“I found none, but I was making an easy job difficult. Genius frequently overlooks the obvious,” Wolfe observed immodestly. “Far later than I should have, I finally comprehended Mr. Meade’s message. Mr. Goodwin will now pass out copies of the verses, as taken from the New International Version of the Bible. Upon reading them, some of you may well wonder where my brain was as I read the passages.”
I pulled the sheets from the envelope and walked around the table, placing one in front of each of them, including Cramer and Stebbins. For close to a minute, everyone read before Bay broke the silence.
“I find nothing specific here,” he said, shrugging and looking at the others around the table. “Unless I’m in a total fog, there seems to be no common thread linking these texts.”
“Anyone else?” Wolfe said, raising his eyebrows. “No? Perhaps you all are making the same mistake I did. I doggedly persisted in seeking a substantive message in the passages.” I smiled inwardly; never have I heard a relapse described as such hard work.
“Okay, you’ve stumped us,” Gillis snapped, slapping the sheet. “That is, if there’s really any point at all to this.”
Wolfe dipped his head a fraction of an inch. “I sympathize with your frustration. After realizing that there was no textual link among these seven, I sought a cipher. When I found it, I chastised myself at its childlike simplicity. Mr. Meade drew up this list of verses with the expectation that it would be found only if some grave misfortune befell him, which would make it in effect his last word. There are seven verses in all. The first, from I Timothy, serves only to establish the subject: the love of money as a force for evil. Now study the other six, in the order Mr. Meade set them down, and take the first letter in the last word of each.”
Elise Bay spoke first. “It spells... Morgan,” she said tensely, as Purley Stebbins got up and moved silently around the table, stopping behind an ashen-faced Lloyd Morgan.
“This is ridiculous and farfetched,” Morgan cried. “I’m not going to sit here and—” He started to rise, and Purley Stebbins gently but firmly pushed him back down with a beefy hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Wolfe, an explanation is in order,” Bay said, his composure ruffled.
“Mr. Morgan had been taking money from the Sunday collections. How much and for how long — you’ll have to ask him. Mr. Meade found out about this thievery — very likely catching him in the act. That’s not surprising, given that he, Meade, spent so much time in the building. He gave Mr. Morgan a deadline to confess his embezzlement, perhaps giving him the opportunity to repay the money.”
“Barney, this is absurd. Those letters spelling my name, that’s just a silly coincidence,” Morgan said loudly. Beads of perspiration began to form on his face.
“Coincidence? Hardly,” Wolfe replied. “Depending on the frequency with which letters occur in a language, the odds of six letters from an alphabet of twenty-six coming up randomly in a specific order is something over one hundred million to one.” He turned toward Bay. “Shortly after Mr. Morgan was discovered pilfering funds, he began writing the ominous notes, which were, as I said earlier, a subterfuge to bring a private investigator to the scene. He had been given a grace period by Mr. Meade — a fatal mistake, as it turned out. He persuaded you that a detective was needed to find the writer. I was the first choice, and I declined. Mr. Goodwin then recommended Fred Durkin.
“Mr. Morgan’s hope was that the investigator would search desks and discover the photocopies of the notes, thereby placing Mr. Meade in an untenable position. His logic was that once Mr. Meade had been accused of writing those notes, any countercharge he made would seem the attempt of a man desperately trying to shift the spotlight of accusation from himself. It had not been Mr. Morgan’s original intention to kill Royal Meade, only to discredit him.
“He encouraged Mr. Durkin to spend as much time as he needed — at any time of day — in this building. His plan foundered, however, because Fred Durkin is not by nature a desk-rifler. Mr. Morgan, who could not very well suggest that Fred prowl through desks, grew frustrated and desperate, and on the night of the fateful session in this room, he suddenly saw an opportunity to forever silence his antagonist. When Fred lost his temper and Mr. Bay called for a recess to allow tempers to cool, his plan coalesced. He knew Fred wore a shoulder holster and that he took it off along with his suitcoat while in the building. And he also knew where he hung the holster and pistol.”
“So did everybody here,” Morgan said in a frantic tone. “You’re singling me out to try to save your pal.”
Wolfe ignored him. “Mr. Morgan knew he had fifteen minutes, and he also knew, as did everyone else employed by the church, that both the doors and the walls are so thick as to be virtually soundproof. He went to his office to meditate, but stayed only a short time, probably no more than a minute. He reentered the hall, making sure it was deserted, and got Mr. Durkin’s pistol from its holster. He then went to Mr. Meade’s office, entering it, probably without knocking, and closing the door behind him. Royal Meade undoubtedly looked up, surprised to see his colleague during a time decreed for solitary contemplation. At close range, five feet or less, he was an easy target quickly dispatched, even by someone not familiar with handguns. Mr. Morgan probably had a handkerchief between his hand and the handle of the gun to prevent fingerprints.
“In one decisive move, he apparently eliminated his problem. He had committed murder, and to compound the iniquity, he was perfectly content to let another individual suffer for it.” The last sentence was uttered with more contempt than I have ever heard in Wolfe’s voice.
Bay turned to Morgan. “Do you have anything you’d like to say, Lloyd?” he asked hoarsely. Morgan opened his mouth, but no sound came. He shook his head and looked at the tabletop.
“Let us bow in prayer,” Bay said. “Dear Lord, we thank you for your presence with us, and we ask your guidance. This is a troubling time for your church in this place, and we seek your help....” He stopped because of the racking sobs that came from Morgan, who had buried his face in his hands and was shaking. “... We know that in this fallen world we all are sinners, and that no one among us is fit to judge any other. Only you can judge, and it is in you that we put our faith, our trust, and our unending love. Please be with us now and forever, we pray, in the name of your son Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Four of us — Wolfe, Cramer, Stebbins, and I — had not bowed, but were watching the others, all of whom did pray. Morgan was still sobbing as Stebbins helped him to his feet and, after a nod from Cramer, began to recite the Miranda warning: “You have the right to remain silent...” I didn’t hear the rest, because I was on my way out the door, going to the nearest office to call Fred Durkin.
Eighteen
From the telephone in Gillis’s office, I reached Fred at home, giving him the happy news that he would not be boarding with the state after all. I then called Lon Cohen, who was still at the paper, and fed him the highlights of the evening. As usual, he wanted more, and I suggested he call both Cramer and Bay. “I can’t stay on the line with you forever,” I told him. “My boss has seen all he wants to of Staten Island. And he doesn’t like riding in a car after dark even more than he doesn’t like riding in a car in daylight.”