FATHER CRUMLISH CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS
Alice Scanlan Reach is well known in the mystery field for her charming and frequently exciting stories about Father Crumlish. For evidence of her skills, just read on.
“Eat that and you’ll be up all night with one of your stomach gas attacks.” Emma Catt’s voice boomed out from the doorway of what she considered to be her personal sanctuary—the kitchen of St. Brigid’s rectory.
Caught in the act of his surreptitious mission, Father Francis Xavier Crumlish hastily withdrew the arthritic fingers of his right hand, which had been poised to enfold one of several dozen cookies cooling on the wide, old-fashioned table.
“I—I was just thinking to myself that a crumb or two would do no harm,” he murmured, conscious of the guilty flush seeping into the seams, tucks, and gussets of his face.
“It would seem to me that a man of the cloth would be the first to put temptation behind him,” Emma observed tartly as she strode across the worn linoleum flooring. “Particularly a man of your age,” she added, giving him a meaningful look.
The pastor swallowed a heavy sigh. After Emma had arrived to take charge of St. Brigid’s household chores some twenty-two years ago, he had soon learned to his sorrow that her culinary feats were largely confined to bland puddings, poached prunes, and a concoction which she called “Irish Stew” and which was no more than a feeble attempt to disguise the past week’s leftovers.
So he was most agreeably surprised one day when Emma miraculously produced a batch of cookies of such flavorful taste and texture that the priest mentally forgave her all her venial sins. And since it was Father Crumlish’s nature to share his few simple pleasures with others, he promptly issued instructions that, once a year, Emma should bake as many of the cookies as the parish’s meager budget would allow. As a result, although St. Brigid’s pastor and his housekeeper were on extra-short rations from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, many a parishioner’s otherwise cheerless Christmas Day was brightened by a bag of the sugar-and-spice delicacies.
Now, today, as the priest quickly left the kitchen area to avoid any further allusions to his ailments and his advancing years, the ringing of the telephone was entirely welcome. He hurried down the hallway to his office and picked up the receiver.
“St. Brigid’s.”
“It’s Tom, Father.”
Father Crumlish recognized the voice of Lieutenant Thomas Patrick “Big Tom” Madigan of Lake City’s police force and realized, from the urgency in the policeman’s tone, that his call was not a social one.
“I’m at the Liberty Office Building,” Madigan said in a rush. “A guy’s sitting on a ledge outside the top-story window. Says he’s going to jump. If I send a car for you—”
“I’ll be waiting at the curb, Tom,” Father interrupted and hung up the phone.
“Big Tom” Madigan was waiting outside the elderly office building when Father Crumlish arrived some minutes later. Quickly he ushered the priest through the emergency police and fire details and the crowd of curious onlookers who were gazing in awe at the scarecrow figure perched on a ledge high above the street.
“Do you know the man, Tom?” Father asked. He followed the broad-shouldered policeman into the building lobby, and together they entered a self-service elevator.
“And so do you, Father,” Madigan said as he pressed the elevator button. “He’s one of your people. Charley Abbott.”
“God bless us!” the pastor exclaimed. “What do you suppose set Charley off this time?” He sighed. “The poor lad’s been in and out of sanitariums half a dozen times in his thirty years. But this is the first time he’s ever tried to do away with himself.”
“This may not be just one of Abbott’s loony notions,” Madigan replied grimly. “Maybe he’s got a good reason for wanting to jump off that ledge.”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“Last week a man named John Everett was found murdered in his old farmhouse out in Lake City Heights. He was a bachelor, lived alone, no relatives—”
“I read about it,” Father interrupted impatiently. “What’s that got to do—”
“We haven’t been able to come up with a single clue,” Madigan broke in, “until half an hour ago. One of my detectives, Dennis Casey, took an anonymous phone call from a man who said that if we wanted to nab Everett’s murderer we should pick up the daytime porter at the Liberty Office Building.”
“That’s Charley.” Father nodded, frowning. “I myself put in a good word for him for the job.”
“Casey came over here on a routine check,” Madigan went on as the elevator came to a halt and he and the priest stepped out into the corridor. “He showed Abbott his badge, said he was investigating Everett’s murder, and wanted to ask a few questions. Abbott turned pale—looked as if he was going to faint, Casey says. Then he made a dash for the elevator, rode it up to the top floor, and climbed out the corridor window onto the ledge.”
“But surely, now, Tom,” Father protested, “you can’t be imagining that Charley Abbott had a hand in that killing? Why, you know as well as I that, for all his peculiar ways, Charley’s gentle as a lamb.”
“All I know,” Madigan replied harshly, “is that when we tried to ask him a few questions, he bolted.” He ran a hand over his crisp, curly brown hair. “And I know that innocent men don’t run.”
“Innocent or guilty,” Father Crumlish said, “the man’s in trouble. Take me to him, Tom.”
When Father Crumlish entered the priesthood more than forty years before, he never imagined that he was destined to spend most of those years in St. Brigid’s parish—that weary bedraggled section of Lake City’s waterfront where destitution and despair, avarice and evil, walked hand in hand. And although, on the occasions when he lost a battle with the Devil, he too sometimes teetered on the brink of despair, he unfailingly rearmed himself with his intimate, hard-won knowledge of his people.
But now, as the old priest leaned out the window and caught sight of the man seated on the building’s ledge, his confidence was momentarily shaken. Charley Abbott had the appearance and demeanor of a stranger. The man’s usually slumped, flaccid shoulders were rigid with purpose; his slack mouth and chin were set in taut, hard lines; and in place of his normal attitude of wavering indecision, there was an aura about him of implacable determination.
There was not a doubt in Father Crumlish’s mind that Abbott intended to take the fatal plunge into eternity. The priest took a deep breath and silently said a prayer.
“Charley,” he then called out mildly, “it’s Father Crumlish. I’m right here close to you, lad. At the window.”
Abbott gave no indication that he’d heard his pastor’s voice.
“Can you hear me, Charley?”
No response.
“I came up here to remind you that we have been through a lot of bad times together,” Father continued conversationally. “And together we’ll get through whatever it is that’s troubling you now.”
The priest waited for a moment, hoping to elicit some indication that Abbott was aware of his presence. But the man remained silent and motionless, staring into space. Father decided to try another approach.
“I’ve always been proud of you, Charley,” Father said. “And never more so than when you were just a tyke and ran in the fifty-yard dash at our Annual Field Day Festival.” He sighed audibly. “Ah, but that’s so many years ago, and my memory plays leprechaun’s tricks. I can’t recall for the life of me, lad—did you come in second or third?”
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.
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.”
“Shut up,” Annie snapped, shooting her husband a baleful glance.
“First time the crazy fool ever had a decent-paying job,” Steve continued, ignoring her. “And what does he do?” He cocked his thumb and forefinger. “Gets a gun and—”
“Shut up, I said!” Annie’s face flamed angrily.
“Hiya, Father,” a jovial voice interrupted from the doorway. “You here to referee?”
Father turned and saw that the tall burly man entering the kitchen was one of the stray lambs in his flock—George Floss. Murmuring a greeting, the priest noticed that Floss was attired in a bathrobe and slippers.
“It’s my day off,” George volunteered, aware of Father’s scrutiny. He yawned widely before his heavy-jowled face settled into a grin. “So I went out on the town last night.”
“That explains your high color,” Father remarked dryly. He turned back to the table, where Annie and Steve sat glowering at each other. “Now, if you can spare a moment from your bickering,” he suggested, “maybe you can tell me what happened to set Charley off again.”
Steve pointed a finger at Floss. “He’ll tell you.”
“Charley was doing fine,” George said as he poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the stove. “Didn’t even seem to take it too hard—at least, not at first—when I told him he was going to be out of a job.”
“You told him?” the priest said sharply.
“Why, sure,” Floss replied with an important air. “I’m the super at the Liberty Building. Soon as I knew the old dump was going to be torn down, I told everybody on the maintenance crew that they’d be getting the ax. Me too.” He scowled and his face darkened. “A stinking break. There aren’t too many good super jobs around town.”
He gulped some coffee and then brightened. “Of course it won’t be for some time yet. That’s what I kept telling Charley. But I guess it didn’t sink in. He started worrying and acting funny—” He broke off with a shrug.
“You haven’t heard the latest, George,” Steve said. “That cop—Casey—was here nosing around Charley’s room. Found a gun and the Everett guy’s wallet.”
“No kidding!” Floss’s eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head and whistled.
“Gun, wallet, no matter what that cop found,” Annie shrilled, waving the paring knife in her hand for emphasis, “I don’t believe it. Charley may be a little feebleminded, but he’s no murderer—”
The air was suddenly pierced by a loud and penetrating wail. In an upstairs bedroom a child was crying.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Steve said disgustedly. “Started the brat bawling.”
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—”
The pastor brought the conversation to an abrupt end by hanging up.
Herbie Morris was on the verge of locking up The Doll House when Father Crumlish and Big Tom walked in.
“Can you give this a bit of glue, Herbie?” Father asked as he handed the storekeeper the broken lamb.
“Forget it, Father,” Herbie said, shrugging. “Help yourself to a new one.”
“No need. I’m sure you can fix this one and it’ll do fine.”
Then, as Herbie began to administer to the statuette, the pastor walked over to a display of flaxen-haired dolls and leaned across the counter to select one. But the doll eluded his grasp and toppled over. The motion caused it to close its eyes, open its mouth, and emit the realistic sound of a child crying.
“I see your telephone is close by,” Father said, pointing to the instrument on a counter across the aisle. “So it’s little wonder that Detective Casey thought he heard a real child crying while you were on the phone with him at headquarters. One of these dolls must have fallen over just as you were telling him to arrest Charley Abbott for John Everett’s murder.”
The priest was aware of Madigan’s startled exclamation and the sound of something splintering. Herbie stood staring down at his hands, which had convulsively gripped the lamb he’d been holding, and broken it beyond repair.
“I know that you were notified that this building is going to be torn down, Herbie,” Father said, “and I know these four walls are your whole life. But were you so bitter that you were driven to commit murder to get revenge?”
“I didn’t want revenge,” Herbie burst out passionately. “I just wanted to keep my store. That’s all!” He wrung his hands despairingly. “I pleaded with Everett for two months, but he wouldn’t listen. Said he wanted this land for a parking lot.” Morris’s shoulders sagged and he began to weep.
Madigan moved to the man’s side. “Go on,” he said in a hard voice.
“When I went to his house that night, I took the gun just to frighten him. But he still wouldn’t change his mind. I went crazy, I guess, and—” He halted and looked pleadingly at the priest. “I didn’t really mean to kill him, Father. Honest!”
“What about his wallet?” Madigan prodded him.
“It fell out of his pocket. There was a lot of money in it—almost a thousand dollars. I—I just took it.”
“And then hid it, along with the gun, in the room of a poor innocent man,” Father Crumlish said, trying to contain his anger. “And to make sure that Charley would be charged with your crime, you called the police.”
“But the police would have come after me,” Herbie protested, as if to justify his actions. “I read in the papers that they were checking Everett’s properties and all his tenants. I was afraid—” The look on Father’s face caused Herbie’s voice to trail away.
“Not half as afraid as Charley when you kept warning him that the police would accuse him because of his mental record, because he worked in the Liberty Building and was going to lose his job. That’s what you did, didn’t you?” Father asked in a voice like thunder. “You deliberately put fear into his befuddled mind, told him he’d be put away—”
The priest halted and gazed at the little storekeeper’s bald bowed head. There were many more harsh words on the tip of his tongue that he might have said. But, as a priest, he knew that he must forego the saying of them.
Instead he murmured, “God have mercy on you.”
Then he turned and walked out into the night. It had begun to snow again—soft, gentle flakes. They fell on Father Crumlish’s cheeks and mingled with a few drops of moisture that were already there.
It was almost midnight before Big Tom Madigan rang St. Brigid’s doorbell. Under the circumstances Father wasn’t surprised by the policeman’s late visit.
“How did you know, Father?” Madigan asked as he sank into a chair.
Wearily Father related the incident at the crib. “After what I heard at the Swansons and what Casey told me, a crying child was on my mind. And then, when I saw what looked like tears on the Infant’s face, I got to thinking about all the homeless—” He paused for a long moment.
“Only a few hours before, Herbie had told me how hard it was, particularly at Christmas, to be lonely and without a real home. Charley was suspected of murder because he was going to lose his job. But wasn’t it more reasonable to suspect a man who was going to lose his life’s work? His whole world?” Father sighed. “I knew Herbie never could have opened another store in a new location. He would have had to pay much higher rent, and he was barely making ends meet where he was.” It was some moments before Father spoke again. “Tom,” he said brightly, sitting upright in his chair. “I happen to know that the kitchen table is loaded down with Christmas cookies.”
The policeman chuckled. “And I happen to know that Emma Catt counts every one of ’em. So don’t think you can sneak a few.”
“Follow me, lad,” Father said confidently as he got to his feet. “You’re on the list for a dozen for Christmas. Is there any law against my giving you your present now?”
“Not that I know of, Father,” Madigan replied, grinning.
“And in the true Christmas spirit, Tom”—Father Crumlish’s eyes twinkled merrily—“I’m sure you’ll want to share and share alike.”
Father Crumlish’s Christmas Cookies
RECIPE:
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup sifted flour
1 1/4 cups very finely chopped blanched almonds
3/4 cup very finely chopped candied fruit and peels 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
(1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
(2) Combine butter, sugar, and cream in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat.
(3) Stir in other ingredients to form a batter.
(4) Drop batter by spoonfuls onto a greased baking sheet, spacing them about three inches apart.
(5) Bake ten minutes or until cookies begin to brown around the edges. Cool and then remove to a flat surface. If desired, while cookies are still warm, drizzle melted chocolate over tops.
YIELD: About 24 cookies
—Courtesy of the author