Masquerade

12

On the one hand, he was very hungry. On the other hand, his appetite diminished markedly when he considered partaking of nourishment with his fellow “faculty” members. The relationship between the writers and the publisher was akin to that of an impending tribal war. Scalps would be taken.

He had never before been on a panel quite like this. Of course he had experienced times when panelists disagreed with each other. That was to be expected, at least occasionally. The unique character of the present panel was that it had been preprogrammed as hopelessly irreconcilable.

And who was to blame? Regan, the absent host? In a way. He should have rejected Krieg’s preconditions, even if it meant starting from scratch in setting up the workshop.

And yet, in the end, all roads led back to Krieg. He was the linchpin around whom this conference was built. The underlying question was why he had insisted on the presence of these specific writers.

So far it was evident that Krieg wanted these writers in his stable. It was also evident he had failed to corral them, at least up to the present. Was this a last-ditch effort? Did he think that a face-to-face meeting would convince them to join him?

If so, that would contribute to the explanation of his response to those questions this afternoon. Was he trying to convince the writers that they were missing a very desirable larger readership by not signing with P.G. Press? If that was the case, thought Koesler, he had failed completely. Would there be still more overtures? Probably.

While he could make some sort of sense of Krieg’s behavior in light of what he appeared to be trying to accomplish, the question that more deeply stumped Koesler was the unexpected intensity of hostility the writers exhibited toward Krieg.

So, all right, each of them had been courted by Krieg to sign with him. If anything, Koesler thought, the normal response to such an overture would be to feel flattered. However, after further thought and some helpful advice, each of them learns more about the intricacies of publishing and feels that he or she would be entrapped and, in a sense, enslaved within P.G. Press. At which point, they would be forced either to prostitute their talent or expend a lot of time and money getting out of the contract.

So each of the writers decides against signing with P.G. What’s the big deal in that, Koesler wondered. Every day, millions of people routinely refuse invitations to join book clubs, accept another credit card, subscribe to an insurance policy, and so on, ad infinitum.

In like manner, the writers refuse Krieg’s offer. Why does this upset them so? Each of these writers is a religious person. Each of them is a traditionally civil person. Why should they react so uncivilly to Krieg?

On second thought, Koesler recalled the hurtful words flung at David Benbow by Augustine in the sacristy this morning. Not all the writers were paragons of civility.

Koesler had assumed that each of the writers was a kindly and understanding soul. Augustine had proved him in error. Could any of the others be masking a nasty disposition under the veneer of a religious title and/or habit?

The answers to these questions would possibly be revealed in time, Koesler concluded, as long as he remained alert, curious, receptive, attentive, thoughtful, and sober.

In keeping with that final condition, he declined Sister Janet’s offer of a predinner cocktail. In this abstemious decision he was alone. From Sister Marie’s innocuous white wine to Father Augustine’s potent Scotch-on-the-rocks, the others seemed to feel they either needed or deserved a drink. And after this afternoon’s session, Koesler thought they might very well need one.

Sipping at his tonic water and lime, Koesler studied the liquor tray. Same as yesterday, a meager selection of pedestrian brands.

He smiled when Rabbi Winer tried the cabinet door, behind which were ensconced Krieg’s far more pricey labels, and found it locked.

Winer shrugged and, when he found the others observing what he’d done, he grinned self-consciously, half embarrassed, half amused. “The Reverend runs a tight ship,” he commented. It was clear that Winer would use Krieg’s religious title only sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” Sister Janet said. “We have a very limited budget. There is an extra key to that cabinet hanging in the pantry”-she pointed-“just through that door. The liquor does belong to Reverend Krieg, but I’m sure. .”

Winer had not intended to disparage the liquor supplied by the college. “Please, Sister,” he hastily interrupted, “I intended no commentary on what you’ve offered. It’s fine. As much as anything, I was interested in whether he’d had the cabinet locked.”

“It was,” Sister Janet began to explain, “part of the arrangement Reverend Krieg had with. .”

“. . with Mr. Regan. We know,” Benbow said.

“Strange,” Sister Marie said, “for a. person who hasn’t been here for months to have such an impact on what we’re doing.”

“I guess Regan was the straight man in this scenario,” Benbow said. “The one with all the punch lines is Krieg.” He took the empty glass from his wife. “Here, dear, let me freshen this for you.” He dropped a small ice cube in both his and his wife’s empty glasses, nearly filled each glass with Mohawk Gin, then added vermouth as if he were using an eyedropper.

“Speaking of having all the lines,” Marie said, “we haven’t really had a chance to discuss that bizarre incident last night.”

“Krieg’s ‘death.’ The play within the play,” Winer said.

Augustine was about to refill his glass but decided against it. He had entirely missed that episode. He had wanted to have the particulars explained to him but felt awkward in asking. This was his opportunity to be brought up to date and he didn’t want to miss a word.

“I think Sister is absolutely right in referring to that matter as bizarre,” Martha Benbow said. “I just can’t imagine what the man had in mind.”

“By the way,” Benbow said, “just where is ‘the man’? We couldn’t be lucky enough to have had him leave town in a huff, could we?” His words belied his smile.

“He’s upstairs in his room. He wanted to freshen up before dinner,” Janet supplied. “As for last night, these acted-out mystery dramas are very popular now, you know. As I said, this had been all worked out between Jack Regan and Reverend Krieg.”

“Mystery psychodramas may be popular,” Marie said. “I don’t doubt that for an instant. But I still say last night’s charade was bizarre.”

“The man has a strange mind,” Benbow said. “I’m not sure what his real intention was in all that.”

“If he was trying to plant a thought in our minds,” Winer said, “he went to a lot of needless trouble. I daresay it was already there.”

“Thought?” Martha asked. “What thought?”

Winer did not answer.

“His death?” Marie pursued.

“Why pussyfoot around it?” Benbow said. “The thought Rabbi Winer suggests-which we didn’t need to be reminded of-is the Reverend Krieg’s murder.”

Martha gasped. “David!”

“Praise God!”

Krieg was in the doorway and in good voice and spirits. A couple of paces behind him was the considerable bulk of his bodyguard, Guido Taliafero.

Had Krieg overheard their conversation? Had he heard what David Benbow had just confessed? Krieg gave no indication.

At this point, the others couldn’t help being in the same room with Krieg, but it was Sister Janet who effusively greeted and welcomed him.

Taliafero strode immediately to the cabinet, unlocked it, and proceeded to set out on the serving ledge a splendid array of spirits. He poured a couple of jiggers of whiskey neat and placed the glass in the hand of an inattentive Krieg in much the same way an operating room nurse slides a scalpel into a surgeon’s hand. Taliafero then took his position near the door.

The others still had their original drinks, with the exception of Father Augustine, who, now that conversation about his previous lost evening had ceased, decided it was time for a refill of Scotch. Spontaneously he moved toward Krieg’s superior supply, then hesitated.

“By all means, Father,” Krieg said, “help yourself.”

Feeling like a Judas, or an Esau who was selling his birthright for a high-class intoxicant, Augustine poured from Krieg’s cache.

Almost immediately a sort of natural polarization took place and three groups formed. Krieg and Janet made up the first set. The three men-Augustine, Benbow, and Winer-composed the second cluster. They were joined by Benbow’s wife, Martha. That left Koesler with Sister Marie. He didn’t mind; he’d wanted to talk to her. He offered to refill her glass. She said she’d wait until dinner was served.

“Well, here we are,” Koesler said. “One relic to another.”

“Pardon?”

“There are not that many priests and nuns left. You and I are an endangered species.”

“Don’t I know.” She gestured toward Sister Janet, who was busily listening to Krieg. “That woman is a reminder to me. We practically grew up together in the convent. But she is one of the last of my close friends who is still a nun. Most of the others are gone. Oh, I don’t mean they’ve died-though a few have. No, the majority are ‘in the world.’” She smiled. “Odd how easily that expression comes to mind. ‘In the world.’ I can remember when that excluded all but us. We, in the convent, were not ‘in the world.’ Now even those of us who have remained nuns would have to admit we’re ‘in the world.’”

“I guess. In charge of continuing education for an entire diocese and now author of a popular book. You’ve squeezed into ‘the world.’ But then, you’re certainly not alone. We owe it all to Vatican II, the religious event of this century. From time to time I think of how drastically life has changed for priests as a result of the council. But, to be fair, priestly life has stood still compared with what’s happened to convents.”

“I believe I will have a bit more wine.” She smiled. “Dinner seems to be delayed.”

They moved to the tray the college had prepared; Koesler filled her glass. No point in his taking more tonic water; he was still nursing the ice cubes from his original drink.

Picking up their conversation, Marie said, “What’s happened to convents is that there aren’t any anymore. Or at least precious few. But I’m a bit surprised you’re interested. Most priests nowadays are concerned almost exclusively with their own survival.

“Now I shouldn’t have said that,” she corrected herself. “I don’t mean they are not giving service to their parishes or whatever their particular vocation calls for. I mean most priests don’t think much about nuns-now that there’s no chance of getting a passel of them for the parochial school.”

Koesler chuckled. “I used to be a regular confessor for nuns in parishes where there’d be anywhere from twenty to thirty or forty in a convent. That’s where I learned the word ‘promptitude.’ Seems that’s about the only sin nuns ever committed. They were late for things.”

Marie laughed. She had an engaging laugh. “Stop! You’re bringing back memories. Memories that are treasured, but memories regardless. I would just as soon forget before they remind me too much of the grind we were in. Nuns as teenagers. The postulancy, the novitiate, first vows, perpetual vows. Then the parochial school and its unending routine. Up for early-and I do mean early-Mass, quick breakfast, Mass with the kiddies, school, lunch any time or way one could; afternoon classes, evening prayer, dinner, lesson plans, night prayers, and then to bed. Every day throughout the school year until summer break gave you a chance to finish one academic degree or begin another.” Inwardly she winced at the memory.

“Is there any doubt that things have changed radically for you-for women religious?” Koesler said. “To my eyes, the biggest change has been the virtual end of communal life-those convents with all those nuns living so closely together.”

Marie grew serious. “You’re right. There have been lots of changes: the habit; the rules that apportioned one’s whole life; independent thought being discouraged. But most of all-you’re absolutely right- there’s no more community such as it was.”

“And that was, substantially, the reason for the founding of religious orders. So, although I’ve never asked anyone in your position-if you don’t mind-why stay?”

“Why stay?”

“If you don’t mind?”

“You first.”

Koesler chuckled. “Turned the tables on me, didn’t you? Well, I could claim inertia, but that would be facetious. I could say that something happens to a person after age fifty that discourages a midlife career change. And I suppose that could discourage even more anyone thinking of leaving a religious vocation.

“But, in reality, ‘none of the above’ to any significant degree compels me to stay in the priesthood. I suppose it’s mostly the feeling Sancho Panza had about Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha-‘I like Him.’ That’s the way I feel about the priesthood. I like it. I’ve liked it ever since I was old enough to think about what I wanted to do as an adult.

“Of course, being a priest isn’t the same as it was as we progress from one decade to another. The Council, of course, was the pivotal event. People no longer need the priest for just about everything, as they used to. Probably never should have been that dependent. But, I must admit, it was fun being that in demand. And the laity, who used to be called ‘consultors,’ on a diocesan level with the bishop or on the parochial level with the priest, really should have been called ‘consenters.’ Now, with parish councils, they come close, in many cases, to being arbiters.

“But that’s okay. I like being with people as a priest. I prize the sacramental life of the Church and I’ve always felt honored being able to be a contributing part of that sacramental life. I enjoy trying to make the Gospel message practical in daily life through homilies.

“Oh, like many of my confreres, I am not nutty about some of the Church’s present leaders and the gross amount of control they try to exercise over the people of God. In that respect, we’re lucky to have Cardinal Boyle as our bishop. But, also like many of my confreres, I try to stay out of the hierarchical way and let my life revolve about the parish and the parishioners. And, on that level, I love it.

“Good enough reasons to hang in there?”

“Quite.” Sister Marie had listened intently. By this time, she and Koesler were practically oblivious to the other two groups, who, in turn, were wrapped up in their own respective conversations.

“And now, Sister, your reasons,” Koesler said. “Why are you still with us?”

Marie placed her glass on the table, apparently deciding not to have more wine, at least until dinner was served. “I’ve thought about it, of course, as you have.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“Yes, I suppose so. What with so many of our friends leaving the priesthood, religious life. Many of them good people. It has to make you wonder about yourself. That and all the changes. As you suggest, far more cataclysmic for us than for you. I’ve had to reevaluate my commitment more than once.

“I’m not the immature teenager I was when I entered some thirty years ago.” Marie grew reflective, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I guess I was running away from things-life-as much as entering with a gracious heart to serve Christ.

“Those early years, so filled with submission and dependence! Then the upheaval of the sixties and early seventies that tore apart structures and relationships and left only a remnant group.

“I don’t know about everyone else, but some of us-myself in particular-had to find new-what? — virtues to rebuild our lives in religion. Instead of blind submission, maturity. And instead of dependence, interdependence.”

“Interdependence?”

“Yes. We may not be living in actual convents anymore, but the Sisters depend on each other a lot for support and courage, for example. And that, of course, extends out to the laity. It’s not the dependence we once felt for the rule and for our superiors. Janet, for example, depends on me. And I depend on her.”

Koesler was about to say something, but changed his mind. Obviously, Marie had thought this out fully. Undoubtedly prayed over it. He knew he would profit from her conclusions. All he had to do was listen. Sometimes that was not easy.

She concluded her apologia as if she were announcing it to humanity in general rather than as a simple answer to Koesler’s simple question: ‘Why stay?’

“To me,” Marie said, “the religious woman of today must be, fundamentally, what she has always needed to be: well educated and informed, compassionate, living her faith. Only she must be stronger, since much of the support she could once expect from her community, and the straightforward demands made of her, are now gone. Before, she was supposed to feel compassion without expressing it. Now, she must not only feel distinctly womanly compassion, she must know intuitively how to share love without compromising the chaste life. Her faith must be stronger since she is no longer shielded by convent walls from a skeptical and agnostic world.

“She is also a challenge to the hierarchy since she obviously is qualified in every essential way to equal opportunity in the priesthood. Only the hierarchy’s obstinate ignorance keeps her in a secondary subordinate role. Her very existence is a silent challenge the institutional Church must face. Free of family demands, she can be a persistent advocate for the powerless. She is a voice against injustice with a deep desire that oppression of everyone will cease.

“With the old structures left behind, new unlimited boundaries of every human need will be sufficient challenge in her service to Christ and humanity in and through her religious commitment.”

She paused and Koesler remained silent. She was finished. It didn’t seem there were any more words either of them could say that might add to her statement of purpose. Koesler found himself wishing there were some way her rationale could be published somewhere. In the climate of today’s Catholicism, wherein too few could see any point to a religious vocation, hers was a voice that needed to be heard.

After a few moments during which they both reflected on what she had said, Koesler asked, “Before the convent, did you go to a parochial school?”

She smiled at the memory. “Yes. Grade school, high school, then off to Monroe and the convent.”

“And IHM blue.”

“Yes, and IHM blue.”

“Were you like me? That you always wanted the vocation?”

“No, Father, not like that. I’m afraid my class would not have voted me the girl most likely to be a nun.”

“Wild?” He was imagining the sort of behavior that would have been described as “wild” in a parochial setting of that era. By today’s standards, it would not even be mentioned among minor sinners. He’d even smiled as he broached the word “wild.”

But Marie didn’t smile for a moment or two. Then a hesitant grin appeared. “Let’s just say that conversion is good for the soul. Look what it did for Saint Augustine.”

“That’s true.” For an instant he looked at her in a different light. Even in her middle years she was still most attractive. As a young woman she had undoubtedly been a knockout. It was like seeing actress Loretta Young all dressed up in the traditional nun’s habit and regretting that all that beauty and charm was locked up inside countless yards of wool.

There was no time for further speculation in any case. The waitresses began wheeling in the food. Sister Janet invited all to dinner, and all responded eagerly.

Koesler reflected that just twenty-four hours ago, these had been the dramatis personae in Krieg’s little psychodrama. The waitresses, the kitchen crew, Sister Janet-they’d all been in on it.

Krieg dead. Murdered. A consummation devoutly to be wished? Banish it from your mind, Koesler, he told himself. Certainly not Christian. Hardly humane. But, given all that had happened in just the last two days, a fairly reasonable conclusion.

Marie did not seem at all surprised when Janet invited her to lead the group in a blessing. Perhaps it had been prearranged.

“Blessed are you, God of all creation,” Marie prayed. “Through your goodness we have this nourishment to share. May we share ourselves willingly and generously as You have shared yourself with us.”

There was a pause. And everyone said, “Amen.”

A nice ecumenical grace, Koesler thought. Yes, that must have been prearranged. No offense to Christian or Jew. Something for everyone.

He regarded the seating arrangement. The three women again were seated consecutively. Then, clockwise, Winer, Koesler, Benbow, Augustine, and Krieg. Thus Krieg and Winer, this afternoon’s adversaries, were seated opposite each other.

The fare was simple. A fruit salad in gelatin, beef broth, lamb, red potatoes, steamed vegetables. Simple but well prepared. Everyone partook of everything and all seemed to enjoy the food.

Conversion was not that enjoyable. Janet and Martha, mostly, attempted to introduce topics, but no verbal balloon stayed aloft. Awkward. It was awkward. But Koesler had expected little else.

Toward the end of the meal, Krieg spoke. “Praise God! You know,” he said jovially, “there’s one person here we’ve heard precious little from.” Pause. “Father Koesler. Here we were, runnin’ off at the mouth all afternoon, and there’s the good Father just sittin’ there takin’ it all in.”

If he had intended to embarrass Koesler by singling him out in this less-than-friendly atmosphere, Krieg was succeeding.

“After all,” Krieg continued, “you are a bona fide member of this panel. So, Praise God! Let’s hear it, Father. Your opinion of religion. Dull or not? I mean basically?” His very tone betrayed flippancy. It was as if the “father of the family” had taken the reins and the conversation was now well in hand.

Koesler, taken by surprise, swallowed injudiciously and started to cough. Winer and Benbow pounded his back. Benbow was about to apply the Heimlich Maneuver but Koesler waved him off. Things were getting under control.

Koesler’s complexion was florid. And he was embarrassed not only that he’d been singled out by Krieg like a child forced to recite, but also because he had almost choked to death.

“Sorry,” he said, as his system returned to normal. “Something got stuck. I’m all right now.”

“Well,” Krieg declared, “that’s a blessing. Praise God!”

“Yes. Well, to the point. When you introduced the supposition, the first thought I had was of all the dull homilies, sermons, religion classes I have been forced to sit through. And I was tempted to agree with your hypothesis. But I must confess, I didn’t stay with that thought very long. I can’t think of any book as worthy of study, reading, inspiration, or meditation as the Bible. To those of us for whom God is our beginning and our destiny, there isn’t anything more exciting than religion.

“So I guess it comes down to what you mean by religion. If you mean religion secondhand, as it’s communicated by very poor communicators, I suppose it can be-and is-pretty dreadful and painfully dull.

“Or think of it this way: There is no dull religion, just dull religious communicators.”

Koesler expected Krieg to be peeved or at least annoyed.But Krieg was beaming. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Praise God!”

“But, this afternoon. .”Koesler began.

“This afternoon,” Krieg repeated, “this afternoon was salesmanship.”

“Salesmanship!” Winer exclaimed.

“Indeed, salesmanship. You must have sensed it. .” Krieg looked around the table at the others. “Each of us told the students, in the most gracious and benign manner, what we intended to cover during the coming week. We were so benevolent and ingratiating the audience was drifting off to sleep. They needed to be awakened, made eager to get into these workshops. That’s the function I served. Woke ’em up.”

“Then you didn’t really mean it? About religion being dull?” Koesler asked.

“’Course not.” Krieg smiled. “Just like our friend the rabbi here said this afternoon. ‘Greatest Story Ever Told!’”

Did the man ever say what was really on his mind, Koesler wondered. Yet Krieg had just provided an autobiographical footnote. He was in essence a salesman. Probably missed his calling. Should have been a salesman, not an evangelist. On the other hand, Krieg probably wouldn’t see a lot of difference between the two.

“Then,” Koesler said, “what about the topics of sex and violence and the like? Did you mean what you said about that?”

“Well, now that’s another question. Lemmee take your own words, Padre, spoken just a moment ago. As I ’member, you said somethin’ about, ‘There is no dull religion, just dull religious commentators.’ That about right?”

Koesler nodded. He was pretty sure where Krieg was headed.

“Well,” Krieg said, “some people were just born boring, poor souls. They’re gonna be boring all their blessed lives. Nothin’ for it. They’re gonna be boring bus drivers or boring sewer workers. They’re gonna be boring lovers, husbands, wives, parents. So we can forget them ever bein’ a big success at anything, including evangelism.

“But even people with a knack for communication aren’t successful just by rollin’ out of bed each morning. The salesperson has to have a pitch, a tool-a way of making his service or product attractive to the buyer. And the tool, if it’s gonna work, isn’t necessarily something the salesman prizes. It’s something the buyer finds appealing, attractive, compelling, irresistible!”

Krieg paused. His glance moved from one to another of those present as if expecting someone to complete his premise.

Koesler tried supplying a conclusion. “And you believe that what the audience, the viewer, the reader finds compelling and irresistible is violence and sex.”

“Graphic violence, explicit sex,” Winer added.

Smiling broadly, Krieg turned both palms upward, indicating a self-evident truth. “What sells? Ladies and gentlemen, what does the American public shell out its cash for?”

“Not always,” Marie protested, avoiding a direct answer to Krieg’s almost rhetorical question. “The public appreciates things done tastefully.”

“Such as. .?” Krieg challenged.

“In entertainment, information, education?” Winer said. “Lots of things. The classics. Music: Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Gershwin, Copland. They still fill concert halls and will till the end of time. The theater: Shakespeare, O’Neill, O’Casey, Miller. Literature: Chaucer, Cooper, Poe, Dickens, James, Wolfe. Television, for God’s sake: some of the fine series produced by the BBC. You know the names as well as I. Not all of them lost in the mists of history either. Contemporaries. Lots of them.”

It was doubtful that Winer had shaken Krieg. In any case, no one could tell from his continuing smile.

Nearly everyone had finished eating. Dishes were being cleared away. However, because he’d been talking steadily, Krieg was well behind the others. But when the waitress reached him, he indicated he was finished, and his dishes, still containing considerable food, were removed. Dessert and coffee were then served. All the women, none of the men, accepted the apple pie. Only Janet took cream with her coffee.

“You’re quite right, Rabbi. .” Krieg, stirring his coffee in an attempt to cool it, returned to the fray. “I do know the familiar names. But I’m not talking about literature or art that lasts forever. We are dealing with a pop culture.” His expression altered to one of sympathy. “Sad as it is to say, still, realistically, we cannot hope that all the books you have written are going to be on people’s shelves as long as, say, Shakespeare.” A small, consoling chuckle.

“We all know,” Krieg continued, “the Bible is the all-time best-seller in the history of the world. I dare say it would be difficult to find an American home-almost impossible to find a hotel room-without one.” One more chuckle for the Gideon Society. “And in all these homes and rooms, how many of these Bibles are read?” He left that truly rhetorical question hanging.

“Meanwhile,” he went on, “what sort of book does the great unwashed American public buy? Ever see people selecting a book in a supermarket, book chain, airport newsstand? Not War and Peace.

“Ever notice the general run of covers publishers put on paperbacks, the type of dustjacket on hardcovers?” Pause-a dramatic pause.

“It all tells us something,” he continued. “And we all, deep down, know what it tells us. These are the books publishers count on selling. And this is the packaging they hope will sell them. And that’s the market P.G. Press is in, friends. Praise God!”

There was no echo from his listeners.

“And as you four know by this time, I’m sure,” Krieg’s tone became almost conspiratorial, “it’s the market I’ve invited each and every one of you to join me in.”

Marie gasped as if she’d been trapped by Krieg’s discourse. Benbow and Augustine seemed embarrassed.

It was Winer who spoke, and spoke calmly, forcefully and personally. As if, of a sudden, he and Krieg were alone in the room.

“That’s right. We’ve already discovered that each of us was offered a contract with you. And that each of us, after mature consideration and professional advice, has decided not to be associated with you. Our connection with each other, aside from the fact that we share a clerical or religious calling, is that each of us has been approached by you and each of us has rejected your offer.

“It requires no genius to guess this is the reason why you stipulated as a condition of your acceptance that each of us be invited to this workshop. What you have in mind isn’t completely clear. But you’ve got something in mind. Of that there can be little doubt. If I had to guess, it would be that you are going to make one last effort to change our minds and sign us up with you.

“How am I doing?”

Krieg chuckled, and stroked his chin. “Well, Rabbi, you certainly don’t write mystery stories for nothing. The only problem is, you make it seem this whole thing was my idea. Not so. I was planning nothing of the sort. No thought of this at all.

“Out of the blue, a man I’d never met, never heard of before, phoned me. Jack Regan had this idea for a writers’ conference, a very specialized workshop in mystery novels with a religious setting. Was it so extraordinary, unexpected, that you four should come to mind? Praise God! It was a heaven-sent opportunity to meet you in person and-what else? — give it one more shot. And when heaven sends me an opportunity, I assure you, I take it.

“Now, fortunately, Mr. Regan was very strong on having me participate in this conference. So set on me was he that I was able to establish a few prerequisites. The first, and nonnegotiable, condition was that he secure your presence. And, praise God, he did. And, praise God, here you all are.”

Koesler studied the four writers. Something was going on between them and Krieg. Some sort of perceptible bad chemistry. What could it be?

Krieg spread his hands, palms up, on the tabletop. “But there’s no harm in this. It’s what the American business world labels ‘the bottom line.’ It’s a free country. You don’t have to sign with me.”

“Right,” Winer said. “A free country. We don’t have to sign with you. And that’s what we’ve told you. We are not-let me speak as forcefully as I can for one-I am not signing with P.G. Press. How much more clear can I be?”

The smile lost none of its self-assurance. “It’s a free country, all right. You have the right to decline, but I have the right to give it another go. Who knows. .” Krieg spoke slowly and softly, emphasizing each word as he enunciated it. “Who knows? I may just make each of you an offer you cannot refuse!”

There was a protracted, electric silence as the writers and the publisher studied each other. Koesler sensed that Krieg had just thrown down a challenge that the writers at least understood, whether or not they would accept it.

Who would break the silence?

It was David Benbow who spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you dead and in-”

“David!” Martha Benbow almost shrieked his name. Her tone not only interrupted, but silenced her husband.

But everyone in the room well understood what was left unsaid. What David Benbow had been going to say was that he would see Krieg dead and in hell before ever signing a contract with Krieg’s empire.

Koesler took stock. Kreig’s smile had disappeared. In its place was a look of shocked surprise, even, oddly, fear. None of the writers had backed down. Each seemed tacitly to be in general agreement with Benbow. Martha, Janet, and, Koesler presumed, Benbow himself, were deeply shaken.

The silence that followed Benbow’s cut-off statement seemed as if it would never be broken. It was as if a gauntlet in the form of a threat had been thrown and it simply lay there with no one willing to either accept or retract the challenge.

Then Martha, clearly mortified, said, “I’m sure. . I’m certain David did not mean that. He would never. . could never. . oh, dear. .” She was near tears.

Janet cleared her throat. “This has been a long day. There’s been a lot of tension. .” (A lot of tension I did not anticipate or expect, she added to herself. And why should I have to carry this load? I didn’t arrange for any of this to happen.) “I think we just need some time to calm down,” she continued. She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the movie. I’m sorry, but there seems to be no time for after-dinner drinks. The students will be gathering about now. Why don’t we go and relax a bit? That should help us wind down. Tomorrow we can start fresh.”

She was grateful there were no general sessions scheduled for tomorrow. The faculty would not convene except for meals. She resolved to be on her guard lest another altercation break out during mealtime. Maybe she’d be able to enlist Marie’s help in peacemaking. But after this evening she could not be certain. About anything.

There was no immediate response to Janet’s invitation that they take in the movie.

Then Martha, somewhat more composed, said, “I think that’s a fine idea, Sister. Come on, David, let’s go see the film.”

Benbow shook his head. “Not in the mood, I’m afraid, dear. You go ahead. I think I’ll take a bit of a walk. I’ll see you in our room later.”

“Reverend?” Janet addressed Krieg.

“What?” Krieg had been lost in his own thoughts.

“The movie. Would you like to join us at the movie?” Janet explained.

“Oh, no, I think not. I’ll just wander up to my room. A bit tired. Suddenly a bit tired.”

“Up to your room?” Janet repeated. “You’re not returning to the hotel for the night?”

“Think not. Not worth the trouble. I’ll stay here tonight. But no, no movie. Thanks just the same.”

“Father?” Janet addressed Augustine.

“Not tonight. I’m sort of sleepy.”

“Rabbi?”

“I want to go over my notes for tomorrow’s classes. I’d better do that before I get too tired.”

“Marie?” Janet had hoped that she could get at least a few to join her. She knew the students would be pleased if the faculty were to join in some of the extracurricular events.

“I’ve got some correspondence I’ve got to catch up on, Jan. Sorry.”

“Father?” With Koesler, Janet was down to her last chance.

“Matter of fact I’d like that. It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Koesler glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Benbow go ahead? I’d like to finish my coffee. Would that be all right?”

“Certainly, Father.” Janet was grateful for some company no matter the delay. “Martha, why don’t we go now? Father Koesler can join us in a few minutes.”

With that the group went its separate ways. Left seated at the table, while the waitresses cleared dishes, were Koesler and Krieg. Each had about half a cup of coffee left.

Koesler went to the hot plate where the pot of coffee was kept. He brought the pot to the table, filled his cup, and gestured toward Krieg, who nodded; Koesler filled the other cup as well.

“That was a bit of a surprise,” Koesler said.

“Father Benbow? I’m sure he spoke only in the heat of the moment. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said literally.”

“I’m glad you’re taking it that way,” Koesler said. “I agree: He didn’t mean it.”

“I must confess he surprised me though … I mean, an Episcopal priest!”

“Violence!” Koesler said.

“Hmmm?” Krieg missed the point.

“Religion, violence, sex.” Koesler could not suppress a grin.

Krieg smiled in return. It was the first time Koesler had seen a genuine, as opposed to a plastic, smile from Krieg.

“Ah, yes,” Krieg said. “Religion, violence, sex. Seems there been a lot of talk about that lately.”

“For some reason, I hate to say this, but I kind of anticipated that would be a prominent topic of conversation. Having read one of the books you published and then reading up on stories about you and your philosophy of publishing, I just guessed, what with the writers who were invited, I guessed we’d be talking a bit about the subject.”

“Perceptive,” Krieg commented.

Koesler removed from a jacket pocket a newspaper clipping much the worse for wear. “Since I thought the subject would inevitably come up sometime during this week, I brought this along with me.”

Krieg seemed amused. “Does that clipping go back to the invention of the printing press?”

“Only to March 1989, from The New York Times,” Koesler said.

“It’s not holding its age very well. Looks like it’s about to give up the ghost, as it were.”

“That’s because I’ve used it in some homilies and talks. I think it’s going to be very relevant during this workshop. I didn’t want to spring it on you with no warning. Mind if I read part of it to you now?”

Krieg shrugged, took a sip of coffee, and waited. Clearly, permission had been granted.

“The occasion,” Koesler began, “was the American Film Institute’s seventeenth annual Life Achievement Award presentation to Gregory Peck. What I’m going to quote is one of the remarks he made. All right with you?”

Krieg’s smile reverted to plastic.

“Well,” Koesler said, “the article noted that the actor, in his acceptance speech, went beyond the usual gratitude and platitudes. It quotes him as saying”-here Koesler read from the clipping-“‘There has been a lot of glamorous financial news in the papers lately. Multimedia conglomerates. .

“‘If these Mount Everests of the financial world are going to labor and bring forth still more pictures with people being blown to bits with bazookas and automatic assault rifles, with no gory detail left unexploited; if they are going to encourage anxious, ambitious actors, directors, writers and producers to continue their assault on the English language by reducing the vocabularies of their characters to half a dozen words, with one colorful but overused Anglo-Saxon verb and one unbeautiful Anglo-Saxon noun covering just about every situation, then I would like to suggest that they stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”

Koesler carefully refolded the relic and returned it to his pocket.

“That’s it?” Krieg said.

“Didn’t you find that a rather impressive statement?”

“Gregory Peck is a great actor. He is a larger-than-life presence.”

Koesler seemed puzzled. “I agree. So, don’t you consider that an impressive statement? And, more to the point, isn’t that a refutation of your stand?”

“I think not, good Father. As time goes on, it seems we are never going to see eye to eye, which is all right. As someone said earlier this evening, it’s a free country.”

Koesler was bewildered. “But, how. . how do you respond to the challenge in Gregory Peck’s concluding words?” Koesler did not need to refer to the clipping again; from repeated readings he knew the words by heart. “‘. . stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”

Krieg finished his coffee and returned the cup to the saucer in a gesture of finality. “Father, good Father, did you ever notice how frequently it happens that the one who tells you that money isn’t important, has already made his?” Krieg paused to make certain his point was taken. “Now, I wouldn’t argue that artistry and pride aren’t desirable. But tell that to Mozart. One of the greatest artists of all time. Who starved, was penniless, and whose bones lie-God knows where-in a pauper’s grave.”

“Yes, but-”

“Excuse me, good Father. By and large, the writers under contract to P.G. Press are not Hemingways or Fitzgeralds. They’d like to be but they never will be. And, truth be known, I’m getting a bit tired of being cast as the heavy in this scenario. Granted, the writers at this conference are a cut above the majority we have under contract. What’s more, they carry the ring of authenticity. And that is not unimportant baggage. But were they to sign with us, with our promotional machinery, they would increase-double-their sales.”

“But they would have to conform to your. . style-no?”

Krieg spread his hands. “We would deliver sales such as they’ve only dreamed about.”

Koesler tried his coffee. It was lukewarm. He nudged cup and saucer toward a waitress. This was the last of the waitresses and these were the last of the dishes to be removed.

“Then,” Koesler said, “I take it nothing would dissuade you from continuing to leave no gory detail unexploited, no unhappy Anglo-Saxonism unused, no intimate erotic detail undescribed?”

Krieg shrugged. “As I have said, it sells.”

“Well,” Koesler rose, “I guess we agree on one point anyway.”

“Uh?”

“We’re not going to see eye to eye.”

As Koesler left the dining room, Krieg gave him the benefit of one last large plastic smile.

A classic, Koesler reminded himself, was enduring. Of course there were other qualifications, but, among other things, classics lasted.

Certainly Chesterton’s writings endured. And, although he considered it an avocation, his “Father Brown” series certainly proved to be his most popular work. As far as Koesler was concerned, the “Father Brown” movie he’d just seen pretty well captured the spirit of the original. A tribute to the artistry of Alec Guinness.

It brought to mind anew Gregory Peck’s words: “Artistry is worth more. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows.”

The more he thought about it, the more Koesler admired the resolution of the four writers at this conference. The bottom line, rationale for just about everything in today’s world, was that both the writers and Krieg were on the mark.

Krieg was right, in that there was a market for sleaze in America. Try as they might, authorities would never totally eliminate a travesty such as pornography. There was a market for it. Trash remains popular on television and in the movies. There was a market for it.

How much of a market was another question. In much of the Western world, at least, markets were established through packaging and merchandising. Was popular taste that bad? Was there an inherent attraction to garbage? Or were those who package and market the product merely uncommonly adept at selling? Moot questions?

Koesler was convinced that Klaus Krieg was indeed a superior salesman. He had packaged and marketed Christianity, to his own immense profit. He had packaged and marketed religious literature, to his own considerable profit.

Koesler strongly believed that it wasn’t so much that there was a natural market for exploitive violence and sex as that there were skilled salespeople who created and promoted that market. But there was, unquestionably, a market out there. To that extent, Krieg was correct.

On the other hand, the writers were correct. There was a market for artistry and pride of workmanship. Granted, it was not nearly as easy to reach that market. But it was there. Carefully crafted music, theater, literature, television, art; works of dedication lasted. Even contemporary art proved the point. As long as civilization endured, the music of Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern would be played and sung. Forever, companies would perform South Pacific, Oklahoma! My Fair Lady, and the like. Acid rock would fade to an obsolete and forgotten phenomenon of the second half of the twentieth century.

The writers were to be admired in their resistance to the salesmanship of Klaus Krieg. The question was: Could they persevere? Could they continue to resist Krieg’s considerable prowess?

The weather was growing brisk. It was becoming a typical nippy Michigan autumn evening. Koesler had decided on the walk through Marygrove’s campus. Without a topcoat, he was getting a chill.

As he entered the Cadillac building, Koesler realized he had not seen David Benbow during the walk. But it had been hours since Benbow had proposed taking an after-dinner walk. He must have returned to his room by now. Probably retired for the night.

Contemplating bed himself, Koesler decided to see if he could get a nightcap. He headed down the empty corridor to the dining room. Strange how threatening a large institution can seem when it’s empty.

Koesler entered the dining room and turned on the light. He was vaguely aware something was amiss. But what? Nothing. Surely nothing.

It was an after-dinner drink he wanted. There was no hint of a liqueur in the cache supplied by the college. He needed access to Krieg’s supply. But that was under lock and key.

Wait. . He glanced at the cupboard holding Krieg’s private stock. The cabinet door was ajar. Odd.

Something was wrong, very wrong. He looked around the room. Cloths covered all the tables except the one the faculty had used; that had no tablecloth. The linen should have been laid preparatory to tomorrow’s breakfast.

He moved toward the bare table. The tablecloth was on the floor, together with the flatware, some shattered china, and a body.

Another game? Another little psychodrama?

Koesler thought not.

He bent down for a closer look. He could detect no blood. There also was no pulse.

Now he knew what it was he had sensed on entering the room. In his priestly duties, Koesler had become familiar with the distinctive odor. It was the odor of death.

This time there would be no mistakes. He would go right to the top and call his friend, Inspector Walter Koznicki.

The question that baffled Koesler as he rang up was, if this was indeed a murder, why would anyone want to kill Rabbi Irving Winer?