“How was your presence explained to others at the church?”
Fred frowned and slurped coffee, easing the cup back onto its saucer. “The church had some break-ins recently — nothing big, mostly just broken windows and petty vandalism. There’s a night watchman, but he’s older than Methuselah, and I don’t think he hears very well. Anyhow, they did call the cops in on this, but they weren’t much help, so the break-ins were a convenient reason to bring me in. And that gave me the excuse to ask all kinds of questions about anything relating to security — including how the dough’s handled after the offering gets taken.”
I’ve been around long enough to know when my boss loses interest, although others usually can’t tell. I read the signs while Fred was talking, so I was hardly surprised when Wolfe held up a hand. “Would either of you care to stay for lunch? We’re having shad with sorrel sauce.”
“That’s an offer it pains me to turn down, especially with the memories I have of past meals here,” Parker responded with a sad smile. “But I must be in court at two. In fact, I should be going now.”
“And I need to get home to Fanny,” Fred said hoarsely. “When I called her after Mr. Parker got me out, she sounded worried sick.” The truth in Fred’s case is that he knows he’s not overly welcome at Wolfe’s table, and hasn’t been since the day he asked for vinegar, which he proceeded to stir into a brown roux for a squab.
“Very well,” Wolfe said, not sounding the least bit disappointed. “Fred, if you are able to spare the time this afternoon and can return, Archie has a number of questions.” That was news to me — but good news, because it meant Wolfe was jumping in, fee or no fee. Not that I ever doubted he would.
Five
After lunch I hoofed it to our neighborhood branch of the Metropolitan Trust Company, where I had a certified check cut, made out to Parker for fifty grand. Back in the brownstone, I called Lightning Bolt Messenger Service, and within fifteen minutes, one of their kamikaze bicyclists — dressed in yellow spandex tights, black silky shorts and yellow jersey top, and black-and-yellow crash helmet — swung by and picked up the envelope containing the check, mumbling a vow that it would be on Parker’s desk within the half-hour. I laid a healthy tip on the lad, then watched from the stoop as he pedaled the wrong way down Thirty-fifth Street, swerving to avoid a collision with a Yellow Cab, whose driver shook his fist out the window and yelled something I could not make out. It probably wasn’t “Have a nice day.”
I had time to get a batch of orchid-germination records entered into the PC before Fred came back to the brownstone at four-fifteen. The timing ensured he wouldn’t run into Wolfe, who already was well into his playtime in the plant rooms. Fred looked almost as frazzled as he had earlier. “What does he think, Archie?” the accused asked as he dropped into one of the yellow chairs.
“He thinks — no, make that he knows — that you’re as innocent as a newborn Lhasa apso,” I said, swiveling in my desk chair to face him. “In fact, he’s so sure of it that he’s willing to commit my time to getting you cleared.”
“What do you think, Archie?” Fred asked plaintively, avoiding eye contact.
“Oh, come on, for God’s sake, remember who you’re talking to. How long have we known each other? But if it makes you happy, I haven’t forgotten how to ask direct questions: Did you plug Meade?”
“Hell, no.”
“Okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move right along. First off, any nominations you want to make?”
He turned fleshy hands palms up and shrugged weakly. “No, but I gotta say that, for church people, a few of them didn’t seem all that nice, especially Meade.”
“Aha. Then let’s talk about the late Mr. Meade — and the others. Start at the start.”
That drew another shrug, no more lively than the first; Fred sighed and launched into it.
“Well, as I said this morning, I went to see Morgan a week ago last Saturday, the day after you gave him my name. We met in his office in the church, and he showed me the notes, the ones you’d already seen and sent back. Anyway, I told him the thing sounded tough, but that I’d give it a go. The pay was fine, I can’t kick about that. Then Morgan took me in to meet Reverend Bay — it seems like a lot of the Silver Spire people work Saturdays — and that’s when I learned that I couldn’t be open about why I was there, except to that Circle of Faith bunch. With everybody else I talked to, I had to act like I was looking into the vandalism stuff.”
For the next hour, Fred Durkin recounted his experiences at the tabernacle. I could feed you the whole thing verbatim, which is what Wolfe got later from me, but I won’t, because most of it was unimportant. Here, though, are edited versions of Fred’s comments about the big players at the big church:
Lloyd Morgan — “You’ve met him, Archie, so I know you’ve got your own opinions. To me, he’s awful pompous and self-important. I doubt if he’s smiled since Christmas mornings when he was back in grade school, if then. He acts like he’s overworked, and, although he doesn’t say it, he seems to disapprove of most of the others on the staff — except for Reverend Bay, of course. He acts like he’s the only one of the staff who’s concerned about Bay — not just the note thing, but Bay’s overall well-being. And he looks worried all the time, shaking his head and tut-tutting. Must be a real stitch at a party. He was with some fund-raising outfit before he joined the Silver Spire.”
Barnabas Bay — “Damned impressive guy. What you notice first is how young he looks. I did some checking later and found out he’s forty-nine on his next birthday, but he could pass for thirties — early thirties. He’s tanned, over six feet, and has sandy hair and a movie actor’s jaw. Aside from all that, he’s got a way about him that puts you right at ease; maybe it’s partly the southern drawl. Anyway, as I told you and Mr. Wolfe when I was here before, he seemed more embarrassed by the notes than threatened. He said something like ‘I think it’s the work of some misguided and troubled individual, but Lloyd here, bless him, feels there might be some danger, so I’ve relented.’ Then he stressed that he wanted my investigation to be very low-profile. I think he was saying it as much to Morgan as to me. The idea of bad publicity really spooks him.”
Royal Meade — “Right after we’d been with Reverend Bay, Morgan took me to meet Meade and left us alone. Talk about instant dislike! I didn’t take to him, and I know damn well he didn’t like me. He is — was — a little younger than Bay, but he seemed older. Not a bad-looking specimen, but tense, you know, almost jumpy, eyes moving all the time. The first words out of his mouth to me were something like ‘I’ll be candid; I have no respect whatever for your profession, if it can even be called that. I’m seeing you only because Barney asked me to — and I know he did that because Lloyd talked him into hiring you. I fought the decision.’ Meade went on to say he thought the notes were the work of some harmless crank and really didn’t deserve the attention they were getting. Then he dismissed me — rudely, at that. And I found out later he was bad-mouthing me around the church, just on general principles.”
Roger Gillis — “Gillis oversees the church’s education programs, both for the adults and the kids. They must have three dozen different classes, some of ’em on weeknights. He’s in his mid- to late thirties, but like Bay, he looks younger: lanky, loose, and with a big mop of red hair. He’s a likable sort, the ‘aw, shucks’ type, you know? But underneath that easygoing way, the boy’s as sharp as a small-town barber’s razor. He doesn’t miss much that goes on around him, and he seems to think those notes to Bay are worth worrying about, although he didn’t seem to have a specific reason for feeling that way.”