“So I gather. We’re much more inventive—at least in Arthur’s books. But that wasn’t all I discovered in those books. I found a bookmark.”
“A bookmark?”
“Yes. Want to see?”
Matt nodded. Concha turned away and pulled down the zipper of her blouse. “Old-fashioned, isn’t it?” she observed. “But until designers give us sensible breast-pockets, we’ll—well, we’ll just have to do without the pockets. One of the girls at the convent used to call it the First National Bank. Then we’d tease her about the phenomenal growth of her branches.”
“Fine chit-chat for young ladies, I must say. I thought you went to school with nice girls.”
“I know. Men never realize how nice girls talk when they’re among themselves. But here. Look what I found in Arthur’s book. Then wonder why I’m afraid. Wonder why I have to be bright and chipper and silly for fear of—” She broke off before the catch in her voice could grow to the full dimensions of a sob.
Matt held the object in his hand. It was still warm from Concha’s breasts—a natural fact which he found unaccountably disturbing. But the object itself was disturbing enough, in a terribly different manner—a swatch of yellow cloth, exactly matching the robe taken from the incinerator.
Chapter 16
Lieutenant Marshall’s interview with Sister Immaculata had gone smoothly—too damned smoothly, the Lieutenant thought. Sussmaul had been extraordinarily clever for a man who could be so asinine at shadowing. He had not even mentioned his name, attempted nothing to force himself on the attention of the nuns and indicate that the alibi was deliberately planted. Instead he had come to the convent simply as an anonymous seeker of guidance.
Of course, the nuns remembered him. Such requests, as he had doubtless realized, are uncommon enough in themselves without any forced effort to make them memorable. And though he had give no name, Sister Immaculata identified his photograph positively. There was no doubt whatsoever that the Swami Mahopadhyaya Virasenanda had been at the Convent of the Sisters of Martha of Bethany when Wolfe Harrigan was killed.
Why he had so dearly wanted an alibi was another question. The answer could probably be sweated out of him in time; but in the meanwhile it was one more unsolved factor in the problem. And this was a case whose solution Marshall had no desire to entrust to time and routine. He knew that it is only in novels that you live in dread of the murderer’s striking again; your average sane murderer is a sensible and business-like individual, who commits the crime that seems necessary to him and then gracefully retires from the avocation of murder. And if this was a family crime, with the Harrigan money as motive, there was no cause to suspect any further violence. But if Harrigan had been killed for revenge or to prevent him from giving out information, then young Duncan or, in fact, almost any member of the family still stood in serious peril. This damned business had to be washed up, and that soon.
Frowning, Marshall took a wrong turn and found himself in a bright patio, filled with greenly growing things whose names were as unknown to the Lieutenant as their presence was delightful. He sat down on one of the sunny benches and wondered (a) if you could smoke in a convent, and (b) if there was a phone anywheres about.
The whole convent had been a surprise to him. He had expected an austere cluster of cells, where you stood in front of gratings and whispered to the immured inmates in stilly darkness. Instead it was more like—he hunted for a simile for the neatness, the simplicity, the clean airiness and order of the place. A cross, perhaps, between a hospital and a good private school.
A nun was crossing the patio, carrying a banner of gold-embroidered silk hanging from a heavy wooden pole. It was a cumbersome burden.
Marshall put away his pipe, still unlit. “Could I help you, Sister? You seem to be having trouble.”
“Thank you. That is kind of—But aren’t you Lieutenant Marshall?”
“Then you must be Sister Ursula. I beg your pardon. One nun, I’m afraid, still looks like another to me. But I’m sure no one else here would know me.”
“What brings you out here, Lieutenant? Has Mr. Duncan told you of my ambitions?”
“Yes, but that’s not the cause of my visit. Much more prosaic. Checking up an alibi.”
“Here?”
Marshall explained Sussmaul’s curious preoccupation with his soul at the exact hour of a murder.
“Dear me!” said Sister Ursula. “Won’t you sit down again, Lieutenant—or can you spare the time?”
“A few minutes—more, if you need, Sister.”
“Thank you. And you can smoke, of course. In monasteries they say the flowers don’t grow right without tobacco smoke, though ours seem to prosper well enough. Brother Hilary used to call it ‘the gardener’s incense.’ So go right ahead.—You see what this visit of the Swami’s means, Lieutenant?”
“I’d like to hear what you think it means,” said Marshall noncommittally.
“That the robbery of Mr. Harrigan’s study was set for that hour. We know that the Swami was not the murderer nor even an accomplice because of his threats against Mr. Duncan. If he had had anything to do with the killing, he would have taken his own file or had his agent take it. His later crimes exonerate him for the first.”
“That’s what I tried to tell Duncan. He didn’t seem to see it.”
“Well, then—he wanted an alibi for something. It must be something for which he would be officially investigated, because no private acquaintance of his would come around the convent checking up on him—is that the right phrase? And no other official investigation has involved an event last Sunday that might concern him, has it?”
“No.”
“Then whatever event he expected to need the alibi for did not take place. Doesn’t it seem likely that that event was a robbery of Wolfe Harrigan’s study, the plans for which were frustrated by the murder?”
Marshall smiled. “Sister, when Duncan told me about your ambitions, I was inclined to be most irreverently panicked. But now I think maybe it’s not such a wild idea after all. That’s pretty much the way I had things doped myself. Now carry on from there. Have you any ideas as to his accomplice in this projected robbery that never came off?”
“I think I’d rather not say about that.”
“Duncan told you Sergeant Krauter’s story about the Swami’s apartment and the cigarettes?”
“Yes.”
“I see. All right. We’ll skip that. Who’s the lady?” gestured at the face of an elderly woman, wearing the headdress of the order, embroidered on the banner.
“That is our founder—Blessed Mother La Roche. Sister Perpetua just finished embroidering this. It’s to stand by the altar Saturday—her feast day, you know.”
“Is she a saint?”
“No. Not yet. Of course, we are prosecuting her cause most vigorously. It is the dearest hope of our lives to live to see Mother La Roche canonized. But so far she has only attained the rank of Blessed. That is,” she groped for a comparison that would be clear to the Lieutenant, “a little like a non-commissioned officer, I suppose.”
“This is a strange order of yours, Sister. I didn’t know that nuns could have so much freedom—wander about so much and do so many things. You do hospital work and teaching, too, don’t you? A little of everything, I’ve heard.”
“Even housework.” Sister Ursula smiled “When poor women are sick or in childbed, they can often find a charitable agency to supply them with nursing care, but meanwhile the household goes to pieces. There’s no one to do the housework and look after the other children. That’s one of our jobs. That is why we’re called the Sisters of Martha of Bethany. You remember perhaps? Lazarus had two sisters, and Martha complained because Mary spent too much time listening to Our Lord and too little running the house. Mother La Roche thought there was a good deal to be said for Martha.”
“But other convents are stricter, aren’t they?”
“In some ways. We take the usual triple vow of poverty, chastity, and ob
edience; but we aren’t subject to canon law. You see, we’ve never asked approbation from the Holy See. Mother La Roche wished this community to be a lay one, with only private vows. In the strictest technical sense, I suppose, we’re not nuns at all.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“People don’t. It’s chiefly a technical distinction, but it does give us a somewhat freer hand in our work. And Friday we’re completely free.”
“Every Friday?”
“Heavens, no. I mean this Friday. Day after tomorrow. You see, we take our vows for only a year at a time, and there is a one-day gap just before the feast of Mother La Roche. For twenty-four hours we are theoretically free from all vows. Of course, no one ever does anything about it, but it’s nice to think that you could if you wanted to.”
Marshall rose. “This is strange and fascinating stuff, Sister. I’d like to hear more, but I’ve got work to do. Mind if I come out again sometime?”
“That might be soon. If you’re willing, I’d like to speak to you in day or two—and very seriously.”
“You mean about …?”
“Yes. We have to clear this frightful matter up, Lieutenant.”
He did not smile at the “we.”
“Don’t I know, Sister!”
“It’s far more important than just solving a case. It means the happiness of that family. They’re good people, Lieutenant. They don’t deserve to live in the valley of darkness and fear like this. And the girl is at such a transitional age—this could force her whole life one way or another.”
“Tell me, Sister,” said Marshall slowly, “what did William the Second mean to you?”
Sister Ursula rose and stood firm. The banner of Mother La Roche fluttered in a light breeze. “That I cannot tell you, Lieutenant. Until I can prove how the murderer left that room, my accusation would be meaningless. I know now who killed Wolfe Harrigan, but of what use is my knowledge when I can prove nothing? And now, Lieutenant, if you would be so kind as to help me with this banner before you go …?”
“Certainly. And then if you could tell me where there’s a phone …”
The phone rang while Matt was examining the swatch of yellow cloth. After a minute in which Matt said little but listened intently, he replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to Concha. “The Lieutenant,” he said shortly, “wants me to help him in a plan. I’d better get a coat.” He started for the door.
“But …” Concha gestured at the cloth in his hand.
“Oh, this. Tuck it back in its hiding place.” He smiled to himself. “It’s probably the only clew in history that could have inspired Robert Herrick.”
She didn’t answer the smile. “But doesn’t it … isn’t …?”
“Don’t fret, Concha. Yellow’s a common enough color; we’re just obsessed by it. Probably this is just something he was trying to match for a present to a girl-friend.” He opened the door. “So now I’ll be missing Aunt Ellen’s egg-luncheon. See you at dinner.”
“What did the Lieutenant want? He isn’t—you aren’t going into any danger, are you?”
“I thought you felt all the danger concentrated in this room. No, this is safe enough. He has a bright idea about who wore the yellow robe Monday night and wants me to help prove it.”
Concha turned away to restore the swatch to its cache. “Go with God,” she said softly. “That sounds silly in English, doesn’t it?”
Matt closed the door and turned down the hall, so preoccupied with a confused mixture of thought and emotion that he just escaped collision with Bunyan.
That dignitary paused and for the first time addressed Matt courteously and respectfully. “Mr. Duncan, please do not consider me an eavesdropper; but I could not help overhearing your last remark. Do I gather correctly that the Lieutenant assumes that it was not Ahasver who visited here on Monday evening?”
“An information bureau, that’s what I’m becoming. Ask Mr. Duncan!”
“I do not wish to intrude upon official secrets, but if indeed that is the case …”
“Supposing we say it’s a possibility. What then?”
“Then I fear that I must ask for this evening off and attend the Temple of Light. Thank you, Mr. Duncan.”
Matt stared after the smoothly retreating form of the butler, then shook himself. “No,” he said aloud. “That’s too damned corny.”
“Robin Cooper,” said Marshall feelingly, as he and Matt drove away from the Harrigan home. “Isn’t that a cute name? Just ducky, that is. I’m damned if I can see a dope with a name like that putting over such a trick, but that’s the way it looks from here.”
“What put you on his trail?”
“Checked with our men about any of the Temple staff coming or going during the service Monday night while Ahasver was paying his little call on us. This Cooper left and came back at times that would about fit. If anybody was doubling for Ahasver, it looks like him.”
“But how can I testify to that?”
“I’m not asking you for an out-and-out false statement. There’s probably a smart lawyer mixed up with the Children of Light somewheres, and they could make trouble for us. All I’m asking you to do is to agree when I say, ‘Is that the man?’ Sure it’s the man—it’s some man, anyway.”
Matt shrugged. “O.K. by me, Lieutenant.”
“All right. So if we can prove that this Cooper can pass himself off as the Master, that doesn’t look so good for the alibi with a hundred and eight witnesses.”
“But Ahasver can’t have been the murderer, or he’d have carried off his file. Whoever killed Harrigan left me enough material on Ahasver for a set of feature artcles to blast hell out of him.”
“Consoling thought for you, isn’t it? The murderer must have taken whatever affected him when he killed Harrigan; and therefore you, carrying on Harrigan’s work, aren’t in any danger.”
“But nothing was taken, so far as we can positively tell. At least none of the files. There’s nothing missing but the codicil to the will, possibly the secret notes, and the book that was taken last night”
“What book? Holding out on me, Matt? Come on—tell papa everything.”
Matt told everything.
“So. Things get messier and messier, don’t they? But at least Miss Harrigan wasn’t saying her beads in the chapel this time. And I like your point about eliminating the supernatural. Sort of comforting, isn’t it? By the way, for fair exchange of information—the Swami’s alibi checks. It’s letter-perfect and iron-clad.”
The Lieutenant lit his pipe and drove in silence for a while. “This should be the place,” he said at last. It was an old and large rooming house on a Hollywood side street near Sunset and Vine. “Now we’ll see what our precious Robin has to say for himself. What kind of parents, in God’s name, would call their kid Robin?”
“Just ordinary parents,” said Matt. “Run-of-the-Milne, so to speak.—Look. Do you see what I see?”
Lieutenant Marshall looked and saw. Descending the steps of Robin Cooper’s rooming house was the portly and dignified form of R. Joseph Harrigan.
Joseph noticed them at once and came over to the car, fuming with indignation and viciously puffing a freshly lit cigar. “Confound it, sirs,” he shouted, “have you hit on this rascal’s trail, too? I only hope you can get more out of him than I did.”
“Helping us out with our detecting?” Marshall smiled.
“Can you pretend that you don’t need help? My brother has been dead for three days, and have you so much as made an arrest? Have you even called an inquest so that we can lay away his body in Christian burial? I don’t approve of a man’s taking the law into his own hands. The institutions of society are sacred, and the police force is, I suppose, one of those institutions. But what is a man to do when faced with such rank incomp—”
“Hold on there, Mr. Harrigan. Three days isn’t a lifetime. A twenty-four hour solution may be a pretty ideal, but things don’t always work out that way. We’re following up certain lead
s now, and I think that I can assure you—”
“Damn it, Lieutenant, you sound like a newspaper report! ‘The police have matters well in hand and promise an early arrest!’ For once only my nephew’s language can express what I feel. My comment on your assurance, Lieutenant Marshall, is ‘Nuts!’”
“Having fun, aren’t you? You know you’ve got so damned much political pull in this man’s town that I’ve got to sit here and take whatever you say. So go ahead. Go right ahead. But while you’re about it, you might explain just what the hell you’re doing here.”
“Doing your work for you, Lieutenant. Checking up on this Cooper individual.”
“And why on him?”
“Because—though how we can ever prove it, Heaven only knows—because he is the ‘Ahasver’ who called on us Monday night!”
“Fascinating. And what leads you to that conclusion?”
“I recognized him. There was something familiar about that man—something different from the Ahasver we had seen before, and still familiar. Finally, I put my finger on it: the young man who had escorted us to the yellow dressing room Sunday night.”
“So? And how did you know that young man’s name and address?”
R. Joseph expanded with pride. “I called the Temple and explained that I had lost a purse at the service on Sunday, that an obliging young usher had found it for me, and that I wished to send him a token of my gratitude. I described our cherubic friend, and they gave me the name of Robin Cooper and this address.”
“Nice work, sir; my professional congratulations. And just what did you find out by it?”
“Hang it all, Lieutenant, I’ll not stand here and be badgered. You came to see this man yourself. Very well. Go see him, and much good may it do you. I have work to do—and I could only wish that you attended to yours as assiduously.” With which R. Joseph Harrigan stamped off down the street to his parked automobile.
“There’s nothing like a big-shot lawyer,” sighed Marshall. “He thinks he owns the world, with a nice band of legal tape wrapped around the middle. Still that was smart, his tracking down Robin. Might have helped us if we hadn’t had the report on him. Well, come on.”
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