“Let us say in the sense of being a stranger to the servants.” Monsignor Lavigny grew deadly serious. “And this is the most important suggestion of all.”
“Yes?”
“You might arrange with Mother Superior at the Sacred Heart to permit two women from your staff, dressed in nursing habits, to alternate watches in keeping a constant guard over Candice.”
“There’s a man posted there now, but we’ll do as you say. Both Can-dice and Mrs. Hoffmann are under protection. Until Fuentes is caught.”
“Until,” Monsignor Lavigny murmured in polite correction, “the murderer is trapped.”
“And you, Father? Where will you be while we’re doing all this?”
Monsignor Lavigny’s smile was both enigmatic and strangely affectionate. His eyes held what Chuck Day later described to his wife as a beyond-the-horizon look.
“I am considering a pilgrimage accompanied by Saint Jude. He has helped me in the past, and I shall ask him to help me now. Saint Jude, you know, is the patron saint of the impossible, of the seeming impasse. He is of inestimable assistance at a time when there seems no hope left.”
The following evening, again in the patio with its velvet chiaroscuro of moonlight and the night-released scent of jasmine, Monsignor Lavigny sat in troubled contemplation, absently sipping, his after-dinner brandy and awaiting the arrival of the CBI man.
The prelate had paused at the Sacred Heart on his way home from the airport and had satisfied himself that Candice was under watchful observation by women from the sheriff’s department in their borrowed nursing habits.
He had learned that the girl’s condition remained unchanged, that the coma continued unbroken. Elise Hoffmann had come to the hospital and had also telephoned anxious inquiries numerous times, as had many of Candice’s young friends. There had been (perhaps understandably) no message or inquiry from Raul Fuentes — this, even though the Hoffmann case continued to be front page news.
Chuck came. He slumped into a chair, accepted brandy, and went directly to the point.
“Father, your suggestions have opened up a new slant. We believe now that Elise Hoffmann did the job, but the evidence is slim, circumstantial, and a topflight trial counsel might easily get her off.”
“My thoughts lay that way, too. I suspected, and I still suspect, a frame-up. The nature of it is almost clear, but not quite. We will find it to have been exceedingly clever, the work of a truly devious mind. Is Mrs. Hoffmann under arrest?”
“No. She is under surveillance. We won’t haul her in until we’ve got Fuentes. The case against that young buzzard is still too strong. Unless,” Chuck added with a friendly grin, “your pilgrimage with Saint Jude cleared his slate?”
“To a certain extent it did — at least to my own satisfaction. I am infinitely grateful. When I flew to New York I carried with me a good photograph of Raul. You will remember Elise Hoffmann saying that when she passed the closed door of Candice’s bedroom she heard a TV program going on inside?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it occurred to me that the broadcast might have offered a solution to Candice’s apparent hallucination when she told me that she, with herself being here in Halcyon, had seen Raul in New York City yesterday morning.”
“It was the right hour for the Dave Garroway program ‘Today’ — people in the street before the exhibition hall window. Haven’t I read or seen—”
“Yes, there was nothing especially original in my thought, nor in the fact itself. I, too, have read of similar incidents — one in which a spectator in a ringside seat at a televised prizefight was recognized by his wife, who was watching the program at home. She later divorced him, I believe, naming his rather notorious lady companion at the bout as co-respondent. No, the thought was nothing new, but it served as a possible lead to casting doubt on Elise Hoffmann’s story.”
“What’s the result?”
“Mr. Garroway was most courteous, most kind — as were Mr. Lescoulie and Mr. Blair. They studied Raul’s picture, and did remember a man who might have been he. They had noticed the man because of his gestures.”
“But why on earth would Fuentes risk showing himself on a nationwide hookup if he wanted to keep his ‘mysterious’ absences secret? It doesn’t make sense.”
“A man in love often makes no sense. He was asking forgiveness.”
“Of Candice?”
“Yes, for his tantrum with its hotheaded ‘or else.’ He knew Candice’s habit of watching that broadcast, and took a chance on her doing so yesterday morning. Raul’s gestures were quite compelling in, Mr. Garroway informed me, an operatic fashion. A Latinesque pantomiming of forgive-me-and-I-love-you, done with bravura.”
“Would they make the identification under oath in court, or by sworn affidavit?”
“No. I asked. They would hesitate to do so. There would be too strong an element of doubt.”
“At least the kid’s got one strike in his favor. There’s the hotel he stayed at, or friends. He should be able to prove an alibi.”
“He might not be willing to.”
“Why not?”
“He may refuse flatly to talk about his business in New York or his contacts there.”
“If he doesn’t, the two sets of fingerprints on that second glass will knock our case against Elise Hoffmann into the nearest ashcan.”
“Just how strong has it become?”
Chuck gave the prelate a concise account. The murder weapon had been found. Its place of concealment was in a large clump of star jasmine. It was a jack bar, looked for specifically because of its absence from where it should have been (as Father had suggested), along with the jack in the trunk compartment of Elise Hoffmann’s car.
There was more. The two glasses were of different types. No gloves were found. They could have been disposed of later, and more carefully, than the jack bar.
The Sea Island questioning of the Hoffmann staff revealed that there had been a stranger. Ten days ago. He had been closeted with Hoffmann for over half an hour. No name, but the Hoffmann maid who had let him in offered a general description which included a noticeable cast in the man’s left eye. Identification had proved simple — a local private investigator, well-known to the department and to Chuck. Up to the time of Hoffmann’s death the private investigator had been in Hoffmann’s employ — his assignment, to obtain evidence for a divorce. A Miami Beach character, a young muscle-operator of the Hercules type, came into the picture as the “other man.” This handsome hulk and a legal separation from the Hoffmann assets by divorce offered plenty of motive for the elimination of Hoffmann...
A house boy interrupted. Mister Chuck was urgently wanted on the telephone.
Monsignor Lavigny, while Chuck went into the house, mused on all human frailty, deploring, yet understanding it very well. It was not for him to judge, certainly not for him to punish. That was within the province of the law, while the ultimate appeal lay in the discretion of God. What malignant germ was it that festered in the brain of murder? Never had it been isolated since the days of Cain. What flaw...
“Word from the office,” Chuck said, rejoining him. “They caught Fuentes. His plane just landed at the ranch. He clammed up. A ‘no comment’ to end all ‘no comments.’ They put him in a car, started for headquarters, and he jumped. Now the boondocks have him, not us.” Chuck smashed an angry fist into the palm of his hand. “One other report. The guard we’ve kept on Elise Hoffmann called in that she left the house and drove off in her convertible. Caught him without warning, too late to check on where she’s heading. Father, we’re doing just fine!”
Monsignor Lavigny stood up. “It would be wise for us to go to the Sacred Heart. On the way we can discuss the advisability of certain arrangements. I believe I can persuade Mother Superior to give her consent. Mrs. Hoffmann will take time to drive around while considering her next move. Before,” he added softly, “she strikes again.”