Old Rosaleen had heard enough and more than enough, however. “It’s prayin’ for your forgiveness I am, fither, but you should be ashamed of yourself, and you a holy priest of God and His Mither. That poor, weak mortals like us all be easily tempted, you of all people should be a-knowin’, and if crawlin’ mither-naked into a man’s bed of nights be not temptin’, I’d like to know what is. It’s that—that scarlet woman you should be after the punishin’ of, not poor Mr. Moray.
“And although he’s not of the True Faith, I’ll warrant he’s no Jew, nor yet a godless Bolshevik or whatnot. He’s a good man, a decent man and godly in his own way … far and away more godly than some who’ve sheltered under this roof.”
She stared pointedly at Irunn, who met that stare for a brief instant, then hung her head and began to sob again.
Turning to the police lieutenant, she said flatly, her hands extended before her at a little over waist level, “Terence, if it’s taking in Mr. Moray you’re thinkin’ of, then you’ll be takin’ me, as well, so put the cold steel chains on me old wrists. They cannot be more cold than the Christian charity of this holy priest, I’m thinkin’, I am.”
Milo thought that the lieutenant looked as if he would rather be in hell with a broken back than here and now in the warm, comfortable furnished parlor of IVfaggie and Pat O’Shea. He could almost hear the wheels turning, the gears grinding madly as the tall, lanky redhead tried to think of a way out of his dilemma that would not offend either the priest or his old friend’s widow. And Milo felt a stab of pity for the much harried man.
Then Gerald Guiscarde chimed in, “Lieutenant Grady, Milo Moray is not, no matter what this priest claims to have heard, a Bolshevik or an Anarchist. He’s not a Jew, either. I’ve physically examined him thoroughly, and believe me, I know.
“Yes, he speaks Russian, but he also speaks German, French, Spanish and a plethora of other languages, as well. His work for Dr. Osterreich’s group is that of a translator, and I am told by Dr. Osterreich and others that he does his job in a good, thoroughgoing manner, that he’s the best translator they’ve ever had in their employ.
“And if there are truly any radicals in this room just now, my vote would be for Father Rüstung. Were he as truthful as he demands others be, he’d register himself with Washington as an agent of a foreign power. That’s what he really is, you know—he and his precious German-American Bund would sell out this country in a minute to Adolf Hitler and his gang of German thugs.”
“Be very careful what you say of me, doctor,” said the priest in icy tones. “A day of reckoning will come for you and your kind … and it may well come far sooner than you think.”
Then, turning back to Terence Grady, the priest demanded, “Well, what are you waiting for, lieutenant? Are you going to arrest him and put him in jail where he belongs, or not?”
Ignoring on this rare instance the snap of command in the voice of the German-born priest—whose accent had become stronger and more noticeable in the last few minutes—Lieutenant Terence Grady drew himself up and said, “No, fither, I ain’t. I’m a lieutenant of patrolmen, a harness bull, not a vice cop or even a detective, and taking Mr. Moray in would be a job for one of them guys, not for me. It wasn’t like he was caught in the act or nothin’, and not even a warrant for him, either.”
“A warrant you want, lieutenant? Well, a warrant you will have, the first thing tomorrow morning, over the signature of Judge Heinz Richter. Do you recognize the name of my good, good and old friend, eh? Of course you do. And please to be warned that he will also hear quickly of your impertinence to me, your failure to follow my orders, to do the duty which I pointed out to you and arrest a malefactor who had publicly confessed his guilt to a terrible crime against God and man.
“Come, Irunn,” he snapped and stalked toward the foyer.
With Irunn, the priests and their chauffeur gone, Rosaleen fetched in more food and a bowl of punch, to which last old Pat O’Shea promptly added a half-quart of Irish whiskey.
They all had eaten and imbibed in silence for some time when Fanny Duncan spoke, hesitantly.
“Mr. Moray, you said that she … that Irunn, that is … wasn’t a … a virgin when … when you … when you and she … well, anyway, it all makes me think back to our training days. Irunn and me, we were roommates in training for a couple of years of it, and … and I’ve always wondered. The way she talked about her brother, Sven, and some things she said sometimes in her sleep and the way the two of them behaved when they thought nobody else could see them one time when she and I went up to the farm in Wisconsin for a week and …”
Maggie paled and hurriedly signed herself. “Fanny! Hold your tongue, as you love God. Incest? It’s a nauseating thought. Only degenerates and idiots do such things.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Mrs. O’Shea,” remarked Gerald Guiscarde, adding, “Certain events in my own practice, plus confidential conversations I’ve had with other professionals, incline me toward the belief that incest is not anywhere near as rare a thing as most people, even medical people, seem to think or aver.”
Maggie just shook her head in disbelief, but Milo could and did fully believe it all, for he recalled that on two separate occasions in a transport of passion Irunn had called him Sven and whispered endearments to him in Norwegian.
After finishing off the trays of foods and most of the strengthened-punch, almost single-handedly, Lieutenant Terence Grady addressed Milo. “Mister, I don’t want to take in no friend of Rosaleen O’Farrell’s, and besides, you strike me as a good guy, but if that Kraut priest does get a warrant from that squarehead judge in the mornin’, it ain’t gonna be no like or not like to it, you see. I’m gonna have to bring you in or send some other cop to do it. It might be a good idea if you get out of this precinct—or, better yet, this city—before morning. I’ll give you a ride as far’s the train depot, but I can’t do more’n that for you. I got my wife and kids to think about, see, and my pension, too.”
“You’re a very brave man, lieutenant, a good man, too, to offer help in the face of a vindictive and powerful man like Father Rüstung,” said the doctor. “And I am certain that Mr. Moray recognizes and deeply appreciates your generous offer. But no, it would be just too much needless risk for you to undertake. Leave it to me. I have a motorcar, too, and I am not, thank God, in a position where that most unsaintly man can do me any harm.
“But I do agree with you that Milo must leave the city or even the state tonight. Technically, he is guilty of a so-called crime that could get him, if convicted, as much as fifteen years in prison. So, if you and the sergeant will leave now, the rest of us will make plans and save you the discomfort of having to arrest a friend of Mrs. O’Farrell’s.”
As prearranged, Milo descended from the train in South Bend, Indiana, and found an all-night diner near the depot, where he sat, drinking terrible coffee at a nickel the chipped mug and reading a day-old newspaper until the old wall clock said that it was nine a.m. He then made his way back to the deppt, found a telephone and placed a reverse-charges call, person-to-person to Patrick O’Shea, giving him the name they had decided upon, Tom Muldoon.
“Tommy, lad? Yes, operator, this is Patrick O’Shea. Yes, I’ll accept charges for the call. Tommy, I can’t talk to you but a minute. The whole bloody house is full of cops. Some feller used to room here, they’re after him, two carloads of them just come in and they’re after searching this house from cellar to attic. Anyhow, that guy I told you about, he’s been told you’re coming and he’ll be expectin’ you and he’ll take good care of you and if he don’t you let me know lickety-split… . A’right, lootenant, a’right, it’s just a old buddy from the War is all, and I ain’t talked to him in a coon’s age. What in hell you expect me to be able to tell you, the man’s gone is all. I’m closes’ thing to blind from gas, you know, I can’t see the damn street from the front stoop, not any kind of clear, so how can I tell you which way he went, huh? … Bye-bye, Tommy, I gotta go.”