Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  “‘It was one of his friends—well, actually a distant relative—who still lives in Germany. He told me. He said Irv didn’t know that quite a few people knew what he’d done in the camp. He wanted Irv to know that the Jews who knew about it bore him no ill will. They understood. They had been there. You did what you had to. You stayed alive.’ She shook her head, and added, ‘He was just a boy.’

  “Then she looked at me and she said, ‘I never told Irv. What good would it have done? It didn’t matter if they forgave him or understood. I know him. I know he never could forgive himself. So I didn’t let on I knew his secret. If he didn’t tell me, he didn’t want me to know. I couldn’t let him know that I’d found out, even if it was by accident.’

  “That seemed to be all she wanted to tell me. I waited, but nothing more came. So I asked her what all that had to do with having it out with Krieg here at the conference.

  “She said, ‘It had everything to do with it. Because Krieg had found out. Oh, it wasn’t that difficult. It wasn’t that difficult for me to find out, and I don’t begin to have the money, the power, the resources that Klaus Krieg has. It just wasn’t as difficult as Irv probably thought it was.

  “‘See, one of the times Krieg called, Irv wasn’t in. So Krieg talked to me. I guess Krieg assumed Irv had told me what had happened in the camp. Of course, Irv hadn’t told me. And if I hadn’t found out on my own, it would’ve been a terrible way to find out—from Krieg. But if I hadn’t already known about it and if Krieg had discovered that I didn’t, he would have threatened Irv that he would tell me about it too.’

  “I said,’Too?’”

  Tully exhaled so audibly it sounded almost like a whistle. “Blackmail! Krieg was blackmailing Winer. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “That would explain why the rabbi was so upset at Reverend Krieg’s repeated efforts to sign the rabbi to a contract,” Koznicki said.

  “That’s it,” Moore said. “Mrs. Winer said that Krieg, after he got done using every legitimate means to get her husband to sign, had threatened and finally issued an ultimatum that if Winer still refused to sign, Krieg would get the story out in the open.”

  “Could it have hurt that much?” Koesler asked.

  The others looked at him as if he’d dropped out of the sky. They had nearly forgotten he was there.

  Their reaction slightly embarrassed Koesler. Nonetheless, having surfaced, he proceeded. “I mean, it happened so long ago. In the context of where and how it happened, it is so understandable. And, according to his wife, everyone who knows about it has forgiven him.”

  “I asked her the same question,” Marie said. “But she said that at very least he would lose his credibility, and very possibly the president of the synagogue would move to have him dismissed. And they’d probably do it. She was convinced that if that had happened his life both as a rabbi and a writer would end. But most of all, if it had become public, her belief was that he would just have disintegrated.”

  Silence.

  “So,” Tully said, “Winer came here to have it out once and for all with Krieg.”

  “Do you think it possible the rabbi intended murder as a last resort?” Koznicki asked.

  “Sure sounds like it,” Tully replied.

  “Father Koesler has told us of his surprise at the hostility toward Krieg not only on the rabbi’s part, but from all the other writers,” Koznicki said. “Is it possible . . . ?”

  Tully nodded. “Angie, go get Krieg. He’s in the dining room.”

  Shortly, Moore returned with Krieg.

  “Reverend,” Tully said, “Sergeant Moore here just got done talking with Rabbi Winer’s widow.”

  “Praise God! Poor woman.”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Winer said you know about a ... uh . . . a very compromising situation in the rabbi’s past and that you were blackmailing him, threatening to reveal his secret, unless he signed a contract with you.”

  Krieg smiled in plastic benevolence.

  “True?” Tully’s tone betrayed there was little fuse left.

  “Whyever would a minister of the Gospel do a thing like that?”

  “You deny it, then?”

  “What’s to deny? Are there letters? Documents? Tape recordings of any such threat I might have made to the good rabbi, Lord rest his soul?”

  Tully glanced at Moore, who shook her head.

  “No hard evidence, Reverend, of any threat; just your word against the widow’s,” Tully said. “But what we’ve learned from Mrs. Winer explains a lot. So this is off the record. Rabbi Winer stood to lose everything. He came here allegedly to settle things with you. His plans might have included murder.”

  “He was a man of God!” Krieg protested.

  “So are you,” Tully shot back. “So are all the others in this crazy conference.” Tully slipped into a more conciliatory attitude. “Reverend, it’s been observed that you are not much liked by the writers here. Some of us have been wondering why that is. Mrs. Winer gave us an excellent reason—at least as far as her husband was concerned.”

  “But I—”

  “Hold on just a moment, Reverend,” Tully said. “We are not officially accusing you of anything like blackmail. And you don’t have to deny or answer to anything. Right now, anyway,” he added. “But let’s just suppose—for the sake of argument—that Mrs. Winer was on to something. Suppose her husband did have a skeleton in his closet. Suppose you knew about it. Suppose you told him you would pull that skeleton out of the closet if he didn’t sign a contract with your publishing company. Something he very much didn’t want to do. Suppose that was the reason he showed such hostility toward you.

  “Now, as far as the casual observer was concerned, the high degree of hostility Winer had for you was excessive, inappropriate—improbable, to say the least. But not if you throw in blackmail.

  “With blackmail thrown into the pot, it all makes sense. In fact, it would be a credible reason why Winer might want to kill you—absent some lesser way to get you off his back.

  “But, instead of making an attempt on your life, Winer is murdered, with a poisoned drink meant for you. His mistake inadvertently saved your life.

  “Now, who besides Winer would hate you enough to attempt to kill you? Well, for openers, how about the remaining three writers on this panel? There doesn’t seem to be much difference in the way any of them feel about you.

  “Why would they show feelings toward you just like Winer’s? Could it be for the same reason Winer had?

  “Whatever their reasons, I think you know why they don’t particularly care for you. And there’s one thing you’d better remember: Whoever tried to kill you missed. We haven’t caught that person yet, so he or she is still out there and still hates you enough to try to kill you.

  “If I were you, I would be awfully, awfully careful. And, think about it, Reverend: You may just want to talk to us. It would give us a leg up if we knew what this person’s motive was.

  “Now we can’t force you to talk to us, but if you think about it carefully enough, you might just want to.”

  During Tully’s admonition to Krieg, Koesler studied the televangelist closely. It was interesting to watch the smile slide almost imperceptibly from plastic to rubber.

  Strange man, Koesler concluded. He’d seemed more annoyed than shocked when he had learned of Rabbi Winer’s death. Not unlike an investor learning the market had suffered through a very bearish day. Which simile probably wasn’t far from the truth in this case.

  For one reason or another, Krieg seemed to have had every expectation that he could persuade the rabbi to sign with P.G. Press. Blackmail? So, with Winer’s demise, Krieg had lost an investment. One surely would expect considerably more from the minister. But . . .

  And then, when it became clear that Winer had died from a poison meant for him, Krieg had looked as though he were close to death from mere shock.

  Yet when Tully began talking to Krieg just now, the Reverend appeared to have put the incident out o
f his mind. As if it had never happened. But it was obvious all along that the murderer was still free. Free to try again. Did Krieg think that, having failed, the killer would give up?

  Whatever Krieg may have thought, Tully’s lecture had brought the preacher back to earth with a thud.

  Would Krieg now break down and confide in the police? Koesler guessed that the secret of what was going on between Krieg and the writers hid something that was translatable into a lot of money in the coffers of P.G. Press. A great deal of money on one side of the scale; human life—perhaps Krieg’s own—on the other side.

  Koesler was reminded of the routine of the late comedian Jack Benny, in which a thief approaches Benny and says, “Your money or your life.” An extended silence follows. The thief exasperatedly repeats, “Your money or your life!” And Benny replies, “I’m thinking! I’m thinking!”

  That must be what Krieg was doing now: thinking about either protecting his life or possibly adding significantly to his fortune.

  Koesler had time to develop all these thoughts because Tully tolerated a lengthy silence during which one could almost perceive wheels turning in Krieg’s mind. In the end, it became apparent Krieg was not going to cooperate.

  “All right,” Tully said, “we’re going back into the dining room. Angie, I want you to tell the others what you told us about your conversation with Mrs. Winer.”

  The others, being interviewed in various parts of the dining room, one on one with police officers, seemed startled at the sight of Koznicki, Tully, Moore, Krieg, and Koesler entering. The interviews were put on hold while Tully introduced Moore.

  In a more concise fashion than she had in the corridor, Moore recounted her conversation with Mrs. Winer. Tully noted the writers’ reactions carefully. So did Koesler. They all seemed genuinely moved with pity for the rabbi’s widow and absorbed by the rabbi’s concentration camp ordeal.

  At a signal from Tully, Moore stopped short of explicit mention of blackmail. The conclusion was left to the listeners to draw. To a person, they seemed to make the connection and arrive at the inevitable conclusion.

  As Moore ended her narrative, Tully asked for questions.

  None.

  Did anyone have any comment?

  No one. Everyone seemed determined to tough it out.

  Very well, then. Tully directed the detectives to resume their interviews.

  In a low voice, Tully directed Moore to commence a supplementary investigation into the backgrounds of the three remaining writers. “Just in case there’s something to this blackmail thing,” he said, “dig around. See what turns up. Take two or three from our squad. If you need more help, see me.”

  Things were frozen in a status quo that Koesler did not find at all auspicious. He prayed that something would break, something would happen, before another life would be forfeited.

  16

  As soon as Sergeant Moore had begun talking about Rabbi Winer’s life in the concentration camp, David Benbow was fairly sure of how it would conclude. When she told of Winer’s turning informer, Benbow knew exactly what the conclusion had to be.

  Winer was being blackmailed by Krieg. Benbow could be sure of it since the same thing was happening to him. Until now, he hadn’t known about the rabbi’s predicament. Winer’s unfortunate experience caused Benbow to reexamine his own dilemma. Though, even after all this time, he still couldn’t decide whether his own experience was fortunate or unfortunate. And, God knows, Benbow had rehashed the situation countless times, without resolving it.

  It was about to happen once more, God help him. Benbow didn’t want to go over it again, but he was going to. He recognized the signs.

  He found himself paying less attention to the detective who was interviewing him. That was dangerous. Most of the questions were routine, background information; but, at any moment, the cop could slip in a trick question. That’s what cops were supposed to do. That’s what they did in Benbow’s books. The clever cop versus the clever crook. The cop always won in the end. That, of course, was fiction.

  Because this question session could prove to be important, possibly crucial, Benbow wanted to pay attention. He simply was unable to do so. Memory was taking over. He was grateful that he’d been through this reminiscence so often that it was like seeing the same movie for the umpteenth time. He could play the tape, all the while paying minimal attention to the interview. He would have to rely on his instincts, which remained sharp, to alert him to any hazard the interview might generate.

  Every age of man has its own peculiar problems. For purposes of this excursion, Benbow’s thoughts returned to his final year at Northwestern University.

  How tortured and indecisive he’d been in the face of the choice between the ministry and a career in law. His family had a proud history in the legal profession. Going back to his great-grandfather there were attorneys and judges sprinkled through the legal and judicial system, from the practice of civil and criminal law to the Supreme Court of Illinois, to the Circuit Court of Appeals. His family quite naturally took it for granted that young David would take his place— and it promised to be a prominent place—as a barrister. One with a promising future.

  Clouding this assured picture was the magnetic pull of the priesthood of the Anglican Church.

  What attracts a young person to the ministry? Lots of things, increasing as one matures. With David it began when, as a small boy, he was taken to services by his parents on a regular basis. He was not the sort who had to be dragged to church. He was naturally fascinated by the ritual, the vestments, the music, and the unique ambience when all of that was mingled with the distinctive use of incense. Only occasionally was he attentive to a sermon. In time, he came to realize that nearly everyone shared that attitude toward sermons. And that, while ritual had enjoyed centuries to develop and ripen, sermons were only as good as a preacher’s weekly ruminations.

  In his more mature years, deeper, more substantial realities of the priesthood beckoned.

  Priests did all the engaging things David as a child had found compelling. They ministered to the sacramental life, they presided over Eucharist, they wore impressive costumes, they were shown respect quite universally.

  But they also had entree into people’s deepest psyches. They instructed, they counseled. Priests were well advised to expand their psychology skills to be able to field more and more complex cases before needing to refer a client to a professional psychotherapist.

  The more David considered a religious vocation, the more natural it seemed to be his life’s vehicle. He made his decision.

  His family greeted his determination with varying degrees of opposition, resistance, and contravention. He was throwing aside a career in law that was made for him and he for it. He was sacrificing meaningful financial security to the detriment of a family that would one day depend on him. He was proving a deep disappointment to his father, his grandfather, many of his uncles, and their country club cronies. If he insisted on being so goddam charitable there were plenty of pro bono cases out there he could tackle. What was so goddam demeaning about a career in law anyway? It got nasty.

  Through it all, he remained steadfast. Eventually, led by the gracious persistence of his mother, the family came around. It was not so much the acceptance of his chosen calling as it was the reluctant resignation to the inevitable. Trying to make the best of a most unhappy situation, his father, followed by uncles, aunts, and cousins, had to admit that the life of a clergyman was not as bad as many another such as, say, a tennis bum or similar sort of derelict.

  Then came Martha Clarke. She was by no means David’s first girlfriend. Not even the first about whom he was serious. He was a most attractive and desirable young man. Tall and blond, with classic features; well built, though not athletically gifted enough to make any of the varsity teams, he attended many of their games and was a standout participant in many intramural sports, especially tennis and golf.

  Above and beyond this physical charm and magnetism,
there was the special appeal his future promised. It was no secret on campus that his family was larded with jurists, all with impressively lucrative careers.

  Photos of various Benbows appeared regularly in the newspapers and local magazines. They qualified as visits with the rich and famous. In these “quality of life” sections of the daily press, in society columns that noted who attended which social function, it was rare that one or another of the Benbow names was not prominent in boldface.

  And all of this one day would be David’s. And his wife’s. The line of those who yearned to be young Benbow’s wife-elect was extensive and cosmopolitan.

  However, as David confided his hitherto secret desire to enter the ministry, one after another of these ladies-in-waiting bade him fond adieu. By the time it became fairly common knowledge that he was not going to become an attorney but a clergyman, as far as those Northwestern coeds who had been vying for him, he might just as well have been inducted into a celibate priesthood.

  Enter Martha Clarke.

  Martha was a slow bloomer. Unlike many another young lady on campus, she was serious. Serious about social concerns, serious about religion, serious about commitment, and, above all, serious about her studies. She was serious about nearly everything before David became serious about almost anything.

  Thus, as David zeroed in on his religious vocation, became a more mature young man, and watched his friendships change both in quantity and quality, he was, without design, moving into Martha’s circle.

  Years, even months, before they met, the chemistry would have been all wrong for David and Martha. Now it was near perfect. She could not imagine a husband more ideal than one who was serious about the truly important things in life and who was willing to pledge his future by entering the ministry.

  They were together as often as possible, and they talked incessantly about their future. It was Martha’s decision, after some typically deep thought and prayer, to abandon her pursuit of a degree and get a job to support them while David was in the seminary.