“Jeez!” said Arthur. “Uncle Joe giving me fine moral lectures on my gambling, and meanwhile planning to frame me for murder! But what can you prove, Sister? I’d love to see you pin it on him, but this is all guesswork.”
“Not all. There are indications, clews to support my theory. A very small one is the phrase Wolfe Harrigan noticed in the Gospel according to Joseph—the phrase ‘mammon of iniquity.’”
“What does that mean?” Matt demanded. “It’s been plaguing the life out of me.”
“A phrase from one of the parables, is it not?” said Bunyan. “Anyone might quote it, save possibly the godless younger generation. Though if I remember correctly it reads ‘mammon of unrighteousness.’”
“Exactly. So it does in the King James version. The phrase ‘mammon of inquity’ is from the Rheims translation, the Catholic version; no Protestant could have thought of it. This showed that a Catholic was involved somewhere in the preparation of the Gospel according to Joseph, which is the basis of Ahasverism. More indicative is the quickness with which Ahasver picked up cues and made his false confession; it seems as though Joseph, in his apparent denunciation of his brother’s murderer, was actually feeding information to Ahasver to enable him to make his publicity claim.
“Most significant of all: Nothing was taken from this room save Wolfe Harrigan’s secret notes on Ahasver’s backer and the codicil appointing Mr. Duncan as literary executor. No one could have taken these things but the murderer, and I have shown that the murderer must have been Joseph Harrigan. He would have taken those notes only if they directly concerned him; if he had merely wanted to lay a false trail of theft, the file would have suited his purpose far better. And destroying the codicil made Mr. Duncan’s work directly subject to Joseph Harrigan’s supervision, so that he could refuse to allow publication of any material that he might think dangerous.”
“Just a minute,” said Matt. “Go back, please, to the attempt on the Cherub’s life. You said first attempt.”
Sister Ursula looked at the telephone and then at the Lieutenant.
“Good guess, Sister,” said Marshall. “Or was it a guess? Yes—that was Krauter. They’ve just caught R. Joseph Harrigan in his second attempt on Cooper.”
Chapter 21
After that things moved rapidly. Joseph Harrigan was taken into custody on Friday. On Saturday the inquest was held, and a verdict of murder returned naming Joseph Harrigan. On Sunday the delayed funeral took place at last in Calvary Cemetery. On Monday the District Attorney went before the Grand Jury and asked for and received the indictment of Joseph Harrigan on two counts of attempted murder and one of murder in the first degree.
It was all rounded off now, as Lieutenant Marshall said to Matt Duncan on Tuesday night. They were seated once more in masculine comfort before the fireplace, while Leona showed the delighted Concha what a darling Terry was when he was asleep.
“Of course,” the Lieutenant added, “Harrigan is pleading not guilty, but he won’t have a chance.”
“Won’t he?” Matt questioned. “You’ve got him cold on at least one of the counts of attempted murder, but there’s still a lot of loose ends on the main charge.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve checked over everything carefully—with Sister Ursula’s help, I’m not ashamed to admit—and I think we’ve got it sewed up. What puzzles you?”
“For one thing, the theft of that William the Second book.”
“Joseph, of course. Of all possible people, he had the best opportunity to have a copy made of that key. What else?”
“Lots of things. Arthur’s cigarettes at the Swami’s—was that another attempt to frame him? And the Swami’s alibi, and the yellow robe in the incinerator.”
“All that’s straightened out now. We finally made Suss-maul talk. He’d been prying around for facts about the Harrigans—anything to give him a toe-hold—and he’d learned about Arthur’s need for ready money. He got in touch with the little rat and persuaded him to sell out his own father and steal that file. The theft was scheduled for Sunday afternoon; hence the Swami’s alibi. But after the murder Arthur got cold feet, and Sussmaul tried to put pressure on you instead.”
“And the extra yellow robe? If the robe we saw was paper, where did the cloth robe come from and how did it get into the incinerator?”
“Remember Arthur’s weakness for practical jokes? Well, the murder was on March thirty-first. What was the next day?”
“April first.”
“Exactly. All Fools’ Day. Arthur had planned a hoax on his father—probably was going to show up as Ahasver and spill all sorts of phony information. That’s how he knew about the Nine Times Nine—he’d been at the Temple studying his part. But after the murder a yellow robe was a damned dangerous thing to have in your possession; so he got rid of it as quickly as possible.”
“But I still can’t follow motive. If Joseph was backing the Temple of Light, why should he try so hard to involve Ahasver in the murder?”
“Partly, of course, because the yellow robe was the essential part of the trick he played on you for an alibi. And partly because he knew the Temple was doomed. Rats and ships again. Even Wolfe’s death couldn’t save the Ahasver organization from exposure, particularly after you came on the scene. But Wolfe had to die because he was too close to exposing, not only Ahasver’s racket, but Joseph’s connection with it. There was no saving the Temple; the best Joseph could hope was to save himself. And he’s failed even there. If nothing else cooks his goose, Cooper’s testimony will; it appears that Robby doesn’t like big bad men who try to murder him.”
“I wish,” said Matt, “for Con … for the family’s sake that Joseph could be persuaded to plead guilty. You’re right; he hasn’t got a chance. And it would save a hell of a lot of scandal and notoriety. Isn’t there any way of—”
“Here come the girls,” Marshall broke in. “I think the less Miss Harrigan hears about this case now, the better.”
“Hello,” said Leona. “Concha thinks Terry is wonderful and I told her how to make those cheese biscuits and she wishes they had rubber trays in their icebox. And what have you two been up to all this time?”
“Swapping limericks,” said Lieutenant Marshall.
“Oh,” said Concha. “Tell us some!”
“Wait till you’re married, Miss Harrigan,” said Marshall cheerfully, and then wondered why this innocent remark should cause such an embarrassed pause.
The woman said, “It was my fault. I confess that to you. I thought it was a thirst for justice, a desire to help the family; but there is no use in deceiving myself. It was my pride, too—my devil, the sting of my flesh. And I had to make certain. So that part of your sin was my responsibility.”
The man said, “God! I never knew you.”
The woman said, “I trusted that you wouldn’t. The habit makes such a difference. And Friday was the vigil of Mother La Roche when we are free of our vows and can wear street clothes. But being free of my vows doesn’t lessen the badness of what I did. That is why I got Lieutenant Marshall’s permission to come here. Telling you is part of my penance.”
The man said, “But why did you do it?”
The woman said, “Reason can be a faulty thing. But after I had seen your face when I said Robin Cooper … Can you forgive me?”
The man smiled bitterly. He said, “I can forgive you.”
The woman was grave. “Thank you. Sins fester when they’re not told. First, they must be told to God through the priest’s ear; but it helps too if you can tell them to man and make atonement for what has happened—spare the living even if you cannot restore the dead.”
The man said, “You can never make atonement for what has happened.”
The woman said, “No. But you can.”
The man was silent and then said, “Pray for me, Sister. And when you go out, tell that keeper—turnkey—whatever you call him—that I want to speak to him.”
When the officer came, the man said, “I want to
see a priest. And tell the District Attorney that I want to change my plea.”
Leona had remembered that they were out of bacon for breakfast, and the Lieutenant had driven her off to a distant all-night market.
“I think,” said Matt, “that the Marshalls are being tactful.”
“I’m glad,” said Concha frankly. “We haven’t been really alone since—since last Wednesday.”
“I know.”
She drew in her lower lip. “I thought so. Why do you try to keep away from me, Matt?”
“Why not?”
“You do like me, don’t you?” He didn’t answer—just sat watching the fire. “They’re happy here, aren’t they?” she said.
“They are. Leona’s profession may have been a strange one, but she was a woiking goil—not an heiress.”
“So that’s it. But Matt darling—”
“Part of it. Besides you’re so damned young and you change your mind so much. In two weeks you’ve been engaged to Greg, ready to enter a convent, and now—”
“That’s not fair. I wasn’t in love with Gregory. I never even thought I was. And now Arthur’s done the one good deed of his life and told me why he helped Gregory find us the other night. Gregory wanted to marry me as soon as I was eighteen because his father’s firm is wobbly and my share would tide things over.”
“And Arthur was supposed to get a cut? There’s another reason. Think of having that for a brother-in-law.”
“Don’t joke Matt. Tonight’s been awful for me. To see two people loving each other and being so happy …”
“Nice young men who’ve just been kicked off relief don’t marry Harrigans.”
“But you’ve got your job with the estate.”
“For how long?”
“And besides if I …” This was hard to say, but finally she forced it out. “If I marry without the trustees’ consent, I shan’t be an heiress.”
Deliberately Matt kept from looking at her and poured himself another drink. “Don’t be noble. You’ll have me in tears.”
“Who’s being noble? You are. You’re trying to be harsh just so as to make me give up.”
Matt swallowed a double shot straight and still felt jittery. “Look, honey,” he said. “Let’s just wait and see what happens. OK?”
Concha rose and stood by the fire. “OK,” she said. She was half smiling and half on the verge of dissolving. “I do like this house. How much do you suppose it costs?”
“Less than you’d ever pay and more than I’d ever have.”
“Don’t they have loans and things—with initials?” She crossed over and sat on the arm of his chair. “At least,” she said, “you might kiss me.”
“Why not?” said Matt. “Though God knows I could think up some swell answers to that one.”
About the Author
Anthony Boucher was an American author, critic, and editor, who wrote several classic mystery novels, short stories, science fiction, and radio dramas. Between 1942 and 1947 he acted as reviewer of mostly mystery fiction for the San Francisco Chronicle.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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Copyright © 1969 by the Estate of Anthony Boucher
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5739-4
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