by Michelle Cox
“I don’t see why not,” he said, “but I should leave as soon as possible.”
Elsie hurried to the kitchen to gather a few items together for him.
“Let me come with you,” Henrietta said quietly to him. “Please.”
Clive studied her face, and she wished she could decipher his thoughts, as he always seemed able to do with her. When she had telephoned him at Highbury, she had been surprised when Billings had said that Mister Clive was indeed in and had promptly delivered the phone to him. She had meant to be calm and collected with him, but she couldn’t keep the waver out of her voice as she explained what had happened to Eugene and what she knew. An intense feeling of love had passed over her then as she heard him say across the staticky line that he was on his way even before she had to humble herself to ask for his help. He had spared her that humiliation, and she realized in that moment that she needed to be with this man forever. But she had been so stupid! Saying so many things she hadn’t really meant. She only hoped it wasn’t too late.
“Don’t you think you’d be better here, with your family?” he asked finally, and Henrietta couldn’t help but wonder if there was a deeper meaning to the question. He seemed so serious.
“I’d like to help you. And Eugene,” she said. “Sometimes he’ll talk to me.”
Ma snorted, but Henrietta ignored her.
“Please.”
“All right, then. Come, if you wish,” Clive said with no emotion, though his eyes looked pained.
There was mostly silence between them as they rode side by side in his car to the Logan Square station, Elsie’s care package placed carefully between them, the sun completely gone now.
“What . . . what did you tell the board?” Henrietta finally asked tentatively.
“Let’s talk about it later,” Clive said tonelessly, not looking at her, keeping his eyes on the road. “We need to concentrate on Eugene just now,” he said with what seemed to be genuine concern.
Henrietta nodded silently, seeing the reason in this but still a little hurt by his quick dismissal.
“Tell me about this Fr. Finnegan,” he said.
“Well, I’m not sure what to say, really,” Henrietta said, glad, despite the odiousness of the priest, to have something to talk about. “I don’t like him much. Neither does Ma.”
“Why?”
“Just the way he is. Like a drill sergeant. The poor altar boys live in fear of him; he’s always correcting them. Eugene used to be one, but he quit. Fr. Finnegan came round to the house, then, said he should come back, something about him being his best server. Pa tried to encourage him, but Eugene wouldn’t go back. Gene’s awfully stubborn, you know.”
“Hmmm,” was all Clive said.
“Fr. Finnegan’s always going on to Eugene that he has a vocation. Trying to get him to become a priest. I don’t know why.”
“So you don’t think Eugene really has a vocation?” Clive asked, glancing over at her for a moment.
“Not particularly. He’s good at school, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“And what does this Fr. Finnegan think of you?” he said, allowing his glance to linger longer.
“He doesn’t like me much. He thinks I’m not virtuous, I suppose, like everyone else,” she said, looking out the window.
Clive turned his eyes back to the road and remained silent.
“I have a theory, you know,” Henrietta said after a moment.
“Tell me,” Clive said, an unexpected trace of emotion hovering near.
“I think I know why Fr. Finnegan let Pa be buried in the churchyard,” she said in a low tone, still looking out the window. “By rights, he shouldn’t have been, you know,” she murmured, turning now to him.
Clive arched his eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I think he did it to get Ma on his side. About Eugene, that is. She owes him now, you see, which is why she can’t ever speak up.”
“I see,” he mused. He was silent for a few moments and then spoke again. “Any idea why he was staying at the rectory?”
“None. I was as surprised as anyone.”
They had arrived at the station by now, and Clive stopped the car just outside of it. He went around and opened the door for Henrietta, looking at her fully for the first time since they had left the apartment. “Leave the talking to me, okay?” he said sternly.
Henrietta merely nodded and followed him up the stone steps. Once inside, Clive pointed to a bench where she should sit while he spoke privately to the station commander, showing him his badge as he did so and every once in a while looking over at Henrietta and gesturing. Finally Clive came back toward her. “They’re setting up a cross-examination room for us to talk to him,” he said, inclining his head toward the back of the station. “We’ll both go in, and you can give him the package, but then I want you to leave while I question him. Understood?”
“Yes, but . . .” Henrietta started to counter.
“That’s the deal. Yes or no?” he asked firmly. He was definitely in the role of the inspector now.
“Yes, all right,” Henrietta acquiesced.
They followed a sergeant to the back, where he paused in front of a steel door with a small grilled window. The sergeant unlocked the door, and Henrietta felt she might start to cry when she followed Clive inside and saw a very miserable-looking Eugene sitting at a small table, his head in his hands.
He looked up when they entered and scowled. “Oh, it’s you two,” he said unpleasantly. “Come to see the fallen, have you?”
“Eugene!” Henrietta exclaimed, her pity quickly evaporating.
The sergeant retired to the dark corner, his hands behind his back, as Clive reached for a chair opposite Eugene and gestured to Henrietta to take the other one. “Watch your mouth!” Clive said, his voice slightly elevated. “I’m here to help you.”
Eugene did not reply but sat surlily looking at the table.
“I brought you these things from home, Eugene,” Henrietta said, putting the package on the table and passing it over to him. “They’re from Elsie.”
“I’ll need to examine that when you’re through,” the sergeant said from the background, and Clive nodded his acceptance. Eugene remained silent, not even acknowledging the gift at all.
“Eugene, what happened?” Henrietta asked desperately.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You didn’t really steal those candlesticks, or whatever they were, did you?” she pleaded.
“Maybe,” he said, glancing up at Clive briefly. “Listen, Henrietta. This doesn’t concern you, so just go back to whatever you were doing with this charmer,” he said sulkily. “Stay out of it.”
“Right,” said Clive authoritatively. “Time for us to have a little talk. Please leave us, Henrietta.”
“But I . . .”
“You heard me,” he said, not taking his eyes off Eugene.
“Go on, Henrietta! Your ole man told you to get lost!”
Swiftly, Clive reached out and grabbed Eugene by the collar, causing Henrietta to give a little scream.
“Don’t you ever speak to her that way,” he said angrily, his face inches from Eugene’s as he stared into his eyes, his breath coming fast, before he finally released him with a shake. Eugene’s face had belied genuine fear when Clive grabbed him, but now it relaxed again into a precarious smirk as the sergeant approached to escort Henrietta out to the waiting room.
“Clive, don’t hurt him,” she begged, but Clive did not answer her, nor did he look back as the sergeant passed her to a waiting officer outside the room and then closed and locked the door.
Chapter 11
Eugene sat looking at him with affected disgust, but Clive could read the fear in his eyes. He had seen it countless times in this profession, sitting in just such a chair before a suspect.
“Can’t a guy have a cigarette?” Eugene finally whined.
“Sergeant, do you have a cigarette you could lend this boy?” he asked.
>
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, and after fumbling inside his uniform jacket, he stepped forward and handed Eugene a cigarette and matches. Clive waited for him to light it, noting the slight tremor in his hands as he did so. Eugene took a deep drag, holding the smoke in for as long as he could before blowing it out slowly.
“Start talking, kid,” Clive said evenly.
“I don’t want to,” he said, leaning back with feigned confidence, his hands crossed in front of him.
“Look, set aside the dramatics,” Clive said angrily. “This isn’t my case. So you’ve got about fifteen minutes to spill your guts while you still have half a chance of me getting you out of this before O’Conner shows up. He’s the detective that handles this precinct, and he’s not the sharpest wit anymore, shall we say. No disrespect, sergeant,” he said without turning around.
“None taken, sir,” the sergeant answered dutifully from his post in the corner.
“This looks like a pretty open-and-shut case, on the surface, anyway, and I’m not so sure O’Conner’s up to sifting through the shit for the truth. So unless you start talking, you’re looking at about ten years in the slammer, kid.”
Eugene took another taut drag of his cigarette, hesitating. “I didn’t do it,” he said finally.
Clive inclined his head. “Go on.”
Eugene’s eyes flicked to the sergeant in the corner. “It’s difficult,” he said thinly. “Does he have to be here?”
Clive wished to God he had his own sergeant, Jones, with him. As it was, he would have to do it alone. “Could you leave us, Sergeant?”
“Not really supposed to, sir.”
“Just give me five.”
“Okay, five minutes,” he said begrudgingly and unlocked the heavy door and stepped outside.
“Why were you at the rectory in the first place?” Clive asked, wasting no time.
Eugene hesitated but then haltingly began. “I . . . Fr. Finnegan said I should come stay with him. That we could talk about a way to get me to stay in school and even beyond if I felt I had a vocation. He said I should stay with him for a while and he would tutor me, then I could take the seminary exam. I . . . he can be very persuasive,” he said, looking at the ground and then back up at Clive, a challenge in his eyes—the very same challenge, Clive startlingly recognized, that he had seen from time to time in Henrietta’s eyes as well. “He convinced Ma, said that there was plenty of food for me and that it would be one less person to feed, specially seeing how we must be strapped now for money with Henrietta off with . . .” he stopped abruptly and looked up at Clive.
“Do you actually want to go into the Church?” Clive asked directly.
“I don’t know!” Eugene answered morosely. “That’s the honest truth of it. I’m not sure.”
“So what happened?”
Eugene was stubbornly silent again now, looking angrily at Clive as if trying to decide whether or not to defy him. Clive could feel the vibration from Eugene rapidly jiggling his leg under the table.
“Clock’s ticking, kid. The sergeant will be back in a minute,” Clive countered.
Eugene exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Nothin’ happened at first,” he acquiesced bitterly. “It’s a nice house. Plenty of room. His cook, or whatever she is, made a big dinner. Later we sat in the front room talking.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know! I don’t remember what . . . stupid things, really. But then it changed . . .” Eugene took another drag.
“Go on.”
“He sat next to me . . . said he . . .” Eugene began, looking up furtively at Clive now. There were tears in his eyes, which he angrily wiped away. “Said he knew my secret and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. That he had the same secret.” He looked at the floor.
“Then what happened?” Clive asked calmly.
“He . . . he put his hand on my leg . . .” Eugene whispered. “I . . . I stood up, then. I . . . I didn’t know what to think, what to do. I just wanted to leave. I made my way to the door; he tried to stop me, said he hadn’t meant to scare me. I tried to get around him, but he said wait, that I’d forgotten my bag. He called for his cook to bring it, so I waited. I should’ve just left, but I stupidly didn’t. It seemed like a long time, but then the cook came in with the bag and handed it to him. He said it felt awfully heavy and was there anything I wanted to tell him. I said no and I went to grab the bag, but he snatched it back first and opened it and then pulls out these two gold candlesticks. ‘What have we here, Mrs. Kronovich?’ he says to the cook.”
“What was the cook’s reaction?” Clive interrupted.
“She looked afraid. Afraid of him, I think. I don’t even know if she understands English. He told her to go, and then he just looked at me. I told him I didn’t take them, but he wouldn’t believe me. He said that everyone gives in to temptation once in awhile and that I had just gone astray. Said I was in danger of being a bad seed ever since my father died, and this was just proof of it. He said then that there was no way around it now but to inform the authorities, that he had tried to help me, but it was no use. I begged him not to call the cops, but he just smiled. Said there was only one other way; if I agreed to be counseled by him, he would reconsider.” He paused for a moment, the cigarette almost burned down to his fingertips now.
“And?”
“He . . . he put his hand on my shoulder. It seemed like he was going to . . .” he broke off, then.
“To what?”
“I don’t know!” he said loudly. “All I know is that I pushed him. I just pushed him away,” Eugene said, almost as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I grabbed the bag and ran out. I should have just left it there, but I wasn’t thinking.”
“And so he really did call the police,” Clive said almost to himself. “I wouldn’t have expected it.”
“Fucking bastard,” Eugene said, snuffing out the cigarette now.
“What’s the secret, Eugene?” Clive asked steadily. “Answer me truthfully.”
“Fuck off,” Eugene said and looked at the ground again.
“You just don’t do yourself any favors, do you, kid?” Clive said.
A commotion could be heard out in the hall, now, which Clive worriedly attributed to O’Conner’s arrival, and he knew all would be lost in a moment. “Listen, Eugene,” he said quickly. “O’Connor’s going to take over now, but I’ll try to get you out on bail in the morning.” The voices outside were getting closer now. “Just deny everything,” Clive said quietly, standing up and leaning toward him, his hands on the table. “Say you want a lawyer. I’ll talk to the chief and see what I can do to get the charges dropped. It’s hard with the Church, but he’s got a connection.”
“Don’t leave me here!” Eugene whined.
“It’s only one more night. Listen,” Clive said, “when you get out of here, I’ll arrange a job for you somewhere. You work at it one year, faithfully,” he said, pointing a finger at him, “and contemplate this vocation of yours. If you’re still serious about it, I’ll help you.”
Eugene nodded despondently, his eyes listless.
The door opened then and O’Conner’s big bulk barged in.
“Well, what do we have ’ere?” he boomed out. “Little thief, eh?”
Clive bent close to Eugene and whispered, “One more thing. It’s not a sin—your secret; remember that.” Eugene did not respond but merely turned his head away. Clive stood up straight then to face Inspector O’Connor and asked respectfully, “Could I have a word, Inspector?”
“Certainly!” O’Connor boomed. “Though I think I can handle this case. Seems pretty straightforward,” he said, walking back toward the door, Clive following him out.
“What happened?” Henrietta asked when they were back in the car together heading down California toward the Von Harmons’ apartment. Clive had been contemplating how much of Eugene’s story to share with her, and he still wasn’t sure how forthcoming he should be.
“I don’t t
hink he did it,” Clive said finally.
Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened then?”
“I’m pretty sure this Fr. Finnegan set him up. I think he planted the candlesticks on him. I need to pay him a little visit tomorrow.”
“But why would he do that? That doesn’t make sense! Eugene’s a favorite of his.”
Clive let that comment sit for a few moments as he considered what to say next. He wanted to be honest with her, but how much should he reveal? It was a terribly inappropriate subject, one he didn’t necessarily want to broach, but he saw no other way around it if Henrietta were to really understand the gravity of the situation and its many gray areas. Perhaps it would be for the best, really, if she knew. “Henrietta . . .” he began unsteadily, “I’m pretty sure Eugene’s a deviant . . . a homosexual, that is.”
He looked over at her, but she was just staring straight ahead at the road. He was completely unprepared, then, when she said quietly, “Yes, I thought he might be.”
“How . . . how did you come to that conclusion?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“Just a feeling, I suppose,” she said, not looking at him. “Behind the bar you see all types. Your start to get a sense of who’s who. And don’t forget about Lucy,” she said, chancing a glance at him now.
Ah, yes, he recalled. Lucy and her gang who had befriended Henrietta at the Marlowe. He had never asked her implicitly about what she had seen there in the dark corners of the dressing rooms, but perhaps he should, he mused. At any rate, he realized, this made Eugene’s sticky situation easier to explain.
“What else?” she asked now.
“What do you mean?”
“What else did Eugene say?”
He looked over at her again and decided that he might as well reveal it all. “Well, from what Eugene has told me, it appears Fr. Finnegan suffers from the same affliction. He invited Eugene to the rectory to talk about his ‘vocation,’ and made an advance of some sort. Eugene pushed him away, apparently, and as he was attempting a quick getaway, Fr. Finnegan conveniently discovers two stolen candlesticks in his bag. Says he’ll call the cops unless Eugene agrees to . . . well, you can guess the rest.”