Joseph E. Wright 81,000 words
AISLE OF THE DEAD
by
Joseph E. Wright
Copyright 2009 by Joseph E. Wright
All rights reserved
Cover Design by Joseph E. Wright
Smashwords Edition March 2009
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author.
CHAPTER I
“When you and I talked this afternoon, Father,” Pat began after their waiter placed drinks in front of them, “you were… well, it’s no exaggeration to say, frantic. You told me about some very strange things taking place at Saint Alban’s.”
They were seated at a table in Oscar’s Restaurant. Pat Montgomary was in his mid-thirties, deeply tanned from the past two weeks at the seashore, and visibly concerned as he stared at the priest across the table from him. Phillis Toner, Pat’s half sister, was her radiant self this evening with her equally deep tan. She was ten years younger than her brother. She too was studying the third member of their party. This latter was easily in his sixties (she guessed), his face pale and drawn. He was dressed in black with a Roman collar.
“I guess you’ll think I am foolish,” the priest began hesitantly. “You might think I’m not responsible for my actions when I tell you why I asked to meet you. And, the more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that perhaps… perhaps it was wrong of me to impose upon you. It really is nothing. If I could beg your forgiveness and let it go at that….”
“Father, something is bothering you,” Pat continued, a sternness creeping into his voice. “If ever I saw someone with a problem, it’s you. I hope you’ll pardon me for being so blunt, but frankly, Father, you look to me as though you need professional help. You look as though you have not been sleeping well. Your hands are shaking. Are you an alcoholic or been drinking heavily lately?”
“Good heavens, no, although I must say I admire your frankness.” Father Victor Sieger nervously brushed back his thinning white hair. His eyes, a pale, almost washed-out blue, old from seeing so much of life for so many years, searched the faces of his two dinner companions.
Pat nodded. “Okay, then from all I’ve seen in the short while we’ve been together, it’s my guess that you are a man for whom all is not well. Either you have a serious physical problem or something else is bothering you. Since the three of us are here at your request, why not tell us. Keep in mind we know the importance of confidentiality.”
“I’m sorry,” the priest apologized. “You are right, and please do forgive me for not trusting you, but you see, it is precisely that: a question of not trusting. Don’t get me wrong. It’s certainly not you whom I do not trust. It is… myself. I feel I can no longer trust my own judgment, my own… grasp on reality. That’s why I hesitate to tell you, even now after imposing upon you and coming this distance. It’s all so… so juvenile; I should never have asked you. I should not have.…”
“Why don’t you just say what you originally intended to say and we’ll take it from there,” Phillis spoke up. Her voice was softer, warmer than her brother’s. She leaned forward, closer to their guest.
The priest nodded. “Yes, that might be wise. Maybe… maybe just being able to tell someone about it might help. I do that all the time, you know, listen to other people, and I know that by just listening, sometimes not saying a word, I help others. Maybe you can do that service for me now.” He looked down at his hands, the fingers intertwined and the palms facing upward, and he was silent for a few moments, then he spoke, slowly at first. “It started, I would guess, about nine, ten months ago. A few utterly simple, unimportant things, nothing concrete, nothing even worth mentioning, and I would not mention them now except that eventually, in the totality of happenings, they began to take on serious, even sinister, meanings. A couple of times things were missing and would turn up in unexpected places, foolish, trivial items: car keys the first time, then, unless my memory too is failing me, things like cash, food, clothing. Do I make any sense?”
Pat shook his head. “I don’t know. You mean, these things would not be where you expected them to be, but you found them later? Not unusual, is it? I’m forever forgetting things myself and I’m--”
“And you’re much younger than I am. Is that what you were about to say, Pat? It’s all right. I don’t mind. But please do not think I am getting senile. I truly do not believe that. What I am trying to tell you is that things, gradually becoming more important with the passage of time over the next few months, would disappear and sometimes suddenly reappear, all with no semblance of logic. A few times I questioned Father Paul, our assistant at St. Alban’s, and Grace Everett, who runs the church office, and they could shed no light on the things that had happened. Then those things suddenly stopped just as abruptly as they had begun. I was relieved, as you can well imagine, and for a couple of weeks or so everything was quite calm, and I chalked it all up to a series of coincidences and forgetfulness on my part and the part of others, and I foolishly went about my daily business thinking all was over.”
“And, I gather, all was not over,” Phillis said and leaned back in her chair. “What happened next?”
Father Sieger was unaware that he was rubbing his fingertips against the palms of his hands. “No, all was not right. The next incident that happened, as best I can remember, caused quite a bit of trouble. It happened on a Sunday, a very important Sunday. The bishop was to be present at mass at eleven o’clock that morning and was to confirm and receive a number of people who had been studying and preparing for that day. Naturally, I arose quite early that morning so I would have plenty of time before the bishop arrived. Well, I was still not ready for him when the front doorbell of the rectory rang, and you can imagine my consternation when I discovered it was the bishop. Naturally, he was somewhat put out when he found me unready for him. I pointed out that he was at least an hour earlier than he was expected, but he insisted his watch was right. I checked--without his being aware of it, of course--with all the clocks in the rectory, even the grandfather clock on the second floor landing, and they proved me right. They all showed it was an hour earlier than the bishop insisted it was. The next thing I knew, Father Paul was at my study door, asking if everything was all right and was I ready to come over to the church. He, too, insisted it was later than the rectory clocks said it was. I was made to look the fool. I quickly got ready and hurried over to the church, which was quite filled by that time. It seemed that the rectory clocks and I had one time, and the rest of the world was going by another.”
“Surely a simple explanation,” Pat suggested. “During the night, the electricity went off for an hour. Someone noticed the grandfather clock, thought it was running fast, and so reset it to match all the others.”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. I wish it did, but you see, there were a couple of things wrong with that explanation. Digital clocks on appliances and video and audio equiptment should have been flashing twelve o’clock as they usually do whenever power is shut off. They weren’t. Granted, someone could have changed them, too, but the thing which destroyed that supposition was my watch, the wristwatch I was wearing and had on my wrist all through the night while I slept. That, too, was an hour slow. I remembered checking it just before going to bed and found it exactly right. It dawned on me that the only explanation for all that happened was that someone came into the rectory and moved all the clocks back an hour and after they had done that, came into my bedroom and did the same thing to the watch that was on my wrist--as I slept. It was the following day before I stopped shaking, I was so upset by what had taken place. But that was only the beginning. There was more, much more, to come. And….” Father Sieger began to shake noticeably.
Pat signaled Hal, their waiter, to bring them another round of drinks. “There was more?” Pat asked, to prod the priest on with his story.
Father Sieger nodded. “It is difficult, as I’m sure you can imagine, and I must be careful not to… not to involve others in what I say or think. One can not be too….” He looked around the room, then directly at Pat, then Phillis. “I soon became positive that none of this was coincidence. There was a pattern to it all, and coincidence, by its very nature, is haphazard--hit or miss. No, this was planned. There was some kind of intelligence behind it all. Things, crazy things, would happen and continue to happen for a number of days, sometimes a couple of weeks, then stop as abruptly as they had begun, only to have some other kind of strange happening start up.
“Take last winter, for example. I would find doors around the rectory and church unlocked when they shouldn’t be, and locked when they should have been open. At first, I blamed my own forgetfulness or the carelessness of others. Then one night something happened which convinced me none of this was my imagination, that someone, for whatever reason I couldn’t fathom, was at work. I was alone in the rectory one evening. Father Paul was away. Even our sexton, who lives on the premises, was away. I was upstairs on the second floor in my room. It was an exceptionally bitter cold night, around midnight, and I was about to get ready for bed when I happened to look out the window and saw there were lights on in the church. We are not so rich a parish that we can afford to waste electricity, and everyone knows I’m something of a fanatic on the subject of wasting electricity. I grabbed the first thing I found, a lightweight golf jacket, and threw it over my shoulders. There’s a key to the church hanging on a hook just inside the rectory vestibule. It opens the church door, but none of the other doors on the property. I took it with me.
“As I went out through the front door of the rectory, I stopped and made sure the door button was off so that I would have no trouble getting back in. The cold wind went right through me. I ran across the garden and had the key to the church door ready in my hand. It was very dark, no moon, and not a star in the sky with the wind howling through the trees. I quickly opened the big old oak door and went inside and turned off the lights. As I left, I locked the outside door of the church. It’s the kind that must be locked with a key--you can’t just press a button--and ran back to the rectory. I was frozen. I pulled on the rectory door and it wouldn’t budge. It was locked. I was panicky, as you can well imagine. I couldn’t stay outside and I thought of reopening the church, but I realized that would do no good. There was no heat on in there, and to turn it on, you have to get into the basement, and that was locked and I did not have a key to it with me. If I had had the key to the church office, I could have gone through the church, then to the lower level where the office is, and from there into the rectory.
“I was on the verge of freezing to death. All I could think to do was to get to a telephone. There’s been talk forever of putting a telephone in the church itself, but we’ve never gotten around to it. There’s a phone in the sacristy, in the parish hall and, of course, in the church office, but, as I said, I had taken only the old brass key which opens the front door of the church. To make the situation worse, I had no money on me. So, I hurried down to the corner and crossed the street to the Westmont Hotel. I was about to go inside and ask if I might use the telephone when I saw Grace Everett coming towards me. I told you she’s our administrative assistant. She was on her way home from visiting one of our parishioners who was sick. She walked back to the rectory with me and let me.”
“She has a key to the rectory?” Phillis asked.
“Why, yes, of course. But don’t go getting any ideas about Grace. She’s as trustworthy as they come. I would trust my life with her. To show what I mean when I say someone was deliberately doing something, the next morning, Tom Benson, who’s sexton of the parish, came to my study to tell me that when he went to open up that morning, he found the front door of the church--the one I so carefully locked the night before after turning out the lights--was unlocked. And there were a couple more incidents just like that in the next few days, incidents where I deliberately stopped to check that I had locked or unlocked a door, only to find it in the opposite condition later. Then, it all stopped.”
“Nothing more happened after that?” Pat asked.
The priest shook his head. “No, I mean that was the end of the things with doors. For several days, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen. Then, they began. Messages. Wrong messages. Cruel messages. One day--I believe it was the first week in February--I had been out at the local hospital, and when I got back, Muriel, who works on a volunteer basis in the office, had a message for me. The message said a niece of mine on my mother’s side of the family, Eileen, had just had her baby, and the whole family was so excited.”
“What was wrong with that?”
“Miss Toner, I don’t have a niece. It could have been a case of the person calling getting the wrong party, except that he referred to me by name and even mentioned my niece’s name, ‘Eileen.’ I once had a niece by the name of Eileen, but she died a great many years ago; she and her baby and her husband were all killed in an automobile accident. That call was followed by what you might describe as prank calls, like messages about meeting someone at a certain place, only to find that the person in question had never called at all.
“By this time, I was at my wit’s end. I wasn’t sure anymore whether I was having a nervous breakdown, becoming senile, or what. Then, the noises began. Oh, my God, I can still hear those dreadful noises in the dead of night.”
CHAPTER II
Father Victor Sieger had arrived in Atlantic City earlier that same day, a hot, dusty day in July. As he drove along Pacific Avenue, all that he had read about The Nation’s Playground since it had become the home of gambling palaces, he realized was true. When he was a child, his parents had often taken him to this city with its beautiful, wide beaches. Now, he recognized none of the old landmarks, the majestic hotels along the boardwalk, looking out to sea like ancient gods guarding the shore and the island. Gone, too, were the wide verandas with rocking chairs occupied by vacationers. These things had been replaced by busloads and carloads of optimistic gamblers hoping to strike it big.
He felt out of place.
He was out of place.
As out of place as his meticulously pressed black suit, stiff white collar, and Panama hat as he entered the lobby of the Taj Mahal Hotel and looked around for a house phone. He found one and inquired the room number of Mr. Patrick Montgomary. A few minutes later, as he rode upwards on the elevator, he glanced down at the piece of paper cupped in the palm of his hand. It contained two names: Pat Montgomary and Phillis Toner. He stuffed it back into his pocket and got off as the doors silently opened. He walked along the hall, his feet sinking into the plush carpeting as he studied the numbers on the doors. He wondered if he had made a mistake coming here. Probably, he told himself. Probably a serious mistake. There was little likelihood either Mr. Montgomary or Miss Toner could help him. He corrected himself. There was no likelihood they could help with his problems. He found the number he was looking for and pressed the buzzer.
The door opened immediately. “How do you do, Father. I’m Pat Montgomary,” a tall, young man with dark hair and dark eyes said, and stepped back to open the door wider. “Please come in.”
Father Victor Sieger hesitantly held out his hand and stuttered a greeting.
“Like something? A drink?” Pat asked. “No? Then please have a seat.” He pointed out a sofa facing an expanse of window with a view of the boardwalk below and the Atlantic Ocean spread out before them.
The priest gingerly sat down and cautiously placed his hat on his knee.
Pat studied this priest. He knew he had only seconds in which to appraise the older man seated in front of him. He told himself that stereotypes called up by the black suit, the Roman collar, would have to be ignored. Here was a man, Pat immediately decided, who with his white hair and deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, who obviously felt out of place, had a serious problem. This latter deduction he could not take credit for, since the priest had told him as much on the telephone only minutes before.
He’s in bad shape, both physically and emotionally, Pat said to himself. Hasn’t been sleeping, if those rings under the eyes really mean anything. Hands shaking. Alcoholic? Possible. A number of the clergy are, he remembered reading.
Aloud, Pat said, “Well, Father, you told me on the telephone that you live in Philadelphia. St. Alban’s parish. I know exactly where it is. On Sycamine Street, right off Rittenhouse Square. Beautiful buildings. St. Alban’s, if I remember correctly, is English Gothic, right? I’ve made a bit of a study of some of the cathedrals of Europe. At one time, I toyed with the idea of becoming an architect. I find the English gems among the most exciting in the world.”
The priest’s face lit up. “Yes, St. Alban’s is a perfect example of English Gothic. One of the finest examples of that style in this country. In England, too, for that matter.”
For the next two minutes, Father Victor Sieger went on to extol the beauty of St. Alban’s Church: the church proper, rectory, parish house, library. Pat used the time to study the man even more, and to remember how this priest had sounded on the telephone, on the verge of tears as he spoke.
“…and that was almost two hundred years ago.” Father Sieger concluded his brief history of St. Alban’s.
“How interesting,” Pat commented and meant it. He had not missed one word the priest had said. “I look forward to visiting your church one day soon.”
“That would be nice. Yes, I should thoroughly enjoy showing off our church, especially to someone like yourself who would obviously appreciate it.”
“You said on the phone, Father, that you knew my Aunt Molly. She is not a member of Saint Alban’s.”
“No, no, but… I’m sure you’ll agree with me Molly Montgomary knows just about everyone in Philadelphia.”
Pat laughed. “Yes, and I think everyone knows her.”
“I served on a historic commission with her recently. She is quite knowledgeable on the subject of architecture.”
“Almost a student of the subject.”
“And of human nature. Frightfully so. She took me aside a couple of days ago after one of our meetings and said she was worried about me. Said she knew it was none of her business, but asked if there was anything wrong.”
“Dear Aunt Molly can read right through anyone. She brought me up and, believe me, it wasn’t easy going through adolescence with someone who could read your mind. No one can ever fool Molly.”
Father Sieger nodded. “I can believe that. And it must be equally difficult to resist her questions. Next thing I knew, I was admitting there was a… were, problems. She urged me to come see you and your sister immediately. I hate to interrupt your vacation like this, but Molly insisted it would be all right.”
“If Aunt Molly insisted, then she thought it important. I--we--would like to hear more about it.”
“I probably shouldn’t waste your time,” Father Sieger protested. “It really is nothing, not that terrible, actually. I shouldn’t have called. I shouldn’t have driven from Philadelphia down here to Atlantic City, I guess. Really.” He made a motion as though to rise from his chair.
Pat was used to people having second thoughts when it came to using their services. He had become quite expert on reassuring them, especially on their first visit. “I’m only sorry Phillis is not here. It’s important that we both hear your story.”
“Miss Montgomary thought you and your sister might be able to help,” the priest said. “If you’ll forgive me, I would like to ask… ask… what are your.…”
“What are our qualifications?” Pat helped him.
Father Sieger seemed embarrassed.
“None.” Pat smiled. “We have no qualifications. We are not detectives. We don’t have licenses. We don’t carry guns or tail people or stake out suspects. All we do have, Phillis and I, is a bit of common sense and a desire to help others, sprinkled with a bit of curiosity. In Phillis’ case, it’s more than just a sprinkling. She can’t stand not knowing the why, who, and wherefore of a thing which interests her.
“A while back, we got ourselves involved with a murder, right in our own back yard. Our neighbor was murdered on our patio. Before we knew it, we were involved with the police, being followed by a strange man, and in an empty house late at night with a killer. In our own way, we were instrumental--especially Phillis--in apprehending the murderer. Since then, we’ve been trying, when we can, when their problems seem to warrant it, to help others. We’ve helped a number of people, everything from finding a pet mongrel who was dognapped, to discovering the whereabouts of a pair of maiden aunts who hadn’t been seen in thirty years, to solving several brutal murders in the gay community which had the police stymied. There’s precious little we won’t tackle, if the circumstances are right, and we do make it a point to take on special clients. By that, I mean people whose problems can’t be solved through ordinary means, such as the police, or a lawyer. It might sound like bragging, but we prefer to take on cases that seem impossible or hopeless.”
“Dear me, I never thought of my problems as being impossible or hopeless or.…” Father Sieger began to object. “You won’t want to hear what I came to say.”
“Yes, we will. You may or may not be impossible or hopeless, but you come with the best recommendation in the world: Aunt Molly.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I would prefer Phil and I hear what you have to say together. Why don’t you let us decide just how terrible your problems are? Who knows, maybe just talking to someone about them will help put them all in a new perspective. At the moment, I have no idea where my sister is. Shopping? Maybe. On the beach? Very definitely a possibility. With half the lifeguards on the island interested in her, she could be just about anywhere. Can you stay in the city this evening? We--Phil and I--would like to hear your story together. I’m sure we’re free this evening.”
“I hadn’t planned, but--”
“Join us for dinner.” Pat reached for the telephone. He quickly dialed a number. “Hi, Mattie, any vacancies?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Mattie’s a good friend of ours and she has a very nice guesthouse on the beach in Ventnor and you could stay there this afternoon. Terribly discreet and all that. That way, you can have dinner with us and decide later whether you wish to go back to Philadelphia tonight or stay over. Maybe it would be wiser to go back in the morning.”
Father Sieger nodded.
“Save a single,” Pat said into the phone, then replaced the receiver. “We’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, if that’s all right with you. And in the meantime, relax. Take a walk along the beach. It’s so beautiful in Ventnor. We’ll have plenty of time this evening to talk, and who knows, we may be able to get to the bottom of it all before you have to go back to Philadelphia.” He stood up and held out his hand.
Father Sieger took Pat’s hand. “Thank you. I feel better already. Yes, I think just getting away from it all, coming here, has already made a difference.”
As soon as Father Sieger left, Pat walked over and knocked on the door across the room.
“Come in,” a voice called out.
He entered the adjoining room. “I heard you come in a little while ago,” he said.
“Did I hear voices?” Phillis Toner asked her brother. “Or shouldn’t I ask?” She was wearing a robe over her bathing suit. She was shorter than Pat and had the Toner auburn hair rather than the Montgomary jet-black hair. The plumb color of her eyes was the thing everyone noticed first about Phillis. After that, they usually saw that she was shapely, and possessed of a beautiful face and a bewitching smile.
Pat explained about his visitor of the afternoon and the nature of that visit.
“So, Aunt Molly’s been up to her usual good deeds,” Phillis said and laughed. “Leave it to her. Not even the rector of Saint Alban’s is safe from her sharp eye. What do you suggest we do about this priest in trouble?”
“I asked him to join us for dinner. Okay with you?”
“Sure.”
“If you saw him, I think you’d agree it might be serious,” he went on as he walked over and stood at the window. “He needs help, a good deal of help, if one of my feelings is right. I suspect he’s on the verge of a total breakdown.”
“And what makes you think we can help him?”
“I don’t necessarily think we can, but we can at least listen to him. If someone doesn’t help him and help him soon, I hate to think what might happen to him.”
“Here we go again,” Phillis said good-naturedly.
CHAPTER III
At seven-thirty, Pat and Phillis pulled up in front of the large ocean-front home of Mathilde Alte in Ventnor, a town which shares Absecon Island with Atlantic City. The house was a classic example of Art Deco architecture, built in the mid-thirties with rectangles and circles of stucco intended to blend in with the white sand of Ventnor’s beach. Many years ago, an uncle of Mathilde’s died and left the house to her, his only heir. Even though she was just out of school in Germany, she pulled up roots, left her family, and came to America. With only the house and little money, she soon turned it into a moneymaking guesthouse for those wanting both the ocean and discretion.
In honor of their sacerdotal guest, Phillis was wearing a simple, modestly cut, green linen frock. Pat was wearing summer whites with a light blue blazer and striped bo’s’n shirt. They ran up the front steps and Pat rang the bell, then opened the screened door. “Mattie, where is you?” he yelled out in his best falsetto.
Mathilde came through a pair of swinging doors at the end of the downstairs hall, brushing back her short-cropped blonde hair with a hand, which also held a long wooden spoon. She was wearing an apron from which a cloud of baking flour billowed as she walked. She threw her arms around both of them at the same time, then kissed each. “Darlinks, you look mar-vel-ous, just like the front cover of J. C. Penney’s summer catalogue,” she said in a fake vaudeville German accent.
“Whatever you do, don’t encourage her,” Pat said to his sister.
Mathilde stopped smiling and poked her wooden spoon in Pat’s stomach. With a jerk of her head, she indicated she wanted her two friends to follow her towards the back of the house. She pushed open the swinging doors and went into the kitchen.
“Something smells delicious,” Phillis commented.
“So, what gives with this rabbi you two dumped on me this afternoon?” she asked as she leaned against a counter and folded her arms in front of her generous bosom.
“He’s a priest,” Pat corrected her. “But we wouldn’t expect a heathen like yourself to know the difference. If it isn’t something you can cook, you don’t…. Just what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s as jumpy as Elsa, the dachshund bitch I once had, remember? If you look at this guy, he’ll scream. Closet case?”
Pat shook his head. “We don’t think so. He evidently has some pretty serious problems. We don’t know what they are, but we intend to find out before this evening is over.”
“Gut. Fill me in later with all the details,” Mathilde said with more than a little exaggerated glee, rubbing her hands together. “Nothing I like better than to hear a member of the clergy is having trouble.”
“You know perfectly well,” Pat said, “that anything Father Sieger tells us we can’t discuss with you or with anyone else. Strictly confidential and all that. We must get going. Reservations at Oscar’s. Would you call your guest for us?”
“Glad to. But first, there’s something I must ask you.” She shot glances at each of them as she turned towards the large butcher-block table in the middle of the floor and went back to kneading a large mass of dough. “Tell me, what is the very last thing in the world you’d expect a priest to be carrying, to have with him?”
“I have an idea what you might think it should be,” Pat said. “But I give up. What’s the last thing a priest should be carrying?”
“A gun.”
“A what?” Phillis exclaimed. “You mean…?”
Mathilde nodded. “Yes, Liebschen, a gun. If he wasn’t a friend of you two, I would have asked him to leave when I saw it.”
“Are you sure?” Pat asked. “Where did you see it?”
“In his little black bag, there’s where,” she answered as she covered the pastry dough with a damp cloth. “I saw it by accident. After I showed him upstairs, I discovered that dummkopf I hired never put clean towels in the room. I went to get them and wasn’t gone more than three minutes at the most when I returned to his room with those towels. I knocked and opened the door and went in and there he was standing in front of the dresser, his little black bag open and tilted back towards the mirror. I don’t know if he saw me seeing it in the mirror, but there it was plain as day. A gun!”
Pat looked at his sister. “It seems our priest doesn’t rely solely upon the Providence of God to protect him. Thanks, Mattie. We really do appreciate it, and don’t worry about that gun being in the house. We’ll take care of it during dinner. Besides, he’ll be leaving in the morning, if he stays the night. Now, we really do have to leave.”
They went back to the front of the house while Mathilde went upstairs to summon Father Sieger. She returned a few minutes later with the priest coming down the staircase behind her.
“This is my sister, Phillis Toner,” Pat said as he introduced her. “Shall we?”
Fifteen minutes later, they entered Oscar’s Restaurant with its walls decorated with photographs, playbills, and other memorabilia of Oscar Wilde, and were shown to their table.
Phillis and Pat were now staring at the priest, waiting for him to continue, to tell them about the noises--the noises in the middle of the night at Saint Alban’s rectory.
CHAPTER IV
Pat and Phillis had done justice to their dinners, but Father Sieger had only picked at his.
“Noises, Father? What kind of noises?” Pat asked after Hal had cleared the table and poured coffee.
“Noises.” Sieger cleared his throat twice. “Noises in the night. And footsteps. Footsteps on the staircase leading up to my room. It’s an old building, the rectory, and when I first moved in, I experienced something quite frightening. You see, at night in winter, when you turn down the heat--and I always turn it down, can’t stand sleeping in an overheated room--the old wood, especially in the staircase, begins to cool off, and creaks as it shrinks and since heat rises and the wood on the lower steps cools off sooner, the sound of the wood contracting gradually comes up the stairs. It sounds just like someone coming slowly, deliberately up the stairs. I soon got used to it, after being quite frightened the first few nights.
“But this was nothing like that. These were footsteps, believe me, heavy deliberate footsteps. The first time it happened, I was awakened from a sound sleep. I lay there for a few moments, listening, then told myself that it was my two cats playing on the staircase or maybe it was our assistant coming in late and I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I almost fell asleep when I remembered Father Paul was away for several days. I lay there for some time, then they started up again, this time reaching the top step. I jumped out of bed and ran over and threw open my bedroom door. It’s no more than a dozen or so feet from my room to the top of the staircase. No one was there. I was determined I was going to get to the bottom of this nonsense once and for all.
“The next night, I took a thermos of hot coffee upstairs with me and sat in a chair just inside my bedroom door. I stayed awake the entire night, never fell asleep even for a second. Nothing happened. Nor the following night. Over the next few weeks footsteps on the staircase happened three or four times, exactly as the first time. I was reaching the point where I was afraid to go to bed at night. Two weeks ago, I was awakened in the middle of the night, around three-thirty. This time, I leaped out of bed and made it to the hallway in record time. Again, nothing. I searched the entire rectory, all three floors and basement. Nothing seemed out of place, no indication of forced entry or the presence of anyone; nothing disturbed anywhere. Defeated, I returned to my bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, trying so very desperately to fathom it all out, to come up with some explanation, no matter how far-fetched it might seem, that would help me understand what was happening. Finally, out of sheer fatigue, I leaned back on the pillow and pulled my legs up onto the bed. I was weary and it felt wonderful to stretch out full length on the bed. I reached down and drew the blankets up about me. I always sleep on the left side of the bed. I now stretched out my arm, my right arm, and if you had been anywhere within a mile of the rectory that night, you might very well have heard my scream.”
“What happened?” Pat felt the skin crawl along his temples.
“There was someone in bed with me. I felt the body. Warm, breathing, alive. I think I screamed again and jumped--no, fell--out of bed, the covers wrapped about me mummy-fashion in my attempt to escape. I knocked over the lamp in my fumbling efforts to turn it on. Lying on the floor, the lamp next to me, I finally succeeded in getting it to turn on. Light filled the room. I extricated myself from the blankets and pulled myself up and stared at the bed. There, in front of me, was--”
“Will there be anything else? Dessert? After-dinner drink?” Hal asked in his most professional tone as he stood next to the table, running a pencil up and down the column of figures on their check.
Pat looked up at him and through clenched teeth said, “No, nothing more, Hal. If we want anything, we’ll call you.”
Phillis and Pat stared intently at the priest.
“Nothing,” Father Sieger said and sighed.
“Nothing?” Phillis raised her voice. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“Precisely that. There was nothing in my bed. I stood there, I don’t know how long, unaware how cold the room was or I was. Finally, I think I must have slumped down on the floor, for I awoke several hours later propped against the bed, quite cold. That day, I went to see my doctor and told him I thought I needed something for my nerves. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him of the things that had been happening. I guess I secretly feared he would have me put away ‘for a rest,’ as they politely say when referring to a priest who needs professional help, and that is the very last thing I want or need.”
“But you fear for your life.” Pat had been studying the priest with an intensity that seemed to penetrate to the very soul of the cleric.
“Why…? Oh, the gun. Mathilde told you, I see. Yes, I’ve been carrying it ever since.…” His voice trailed off. He seemed deeply lost in thought.
Pat and Phillis looked at one another again. She shrugged. “Ever since what, Father?”
“Uh? Oh, yes, yes. I was just thinking. This is a gay restaurant, isn’t’ it?”
“Does that bother you?” Pat asked.
“Good heavens, no,” Father Sieger replied. “You forget Saint Alban’s is in the heart of downtown Philadelphia. We have a very large gay membership in our parish. No, it’s just that I did not realize it at first. Guess I was too engrossed in what I wanted to tell you.”
“You said, ‘ever since.’ Ever since what?” Pat pressed him.
The priest stared at him as though not comprehending.
“You’ve feared for your life ever since what happened?” Pat asked again.
Father Sieger was playing with the tip of his spoon, making lines in the tablecloth. He looked up. “Has either of you ever been so terrified you thought you would truly die? By that I mean physically die, not just as a figure of speech. Ever been so utterly frightened that you would choose death rather than ever go through anything like it again in the future? Well, I did.
“I shall remember it as long as I live. It was a week ago today, last Wednesday evening. I had been alone in the rectory, trying to catch up on some letter writing I had been putting off for some time. The building, as I’ve told you, is old, quite old. The church was built just about two hundred years ago and the rectory is short that by no more than ten or twelve years. My study, dining room, kitchen, and pantry are on the first floor. Directly above on the second floor is my suite of rooms, consisting of a large sitting room, bedroom, bath, and a small private chapel. I am fortunate. My sitting room is easily twenty some feet wide and about thirty-five feet long. The architects in those days were extremely generous. I was in that sitting room writing my letters and it got to be much later than I realized, and I had to be up extra early the next morning. Anyway, I quickly got ready for bed. I put out the lights and prayed silently that I would soon be asleep. Each night, I had been going to bed truly afraid of what the night might bring with it. Fortunately, my eyes were heavy and I soon dozed off. But I wasn’t destined for a full night’s sleep.”
“More noises?” Phillis asked.
He shook his head. “Would to God there had been. No, my dear, nothing that pleasant, I’m afraid. I was awakened by silence. Yes, silence, silence so heavy I could feel it. I think my own breathing must have awakened me. I lay there for what seemed an eternity, fighting to get my breath. I wanted to sit upright so I could breath easier, but I was too terrified to move. I realized my imagination was getting the better of me and that indeed I was having an anxiety attack. Finally, I managed to move and prop myself up with my pillows leaning against the headboard. I am ashamed to tell you something, but I must. I, a grown man, had not yet opened my eyes. I was too afraid to open them. Even at the time, I knew I was being childish. I wish to this very day that I had remained childish and had not listened to my so-called adult common sense telling me to open my eyes because there could not be anything in the room. If only I had kept them closed. But I did not. I opened them and that was when I saw him.”
“Him?” Pat and Phillis asked in unison.
“Yes, he was standing at the foot of my bed, a tall figure of a man, at least six feet tall, in black, a cloak over his shoulders which went to the floor. I couldn’t make out his features. The room was dark, only a slit of light coming from the hall outside. The door to my room was partially open, although I had closed it before getting into bed. It was then that he moved and came around to the side of my bed. I tried to get away, cringed if you will, but I seemed unable to move, as though I was hypnotized by him. In retrospect, I can say he held a fascination for me. He reached down and placed his hands around my neck, gently at first, then began to squeeze, harder and harder, until I could breathe no longer and everything disappeared. I must have passed out. It was daylight when I awoke, stretched diagonally across the bed.”
“A bad dream,” Pat suggested. “With what had been going on, your imagination was working full blast and it’s perfectly understandable that you had an unsettling dream, that’s all.”
“But there were marks on his neck the next morning,” Phillis pointed out.
“How did you know that?” Father Sieger asked her.
She shrugged and smiled. “Father, where did you get that gun? Do you have a permit for it?”
“One of my parishioners got it for me. I told him there had been several attempts at breakage into the rectory and that I would feel better if I had a gun there. As for a permit, I am afraid.…”
“Phillis and I were planning on going back to the city in a few days,” Pat said. “We could be there the day after tomorrow. Would that be convenient?”
“Yes, yes, it most certainly would. Does that mean you will take this… this case?”
“We’ll see,” Pat said. “We can’t make any promises right now but we would like to see the locale where all these things took place, if that’s all right with you. One reason we’re here in Atlantic City, besides getting a vacation, is that we’re having work done on our house. Would it be possible…?”
“Of course! I would be delighted if you would stay with me at the rectory.” Father Sieger seemed genuinely sincere in his invitation.
They drove the priest back to Mathilde’s guesthouse. He decided to spend the night there. He also agreed to let Pat have the gun.
“Since when were we supposed to go to Philadelphia this week?” Phillis asked as they drove back to their hotel. “We still have a week left of this vacation.”
Pat smiled. “Don’t you want to find out what this is all about? Not what you’d call a routine case, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“And, while we’re at it, how did you know he had marks on his throat the next morning?”
“Oh, my dear, dear brother,” she laughed. “Can you possibly imagine that story without marks on the throat? True or not, there had to be marks on the throat. Without marks, the whole story would be pointless, not worth the telling. Didn’t you ever tell ghost stories around a campfire?”
They were parking their car in the underground garage of the hotel.
“I think someone is playing jokes on that priest,” she said as they headed for the elevator.
“That’s what you think?”
“Don’t you?”
The elevator door closed.
“Well?” she repeated.
The doors opened and they came out and walked along the hall.
“Playing jokes?” he echoed. “Oh no, not jokes. Wish it were. Wish that was all that was going on.” He opened the door to Phillis’ room.
“But I meant sick jokes” she explained. “I wasn’t talking about anything funny--ha, ha, funny. Really sick. Someone who has or thinks he has some reason to harm Father Sieger. A man in his position surely must have people--mentally sick people--who think he has done them some wrong and they feel they should get even.”
He opened the connecting door. “You’re wrong, sis. I hate to always sound like a broken record, but you should know me well enough by now to know when I have the feeling, when I know something is wrong, evil, threatening. I can sense it all around that priest. There’s evil there, like some kind of mantle, over and around him, ready to fall on his shoulders. Oh, I don’t think he’s necessarily evil. No, but someone--something--is incredibly evil and that person, that thing, is ready to strike, and unless I am wrong, strike soon. That’s why I want to get up to the city as quickly as we can. It could happen soon and, God help us all, I don’t think it will be very pretty when it does.”
“You mean Father Sieger is in some kind of danger?”
“This thing is so evil, I think danger is certain.” Pat was standing in the doorway. “I only hope we will find everything well with him when we call on him. By the way, what’s your schedule tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I was thinking of buying my own personal casino. In fact, I think I’ve already bought one. Why?”
“I have to see someone in the a.m. Can we meet by late afternoon?”
“Of course. Pat?”
He waited for her to go on.
“Earlier, when I said, ‘Here we go again,’ I was only joking. I know how much this life has come to mean to you.”
“How about you? It’s not the usual kind of life for a young, beautiful woman--with money--this getting involved in other people’s problems. It’s not fair to you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I enjoy it. When the day comes it bothers me, I’ll let you know.”
“Sleep well,” he said as he closed the door.
“Pat? Thanks.”
“Say that one more time, and I’ll get Aunt Molly to disinherit you.” He smiled as he went into his room and closed the door.
Phillis began to get ready for bed, a warm glow all around her, knowing her big brother was in the next room.
CHAPTER V
Early the next morning, Pat slipped a note under Phillis’ door.
Phil,
Gone to Mattie’s to see Father Sieger off. Will try to clear up everything by late this afternoon & cancel anything for tomorrow. Can you be ready to leave for Philly sixish today rather than wait till tomorrow? Have uneasy feeling about what’s going on with Fr. S.
Love,
Me.
Phillis had no real schedule that day. She wandered casually through the casino, played a few slot machines half-heartedly, and the humor of the situation struck her as she walked away. Strangers stopped to see this attractive young woman walking alone and laughing aloud. She was thinking back to a short while ago, to a time when the idea of winning even a small jackpot would have been so exciting to her. Now, she did not really care if she won or not. Winning money meant nothing now that she was truly wealthy. She remembered when she had to plan and save and do without in order to buy a new outfit. Now, all she had to do was walk into a store and simply say, “Charge it,” and whatever she wanted was hers. And to think, she reminded herself, it all started with renting an apartment and finding a dead body.
Outside, she walked along the boardwalk and breathed in the salt air. She returned to her room and packed a bag. By six-thirty, Pat and she were on the Atlantic City Expressway headed for Philadelphia.
“What time did Father Sieger leave this morning?” she asked.
“Little after break of day, according to Mattie.”
“And how’s the mad concierge of Ventnor? Still upset about having a gun in her house yesterday?”
Pat chuckled. “Not Mattie. She’s the most sensible, down-to-earth person I’ve ever known. She said Father Sieger wouldn’t eat anything this morning, he was so anxious to get back to Philly. She also said she had the feeling something was bothering him and that he couldn’t wait to get back to the city.”
“Wonder what was so important he had to hurry?”
“Maybe he had an appointment.”
They were on the approach to the Walt Whitman Bridge.
“Did you call Father Sieger and tell him we’d be there this evening?” she asked.
Pat shook his head.
“But he won’t be expecting us,” she protested.
“You’re right, he won’t be expecting us. And what’s even more important, neither will anyone else. If I had told Father Sieger we were coming tonight, he might have mentioned it to someone, and I’d rather no one knew we were going to be in that rectory tonight.”
“You think these things are the handiwork of someone in the rectory or on the staff of St. Alban’s?”
“Who knows? Could be the curate, the secretary, the sexton. Or other-worldly powers.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her shiver. “Scared?”
“I don’t scare easily. By this time you ought to know that.”
“I forget at times that my little sister has guts.”
“You always say the most complimentary things.”
They were in Philadelphia, driving along Spruce Street in Society Hill.
“Father Sieger says there’s a parking garage right behind the church,” Pat said.
“And right next to it is Big Ben’s. Many’s the meal I had there when I had to watch every penny. Cheap, but not bad at all. Want to try it?”
They both ordered one of Big Ben’s specials. They were enjoying their second cups of coffee when Phillis said, “Coffee’s still the best in the city. Wish I knew their--” She suddenly stopped speaking. “What’s wrong?”
Pat waved his hand to signal silence.
She tried to speak again.
He put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Finally, he relaxed. “I was listening to the conversation behind me. They were talking about some priest being found dead. I wonder.…” He stretched his neck to see their waitress. He caught her attention.
“Get youse anything else?” she asked as she approached their booth. “How about some nice dessert?”
“Was a priest found dead near here recently?” Pat asked her.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I think so. Want some fresh apple pie? Just came in.”
“Who was he?”
“Who was who?”
“The priest,” Phillis said.
“Priest? What priest?” She looked around the restaurant. “Don’t see no priest in here. Ain’t been no priest in here all evenin’. You sick? In trouble? I think that there fella at the end of the counter is a minister or rabbi. Or is he the one who works in the florist shop on the Square? If you need help, Ruby, the cashier, has a brother who does things with hypnotism or somethin’ like that. Want me to ask her?”
“No!” Pat almost shouted.
“Sounds as though you need more’n a priest, if you ask me,” she diagnosed him.
“Did a priest die near here or not?” Pat asked, slowly enunciating each syllable.
She stared at him. “I don’t live near here. I’ll get your pie.” She took off before either of them could stop her.
“Just lean over and ask the people in the booth behind you?” Phillis suggested.
“Can’t. That would admit I can hear what they’re saying.”
“So?”
“So, if you could hear what they’re talking about now, you’d understand I could get my nose pushed in. I’m going outside and get a newspaper.
He returned to their booth as their waitress left after placing two plates on their table. “It’s on the front page. PRIEST FOUND DEAD IN CHURCH, the headline says.” He mumbled a few words as his eyes ran down the column. “Saint Alban’s, all right. But, guess what? He wasn’t just found dead. He was found shot.”
“Poor Father Sieger,” Phillis said. “I was getting to like him.”
Pat shook his head. “No, sister dear, it wasn’t Father Sieger who was shot. It was his curate, Father Paul Mowbray. Small world, isn’t it?”
“The same Father Mowbray you met…?”
“I’m sure it’s the same. The Father Mowbray who was at that meeting of Gay Issues I attended a few months ago in Margate. How many priests by that name do you think there are in Philadelphia?”
“So, we’ll walk right into a police investigation. Still think we should stay at the rectory?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, unless of course Father Sieger says we can’t. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Not till I finish my apple pie,” she protested.
“Hurry. It’s getting late.”
They left Big Ben’s, walked to the corner of Sycamine Street, and turned towards Saint Alban’s.
“I wonder how Father Sieger is taking this?” Phillis asked. “He must be quite shook up.”
“He may be more shook up soon.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Father Mowbray was shot, right? The paper said nothing about suicide or an accident. What does that leave?”
“Murder.”
“Precisely. Wouldn’t surprise me if the police arrested someone and that someone was close to the rectory.”
They walked in silence for the rest of the block, then Phillis stopped.
“Pat, I want to help Father Sieger. I really do like the man and if he’s in any kind of trouble, I want to do whatever we can to help him. Okay with you?”
Pat chuckled. “Sure, softie. If you had your way, you’d bring home every stray dog and cat--not to mention priest--you found. We’ll help.”
CHAPTER VI
They stopped at an iron gate and stepped up onto a flagstone path. In the mid-summer evening air with only a hint of a breeze, they could smell the roses which clung along the iron fence. A bed of peonies and tiger lilies had gone to sleep for the night. The path led off to their right to the church and another branch led to the parish house. On their left, it brought them to two large, oak gothic doors at right angles to one another. The door on the left had a massive iron knocker. Pat grabbed it and rapped twice.
“This is a beautiful setting, right here in the middle of the city, isn’t it?” Phillis asked. “Something of an oasis surrounded by dirt and debris.”
The door opened and Father Sieger stood facing them. He looked worse than he had only twenty-four hours earlier. For a fleeting moment, he seemed not to recognize them, then he spoke. His voice, when he found it, was hoarse. “Pat, Phillis, how kind of you to come. You must have heard….” His voice left him again. He stepped back and motioned for them to enter.
The foyer of the rectory ran parallel to the garden. It smelled of old wood and wax. Father Sieger again motioned, this time for them to precede him into his first-floor study. The room, which was on Sycamine Street, was quite large with the wall on their right filled with bookshelves, interrupted by a black slate fireplace in its center. Through the leaded windows on the street side could be seen distorted headlights of traffic. On their left as they walked into the room was a bay window with a window seat providing a vantage point for admiring the garden. A sofa in the middle of the floor faced a mahogany desk. Father Sieger walked past his desk and took a straight chair at a right angle to the sofa. He motioned for them to be seated.
“You heard the news, I see,” he began. “It has been something terrible. The police left here only a little while ago.” He had to stop to clear his throat. “The police have been over every inch of this property, looking into places you can’t imagine. I don’t believe we shall ever get things back in any kind of order.”