The priest caught his breath.
“Casey also found a man’s wallet. Empty—except for a driver’s license issued to John Everett.”
“What will happen to poor Charley now, Tom?” Father finally managed to ask.
“In view of the evidence I’ll have to book him on suspicion of murder.”
After hanging up the phone, the priest sat, disconsolate and staring into space, until Emma Catt burst into the room, interrupting his troubled thoughts.
“I just went over to church to put some fresh greens on the roof of the crib,” Emma reported. “Some of the statuettes have been stolen again.”
Wincing at her choice of the word, the pastor brushed at his still-thick, snow-white hair, leaned back in his desk chair, and closed his eyes.
In observance of the Christmas season St. Brigid’s church traditionally displayed a miniature crib, or manger, simulating the scene of the Nativity. Statuettes representing the participants in the momentous event were grouped strategically in the stable. And to enhance the setting, boughs of fir, pine, and holly were placed around the simple structure.
So while Father Crumlish was pleased by Emma’s attention to the crib’s appearance, he also understood the full meaning of her report. It was sad but true that each year, on more than one occasion, some of the statuettes would be missing. But, unlike Emma, Father refused to think of the deed as “stealing.” From past experience (sometimes from a sobbing whisper in the Confessional), he knew that some curious child had knelt in front of the crib, stretched out an eager hand, perhaps to caress the Infant, and then…
“What’s missing this time?” the priest asked tiredly.
“The Infant, the First Wise Man, and a lamb.”
“Well, no harm done. I’ll step around to Herbie’s and buy some more.”
“It would be cheaper if you preached a sermon on stealing.”
“ ‘They know not what they do,’ ” the old priest murmured as he adjusted his collar and his bifocals, shrugged himself into his shabby overcoat, quietly closed the rectory door behind him, and walked out into the gently falling snow.
Minutes later he opened the door of Herbie’s Doll House, a toy and novelty store which had occupied the street floor of an aged three-story frame building on Broad Street as long as the pastor could remember. As usual at this time of the year, the store was alive with the shrill voices of excited youngsters as they examined trains, wagons, flaxen-haired dolls, and every imaginable type of Christmas decoration. Presiding over the din was the proprietor, Herbie Morris, a shy, slight man in his late sixties.
Father Crumlish began to wend his way through the crowd, reflecting sadly that most of his young parishioners would be doomed to disappointment on Christmas Day. But in a moment Herbie Morris caught sight of the priest, quickly elbowed a path to his side, and eagerly shook Father’s outstretched hand.
“I can see that the Christmas spirit has caught hold of you again this year,” Father Crumlish said with a chuckle. “You’re a changed man.” It was quite true. Herbie Morris’ normally pale cheeks were rosy with excitement, and his usually dull eyes were shining.
“I know you and all the storekeepers in the parish think I’m a fool to let the kids take over in here like this every Christmas,” Herbie said sheepishly but smiling broadly. “You think they rob me blind.” He sighed. “You’re right. But it’s worth it just to see them enjoying themselves—” He broke off, and a momentary shadow crossed his face. “When you have no one—no real home to go to—it gets lonely—” His voice faltered. “Especially at Christmas.”
Father Crumlish put an arm around the man’s thin shoulder. “It’s time you had a paying customer,” he said heartily. “I need a few replacements for the crib.”
Nodding, Morris drew him aside to a counter filled with statuettes for the manger, and Father quickly made his selections. The priest was about to leave, when Herbie clasped his arm.
“Father,” he said, “I’ve been hearing a lot about Charley Abbott’s trouble. I room with the Swansons.”
“I know you do,” Father said, “I’m on my way now to see Annie and Steve.”
“George says Charley had been acting funny lately.”
“George?”
“George Floss. He rooms there too.”
The same fellow who’s the superintendent of the Liberty Office Building?” Father was surprised.
“That’s him. Charley’s boss.”
Thoughtfully the priest tucked the box of statuettes under his arm and departed. Although his destination was only a few minutes’ walk, it was all of half an hour before he arrived. He’d been detained on the way in order to halt a fist fight or two, admire a new engagement ring, console a recently bereaved widow, and steer homeward a parishioner who’d been trying to drain dry the beer tap in McCaffery’s Tavern. But finally he mounted the steps of a battered house with a sign on the door reading: Rooms.
He had little relish for his task. Annie and Steve were a disagreeable, quarrelsome pair, and the pastor knew very well that they considered his interest in Charley’s welfare all through the years as “meddling.” Therefore he wasn’t surprised at the look of annoyance of Steve’s face when he opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you, Father,” Steve said ungraciously. “C’mon in. Annie’s in the kitchen.”
Silently Father followed the short, barrel-chested man, who was clad in winter underwear and a pair of soiled trousers, down a musty hallway. Annie was seated at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. She was a scrawny, pallid-complexioned woman who, Father knew, was only in her mid-forties. But stringy gray hair and deep lines of discontent crisscrossing her face made her appear to be much older. Now, seeing her visitor, she started to wipe her hands on her stained apron and get to her feet. A word from the pastor deterred her.
“I suppose you’ve come about Charley,” she said sulkily.
“Ain’t nothing you can do for him this time, Father,” Steve said with a smirk. “This time they got him for good—and good riddance.”
“Shut up,” Annie snapped, shooting her husband a baleful glance.
“First time the crazy fool ever had a decent-paying job,” Steve continued, ignoring her. “And what does he do?” He cocked his thumb and forefinger. “Gets a gun and—”
“Shut up, I said!” Annie’s face flamed angrily.
“Hiya, Father,” a jovial voice interrupted from the doorway. “You here to referee?”
Father turned and saw that the tall burly man entering the kitchen was one of the stray lambs in his flock—George Floss. Murmuring a greeting, the priest noticed that Floss was attired in a bathrobe and slippers.
“It’s my day off,” George volunteered, aware of Father’s scrutiny. He yawned widely before his heavy-jowled face settled into a grin. “So I went out on the town last night.”
“That explains your high color,” Father remarked dryly. He turned back to the table, where Annie and Steve sat glowering at each other. “Now, if you can spare a moment from your bickering,” he suggested, “maybe you can tell me what happened to set Charley off again.”
Steve pointed a finger at Floss. “He’ll tell you.”
“Charley was doing fine,” George said as he poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the stove. “Didn’t even seem to take it too hard—at least, not at first—when I told him he was going to be out of a job.”
“You told him?” the priest said sharply.
“Why, sure,” Floss replied with an important air. “I’m the super at the Liberty Building. Soon as I knew the old dump was going to be torn down, I told everybody on the maintenance crew that they’d be getting the ax. Me too.” He scowled and his face darkened. “A stinking break. There aren’t too many good super jobs around town.”
He gulped some coffee and then brightened. “Of course it won’t be for some time yet. That’s what I kept telling Charley. But I guess it didn’t sink in. He started worrying and acting funny—” He broke off with a shrug.
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“You haven’t heard the latest, George,” Steve said. “That cop—Casey—was here nosing around Charley’s room. Found a gun and the Everett guy’s wallet.”
“No kidding!” Floss’s eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head and whistled.
“Gun, wallet, no matter what that cop found,” Annie shrilled, waving the paring knife in her hand for emphasis, “I don’t believe it. Charley may be a little feebleminded, but he’s no murderer—”
The air was suddenly pierced by a loud and penetrating wail. In an upstairs bedroom a child was crying.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Steve said disgustedly. “Started the brat bawling.”
Annie gave a potato a vicious stab with her knife. “Go on up and quiet her.”
“Not me,” Steve retorted with a defiant shake of his balding head. “That’s your job.”
“I’ve got enough jobs, cooking and cleaning around here. It won’t kill you to take care of the kid once in a while.”
Father Crumlish had stood in shocked silence during the stormy scene. But now he found his tongue.
“It’s ashamed you should be,” he said harshly, turning his indignant dark blue eyes first on Annie, then on Steve. “When I baptized our little Mary Ann, four years ago, I told both of you that you were blessed to have a child at your age and after so many years. Is this disgraceful behavior the way you give thanks to the good Lord? And is this home life the best you can offer the poor innocent babe?”
He took a deep breath to cool his temper. Annie and Steve sat sullen and wordless. The only sound in the silence was the child’s crying.
“I’ll go and see what’s eating her,” George offered, obviously glad to escape from the scene.
“I’ve an errand to do,” Father told the Swansons. “But mind you—he held up a warning finger—“I’ll be back before long to have another word or two with you.”
Turning on his heel, he crossed the kitchen floor, walked down the hallway, and let himself out the door. But before he was halfway down the steps to the street, he heard Annie’s and Steve’s strident voices raised in anger again. And above the din he was painfully aware of the plaintive, persistent sound of the crying child.
Lieutenant Madigan was seated at his desk, engrossed in a sheaf of papers, when Father Crumlish walked into headquarters.
“Sit down, Father,” Big Tom said sympathetically. “You look tired. And worried.”
Irritated, the pastor clicked his tongue against his upper plate. He disliked being told that he looked tired and worried; he knew very well that he was tired and worried, and that was trouble enough. He considered remaining on his feet, stating his business succinctly, and then being on his way. But the chair next to Madigan’s desk looked too inviting. He eased himself into it, suppressing a sigh of relief.
“I know all this is rough on you, Father,” Madigan continued in a kind tone. “But facts are facts.” He paused, extracted one of the papers in front of him, and handed it to the priest.
Father Crumlish read it slowly. It was a report on the bullet which had killed John Everett; the bullet definitely had been fired from the gun found in Charley Abbott’s room. Silently the pastor placed the report on Big Tom’s desk.
“This is one of those cases that are cut and dried,” the policeman said. “One obvious suspect, one obvious motive.” He shifted his gaze away from the bleak look on Father’s face. “But you know that with his mental record Charley will never go to prison.”
Abruptly Father Crumlish got to his feet.
“Can you tell me where I’ll find Detective Dennis Casey?” he asked.
Madigan stared in astonishment. “Third door down the hall. But why—?”
Father Crumlish had already slipped out the door, closed it behind him, and a moment later he was seated beside Detective Casey’s desk. Then, in response to the priest’s request, Casey selected a manila folder from his files.
“Here’s my report on the anonymous phone call, Father,” he said obligingly. “Not much to it, as you can see.”
A glance at the typed form confirmed that the report contained little information that Father didn’t already have.
“I was hoping there might be more,” the pastor said disappointedly. “I know you’ve been on this case since the beginning and I thought to myself that maybe there was something that might have struck you about the phone call. Something odd in the man’s words, perhaps.” Father paused and sighed. “Well, then, maybe you can tell me about your talk with Charley. Exactly what you said to him—”
“Wait a minute, Father,” Casey interrupted. He ran a hand through his carrot-hued hair. “Now that you mention it, I do remember something odd about that call. I remember hearing a funny sound. Just before the guy hung up.”
“Yes?” Father waited hopefully for the detective to continue.
Casey’s brows drew together as he tried to recall.
“It was a sort of whining. A cry, maybe.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s it! It sounded like a baby—a kid—crying.”
As Father Crumlish wearily started up the steps to the rectory door, his left foot brushed against a small patch of ice buried beneath the new-fallen snow. He felt himself slipping, sliding, and he stretched out a hand to grasp the old wrought-iron railing and steady himself. As he did, the package of statuettes, which he’d been carrying all these long hours, fell from under his arm and tumbled to the sidewalk.
“Hellfire!”
Gingerly Father bent down to retrieve the package. At that moment St. Brigid’s chimes ran out. Six o’clock! Only two hours before Evening Devotions, the priest realized in dismay as he straightened and stood erect. And in even less time his parishioners would be arriving at church to kneel down at the crib, light their candles, and say their prayers.
Well, Father thought, he would have to see to it that they wouldn’t be disappointed, that there would be nothing amiss in the scene of the Nativity. Moments later he stood in front of the crib and unwrapped the package. To his chagrin he discovered that the tumble to the sidewalk had caused one of the lambs to lose its head and one leg. But Herbie Morris could easily repair it, Father told himself as he stuffed the broken lamb into his pocket and proceeded to put his replacements in position. First, in the center of the crib, the Infant. Next, to the left, the First Wise Man. And then, close to the Babe, another unbroken lamb that he’d purchased.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Father knelt down and gazed at the peaceful tableau before him. Ordinarily the scene would have evoked a sense of serenity. But the priest’s heart was heavy. He couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a sad Christmas for Charley Abbott. And that the man’s prospects for the future were even worse. Moreover, Father couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d seen and heard at the Swansons—the anger, bitterness, selfishness, and, yes, even the cruelty.
Hoping to dispel his disquieting thoughts, the pastor started to close his eyes. But a slight movement in the crib distracted him. He stared in astonishment as he saw that a drop of moisture had appeared on the face of the Infant and had begun to trickle slowly down the pink waxen cheeks.
Even as he watched, fascinated, another drop appeared—and then the priest quickly understood the reason for the seeming phenomenon. The greens that Emma had placed on the roof of the stable had begun to lose their resilience in the steam heat of the church. The fir, pine, and holly boughs were drooping, shedding moisture on the face of the Child….
In the flickering rosy glow of the nearby vigil lights it struck the priest that the scene seemed almost real—as if the Child were alive and crying. As if He were weeping for all the people in the world. All the poor, lonely, homeless—
Father Crumlish stiffened. A startled expression swept over his face. For some time he knelt, alert and deep in thought, while his expression changed from astonishment to realization and, finally, to sadness. Then he rose from his knees, made his way to the rectory office, and dialed police headquarters.
The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Page 12