The Rake

by William F. Buckley

  “Look, Justin. I know who you are. I tracked you down, which wasn’t hard. I did the positive-ID bit—there aren’t many Notre Dame students born in Paris. But I didn’t really need to do that.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean that before I found out that Justin Durban was born in Paris in May 1970 to Henrietta Leborcier Durban, I knew who you were. Maybe you’ve never seen a picture of your father when he was twenty-one years old.”

  “I see what you mean, sir. Yes, my mother…has a picture like that, but she doesn’t show it around.”

  “I’m calling you about the fire in the church in Letellier.”

  “I heard about it—my roommate listens to Canadian radio.”

  “Did you know that the priest was killed, in his bedroom in the rectory?”

  Justin’s voice was unsteady. “Yes, the radio report did say that Father Daniel had been killed.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I went there. The day after I met you. I talked with him. He let me look at the church records. That’s how I found out about my father.”

  “Found out what?”

  “That he was married there to my mother. On November 18, 1969. How—I mean, what was it that killed Father Daniel?”

  “Smoke. The Winnipeg fire examiner has been looking at the scene for two days now. He suspects foul play.”

  “But why?” Justin’s mind clicked onto the inquiry Allard had made. “Mr. Monsanto, here’s something maybe you should know.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My roommate here is the son of the Canadian ambassador to the United States. He knows like everybody. I asked him to check in Winnipeg, at the Vital Statistics Agency, to see if there was a marriage license on file for my mother. And my father.” He would need to get used to referring to his father.

  “Did they come up with anything?”

  “No. That’s my point. There was no record of the marriage, Castle-Leborcier.”

  “So that means there’s now no record of the marriage. In Letellier. In Winnipeg. In Canada, I guess.”

  “Sir. Did you know they had been…married?”

  Eric paused. “I guessed it. Actually, it was more than just a guess. It was the way they behaved when the three of us were together. And there were references to Saint Anne’s. And to, like, ‘the great day at Saint Anne’s.’ When I wrote to your mother in Paris I never put it to her that she was married, but everything I said was—as if they were married.”

  “So what’s to be done, sir?”

  “You can call me Eric. What’s to be done is for me to get in touch with the Winnipeg people. Tell them about the missing documents. See if they have anything going on in the investigation in Letellier. Is there a phone number where I can reach you directly?”

  “Yes. It’s 574-631-2811. Meanwhile, I’m trying to think whether to call Maman and tell her about the fire. We haven’t spoken since I was at Saint Anne’s and saw the church register. But she knows that I know. I sent her a postcard from Letellier. I guess this was a different priest from the one that married her. Baptized her, too.”

  “Yes. Father Daniel had only been at Saint Anne’s for about eight years. I’ll call you when I have some information.”

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 46

  South Bend, October 1991

  On Monday Allard told Justin, just returned from his nine o’clock class, that he had had a call from his father. Le grand ambassadeur!

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Not that I know of. But I am to report to a law office in South Bend—I have the name written down. Papa said there was some international formality involved. I hope I haven’t sponsored a visa for a Canadian who is engaged in serial murder.”

  The roommates met for lunch.

  “Ecoute! That is some bird running the RCMP office in Winnipeg.”

  “What did he want with you?” Justin asked.

  “He wants you now more than he wants me.” Allard passed Justin a card.

  AUGUST BELCOURT

  ROYAL CANADIAN MOUNTED POLICE

  The card included address and telephone number. “He is one tough hombre. What it comes down to is your dad’s—Senator Castle’s—business, the wedding and the papers. Belcourt came to see me because I was the guy—they tracked it back—who called Vital Statistics and asked someone to look for the marriage license. They put that together with the fire and the dead priest. Leborcier-Castle is now a very hot number with the RCMP.”

  After lunch Justin went to the same South Bend law office and reported to the tall man with the stiff gray crew cut.

  Commander Belcourt came quickly to the point. “We are calculating that the church was burned down by an arsonist and that his motive was to destroy records involving your mother—and, well, Senator Reuben Castle.

  “This is not the time or the place to explore the relationship between him and your mother. We’re interested only in finding the arsonist and the person who commissioned him.” He looked down at his notes. “You visited the church, we have down here, on September 4. After visiting with”—again he consulted his notes—“Mr. Eric Monsanto in Grand Forks, North Dakota. Mr. Monsanto is known to the lieutenant governor. They have worked together. We have been in touch with him. We are interested in your visits and your purposes. You spoke with Father Daniel, the victim?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir.”

  “And do you remember the housekeeper? Claudette Crognard?”

  “I do indeed. She was kind enough to give me some cookies and an apple.”

  “You found what you were looking for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe what you were looking for.”

  “I was looking for evidence that my—that Henrietta Leborcier had married Reuben Castle. There was evidence of this in the register, in an entry dated November 18, 1969.”

  Justin did not tell Commander Belcourt that he had photographed the page of the parish register. Perhaps this was something better held back for the moment.

  “Were there signatures of the principals?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you recognize the handwriting?”

  “I recognized the handwriting of my mother. I am not familiar with the handwriting of…my father.”

  The commander was called to the telephone. He returned and sat down with a special assurance.

  “We have the arsonist. We shall deal with him.”

  CHAPTER 47

  South Bend, October 1991

  Justin had had no further meetings with Professor Lejeune since the one in May. When he returned to South Bend in September, the French-department secretary gave him a curriculum, a class schedule (eight A.M., Monday through Friday), student names, and classroom assigned. Justin reported periodically on his students’ progress, filing their grades. There was the one problem. Late in September, Justin had to notify the department that one of his students, Lawrence Abraham Custer, Class of ’93, had failed every quiz so far. That development earned Assistant in Instruction Durban an ostensibly extemporaneous encounter with the captain of the football team, a magnificence named Ned Rodzinski. The two students were filing, in separate columns, into the dining hall. Captain Ned crossed over to Justin, nodded, and introduced himself. This was an act of ingratiation: the captain of the football team at Notre Dame did not need to identify himself to any living creature in South Bend.

  “You know, Durban, Larry Custer is one of the best linemen on the team. Next year he could—I mean it’s possible, he’s that good—could be elected captain.”

  Justin said he hadn’t known this.

  “Maybe you didn’t know that an athlete who is failing a course at midterm is forbidden to engage in any extracurricular activity.”

  Justin thought swiftly. One part of quick thinking, in a bind like this, is to know when disingenuous naïveté is appropriate. “Well, Ned, let’s just hope he pulls his socks up before the midterm exam. I’m sure he will.”


  Ned smiled and rejoined his classmate Barbara, who was a cheerleader for Ned, on the field and off it.

  It was late one afternoon soon after the Notre Dame–Michigan game that Justin had the call from the French-department secretary. Professor Lejeune wished to see him.

  Justin worried that evening and the next morning. The football crisis having passed—it was two weeks until the midterm, and Custer had indeed pulled his socks up—he couldn’t think of any problems with his teaching of French 10ab. His students were doing well, and he gave them two hours every week of office hours, during which he would help any student who came to see him.

  Merde alors! If his commission as assistant in instruction was to be terminated, that would be because older teachers were now available, or student enrollment for the next semester was expected to diminish.

  Lejeune addressed him in French: “Sit down; read this.” Lejeune handed him a typed essay, a dozen pages long.

  Justin put on his glasses and recognized, after half a page, the essay on Mallarmé that Allard had given him to read the week before.

  “I’ve already read this, sir.”

  “You are familiar with it?”

  “Well, yes. It was written by Allard de Minveille. He is my roommate. He gave it to me to read.”

  “Did you contribute to the writing?”

  “No. Well, I told him I thought two or three paragraphs were unclear.”

  “Please find the paragraphs to which you were referring.”

  Justin went back to the paper, and began to read it page by page. In a few minutes he said, “He must have reworked it. It was where he wrote about the reception given to the early work of Mallarmé. But it seems clear to me now.”

  “Are you familiar with the biography of Mallarmé by Philippe Ducoquet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Minveille did not call this book to your attention?”

  “No, sir.”

  Professor Lejeune leaned back in his chair. He looked at Justin and extended his hand for the paper. Justin returned it to him.

  “I am responsible for the honor of the students who take my courses.”

  Justin nodded apprehensively.

  Nothing more was said by Lejeune. He signaled the end of the meeting by picking up another manuscript. “Bien. Merci, Durban.”

  Justin got up, nodded, and went to the door.

  Back in his room he sat down at his desk. He looked over at Allard’s corner, on the other side of the room. His eyes went to the bookcase. Allard would not be back from the golf course for at least an hour.

  He pondered the rows of books, perhaps 200 of them. He made up his mind, got up, and went over to the bookcase, scanning the titles. At the end of the second row, he saw the book he was looking for.

  He took it down and leafed through the pages. The book was well marked by pencil lines and an occasional note in the margin, the handwriting discernibly Allard’s. He came to the passage Professor Lejeune had called to his attention. It was underlined, perhaps fifty words.

  Justin considered reckless action. Should he just remove the book? Destroy it?

  What would that prove? He replaced the book, and a while later greeted a cheerful Allard back from the links, his golf cap stamped, NOTRE DAME 1992.

  Allard put down his clubs and went to the little refrigerator, reaching for a Coke. “Tu désires?”

  “No thanks.”

  “What did the Professor of Aloofness want with you?”

  “He wanted to know if I had read your essay.”

  “The Mallarmé?”

  “Yes.”

  Allard sat down at his desk. He lowered his head. “So he spotted the plagiarism. Son of a bitch!” He managed a laugh. “Did he think maybe you had written it?”

  Justin said nothing. He picked up his satchel and went to the door. “I’m going to the library.” He paused. “I hope you’re still at Notre Dame when I get back. Why are some bright people so stupid?” That sounded especially scathing in French.

  CHAPTER 48

  Washington, October 1991

  “Honey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you say jus’…‘yes’?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You didn’ use to be that way. Is it because I’m not Miss America any more?”

  “Oh, Priscilla. You were a terrific Miss America. But that was 1973. You’re not supposed to be Miss America for the rest of your life.”

  “You use to tell me I’d be your Miss America for always.”

  Reuben was trying to read the draft of a speech. “Always, honey, came—and went.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of goin’ back to Dr. Ellsworth.”

  “Come on! He did your face just—”

  “It was 1988.”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to have your face done every three years.”

  “Marilyn Monroe did, I read.”

  “Well, dear Priscilla, you’re not Marilyn Monroe.”

  She got up, walking with measured steps over to the stand-up mirror on the other side of the room. Easing her negligee over her shoulders, she bared her breasts. “Anythin’ wrong with these?”

  He looked up. He knew that would be a mistake, but it was done, and his staff was now at full, ineluctable attention. His voice took on the habitual hoarseness. “You wanting a little loving?”

  She smiled and let her negligee fall to the floor.

  Ten minutes later he rose, breathing hard. “I’m going to get myself something to drink.”

  “Well, put your shorts back on.”

  “Why? I like them off. Even if I don’t have to go—like you—and look at myself in the mirror.” But he did turn his head to the mirror, and stole a pleased glance at himself.

  “Honey,” her voice was silky, “since you’re goin’ downstairs, do something for your lovah?”

  “Like what?” But of course he knew what she wanted from downstairs. “Okay, I’ll bring it up.”

  At the bar, he measured the rum carefully, wondering if he could get away with giving her just two jiggers…. No. There would be the quarreling, and to quiet that, he’d have to go back to the bar and get her another slug.

  He brought up the rum and Coke, and for himself a cold beer.

  She took a good gulp. “Honey, you know, I heard from three different people jus’ in the last coupla days you’re gonna be president. Not you’re gonna run for president, you’re gonna be president.”

  “Priscilla, I told you before, we just don’t talk about that subject.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to ‘talk about that subject,’ like you put it, when you begin to, well, campaign for president. Bess said to me—you know Bess, she does my hair—she said you were gonna, well…go public next week.”

  Reuben was surprised. “Where’d she pick that rumor up?”

  “I don’ know. But she tol’ me if I gave her the exact date, she’d fix me up to look real good.”

  “You look great, dear. Just great. But don’t go and encourage rumors. If it’s going to happen it’s going to happen.—I’d better sleep in the study tonight. I have to be up real early.”

  “Well, don’t wake me up real early, honey, ’less you want a little more poontang!”

  He leaned over and kissed her.

  In his study he looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet midnight, and Susan worked late. But then Susan wouldn’t mind if Reuben Castle rang her at three in the morning. He dialed her number. “My wife’s hairdresser told her, like it was a scheduled thing, that we were ready to announce.”

  “Well, Reuben, maybe that’s because you just about are ready to announce. You had it down for October 15—next Tuesday. Well, Hal just told me today to move it up by one day, so it will be on Monday. And 60 Minutes is going to do you Sunday night. That’ll tie in perfectly.”

  “I knew 60 Minutes was cooking up something. They’ve been all over the place.” He corrected himself silently. Not quite all over the place—60 Minutes hadn’t pok
ed around in Letellier, as far as he knew.

  “You know, the Secret Service will put a detail on you beginning when you announce. Beginning Monday.”

  “I’ll be working on my announcement tomorrow. We mustn’t let Mike Wallace down.”

  “Oh, dear no, Reuben. We would never survive that.”

  “Never!” Reuben got into the act, exaggerating in his voice the unthinkability of letting Mike Wallace down.

  CHAPTER 49

  Manhattan, October 1991

  “This guy what? Wants to see me about the Sunday program? About tonight’s program?”

  Don Hewitt never used more words than were needed to produce his documentaries exactly as he wished them seen. He was fiercely proud of meeting deadlines imposed by himself on himself, and proud of 60 Minutes’ record of dramatizing a subject or a news event in what seemed, to rival producers, a matter of, well, sixty minutes.

  He would spend weeks and months on a segment, inching it along toward a completion not always visualized until the last minute. A dozen proposals rested, unfinished, in the can, pending news developments—turns in the fortunes of presidents and kings, bankers and poets, tennis stars and guitarists. Hewitt would air them when he thought the time was right.

  He had considered doing Castle ever since the celebrated “debate” with General Westmoreland, and there was stray material in the can. But it wasn’t until Friday, October 11, that Kaltenbach flat-out tipped him off—told him exactly when Castle would announce.

  Hal Kaltenbach would never deceive Don Hewitt. Never did, never—Hewitt felt—would. People of true consequence on the American scene knew the long reach of 60 Minutes, and Harold Kaltenbach was planning, no less, to make a young senator from North Dakota—North Dakota!—president of the United States. Hewitt sensed there might be something to it, this fielding of Reuben Castle for president. Kaltenbach, he knew very well, didn’t dissipate his unique resources on out-of-sight long shots. So Hewitt made the deal: 60 Minutes would go with it on Sunday. But in return, Castle had to announce his candidacy not on Tuesday, but on Monday, giving 60 Minutes a fabulous scoop. Monday—tomorrow!