The Letter Killeth

by Ralph McInerny

  “You yourself have read Crawford?”

  “I have everything but a title or two. There were two complete editions, and he was very popular, so most of the books are easily found. But there are some that are very rare.”

  “I got my set for a song.”

  Quirk was on his feet. “Could I see it?”

  Roger wished he had brought his chair from his study, the one he could wheel around in without getting to his feet. He rose slowly and with an effort.

  “How much do you weigh?” Quirk asked wondrously.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether I can get my brother to read the scale.” He patted his rotund circumference. “I can’t see it.”

  Roger waddled into his study, got into the specially built chair that made him mobile, and turned to find that Quirk had stopped in the doorway. His mouth was open as he looked around.

  “What a room!”

  “That wall is fiction. You will find Crawford there.”

  Quirk found them, ran his finger along their spines. “The Collier edition.”

  “The library has a good selection. I couldn’t teach the course otherwise.”

  “He should be reprinted.”

  “Another costly project. I wonder how many would be interested in his style of fiction now.”

  “How can we know if he isn’t available?”

  “That doesn’t sound like a premise any publisher would be willing to proceed on.”

  “Notre Dame Press should do it.”

  “Perhaps, with a subsidy…” Roger was beginning to feel the beginnings of impatience. He could have tolerated Quirk’s enthusiasm if he would not far rather have been talking with Phil and Father Carmody of the threatening letter the priest had brought. Obviously, he wanted Phil to look into the matter.

  “You’re right, of course. But first things first. I mean the Villa Crawford. As it happens, I do have an idea where the money to buy it could be gotten.”

  “That wouldn’t settle the matter, of course.”

  “This morning at the Morris Inn—I’m staying there—I ran into a classmate I had not seen in years. He lives a very simple life by the looks of him, and while he was here few people had any inkling of his background. He is rich as Croesus. Inherited money. I had an uncle who worked for his father, that’s how I got the story. Manfred swore me to secrecy when I mentioned it to him.”

  “Manfred?”

  “Manfred Fenster.”

  6

  In a dull time, even a small task is welcome. Phil Knight felt that he and Father Carmody were colluding in making a mountain out of a molehill by pretending that the threatening letter the provost had received was anything more than a prank. What made it hard to dismiss was the fact that a similar threat had been made against the football coach.

  “You really think there’s anything to it, Father?”

  “Even as a hoax it could make bad publicity for the university.”

  “Maybe that’s the idea. Just a little rumble in the media.”

  “That’s where you come in, Phil. Those letters have to be collected and their recipients warned against making them known.” Father Carmody paused. “How many people already know of them? Someone is sure to say something that will be picked up by the press.”

  There seemed to be four letters in all:

  to the provost

  to the dean of Arts & Letters

  to the football coach

  to Professor Oscar Wack

  “Who’s he, Roger?”

  Roger smiled. “He teaches theory.”

  “Theory of what?”

  “He’s in the English department. I think he has joint appointments in theology and law. He is a tireless writer to campus publications. That is odd since he is, as they say, widely published in his field. Cabalistic pieces on various works of literature. I am told he despises me.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “He snubs me. When he sees me coming in my golf cart, he cuts off across the lawn to avoid me. He accuses me of corrupting the young.”

  “What?”

  “I am sure I was his target. It was in a four part series he wrote for the Observer. He spoke of unearned and inflated reputations.” Roger patted his tummy. “He inveighed against the resurrecting of authors who were enjoying a deep and deserved obscurity. I am told he is less oblique in class, where I am mentioned by name. The dark Knight of the soul, that sort of thing.”

  “Maybe you pasted together these threats.”

  “Oh, I did worse. I referred to him in my class as Wack, O. It was taken up by the students.”

  * * *

  Phil went first to the Guglielmino Center to find that Weis was on the road recruiting. Father Carmody had prepared the way with a phone call, and an assistant took Phil into his office and handed him the letter.

  “I thought the provost ought to know.”

  “He got one, too.”

  The man’s face brightened. “He did?”

  “There were others as well.”

  “Why do I find that reassuring?”

  The letter to Weis had a different message. BewaRe! gOlden boWls brEaK. BoMbs awAy.

  “Coach said ignore it. I didn’t think so. What do you think?”

  “Some nut.”

  “Some nuts are dangerous.” The man looked around. “If anything happened to this place…”

  “How many people know about this?”

  “Here? Only me. And Coach, of course.”

  * * *

  The office of the dean of Arts and Letters was a warren of rooms reached from a posh reception area. Phil was led as through a maze to the inner sanctum where the dean, in shirt sleeves and gaudy suspenders, rose, smiling a crooked smile.

  “Phil Knight.”

  “I know. The provost called. I think he’s making too much of this. I get threats all the time.” The smile went away, and then came back. “Usually anonymous e-mails.”

  “Threatening to bomb your office?”

  “That is a new touch.”

  “Could I see the letter?

  A ladder leaned against a bookshelf, providing access to higher shelves. The dean went up a rung or two and felt along the top of the books. He brought down the folded page. He looked at Phil. “I told the provost about this, but no one else.”

  “As in no one?”

  “It’s not the sort of message one circulates.”

  Phil unfolded the paper. It had been put together in the same way as the ones to the provost and the football coach, but the message was different. AcHtung! A coNtraCt has bEEn taKen oUt on yOu.

  “Any ideas?”

  “I would say a faculty member. Because of the mention of contract. Maybe someone who didn’t get renewed.”

  Phil asked him to explain and got more lore than he wanted about the various adjunct and auxiliary appointments to the faculty, men and women taken on for piecework, without tenure, and consequently vulnerable to being let go when the need for them lessened.

  “How many people are we talking about? That didn’t get renewed?”

  “I made a list.” He had it in a drawer of his desk, handwritten.

  “You are worried, aren’t you?”

  “Not about violence. This is the kind of thing that can hurt the college, and the university. It would be pretty bad publicity that we have a nut running loose on campus. The fact that he or she is harmless would only add to the fun of it. From a journalistic point of view.”

  * * *

  Oscar Wack proved more elusive. He was not in his office in Decio; there was no off-campus phone for him listed; the English department was reluctant to help.

  “You’ve come from the provost?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you want information about a faculty member?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “Who exactly are you?”

  “Why don’t you call the provost’s office.”

&nb
sp; But the fellow seemed to be signaling to someone behind Phil. He turned to face a spidery man of middle size with a great helmet of gray hair. His glasses were circular, the lenses thick. He looked from Phil to the secretary and back.

  “Professor Wack?”

  “Who is this?” He addressed the secretary.

  “I’m Philip Knight. The provost asked me—”

  “Knight!” He stepped back.

  “Could we go somewhere to talk? It will just take a minute.”

  “We can talk right here.”

  The secretary nodded in vigorous approval.

  “I don’t think that would be very smart.”

  “What is this about?”

  Oh, the hell with it. “You received a threatening letter.”

  “What!”

  “Did you?”

  “How would you have heard of that…” The grayish eyes had narrowed behind the circular glasses. He stepped back. “Knight. You’re his brother, aren’t you?”

  “I have a brother, yes.”

  “So that’s it.

  “Look—”

  “Is this part of the threat? You don’t intimidate me, sir.” But he backed away from Phil.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Wacko indeed. Phil headed for the bar of the University Club.

  7

  The main dining room of the Morris Inn is called Sorin’s, after the founder of the university. It is a pleasant place for lunch, though crowded, but even more pleasant for dinner. Bill had introduced Mary Alice to his father in the lobby. Mr. Fenster reached out a hand, then hesitated, turned, and loped toward the dining room. He was dressed as before, but then when he traveled he carried only a duffel bag. They were shown to a table and then, as if to make up for the gaucherie in the lobby, Mr. Fenster said to Mary Alice, “I’m happy to know you.”

  What could she say but that she was happy to know him. Suddenly, it threatened to be a long dinner.

  “I went out to the Catholic Worker House.”

  “Did you rent a car?”

  “I took a cab.”

  “How was it?”

  “You really ought to volunteer there, Bill.”

  “Catholic Worker?” Mary Alice said.

  This got for her the little lecture Bill had received at lunch. What would Mary Alice make of all this?

  “It would make a good article, Bill.” She turned to his father. “Of course you know about Via Media.”

  “Cardinal Newman?”

  “No, no. Our alternative newspaper.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t believe that Bill hasn’t told you. Wait, I have an issue in my coat.” She got up and hurried from the restaurant. Mr. Fenster stirred the ice cubes in his water glass, making a chiming noise.

  “Is she a good friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “She is nice.”

  Mary Alice was back, got seated, and opened the issue of Via Media for Mr. Fenster to see. “Bill found a donor to enable us to get started. Very hush-hush.”

  “He wants to be anonymous.” He avoided his father’s eyes.

  “Not many donors do. What’s this about the University Club?”

  “They want to tear it down.”

  “I didn’t know there was one. Is it for students?”

  “Oh, no. For faculty, alumni, townies.”

  Mr. Fenster skimmed the story. “Will the same donor fund the proposed new building?”

  “I gather the family isn’t happy about the club’s being torn down. A collection of beer steins was donated along with the cost of the building. They are enshrined in cases throughout the place.”

  “It must have been here when I was a student. I never knew about it.”

  A pudgy little man had entered the restaurant and was listening to the hostess as he looked around. Suddenly his face lit up, and he hurried to their table.

  “Fenster! What luck.” He beamed at Mary Alice and Bill. “Have you ordered yet? I hate to eat alone.”

  The table could accommodate four. There seemed no way to refuse.

  “My name is Quirk,” the man said, as he got settled. The waitress appeared, and he ordered a scotch and water. “I hope I’m not drinking alone.” Bill ordered a beer and Mary Alice a Diet Coke. Mr. Fenster said he would settle for his water. “Your father and I were classmates,” Quirk said. “Well, I had a very interesting day. Do you two happen to know Professor Roger Knight?”

  “We’re taking his class,” Mary Alice cried, delighted. “You wouldn’t believe what it’s about.”

  “F. Marion Crawford,” Quirk said triumphantly. “And thereby hangs a tale.”

  “Who is F. Marion Crawford?” Mr. Fenster said, his voice heavy with disinterest.

  “Now, Manfred, this concerns you. At least I hope it will. I know you’re absolutely loaded, and this idea calls for a benefactor.”

  “What idea?” Mary Alice seemed unaware of the uneasiness Quirk’s arrival had caused Bill’s father.

  Their drinks came. Quirk drank avidly, put down his glass, and hunched forward. “Listen, my children, and you shall hear.”

  Mary Alice would have been audience enough for the enthused alumnus, but Bill found himself caught up in this idea of using the Villa Crawford as the site of a junior year abroad.

  “The place became a convent after Crawford’s death, and one of his daughters joined the community. It is a magnificent structure, designed by the author himself, placed dramatically atop a cliff with the sea below.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Several times.”

  “On business?” Mr. Fenster asked. He seemed to have decided to humor his old classmate.

  “I’m retired, my dear fellow. On a pittance, to be sure, but enough to provide leisure to pursue my interests. I am trying to make up for the four years I wasted here. You’ll know what I mean, Manfred.”

  Bill could not remember when he had heard his father referred to by his Christian name, one his grandmother had found in Dante, liking the sound of it, and unaware of the character it named.

  “Of course Roger Knight immediately saw the brilliance of the idea.”

  “What will you do with the nuns?” Mr. Fenster asked.

  “There are only a handful. The upkeep is funded by the Crawford estate, but it is still too expensive a proposition for a relatively small community. They should welcome the chance to move to more economical quarters. Now, Manfred, what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “This would be a mere bagatelle for a man with your assets.”

  “You want me to pay for the purchase of this convent?”

  “It is the Villa Crawford, man. It is steeped in history and tradition. Crawford lectured here in the late nineteenth century. Do you know Russell Kirk?”

  “The conservative?”

  “It turns out that he was a great fan of Crawford. There is even a Crawford Society. My fear is that they will have this idea and purchase the villa.”

  “That would make sense.”

  “Notre Dame must buy that villa. What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Funding the purchase.”

  “I never discuss money at table.” Or anywhere else, in Bill’s experience.

  Quirk lifted both hands, as if there were something promissory in the remark. “Okay. Okay. Later. Just let the idea simmer. Talk to these two about it.” He looked pleadingly at Mary Alice, and she nodded. “Good, good. What’s that paper?”

  Mary Alice said, “It’s an alternative campus paper that Bill and I and some others put out.”

  “Really? I have a story for you.”

  He looked over both shoulders and then again hunched forward.

  “There have been bomb threats. To the provost, to the dean of Arts and Letters, a faculty member, and…” He paused for effect. “Charlie Weis.”

  “No.” Now Mary Alice was hunched forward.

/>   “You remember Father Carmody, Manfred?”

  Mr. Fenster looked as if he would like to deny it, but he nodded.

  “He brought the news to the Knight brothers when I was there. I had heard of it where I ran into Father Carmody. He came along with me to the Knights. The brother Philip has agreed to look into it.”

  “Who else knows?” Mary Alice asked.

  Quirk shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Bill, this could be a real scoop. We have to ask Roger Knight about it.”

  8

  Even granting he was paranoid, a possibility that Oscar Wack did not dismiss—he prided himself on keeping an open mind—even paranoids have real enemies, as someone must have said. He should remember who that someone was, but he didn’t. It was a troubling realization that much of what he thought and said merely echoed what he had read and heard. But no matter, who can own an idea, or a phrase? Last week, in a lecture, he had told the story of the actress in the confessional asking the priest if it was a sin to think herself beautiful when she looked in the mirror. “No, my dear, only a mistake.” Even his students had found it funny. Where had he read that? How unnerving then when the sinister Raul Izquierdo, colleague, foe, occupant of the next office, breezed into Wack’s office without knocking, a Styrofoam cup of coffee held before him as if he were about to propose a toast, crying, “Congratulations.”

  Wack waited. There was irony and sarcasm in the very air of the faculty office building.

  “You’re been reading the journals of the Abbé Mugnier. And quoting him in class.”

  “I’m surprised you recognized it.”

  “When I myself quoted it in a recent paper?” Wack felt that he had been pounced on. As soon as Izquierdo said it, he remembered the one memorable sentence in the loathsome offprint his colleague had sailed onto his desk not long ago.

  “It’s hard to footnote remarks in class.”

  That was a counterthrust. The referees of a journal to which Izquierdo had sent one of his innumerable and unreadable articles had raised the question of plagiarism. Izquierdo had been unfazed.

  “What would they say of Ulysses, or Finnegans Wake?” he had asked the departmental committee Wack had suggested look into the matter on the basis that such a charge touched on the integrity of them all. How sly to pronounce it Finnegans Wack.