Again Father waited, holding his breath. Actually he remembered the occasion clearly. The outcome had been a major triumph in his attempts to bring a small spark of reality into his young parishioner’s dreamy, listless life.
Suddenly Abbott’s long legs, which were dangling aimlessly over the perilous ledge, stiffened, twitched. Slowly he turned his head and focused his bleak eyes on the priest.
“I-I won!” he said, in the reproachful, defensive voice of a small child.
“I can’t hear you, Charley,” Father said untruthfully, striving to keep the tremor of relief from his voice. “Could you speak a little louder? Or come a bit closer?”
To Father Crumlish it seemed an eternity before Abbott’s shoulders relaxed a trifle, before his deathlike grip on the narrow slab of concrete and steel diminished, before slowly, ever so slowly, the man began to inch his way along the ledge until he came within an arm’s reach of the window and the priest. Then he paused and leaned tiredly against the building’s brick wall.
“I won,” he repeated, this time in a louder and firmer tone.
“I remember now,” Father said, never taking his dark blue eyes from his parishioner’s pale, distraught face. “So can you tell me why a fellow like yourself, with a fine pair of racing legs, would be hanging them out there in the breeze?”
The knuckles of Charley’s hands grasping the ledge whitened. “The cops are going to say I murdered Mr. Everett-” He broke off in agitation.
“Go on, Charley.”
“They’re going to arrest me. Put me away.” Abbott’s voice rose hysterically. “And this time it’ll be forever. I can’t stand that, Father.” Abruptly he turned his head away from the priest and made a move as if to rise to his feet. “I’ll kill myself first.”
“Stay where you are!” Father Crumlish commanded. “You’ll not take your life in the sight of God, with me standing by to have it on my conscience that I wasn’t able to save you.”
Cowed by Father’s forcefulness, Abbott subsided and once more turned his stricken gaze on the pastor’s face.
“I want you to look me straight in the eye, Charley,” Father said, “and answer my question: as God is your Judge, did you kill the man?”
“No, Father. No!” The man’s slight form swayed dangerously. “But nobody will believe me.”
Father Crumlish stared fixedly into Abbott’s pale blue eyes, which were dazed now and dark with desperation. But the pastor also saw in them his parishioner’s inherent bewilderment, fear-and his childlike innocence. Poor lad, he thought compassionately. Poor befuddled lad.
“I believe you, Charley,” he said in a strong voice. “And I give you my word that you’ll not be punished for a crime you didn’t commit.” With an effort the priest leaned further out the window and extended his hand. “Now come with me.”
Hesitatingly Abbott glanced down at the priest’s outstretched, gnarled fingers.
“My word, Charley.”
Abbott sat motionless, doubt and indecision etched on his thin face.
“Give me your hand, lad,” Father said gently.
Once again the man raised his eyes until they met the priest’s.
“Give me your hand!”
It was a long excruciating moment before Charley released his grip on the ledge, extended a nail-bitten, trembling hand, and permitted the pastor’s firm warm clasp to lead him to safety.
It was Father Crumlish’s custom to read the Lake City Times sports page while consuming his usual breakfast of coddled egg, dry toast, and tea. But this morning he delayed learning how his beloved Giants, and in particular Willie Mays, were faring until he’d read every word of the running story on John Everett’s murder.
Considerable space had been devoted to the newest angle on the case-Charley Abbott’s threatened suicide after the police had received an anonymous telephone tip and had sought to question him. Abbott, according to the story, had been taken to Lake City Hospital for observation. Meanwhile, the police were continuing their investigation, based on the few facts at their disposal.
To date, John Everett still remained a “mystery man.” With the exception of his lawyer, banker, and the representative of a large real-estate management concern-and his dealings with all three had been largely conducted by mail or telephone-apparently only a handful of people in Lake City were even aware of the man’s existence. As a result, his murder might not have come to light for some time, had it not been for two youngsters playing in the wooded area which surrounded Everett’s isolated farmhouse. Prankishly peering in a window, they saw his body sprawled on the sparsely furnished living-room floor and notified the police. According to the Medical Examiner, Everett had been dead less than twenty-four hours. Death was the result of a bullet wound from a.25 automatic.
Although from all appearances Everett was a man of modest means, the story continued, investigation showed that in fact he was extremely wealthy-the “hidden owner” of an impressive amount of real estate in Lake City. Included in his holdings was the Liberty Office Building where Charley Abbott had almost committed suicide.
Frowning, Father Crumlish put down the newspaper and was about to pour himself another cup of tea when the telephone rang. Once again it was Big Tom Madigan-and Father was not surprised. It was a rare day when Madigan failed to “check in” with his pastor-a habit formed years ago, when he’d been one of the worst hooligans in the parish and the priest had intervened to save him from reform school. And in circumstances like the present, where one of St. Brigid’s parishioners was involved in a crime, the policeman always made sure that Father Crumlish was acquainted with the latest developments.
“I’ve got bad news, Father,” Madigan said, his voice heavy with fatigue.
The priest braced himself.
“Seems Everett decided to demolish quite a few old buildings that he owned. Turn the properties into parking lots. I’ve got a list of the ones that were going to be torn down and the Liberty is on it.” Madigan paused a moment. “In other words, Charley Abbott was going to lose his job. Not for some months, of course, but-”
“Are you trying to tell me that any man would commit murder just because he was going to lose his job?” Father was incredulous.
“Not any man. Charley. You know that he didn’t think his porter’s job was menial. To him it was a ‘position,’ a Big Deal, the most important thing that ever happened to him.”
Father Crumlish silently accepted the truth of what Big Tom had said. And yet… “But I still can’t believe that Charley is capable of murder,” he said firmly. “There’s something more to all this, Tom.”
“You’re right, Father, there is,” Madigan said. “Abbott lived in the rooming house run by his sister and brother-in-law, Annie and Steve Swanson.”
“That I know.”
“Casey-the detective who tried to question Charley yesterday-went over to the house to do a routine check on Charley’s room. Hidden under the carpet, beneath the radiator, he found a recently fired.25 automatic.”
The priest caught his breath.
“Casey also found a man’s wallet. Empty-except for a driver’s license issued to John Everett.”
“What will happen to poor Charley now, Tom?” Father finally managed to ask.
“In view of the evidence I’ll have to book him on suspicion of murder.”
After hanging up the phone, the priest sat, disconsolate and staring into space, until Emma Catt burst into the room, interrupting his troubled thoughts.
“I just went over to church to put some fresh greens on the roof of the crib,” Emma reported. “Some of the statuettes have been stolen again.”
Wincing at her choice of the word, the pastor brushed at his still-thick, snow-white hair, leaned back in his desk chair, and closed his eyes.