The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (15 page)

“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.

In
observance of the Christmas season St. Brigid’s church traditionally displayed
a miniature crib, or manger, simulating the scene of the Nativity. Statuettes
representing the participants in the momentous event were grouped strategically
in the stable. And to enhance the setting, boughs of fir, pine, and holly were
placed around the simple structure.

So
while Father Crumlish was pleased by Emma’s attention to the crib’s appearance,
he also understood the full meaning of her report. It was sad but true that
each year, on more than one occasion, some of the statuettes would be missing.
But, unlike Emma, Father refused to think of the deed as “stealing.” From past
experience (sometimes from a sobbing whisper in the Confessional), he knew that
some curious child had knelt in front of the crib, stretched out an eager hand,
perhaps to caress the Infant, and then…

“What’s
missing this time?” the priest asked tiredly.

“The
Infant, the First Wise Man, and a lamb.”

“Well,
no harm done. I’ll step around to Herbie’s and buy some more.”

“It
would be cheaper if you preached a sermon on stealing.”

“
‘They know not what they do,’ ” the old priest murmured as he adjusted his
collar and his bifocals, shrugged himself into his shabby overcoat, quietly
closed the rectory door behind him, and walked out into the gently falling
snow.

Minutes
later he opened the door of Herbie’s Doll House, a toy and novelty store which
had occupied the street floor of an aged three-story frame building on Broad
Street as long as the pastor could remember. As usual at this time of the year,
the store was alive with the shrill voices of excited youngsters as they
examined trains, wagons, flaxen-haired dolls, and every imaginable type of
Christmas decoration. Presiding over the din was the proprietor, Herbie Morris,
a shy, slight man in his late sixties.

Father
Crumlish began to wend his way through the crowd, reflecting sadly that most of
his young parishioners would be doomed to disappointment on Christmas Day. But
in a moment Herbie Morris caught sight of the priest, quickly elbowed a path to
his side, and eagerly shook Father’s outstretched hand.

“I
can see that the Christmas spirit has caught hold of you again this year,”
Father Crumlish said with a chuckle. “You’re a changed man.” It was quite true.
Herbie Morris’ normally pale cheeks were rosy with excitement, and his usually
dull eyes were shining.

“I
know you and all the storekeepers in the parish think I’m a fool to let the
kids take over in here like this every Christmas,” Herbie said sheepishly but
smiling broadly. “You think they rob me blind.” He sighed. “You’re right. But
it’s worth it just to see them enjoying themselves—” He broke off, and a
momentary shadow crossed his face. “When you have no one—no real home to go to—it
gets lonely—” His voice faltered. “Especially at Christmas.”

Father
Crumlish put an arm around the man’s thin shoulder. “It’s time you had a paying
customer,” he said heartily. “I need a few replacements for the crib.”

Nodding,
Morris drew him aside to a counter filled with statuettes for the manger, and
Father quickly made his selections. The priest was about to leave, when Herbie
clasped his arm.

“Father,”
he said, “I’ve been hearing a lot about Charley Abbott’s trouble. I room with
the Swansons.”

“I
know you do,” Father said, “I’m on my way now to see Annie and Steve.”

“George
says Charley had been acting funny lately.”

“George?”

“George
Floss. He rooms there too.”

The
same fellow who’s the superintendent of the Liberty Office Building?” Father
was surprised.

“That’s
him. Charley’s boss.”

Thoughtfully
the priest tucked the box of statuettes under his arm and departed. Although
his destination was only a few minutes’ walk, it was all of half an hour before
he arrived. He’d been detained on the way in order to halt a fist fight or two,
admire a new engagement ring, console a recently bereaved widow, and steer
homeward a parishioner who’d been trying to drain dry the beer tap in McCaffery’s
Tavern. But finally he mounted the steps of
a
battered house with a sign on the door reading:
Rooms.

He
had little relish for his task. Annie and Steve were a disagreeable,
quarrelsome pair, and the pastor knew very well that they considered his
interest in Charley’s welfare all through the years as “meddling.” Therefore he
wasn’t surprised at the look of annoyance of Steve’s face when he opened the
door.

“Oh,
it’s you, Father,” Steve said ungraciously. “C’mon in. Annie’s in the kitchen.”

Silently
Father followed the short, barrel-chested man, who was clad in winter underwear
and a pair of soiled trousers, down a musty hallway. Annie was seated at the
kitchen table, peeling potatoes. She was a scrawny, pallid-complexioned woman
who, Father knew, was only in her mid-forties. But stringy gray hair and deep
lines of discontent crisscrossing her face made her appear to be much older.
Now, seeing her visitor, she started to wipe her hands on her stained apron and
get to her feet. A word from the pastor deterred her.

“I
suppose you’ve come about Charley,” she said sulkily.

“Ain’t
nothing you can do for him this time, Father,” Steve said with a smirk. “This
time they got him for good—and good riddance.”