Annie gave a potato a vicious stab with her knife. “Go on up and quiet her.”
“Not me,” Steve retorted with a defiant shake of his balding head. “That’s your job.”
“I’ve got enough jobs, cooking and cleaning around here. It won’t kill you to take care of the kid once in a while.”
Father Crumlish had stood in shocked silence during the stormy scene. But now he found his tongue.
“It’s ashamed you should be,” he said harshly, turning his indignant dark blue eyes first on Annie, then on Steve. “When I baptized our little Mary Ann, four years ago, I told both of you that you were blessed to have a child at your age and after so many years. Is this disgraceful behavior the way you give thanks to the good Lord? And is this home life the best you can offer the poor innocent babe?”
He took a deep breath to cool his temper. Annie and Steve sat sullen and wordless. The only sound in the silence was the child’s crying.
“I’ll go and see what’s eating her,” George offered, obviously glad to escape from the scene.
“I’ve an errand to do,” Father told the Swansons. “But mind you-he held up a warning finger-“I’ll be back before long to have another word or two with you.”
Turning on his heel, he crossed the kitchen floor, walked down the hallway, and let himself out the door. But before he was halfway down the steps to the street, he heard Annie’s and Steve’s strident voices raised in anger again. And above the din he was painfully aware of the plaintive, persistent sound of the crying child.
Lieutenant Madigan was seated at his desk, engrossed in a sheaf of papers, when Father Crumlish walked into headquarters.
“Sit down, Father,” Big Tom said sympathetically. “You look tired. And worried.”
Irritated, the pastor clicked his tongue against his upper plate. He disliked being told that he looked tired and worried; he knew very well that he was tired and worried, and that was trouble enough. He considered remaining on his feet, stating his business succinctly, and then being on his way. But the chair next to Madigan’s desk looked too inviting. He eased himself into it, suppressing a sigh of relief.
“I know all this is rough on you, Father,” Madigan continued in a kind tone. “But facts are facts.” He paused, extracted one of the papers in front of him, and handed it to the priest.
Father Crumlish read it slowly. It was a report on the bullet which had killed John Everett; the bullet definitely had been fired from the gun found in Charley Abbott’s room. Silently the pastor placed the report on Big Tom’s desk.
“This is one of those cases that are cut and dried,” the policeman said. “One obvious suspect, one obvious motive.” He shifted his gaze away from the bleak look on Father’s face. “But you know that with his mental record Charley will never go to prison.”
Abruptly Father Crumlish got to his feet.
“Can you tell me where I’ll find Detective Dennis Casey?” he asked.
Madigan stared in astonishment. “Third door down the hall. But why-?”
Father Crumlish had already slipped out the door, closed it behind him, and a moment later he was seated beside Detective Casey’s desk. Then, in response to the priest’s request, Casey selected a manila folder from his files.
“Here’s my report on the anonymous phone call, Father,” he said obligingly. “Not much to it, as you can see.”
A glance at the typed form confirmed that the report contained little information that Father didn’t already have.
“I was hoping there might be more,” the pastor said disappointedly. “I know you’ve been on this case since the beginning and I thought to myself that maybe there was something that might have struck you about the phone call. Something odd in the man’s words, perhaps.” Father paused and sighed. “Well, then, maybe you can tell me about your talk with Charley. Exactly what you said to him-”
“Wait a minute, Father,” Casey interrupted. He ran a hand through his carrot-hued hair. “Now that you mention it, I do remember something odd about that call. I remember hearing a funny sound. Just before the guy hung up.”
“Yes?” Father waited hopefully for the detective to continue.
Casey’s brows drew together as he tried to recall.
“It was a sort of whining. A cry, maybe.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s it! It sounded like a baby-a kid-crying.”
As Father Crumlish wearily started up the steps to the rectory door, his left foot brushed against a small patch of ice buried beneath the new-fallen snow. He felt himself slipping, sliding, and he stretched out a hand to grasp the old wrought-iron railing and steady himself. As he did, the package of statuettes, which he’d been carrying all these long hours, fell from under his arm and tumbled to the sidewalk.
“Hellfire!”
Gingerly Father bent down to retrieve the package. At that moment St. Brigid’s chimes ran out. Six o’clock! Only two hours before Evening Devotions, the priest realized in dismay as he straightened and stood erect. And in even less time his parishioners would be arriving at church to kneel down at the crib, light their candles, and say their prayers.
Well, Father thought, he would have to see to it that they wouldn’t be disappointed, that there would be nothing amiss in the scene of the Nativity. Moments later he stood in front of the crib and unwrapped the package. To his chagrin he discovered that the tumble to the sidewalk had caused one of the lambs to lose its head and one leg. But Herbie Morris could easily repair it, Father told himself as he stuffed the broken lamb into his pocket and proceeded to put his replacements in position. First, in the center of the crib, the Infant. Next, to the left, the First Wise Man. And then, close to the Babe, another unbroken lamb that he’d purchased.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Father knelt down and gazed at the peaceful tableau before him. Ordinarily the scene would have evoked a sense of serenity. But the priest’s heart was heavy. He couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a sad Christmas for Charley Abbott. And that the man’s prospects for the future were even worse. Moreover, Father couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d seen and heard at the Swansons-the anger, bitterness, selfishness, and, yes, even the cruelty.
Hoping to dispel his disquieting thoughts, the pastor started to close his eyes. But a slight movement in the crib distracted him. He stared in astonishment as he saw that a drop of moisture had appeared on the face of the Infant and had begun to trickle slowly down the pink waxen cheeks.
Even as he watched, fascinated, another drop appeared-and then the priest quickly understood the reason for the seeming phenomenon. The greens that Emma had placed on the roof of the stable had begun to lose their resilience in the steam heat of the church. The fir, pine, and holly boughs were drooping, shedding moisture on the face of the Child…
In the flickering rosy glow of the nearby vigil lights it struck the priest that the scene seemed almost real-as if the Child were alive and crying. As if He were weeping for all the people in the world. All the poor, lonely, homeless-
Father Crumlish stiffened. A startled expression swept over his face. For some time he knelt, alert and deep in thought, while his expression changed from astonishment to realization and, finally, to sadness. Then he rose from his knees, made his way to the rectory office, and dialed police headquarters.
“Could you read me that list you have of the buildings that John Everett was going to have torn down?” Father said when Madigan’s voice came on the wire. The policeman complied.
“That’s enough, Tom,” the priest interrupted after a moment. “Now tell me, lad, will you be coming to Devotions tonight? I’ve a call to make and I thought, with this snow, you might give me a lift.”
“Glad to, Father.” Suspicion crept into Madigan’s voice. “But if you’re up to something-”