How much of a market was another question. In much of the Western world, at least, markets were established through packaging and merchandising. Was popular taste that bad? Was there an inherent attraction to garbage? Or were those who package and market the product merely uncommonly adept at selling? Moot questions?
Koesler was convinced that Klaus Krieg was indeed a superior salesman. He had packaged and marketed Christianity, to his own immense profit. He had packaged and marketed religious literature, to his own considerable profit.
Koesler strongly believed that it wasn’t so much that there was a natural market for exploitive violence and sex as that there were skilled salespeople who created and promoted that market. But there was, unquestionably, a market out there. To that extent, Krieg was correct.
On the other hand, the writers were correct. There was a market for artistry and pride of workmanship. Granted, it was not nearly as easy to reach that market. But it was there. Carefully crafted music, theater, literature, television, art; works of dedication lasted. Even contemporary art proved the point. As long as civilization endured, the music of Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern would be played and sung. Forever, companies would perform South Pacific, Oklahoma! My Fair Lady, and the like. Acid rock would fade to an obsolete and forgotten phenomenon of the second half of the twentieth century.
The writers were to be admired in their resistance to the salesmanship of Klaus Krieg. The question was: Could they persevere? Could they continue to resist Krieg’s considerable prowess?
The weather was growing brisk. It was becoming a typical nippy Michigan autumn evening. Koesler had decided on the walk through Marygrove’s campus. Without a topcoat, he was getting a chill.
As he entered the Cadillac building, Koesler realized he had not seen David Benbow during the walk. But it had been hours since Benbow had proposed taking an after-dinner walk. He must have returned to his room by now. Probably retired for the night.
Contemplating bed himself, Koesler decided to see if he could get a nightcap. He headed down the empty corridor to the dining room. Strange how threatening a large institution can seem when it’s empty.
Koesler entered the dining room and turned on the light. He was vaguely aware something was amiss. But what? Nothing. Surely nothing.
It was an after-dinner drink he wanted. There was no hint of a liqueur in the cache supplied by the college. He needed access to Krieg’s supply. But that was under lock and key.
Wait. . He glanced at the cupboard holding Krieg’s private stock. The cabinet door was ajar. Odd.
Something was wrong, very wrong. He looked around the room. Cloths covered all the tables except the one the faculty had used; that had no tablecloth. The linen should have been laid preparatory to tomorrow’s breakfast.
He moved toward the bare table. The tablecloth was on the floor, together with the flatware, some shattered china, and a body.
Another game? Another little psychodrama?
Koesler thought not.
He bent down for a closer look. He could detect no blood. There also was no pulse.
Now he knew what it was he had sensed on entering the room. In his priestly duties, Koesler had become familiar with the distinctive odor. It was the odor of death.
This time there would be no mistakes. He would go right to the top and call his friend, Inspector Walter Koznicki.
The question that baffled Koesler as he rang up was, if this was indeed a murder, why would anyone want to kill Rabbi Irving Winer?
13
Technicians were all over the place. To the unpracticed eye, it seemed to be chaos. But, as in an ant colony, there was a distinct and definite purpose to everything. Lights popped as photographers captured the scenes that the detectives wanted preserved on film. Measurements were taken, samples gathered, and people interrogated. Questions! Endless questions!
Standing to one side, conversing as they observed the preservation and enshrining of the scene of the crime, were Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki.
Koesler was bringing Koznicki up-to-date on what had preceded the death.
“Then, when you came into the dining room tonight, you found the body of Rabbi Winer. And you were the first to find the body, Father?” Koznicki asked.
“That’s right,” Koesler said. “At least I presume I was first. If I hadn’t decided I could do with a nightcap, probably nobody would have discovered the poor man until tomorrow morning.”
“And you went to Reverend Krieg’s private supply?”
“I didn’t really think about that until I got to the dining room. As I told you, Inspector, the college put in a wet bar with most of the standard liquors: gin, whiskey, Scotch, vermouth, beer-but no cordials. What I had in mind was a touch of cognac or Benedictine.
“Well, I was at the door of the dining room when it occurred to me that only Krieg had the liqueurs and he kept his private stock under lock and key. That’s why I was surprised to see the door of Krieg’s cabinet open.”
“The cabinet belonged to Reverend Krieg?”
“Not really. It, along with all the furnishings, belongs to the college. But Krieg had appropriated it. It appears to be the only cabinet in the room that can be locked.”
“I see.” Koznicki briefly answered a question from one of the officers. “Then someone left the cabinet unlocked?”
“Not necessarily,” Koesler said. “Before dinner this evening-before Krieg showed up-Rabbi Winer tried the door of the cabinet, to see if it had been left unlocked. It hadn’t. But Sister Janet told us-and everyone was present to hear her-that an extra key to the cabinet was kept”- Koesler pointed-“just inside that door. And it must have been that key that was used; after I called you, I checked and it wasn’t on its hook. And your men found a key under the rabbi’s body.”
Furrows appeared in Koznicki’s forehead. “But. . but what could have been the purpose of locking the cabinet when another key was readily available?”
“Games, Inspector, games. We have been playing lots of games ever since this group assembled. It has everything to do with what I told you about how Krieg wanted these four writers in his stable. I think it is certain that that is the principal purpose for this writers’ conference.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Ostensibly four successful writers and one successful publisher assemble for a workshop. One should naturally conclude that the purpose is to help amateur writers to get published to their heart’s content. But in this instance, seeing as how Krieg in effect set the whole thing up, the purpose of the conference is to give Krieg one last shot at getting writers he wants under contract to him. Thus we had games: the psychodrama; Kreig’s having a suite downtown as well as a room here, his own menu when he doesn’t want to eat the food we’re eating, his own liquor supply-that sort of thing. I think the Reverend Krieg has been trying to impress these four people that he is in control of everything, including, by inference, them.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes. And I’ve told you of the writers’ reaction to all this. Extreme hostility! To a degree that has surprised me.”
“Indeed.” Koznicki answered another whispered question, then turned back to Koesler. “One would think that if a writer did not wish to sign a contract, that would be it. Even if the publisher were to be more persistent-as Reverend Krieg evidently has been-still, there should not be all this tension and talk of murder.”
Koesler shook his head. “But, that, Inspector, is what has indeed happened.”
At that moment, Sergeant Phil Mangiapane approached Koznicki. “Doc Moellmann thinks it was cyanide, Inspector.”