Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  She was grateful there were no general sessions scheduled for tomorrow. The faculty would not convene except for meals. She resolved to be on her guard lest another altercation break out during mealtime. Maybe she’d be able to enlist Marie’s help in peacemaking. But after this evening she could not be certain. About anything.

  There was no immediate response to Janet’s invitation that they take in the movie.

  Then Martha, somewhat more composed, said, “I think that’s a fine idea, Sister. Come on, David, let’s go see the film.”

  Benbow shook his head. “Not in the mood, I’m afraid, dear. You go ahead. I think I’ll take a bit of a walk. I’ll see you in our room later.”

  “Reverend?” Janet addressed Krieg.

  “What?” Krieg had been lost in his own thoughts.

  “The movie. Would you like to join us at the movie?” Janet explained.

  “Oh, no, I think not. I’ll just wander up to my room. A bit tired. Suddenly a bit tired.”

  “Up to your room?” Janet repeated. “You’re not returning to the hotel for the night?”

  “Think not. Not worth the trouble. I’ll stay here tonight. But no, no movie. Thanks just the same.”

  “Father?” Janet addressed Augustine.

  “Not tonight. I’m sort of sleepy.”

  “Rabbi?”

  “I want to go over my notes for tomorrow’s classes. I’d better do that before I get too tired.”

  “Marie?” Janet had hoped that she could get at least a few to join her. She knew the students would be pleased if the faculty were to join in some of the extracurricular events.

  “I’ve got some correspondence I’ve got to catch up on, Jan. Sorry.”

  “Father?” With Koesler, Janet was down to her last chance.

  “Matter of fact I’d like that. It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Koesler glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Benbow go ahead? I’d like to finish my coffee. Would that be all right?”

  “Certainly, Father.” Janet was grateful for some company no matter the delay. “Martha, why don’t we go now? Father Koesler can join us in a few minutes.”

  With that the group went its separate ways. Left seated at the table, while the waitresses cleared dishes, were Koesler and Krieg. Each had about half a cup of coffee left.

  Koesler went to the hot plate where the pot of coffee was kept. He brought the pot to the table, filled his cup, and gestured toward Krieg, who nodded; Koesler filled the other cup as well.

  “That was a bit of a surprise,” Koesler said.

  “Father Benbow? I’m sure he spoke only in the heat of the moment. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said literally.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking it that way,” Koesler said. “I agree: He didn’t mean it.”

  “I must confess he surprised me though ... I mean, an Episcopal priest!”

  “Violence!” Koesler said.

  “Hmmm?” Krieg missed the point.

  “Religion, violence, sex.” Koesler could not suppress a grin.

  Krieg smiled in return. It was the first time Koesler had seen a genuine, as opposed to a plastic, smile from Krieg.

  “Ah, yes,” Krieg said. “Religion, violence, sex. Seems there been a lot of talk about that lately.”

  “For some reason, I hate to say this, but I kind of anticipated that would be a prominent topic of conversation. Having read one of the books you published and then reading up on stories about you and your philosophy of publishing, I just guessed, what with the writers who were invited, I guessed we’d be talking a bit about the subject.”

  “Perceptive,” Krieg commented.

  Koesler removed from a jacket pocket a newspaper clipping much the worse for wear. “Since I thought the subject would inevitably come up sometime during this week, I brought this along with me.”

  Krieg seemed amused. “Does that clipping go back to the invention of the printing press?”

  “Only to March 1989, from The New York Times,” Koesler said.

  “It’s not holding its age very well. Looks like it’s about to give up the ghost, as it were.”

  “That’s because I’ve used it in some homilies and talks. I think it’s going to be very relevant during this workshop. I didn’t want to spring it on you with no warning. Mind if I read part of it to you now?”

  Krieg shrugged, took a sip of coffee, and waited. Clearly, permission had been granted.

  “The occasion,” Koesler began, “was the American Film Institute’s seventeenth annual Life Achievement Award presentation to Gregory Peck. What I’m going to quote is one of the remarks he made. All right with you?”

  Krieg’s smile reverted to plastic.

  “Well,” Koesler said, “the article noted that the actor, in his acceptance speech, went beyond the usual gratitude and platitudes. It quotes him as saying”—here Koesler read from the clipping—“‘There has been a lot of glamorous financial news in the papers lately. Multimedia conglomerates . . .

  “‘If these Mount Everests of the financial world are going to labor and bring forth still more pictures with people being blown to bits with bazookas and automatic assault rifles, with no gory detail left unexploited; if they are going to encourage anxious, ambitious actors, directors, writers and producers to continue their assault on the English language by reducing the vocabularies of their characters to half a dozen words, with one colorful but overused Anglo-Saxon verb and one unbeautiful Anglo-Saxon noun covering just about every situation, then I would like to suggest that they stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”

  Koesler carefully refolded the relic and returned it to his pocket.

  “That’s it?” Krieg said.

  “Didn’t you find that a rather impressive statement?”

  “Gregory Peck is a great actor. He is a larger-than-life presence.”

  Koesler seemed puzzled. “I agree. So, don’t you consider that an impressive statement? And, more to the point, isn’t that a refutation of your stand?”

  “I think not, good Father. As time goes on, it seems we are never going to see eye to eye, which is all right. As someone said earlier this evening, it’s a free country.”

  Koesler was bewildered. “But, how . . . how do you respond to the challenge in Gregory Peck’s concluding words?” Koesler did not need to refer to the clipping again; from repeated readings he knew the words by heart. “‘. . . stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”

  Krieg finished his coffee and returned the cup to the saucer in a gesture of finality. “Father, good Father, did you ever notice how frequently it happens that the one who tells you that money isn’t important, has already made his?” Krieg paused to make certain his point was taken. “Now, I wouldn’t argue that artistry and pride aren’t desirable. But tell that to Mozart. One of the greatest artists of all time. Who starved, was penniless, and whose bones lie—God knows where—in a pauper’s grave.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Excuse me, good Father. By and large, the writers under contract to P.G. Press are not Hemingways or Fitzgeralds. They’d like to be but they never will be. And, truth be known, I’m getting a bit tired of being cast as the heavy in this scenario. Granted, the writers at this conference are a cut above the majority we have under contract. What’s more, they carry the ring of authenticity. And that is not unimportant baggage. But were they to sign with us, with our promotional machinery, they would increase—double—their sales.”

  “But they would have to conform to your . . . . style—no?”

  Krieg spread his hands. “We would deliver sales such as they’ve only dreamed about.”

  Koesler tried his coffee. It was lukewarm. He nudged cup and saucer toward a waitress. This was the last of the waitresses and these were the last of the dishes to be removed.

  “
Then,” Koesler said, “I take it nothing would dissuade you from continuing to leave no gory detail unexploited, no unhappy Anglo-Saxonism unused, no intimate erotic detail undescribed?”

  Krieg shrugged. “As I have said, it sells.”

  “Well,” Koesler rose, “I guess we agree on one point anyway.”

  “Uh?”

  “We’re not going to see eye to eye.”

  As Koesler left the dining room, Krieg gave him the benefit of one last large plastic smile.

  A classic, Koesler reminded himself, was enduring. Of course there were other qualifications, but, among other things, classics lasted.

  Certainly Chesterton’s writings endured. And, although he considered it an avocation, his “Father Brown” series certainly proved to be his most popular work. As far as Koesler was concerned, the “Father Brown” movie he’d just seen pretty well captured the spirit of the original. A tribute to the artistry of Alec Guinness.

  It brought to mind anew Gregory Peck’s words: “Artistry is worth more. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows.”

  The more he thought about it, the more Koesler admired the resolution of the four writers at this conference. The bottom line, rationale for just about everything in today’s world, was that both the writers and Krieg were on the mark.

  Krieg was right, in that there was a market for sleaze in America. Try as they might, authorities would never totally eliminate a travesty such as pornography. There was a market for it. Trash remains popular on television and in the movies. There was a market for it.

  How much of a market was another question. In much of the Western world, at least, markets were established through packaging and merchandising. Was popular taste that bad? Was there an inherent attraction to garbage? Or were those who package and market the product merely uncommonly adept at selling? Moot questions?

  Koesler was convinced that Klaus Krieg was indeed a superior salesman. He had packaged and marketed Christianity, to his own immense profit. He had packaged and marketed religious literature, to his own considerable profit.

  Koesler strongly believed that it wasn’t so much that there was a natural market for exploitive violence and sex as that there were skilled salespeople who created and promoted that market. But there was, unquestionably, a market out there. To that extent, Krieg was correct.

  On the other hand, the writers were correct. There was a market for artistry and pride of workmanship. Granted, it was not nearly as easy to reach that market. But it was there. Carefully crafted music, theater, literature, television, art; works of dedication lasted. Even contemporary art proved the point. As long as civilization endured, the music of Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern would be played and sung. Forever, companies would perform South Pacific, Oklahoma!, My Fair Lady, and the like. Acid rock would fade to an obsolete and forgotten phenomenon of the second half of the twentieth century.

  The writers were to be admired in their resistance to the salesmanship of Klaus Krieg. The question was: Could they persevere? Could they continue to resist Krieg’s considerable prowess?

  The weather was growing brisk. It was becoming a typical nippy Michigan autumn evening. Koesler had decided on the walk through Marygrove’s campus. Without a topcoat, he was getting a chill.

  As he entered the Cadillac building, Koesler realized he had not seen David Benbow during the walk. But it had been hours since Benbow had proposed taking an after-dinner walk. He must have returned to his room by now. Probably retired for the night.

  Contemplating bed himself, Koesler decided to see if he could get a nightcap. He headed down the empty corridor to the dining room. Strange how threatening a large institution can seem when it’s empty.

  Koesler entered the dining room and turned on the light. He was vaguely aware something was amiss. But what? Nothing. Surely nothing.

  It was an after-dinner drink he wanted. There was no hint of a liqueur in the cache supplied by the college. He needed access to Krieg’s supply. But that was under lock and key.

  Wait . . . He glanced at the cupboard holding Krieg’s private stock. The cabinet door was ajar. Odd.

  Something was wrong, very wrong. He looked around the room. Cloths covered all the tables except the one the faculty had used; that had no tablecloth. The linen should have been laid preparatory to tomorrow’s breakfast.

  He moved toward the bare table. The tablecloth was on the floor, together with the flatware, some shattered china, and a body.

  Another game? Another little psychodrama?

  Koesler thought not.

  He bent down for a closer look. He could detect no blood. There also was no pulse.

  Now he knew what it was he had sensed on entering the room. In his priestly duties, Koesler had become familiar with the distinctive odor. It was the odor of death.

  This time there would be no mistakes. He would go right to the top and call his friend, Inspector Walter Koznicki.

  The question that baffled Koesler as he rang up was, if this was indeed a murder, why would anyone want to kill Rabbi Irving Winer?

  13

  Technicians were all over the place. To the unpracticed eye, it seemed to be chaos. But, as in an ant colony, there was a distinct and definite purpose to everything. Lights popped as photographers captured the scenes that the detectives wanted preserved on film. Measurements were taken, samples gathered, and people interrogated. Questions! Endless questions!

  Standing to one side, conversing as they observed the preservation and enshrining of the scene of the crime, were Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki.

  Koesler was bringing Koznicki up-to-date on what had preceded the death.

  “Then, when you came into the dining room tonight, you found the body of Rabbi Winer. And you were the first to find the body, Father?” Koznicki asked.

  “That’s right,” Koesler said. “At least I presume I was first. If I hadn’t decided I could do with a nightcap, probably nobody would have discovered the poor man until tomorrow morning.”

  “And you went to Reverend Krieg’s private supply?”

  “I didn’t really think about that until I got to the dining room. As I told you, Inspector, the college put in a wet bar with most of the standard liquors: gin, whiskey, Scotch, vermouth, beer—but no cordials. What I had in mind was a touch of cognac or Benedictine.

  “Well, I was at the door of the dining room when it occurred to me that only Krieg had the liqueurs and he kept his private stock under lock and key. That’s why I was surprised to see the door of Krieg’s cabinet open.”

  “The cabinet belonged to Reverend Krieg?”

  “Not really. It, along with all the furnishings, belongs to the college. But Krieg had appropriated it. It appears to be the only cabinet in the room that can be locked.”

  “I see.” Koznicki briefly answered a question from one of the officers. “Then someone left the cabinet unlocked?”

  “Not necessarily,” Koesler said. “Before dinner this evening—before Krieg showed up—Rabbi Winer tried the door of the cabinet, to see if it had been left unlocked. It hadn’t. But Sister Janet told us—and everyone was present to hear her—that an extra key to the cabinet was kept”— Koesler pointed—“just inside that door. And it must have been that key that was used; after I called you, I checked and it wasn’t on its hook. And your men found a key under the rabbi’s body.”

  Furrows appeared in Koznicki’s forehead. “But . . . but what could have been the purpose of locking the cabinet when another key was readily available?”

  “Games, Inspector, games. We have been playing lots of games ever since this group assembled. It has everything to do with what I told you about how Krieg wanted these four writers in his stable. I think it is certain that that is the principal purpose for this writers’ conference.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Ostensibly four successful writers and one successful publisher assemble for a workshop. One should naturally conclude that the
purpose is to help amateur writers to get published to their heart’s content. But in this instance, seeing as how Krieg in effect set the whole thing up, the purpose of the conference is to give Krieg one last shot at getting writers he wants under contract to him. Thus we had games: the psychodrama; Kreig’s having a suite downtown as well as a room here, his own menu when he doesn’t want to eat the food we’re eating, his own liquor supply—that sort of thing. I think the Reverend Krieg has been trying to impress these four people that he is in control of everything, including, by inference, them.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. And I’ve told you of the writers’ reaction to all this. Extreme hostility! To a degree that has surprised me.”

  “Indeed.” Koznicki answered another whispered question, then turned back to Koesler. “One would think that if a writer did not wish to sign a contract, that would be it. Even if the publisher were to be more persistent—as Reverend Krieg evidently has been—still, there should not be all this tension and talk of murder.”

  Koesler shook his head. “But, that, Inspector, is what has indeed happened.”

  At that moment, Sergeant Phil Mangiapane approached Koznicki. “Doc Moellmann thinks it was cyanide, Inspector.”

  One eyebrow raised slightly. “Unusual for the medical examiner to give an opinion so quickly,” said Koznicki.

  “He didn’t say for sure it was cyanide. He thinks it is. But if you ask me, he’s pretty damn sure—uh, ’scuse me, Father. The M.E.’s got this glint in his eye and he’s giggling a little bit. If I had a bottom dollar, I’d put it on cyanide.”

  Koznicki suppressed a grin. Obviously, Mangiapane had grown accustomed to Moellmann’s many eccentricities. If the M.E. was relishing this, he was, indeed, pretty sure.