“Reverend Wimple?” asked the young minister.
Wimple nodded.
“How do you do? I’m Paul Martin, your assistant.” Noticing the strange expression on the pastor’s face, Reverend Martin added, “Didn’t you get the Archbishop’s letter?”
“Letter? No... no, I didn’t.” Recovering himself, Reverend Wimple stepped aside and said, “Come in, come in. Excuse my rudeness. You surprised me.”
The young minister smiled as he stepped over the threshold. “I imagine so. I wonder what happened to the letter? Well, things are in their state of chaos in the Archbishop’s office. You know how it is.”
“Yes, of course. Come on into the parlor. You say you’re my assistant?”
“That’s right.” The two ministers walked into the parlor and sat down in easy chairs. “Someone at the Archbishop’s office suddenly realized,” Reverend Martin explained, “that the size of the congregation here warranted a pastor and an assistant pastor. I wonder if things will ever get straightened out at the Archbishop’s.” He smiled. “I was assigned there once. Spent four months. You’ve never seen such a madhouse. They have an archaic filing system dating back to the Catacombs. It’s a wonder they ever get things straight.” He leaned forward confidentially. “As a matter of fact, did you know they’ve lost your records?”
“They have?”
Reverend Martin nodded. “Every last one. You’ll probably be getting a letter from them on it one of these days. Unless they find the records again, of course.”
“Of course.”
“By the way, my luggage is still at the station. I walked up. Would you have a car, by any chance?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’m sure I can get your luggage for you.” Joe Docker was recovering and Reverend Wimple was beginning to run smoothly again. “I think you’ll find this one of the most pleasant congregations you will ever run across,” he told his new assistant. “None of those theological battles that keep pastors shifting from one congregation to another, none of the radical youth element that can be so plaguing and embarrassing. A very pleasant congregation. I’m sure I can call some of my flock to pick up your luggage.”
“Thank you very much.”
Lefty walked into the room then, appearing as shifty, guilty and generally undesirable as ever, and Reverend Martin looked at him with obvious surprise.
“Ah, Archibald,” said Reverend Wimple. “Come meet the new assistant pastor.”
“The what?”
“Archibald Denker, Reverend Paul Martin, my new assistant pastor. Archibald,” said Reverend Wimple to Reverend Martin, “is a poor unfortunate youth, originally from New York, who was in almost constant difficulty with the police. I came into contact with him in a bus station, where he tried to pick my pocket.” Lefty scuffed his foot and looked guilty. “I convinced the court,” Reverend Wimple continued, “to place him in my custody, and I have done my best to rehabilitate him. I actually believe I have had some limited success.”
Reverend Martin offered a comradely smile to the unfortunate youth. “How do you do, Archibald?” he asked.
“How are ya?”
“Archibald,” said Reverend Wimple, “would you show Reverend Martin to his room? I think he’d like the room to the left at the head of the stairs.”
“Sure thing.”
“You go on up now, Paul, and freshen up. I may call you Paul, mayn’t I?”
“Why certainly, Reverend Wimple.”
“And I am Amadeus. Now, you go on upstairs and freshen up. I know how tiresome traveling by train can be. When you’re ready, come on down and we’ll get to know each other over a cup of tea.”
“That would be very pleasant. Thank you very much.”
Reverend Wimple watched his new assistant follow Lefty upstairs, and then he collapsed on the sofa and began to chuckle weakly. He was still there, sprawled on the sofa, a foolish grin on his face, when Lefty came back downstairs.
Lefty scurried into the room, sat down beside Joe, and said, “We gotta lam outa here.”
Joe said, “Huh, huh, huh, huh.”
“Who is that guy?” Lefty wanted to know. “Who is he?”
Joe pulled himself together, and Reverend Wimple answered, “He’s my new assistant, Lefty.” He looked at Lefty and tried to suppress a grin, but he couldn’t help it. “He’s my new assistant. And he used to work in the Archbishop’s office, and he was telling me that things are in a mess down there. Confusion and chaos everywhere. Lefty, do you know what a mess they’re in down at the Archbishop’s office?”
Lefty shook his head.
“They’ve lost my records! He told me so. They’ve lost every one of my records. Isn’t that a panic?”
“You mean they think you’re legit?”
“Legit? Why, Lefty, they’ve sent me an assistant!”
Upstairs, Reverend Martin stood in the bathroom, reflectively drying his face and hands. “God, he’s good,” he thought. “He looks more like a minister than most real ministers do.” Reverend Martin left the bathroom and trotted downstairs. He looked at the bogus minister sitting in the living room, and he smiled. “I’m ready for that tea now, Amadeus,” he said.
There was no trouble with the representative from the diamond merchant. He came with a certified check, and he left with the diamond. He was a gray little man with a black briefcase handcuffed to his right wrist. He was a dour, sour little gray man who squinted at the Pettigrew diamond through a jeweler’s glass, said, “Huh,” and handed over the check. He was a grim, unsmiling little man dressed in gray who refused an offer to break bread with the pastor and his new assistant and who drove off in a brand new but quite naturally gray car without having said twenty words all the time he was there.
Lefty found Joe in his bedroom, sitting on the bed and holding the check with both hands. Joe was staring at the check with positively the strangest expression Lefty had ever seen on any face anywhere. It was a look of triumph and a look of pleasure, but it was at the same time a wistful look of something lost, something gone, something dead and destroyed. Lefty stood in the doorway, awed at the expression on Joe’s face.
Joe looked up, and said, “Close the door.” He spoke very softly, as though he were in a cathedral.
Lefty closed the door.
“Look at it.” Joe held out the check. “Look at it,” he said, in a whisper; and in the same exultant whisper, he added, “We did it, Lefty.”
Even Lefty could tell it was a charged moment. “Yeah,” he said huskily.
“Lefty,” said Joe, in an awed and hushed voice, “Lefty, we’re immortals. The size of this job— We’ll be the biggest names in the annals of crime. Bigger than the Brinks job. Bigger than any of them. The whole world will remember the Docker-Denker Caper.”
“Maybe they’ll call it the Pettigrew Caper,” said Lefty.
“Who cares what they call it? It’s the top. The Yellow Kid Weil, Richardson, none of them, none of them never pulled a con as big as this. Lefty, the biggest con haul in history, and it’s ours!”
There was a soft knock at the door. The two immortals looked at each other, then Reverend Wimple got to his feet and opened the door. Reverend Martin was standing there. He said, “I’ve got to go downtown for razor blades. Would you like me to put the check in the hospital account at the bank for you?”
Reverend Wimple smiled. “Thank you, but to tell you the truth I want to reserve that pleasure for myself. You understand.”
“Of course. This must be a great moment for you.”
“Oh, it is. It is.”
“The hospital a reality after all. You know, Amadeus, I’ve been assigned one place and another, here, there and everywhere, for the last four years, and I want to tell you sincerely and honestly that you are the very best minister I have ever seen. No, that’s not flattery, I mean it.” Reverend Martin’s face bore a puzzled expression as he spoke. “I want you to know,” he said, “that I intend to pattern my ministry after yours. You have been a wonderful education for me.” Embarrassed, Reverend Martin turned away.