“Perhaps,” Simon continued, “it was necessary to knock your wife out, to stop her struggles. Perhaps it was necessary to bash in your father-in-law’s head after the accident to make sure he was dead. But in any event, you still had time to pull yourself into a ditch or a field before the farmer reached the scene. And then you made your way back to your house so you could be there when the sad news came to you. But of course your leap from the death car hadn’t been completely without injury. You landed badly, and cracked a couple of ribs. You couldn’t very well just show up at a doctor’s office or the hospital with them—not right after the accident. So you waited until last night and then made up the story of the attack to account for them.
“Cracked ribs are an odd thing to get from an attacker. I’m surprised I was the only one who fitted them in with the accident. Of course I already suspected you, and was looking for some confirming injury. It would have been truly amazing if you had made that last minute jump without suffering some sort of injury.”
Frank Broderick was beginning to get back his composure. “That’s a good theory for a detective story, but you’d never convict me in court on that evidence. What was my motive?”
“You’ve hated Richard for years,” Simon replied. “And as for your wife, her death was simply necessary to your plan.”
“Exactly! I hated Richard for years! So why should I hate him any more on yesterday morning?”
Simon Ark sighed. “I have no time to play games with you. We both know the truth, and it will do you no good to deny it. You killed the judge yesterday morning because he had just discovered that Conrad Mara was your father …”
And of course I knew it all then. The pieces all fell into place, and I saw all of Simon’s reasoning as clearly as if he’d spoken it. Conrad Mara had left a ten-year-old son in Havana, back in 1937, and Stella had first met Frank in the West Indies. And even my wife had remarked how familiar Mara’s face looked on that campaign poster.
I could picture Frank Broderick, or Frank Mara, meeting my sister in Havana—perhaps even seeking her out—and taking another name because he knew of his father’s aberration. And then he married Stella, and came to Maple Shades himself, still keeping his real identity a secret against the day when scandal would certainly ruin his father. My own father became his hated enemy; and then—as he’d feared—the ruin came down upon Conrad Mara’s head, somehow, just before the last election.
And so he was a son alone, his father an outcast who fled the town perhaps on some dark night. And he lived with his secret; he lived with it until my father received word from the private detectives in Cuba of the father-son relationship.
I knew what my father would have done then. I knew what he’d said over the telephone yesterday morning when he’d called Frank. He wouldn’t have a daughter of his married to such a man’s son!
And as he’d raced through the morning toward their house, Frank set out to meet him, on the River Road. My sister would have tried to stop him, but she would have been powerless. And then, with his car speeding along the River Road at sixty miles an hour, he would have seen my father’s car, coming the other way. He would have headed right toward it, hunting it down like an animal, and jumped free at the last second, leaving his wife and father-in-law to die in the crash, to silence those accusing lips forever.
And Conrad Mara, reading the newspaper account, had realized the truth, and hanged himself …
The door opened, and Hallison James was in the room with us. “What is it?”
Frank Broderick, who was really Frank Mara, rose from his chair. “No,” he screamed silently. “No …”
Before Simon or Hallison or I could stop him, he turned in a single motion and threw himself against the window. It shattered under his weight and he was gone, into the night.
And the three of us were at the window, looking down …
It was only three floors to the ground, and he was still alive down there, pulling himself along the ground, injured, perhaps dying, but still alive.
An ambulance turned into the hospital drive, its siren cutting through the night as it returned from its errand of mercy.
He saw it.
He saw it, and with a last desperate burst of energy he hurled himself in front of it.
There was a screech of brakes and a scream that quickly died in the night, and then a babble of voices from below.
District Attorney Hallison James turned away from the window and said, to no one in particular, “There was a fellow who really wanted to die …”
And that was the end of it.
Simon and Shelly and I stayed for the funerals on Monday after all, and then we went back to New York, leaving Maple Shades to the domain of District Attorney James and Uncle Philip.
It’s still hard for me to believe, of course, that anyone would so despise his father that he’d kill two people to keep the relationship a secret. But then, whenever I start to doubt it, I remember my own hatred, and my own desire that my father be revealed a murderer. And I think that perhaps, under different circumstances, I might have been like Frank Broderick.
SWORD FOR A SINNER
THE HIGHLY DELICATE MISSION that brought Simon Ark and me to the tiny village of Santa Marta is a story in itself, and since it was to play such an important part in what followed I must start with it. Perhaps by starting with Father Hadden’s story I can at least delay for a time the setting down on paper of the horror that was to await us in the mountains. Perhaps I can wash it from my memory with a beautiful scene of Santa Marta as I first saw it, nestled on the valley floor in a sea of sunshine, a jewel unclaimed among the mountains.
Santa Marta is a village of some fifty or sixty people, located almost on the state line between Colorado and New Mexico. It lies somewhat north of Questa, and east of Antonito—in the rugged foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. The journey from New York had taken us two full days by plane, train, and bus, but finally we arrived. It was early morning when the bus dropped us at our destination, with only a quizzical glance from the driver in farewell.
“So this is Santa Marta,” I said, breathing in the warm, dry desert air. “Where is this priest we came to see?”
Simon Ark frowned into the sun. “I see a church down there, a relic of happier days here. I imagine once this was a booming oasis in the desert. Perhaps Father Hadden can be found in his church.”
The church, in stone architecture distinctly Spanish, was the last building on the street, a final resting place before the long climb into the mountains. As we approached, a few of the village people were drifting out, bound for their day of work after morning Mass. This far north I was surprised to see so many Mexicans, and I was equally surprised to see Father Hadden, a rosy-cheeked man who might have been more at home in a big, sparkling church in Chicago.
“Father Hadden? I’m Simon Ark …”
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, and I could see he meant it. He had the type of personality that made him immediately an old and trusted friend.
“This is a friend of mine,” Simon explained, gesturing toward me. “A New York publisher who sometimes assists me in my wanderings. He wants to write my biography someday—but that day is surely far off.”
A hint of uncertainty crossed the priest’s face at these words. “I hope I can trust my story in your hands,” he said quietly. “It would not be the type of story that should appear in print.”
“You can trust me,” I said. “If I ever write it at all, I’d change the names and the location.”
“I admire your church,” Simon said. “It is large and fine for such a small village.”
“Thank you,” Father Hadden said with a slight smile of gratitude. “I try to keep it well, even for such a small congregation as mine. The fine old church from a better day is one of the reasons why the bishop believes it necessary to keep a priest here in Santa Marta.”
“Oh?” Simon said. “And what are the other reasons?”
“On
e involves a place you might have passed on the way in—a den of sin or such called the Oasis. It’s been open only a year, but it already attracts people from a hundred miles around. The other reason … has to do with something up in the hills which need not concern us now.”
“Your letter said you’d heard of my work,” Simon began, anxious to get to the matter at hand.
The priest leaned back in his chair, brushing a suntanned hand through thick black hair. “I have a brother at the monastery of St. John of the Cross, in West Virginia. He told me that some two years ago you rendered them a great service.”
“Oh, yes,” Simon nodded. “A case of diabolic possession. Both interesting and tragic, in a way.”
Father Hadden nodded. “My brother spoke very highly of you, and when my own … problem came up I felt you were the man to help me. I went to my bishop and received his permission to consult you about it.”
“I’m indeed gratified that your bishop ever heard of me.”
“You’re much too modest, Mr. Ark. How many men are there in the world today doing actual, physical battle with the devil himself? And I understand that you yourself were once a priest?”
It was a phase of Simon’s past he never spoke of. Now he simply brushed it aside with an impatient gesture. “In Egypt, long ago, I practiced in the Coptic rite. But let us get to your problem, Father …”
“My problem is simpler stated than solved, I fear. It seems I find myself equipped with the power of communication with the dead. In short, Mr. Ark, I am a medium …”
His face never changed expression as he made the statement. He might have been giving us a baseball score, or asking for an extra-large Sunday collection. He was still the friendly, smiling priest, but I thought I detected a slight chill in the warm spring air.
“A medium?” Simon Ark repeated very slowly. “Of course, the term is only a bare hundred years old. It’s odd to hear the word spoken by a priest—one who certainly holds nothing in common with the Fox sisters and other American spiritualists.”
“I use only the popular term for a somewhat unpopular gift, Mr. Ark. I believe even Margaret Fox finally admitted the presence of fraud in her little act. Still, I understand there’s a monument to her back in Rochester where much of it started.”
Simon nodded. “But tell me of your strange power, whatever its name. This is most interesting.”
The ringing of a telephone interrupted the conversation, and Father Hadden rose to answer it. “Hello? Father Hadden here …” As he listened, his expression changed, ever so slightly. The smile faded and was replaced by a troubled, gray look. “I’ll come at once, of course.”
“What is it, Father, trouble?” Simon asked as he hung up the phone.
“I fear so. The very worst kind of trouble. A murder at the morada of Sangre de Cristo. In the mountains. I must go there at once.”
“Could I be of service?” Simon asked. “I have had some slight experience in such matters. Perhaps on the way we could discuss your own problem further.”
But the priest waved this aside. “You are welcome to come certainly, Mr. Ark, but this is far more important than any problem I might have. This is a tragedy that could be very bad for the Church.”
“Then all the more reason for my assistance.” Simon motioned to me and we followed the priest outside to his car, a station wagon brown with dust from the plains.
Father Hadden paused at the door and turned to me. “I must ask one promise from both of you. What you are to see up here is … well, it is a sight few men have witnessed. You must promise me never to speak of this to the outside world.”
We gave him our promises, and I for one was wondering what strange world we were about to enter, what sights awaited us in these distant mountains. Before long we were bouncing over black roads, climbing ever north into the hills and valleys of the Rockies. It was beautiful country, but strange and silent too—almost menacing in the quiet calm of its mountains, in the yucca and cactus that were the only vegetation.
“These mountains,” Simon began, breaking the silence which had hung over the car, “are called the Sangre de Cristo range? Blood of Christ?”
The priest nodded. “An ironically tragic name in view of the circumstances. Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of Penitentes, Mr. Ark?”
Surprisingly Simon nodded his head. “Is that what this is?” he asked somberly.
“I’m afraid so. They have nearly a hundred and fifty chapter houses in the Southwest. They’re a group more powerful and more important than most people
“Would someone mind telling me what this is all about?” I asked.
“You will know soon enough, my friend,” Simon said, as a great stone villa came into view ahead. It stood on a flat bluff between two mountains, a relic of the Spanish conquerors forgotten by later men.
But the thing that riveted my eyes was on a hill just beyond the house. It was a great wooden cross, much too large to be simply the marker for a grave. There seemed to be some sort of banner or scarf attached to it, drifting gently in the breeze. “What’s that?” I asked.
Father Hadden didn’t even lift his eyes to it. He must have seen it many times before. “The cross,” he said simply. “You’ll see more of them inside.”
We parked in a worn brick driveway in front of the place, and I wondered about the absence of other cars. Certainly the people here must arrive somehow. Did they fly in on broomsticks or something?
There was a little cross over the door, too—a plain wooden one—and I suddenly supposed that this must be a monastery of some sort. I was about to put my thought into words when the great glass-and-metal door swung silently open in answer to our ring. The man who stood there wore a black hood over his head, a hood with only two eyeholes staring out at us. He was naked to the waist, and there were a number of great bloody scratches across his chest. In that moment I thought I’d stepped into a madhouse, but there was worse to come.
The hooded doorkeeper led us in without a word, down a dim, dank hallway lit only by stained glass windows high on each side. Father Hadden hurried along with him and I could see they were speaking in low tones about the tragedy we had come to witness.
“What in hell is this anyway?” I whispered to Simon. But already we were starting down a flight of stone steps, and in a moment we found ourselves in a low, dark basement lit here and there by flickering candlelight. My first impression was that we were in a great storeroom full of life-size crucifixes. But then I realized with a chilling start that the figures on the crosses were alive, horribly, fantastically alive!
There were perhaps twenty of the crosses in the room, reaching from floor almost to ceiling. And on each a nearly naked man was tied, his arms outstretched in the familiar attitude of Christ. Most of them wore only the black hoods and white loincloths, though some had compromised by wearing bathing trunks. All had their arms and legs tied to the crosses with thick horsehair cords, and some showed the red marks of scourging on their bare chests and thighs. It was a scene from hell.
“What is this?” I gasped out. “A lodge initiation?”
“If it were only that simple,” Simon mused. And then Father Hadden shone his light on the cross at the far end of the room—and we saw there the greatest horror of all.
The last cross in the line had a man tied to it like all the others—a man wearing a black hood—but this one was different. From the left side of his body, slanting upward into his chest, protruded the slim steel shaft of a Spanish sword …
“What is it, Simon? What is this madness?” I asked him later as we sat with Father Hadden in one of the upstairs rooms.
And Simon Ark closed his eyes and stared off into an unseeing world of his own mind. “The Brotherhood of Penitentes,” he began, very softly, “is an old, old society. Some trace its origin back to the Franciscan missionaries or even before. In a virgin country without priests or churches, perhaps it was only natural that some of the more passionate Spanish men should turn to self-to
rture as an act of devotion. A hundred years ago the practices of the Penitentes were so widespread and so brutal in the Southwest that the Catholic Church was forced to ban such groups. But of course it didn’t stop them. They continued their rites of self-scourging and crucifixion in secret, wearing hoods to conceal their identity from the public, and sometimes from each other.”
“But if the group is banned by the Church, why does Father Hadden here deal with them?”
The priest himself answered my question. “A few years ago it was decided that the practices of the Penitentes had softened considerably, consisting now only of processions and mild scourging during Holy Week. They have again been recognized by the Church—or at least most of the chapters have been. Unfortunately, this morada is one that was not received back into the fold. Its practices continue as staggeringly brutal as they were fifty or a hundred years ago. You saw the basement—some say there have been times when the crucifixions were performed with nails rather than merely ropes …”
“There have been deaths before?” Simon asked.
“There have been deaths,” the priest agreed. “Hushed up, but I hear of them sometimes. Never anything like this, though. I ask myself how it is possible that one of these men, in the midst of a religious fervor so great that it drove him to emulate the sufferings of Christ, could possibly commit murder.”
“Who was the man?” Simon asked. “I noticed your start of surprise downstairs when you removed the hood.”
“That is the thing that makes this all the more frightening,” Father Hadden answered. “The man is the owner of the Oasis.”
“The bar you mentioned earlier?”
The priest nodded. “The Oasis is all things to all men—drink, sex, sin, gambling. And Glen Summer is, or was, its owner and manager. His was the greatest sin of all.”
Simon frowned and was silent for a moment. Somewhere outside a cloud lifted from the sun and a single ray of light shot through one of the stained glass windows, bathing his face in a purple hue. “You believe a man like Summer would come to a place like this to atone for his sins in secret?”
Quests of Simon Ark Page 11