone up. No, he couldn’t see the entrance of the coffee shop from his spot at the desk. And it wasn’t his job to keep a check on the guests. And it was a hell of a time to wake a man up.

  Bits and pieces without discernible pattern. To me, Shapiro thought. Probably plain as day to somebody else. Somebody cut out for this sort of thing.

  Somebody knocked at the door of Shapiro’s small office and Shapiro said, “Yeah?” in a dispirited way, and Anthony Cook came in.

  “Gave this girl who sings—sang—in the choir another ring,” Tony said. “This Janet Rushton. No soap. Also, I finally ran down this guy Acton. Who handles transportation for them. He was canceling an airplane. Charter. Supposed to take off from Kennedy at one o’clock today. Seems the airline’s a little stuffy about it. Canceling, I mean. Got the airplane all fueled up and panting to go.”

  Tony sat down in response to Shapiro’s gesture and lighted a cigarette. The smoke from it eddied toward Nathan Shapiro, who is trying to cut down. Tony reached the pack toward him, with a cigarette protruding. “You’re sure a help,” Nathan told him, and took the cigarette. He said, “Ge
t anything from Acton?”

  Tony couldn’t see that he had. However, for what it was worth—

  Most of those who made up the mission had reached New York on March second, by chartered flight from St. Louis. That had been a Monday. The first gospel meeting had been on the following Wednesday. On that flight had been the permanent members of the choir, including the Negro quartet, Mrs. Mathews and Mrs. Prentis, Mrs. Mathews’s three assistants and a man named Laurence Petty, who was, so far as Tony Cook could make out, a stage manager. There were also other technicians—the lighting engineer, the man who supervised the sound, a camera crew of three. The chartered jet had also taken to Kennedy the personal luggage of all concerned, cartons filled with robes for the choir and the cross which served as a backdrop.

  “Hell of a big thing, that cross,” Tony said. “But it breaks down into sections.”

  Acton had met the plane with a leased limousine for Mrs. Mathews and Mrs. Prentis and any others who could be got into it and a chartered bus for the rest and had taken them all to the Hotel Wexley and their rooms on the sixth floor. The cartons of robes—“Hell of a lot of them for that big an outfit”—and the sectioned cross had been trucked to the Garden, where the first meeting had been held the following Wednesday.

  “March fourth, that was,” Tony said, pinning it down. “They couldn’t get into the Garden until that morning. Prize fight the night before.”

  It had all gone smoothly, according to Theodore Acton. “He sounds like being a pro. Is, I guess. One time he was a transportation officer for the navy, turns out. Knows his business. Didn’t mention God the whole time I talked to him.”

  “Made a change,” Shapiro said. “He’d come on ahead, I gather? You say he met the others at the airport.”

  “He came on February twentieth to set things up,” Tony Cook said and reached out to a tray to crush out his cigarette. Nathan Shapiro was nursing his.

  “He and a man named Gerald Humphrey,” Tony Cook said. “Humphrey’s what Acton calls ‘the man who makes contact with the communications media.’ Which, I guess, means press agent.”