Silver Spire

Seventeen

After recovering from the shock of Wolfe’s decision, I went to the kitchen with the news that we would be leaving the brownstone about a half-hour before we normally sit down to dinner. Fritz looked at me as if I’d just salted his cassoulet Castelnaudary without first tasting it.

“But — to go without eating, Archie,” he pleaded. “That is bad for him... it is terrible!”

“Oh, come on. As good as your shrimp bordelaise is, it’ll do him good to bypass a few calories now and again. It’s not as if he’s been wasting away. Besides, you’re the one who likes to see him working.” I avoided mentioning that there would be no fee on this escapade; if I had, Fritz’s jaw, already sagging, would have dropped all the way to the parquet floor. As I left the kitchen, he was staring at the stove, shaking his head, and muttering something in French — probably a curse on me and all that I hold dear. And I was cursing myself for missing the shrimp, to say nothing of dessert — Fritz’s incomparable pistachio soufflé.

The rest of the day seemed like a week. After lunch, which was curried beef roll, I balanced the checkbook and entered the Bible verses into the PC, per Wolfe’s instructions. I then printed out twelve copies and slipped them into a manila envelope. All the while, he sat at his desk reading and drinking beer — until it was time to go up and dally with the orchids, that is.

Instead of coming down to the office at six from the plant rooms, as is his usual routine, Wolfe went to his bedroom, presumably to change for the trek to Staten Island. At six-fifty, he still hadn’t descended, so I told Fritz I was leaving and walked to the garage on Tenth Avenue. I got the Mercedes and pulled it around in front of the brownstone. Wolfe was standing on the stoop, clad in his dark cashmere overcoat and homburg despite the warm weather and armed with his red thorn walking stick.

He glowered at the car before walking down the steps. I stepped out and played footman, opening the rear door, and he got in, the glower still holding. The only thing I know of that Nero Wolfe dislikes more than riding in a car is riding in an airplane. He mistrusts all vehicles and endures them only when he feels he has absolutely no recourse.

Once settled — or as settled as Wolfe gets in a car — I eased from the curb, steering a course south and then east, eventually passing into Brooklyn through the tunnel at the Battery. The evening traffic was light, and I’m the best driver I know, but Wolfe sat rigid on the front half of the seat and clung to the strap as if it were a rip cord.

“We’re about to cross the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge,” I said a few minutes later to be chatty, knowing he’d never laid eyes on this engineering wonder. “It is the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world, completed in 1964.” He grunted his lack of enthusiasm at my knowledge of local trivia, so I clammed up for the rest of the drive.

It was early twilight when we pulled onto the black-topped parking lot of the Silver Spire Tabernacle. About fifteen cars dozed under mercury-white lighting on the Vermont-sized expanse of tarmac, all of them near the entrance. I swung the Mercedes into the nearest available slot to the door. “This is the place,” I said, shutting off the engine and turning to face Wolfe. “Chez Bay.”

He scowled and I got out, opening the rear door on his side. As large as Wolfe is, he’s never clumsy, and he climbed from the car as if he did it every day of his life, rather than on visits to the barber plus his annual trip to the Metropolitan Orchid Show. He stretched his legs and gave the building the once-over.

“Like I told you, it’s a whopper,” I said.

“That deceit should dwell in such a place.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Paraphrased. I omitted the adjective ‘gorgeous,’ which this edifice clearly does not merit.”

We went in through the glass double doors. A bony, dusty-haired guard in the seat occupied during the day by the redhead put down the dog-eared paperback western he was reading and squinted at us through half-glasses. “Sorry, church’s closed now,” the geezer droned after freeing a toothpick from his mouth. “First tour tomorrow’s at nine.”

“There’s a meeting going on in the executive conference room,” I told him evenly. “Reverend Bay is expecting us.”

The guard peered doubtfully at a page in the loose-leaf notebook that lay open on his desk. “Don’t have any record of visitors; what’s the name?”

“Wolfe and Goodwin. Call Reverend Bay and tell him we’re here,” I snapped.

He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t interrupt a meet-in’.”

I leaned so close to his leathery face that I could tell you what kind of spaghetti sauce he favored. “Look, I know damn well there’s a phone in the conference room,” I said, stressing each word. “Call Bay or I’ll do it myself. And if I have to, you aren’t going to like it.”

The guard’s watery eyes met mine, and he must have swallowed hard, because his Adam’s apple bobbed. He picked up the instrument, punching a number.

“It’s Perkins out front, sir,” he rasped. “Sorry to disturb you, but there are two gentlemen here to see you. Named Wolfe and Goodwin... Yes, sir... Yes... All right, I’ll tell them.” He cradled the receiver, swallowed again, and glanced at me, then at Wolfe.

“The reverend’ll be out in a minute,” he wheezed, returning to his paperback and making a point of ignoring us. Wolfe looked at the angular contours of the guest chairs and grimaced, wisely choosing to stay on his feet. I did likewise. In about two minutes, a male silhouette appeared, moving toward us from the shadowy far end of the lobby, his footfalls echoing. Well before he emerged into the light, I knew it was Barnabas Bay.

“Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Goodwin. This is something of a surprise,” Bay said, giving us a weak smile. “We’re in the middle of our staff meeting, so—”

“Sir, I will be blunt,” Wolfe told him. “Mr. Goodwin and I are cognizant of your meeting, and we chose this time to see you and your cadre together. The subject of our visit is Mr. Meade’s death.”

Bay, looking dapper in a brown herringbone sport coat, white shirt, and brown-and-gold-striped tie, puckered his lips and motioned us to move away from the guard’s desk. When we were out of the old buzzard’s earshot, Bay looked earnestly at Wolfe and cleared his throat.

“This is somewhat awkward, to say the least. As I have reiterated to both you and Mr. Goodwin, we all know that the killer — your Mr. Durkin — has long since been identified and charged. I know how much that must pain you, but I see no need for my staff to be put through any further pain by forcing them to relive the terrible tragedy. I feel I already indulged you by allowing Mr. Goodwin to question my people at length.”

Wolfe, who hates conversing on his feet and who was angry to begin with, tapped his rubber-tipped walking stick once on the terrazzo, which for him is an act approaching violence. “Mr. Bay, either I talk to your assembled staff — I will not unduly prolong the session — or you will read what I have to say in tomorrow afternoon’s edition of the Gazette. I assure you it will not be pleasurable reading.”

I don’t know what Bay was thinking, but it probably ran along the lines that he couldn’t afford to take a chance on turning us away. “All right,” he said after studying his tassel loafers. “I would first like to know what your message will be.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t work that way. You will all hear me simultaneously.”

More silence. “This bothers me very much, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Wolfe. Can you give me some indication of what you’re going to say?”

“I already have. It concerns Mr. Meade’s murder. We are wasting both time and breath.”

“All right.” Bay sighed. “But I reserve the right as chair to cut off the discussion at any time.”

Wolfe, knowing that once he got started nobody was going to cut him off, dipped his chin a fraction of an inch, and we followed Bay down a shadowy hallway.

The minister swung open the door to the conference room, and we were greeted by six shocked expressions. “We have guests,” the minister announced before anyone could recover. “All of you have met Mr. Goodwin. And this is his employer, Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

“What’s all this about, Barney?” Sam Reese rose halfway out of his chair as the others nattered angrily. “These are the last people who ought to be showing their faces around here.”

“Please, if I can explain,” Bay said, holding up a hand. “I concede that this is unexpected, but Mr. Wolfe has asked for a few minutes to discuss... what happened to Roy.”

“What’s to discuss?” Marley Wilkenson barked. “Durkin killed Roy — we all know it, and so do you, Barney.”

“We went to Mr. Wolfe originally, seeking help,” Bay said in a soothing but firm tone. “We owe him the courtesy of hearing what he has to say.” That silenced them, at least for the moment, although nobody around the table looked to be oozing the milk of human kindness.

Bay gestured Wolfe to a chair at one end of the dark, highly polished conference table, and I helped him off with his overcoat. The chair was a couple of sizes smaller than he’s used to, but he gamely wedged himself into it. I took a seat slightly behind and to the left of him. As Wolfe looked down the table, Lloyd Morgan was on his immediate right hand, with Sam Reese next to Morgan, then Carola, and finally Marley Wilkenson. Gillis was closest to Wolfe on the left, with Elise Bay and then her husband farther down that side. The table could seat at least twice the number that were gathered, so the far end was vacant.

Wolfe adjusted his bulk and studied the somber faces before him. “I can appreciate the genuine animosity with which you greet my presence,” he said. “Each of you, save one, is convinced, with apparent good reason, that Mr. Durkin killed your colleague, and the evidence would seem to point in that direction.”

“Amen,” said Morgan, who got a glare from Bay.

Wolfe took a breath and went on. “You all embrace many tenets solely on faith, and for the moment, I ask you to accept something else on faith: My unswerving conviction that Fred Durkin is incapable of committing the crime with which he has been charged. Mr. Durkin is—”

“That’s asking a lot of us,” Carola Reese murmured, brushing a tendril of hair from her cheek.

“It is, madam, but I request your forbearance for only a short time. Mr. Durkin is, after all, innocent until proven guilty in our society.”

“And you’re going to tell us he’s innocent because he was working for you, right?” Reese stuck out his chin belligerently.

Wolfe pursed his lips. “Sir, I intend to prove Mr. Durkin’s innocence — by revealing the identity of the murderer. And to correct you, Mr. Durkin was not in my employ on this particular assignment. Now, does anyone—”

He was cut short by the ringing of the phone at Bay’s elbow. “Yes. What? Here? Well... yes, bring them on back.” Bay scowled and looked accusingly at Wolfe. “Two members of the police department have arrived. They apparently knew that you would be present tonight. You are straining the bounds of our hospitality.” So now I knew how Wolfe had spent part of his time up in his room before we left. He’d called Cramer and didn’t bother to tell me about it. This would be the subject of a future discussion between us.

“A murder has been committed,” Wolfe responded to Bay, turning a palm up. “Although both you and I have vested interests in seeing this crime solved, the interests of the public, as represented by the police, supersede our own.”

As if on cue, the door opened, and Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins pushed in, making the room seem suddenly smaller. “Inspector,” Bay said, rising with an unsmiling nod, “I had not expected to see you tonight.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Cramer gruffed. “But Sergeant Stebbins and I are here only as spectators.”

“Isn’t that more than a little bit unorthodox?” Roger Gillis asked in a high-pitched voice that barely missed being squeaky.

“Yes, but so’s he.” Cramer jabbed a thumb in Wolfe’s direction. “He usually holds these charades at his place, and I’ve found over the years that it’s a good idea to keep watch on them.”

“So, in effect, Wolfe is calling the shots for the police department,” Reese said, his chin still jutting out like a battering ram.

“He is not!” Cramer’s face turned tomato-red, and a vein popped out in his neck. “He never has, and he never will, as long as I’m in this job.”

“Inspector, our apologies; I know Sam meant no disrespect,” Bay said, shifting to a soothing tone that awakened his southern drawl. “It’s just that we are all on edge, as I’m sure you can understand. You are of course welcome here, as is the sergeant. Please take a seat.”

Cramer and Stebbins settled in at the far end of the table, and all eyes switched from them to Wolfe as though they were following a tennis match.

He waited several seconds, for effect. “As I started to say earlier, does anyone quarrel with the statement that Mr. Meade was the least-liked member of this church’s staff?”

That set them off again, like chained watchdogs baying at a burglar. When the noise died down, Elise Bay squared her shapely shoulders. “I think that’s a very cheap thing to say, Mr. Wolfe,” she responded quietly but firmly. Her husband reached over and patted her forearm as if to still her, but she pulled away, tossing him an irritated glance.

“I assure you it was not said in a spirit of either malice or caprice, madam. I simply stated what I know to be fact.”

“How could you possibly begin to know anything about what goes on at the Silver Spire?” Morgan huffed. “You’ve never even been here before tonight. And until just now, you’ve never laid eyes on any of us, except for Barney.”

“That is correct, but Mr. Goodwin functions competently as my eyes and ears. Through the years, I have found his observations to be keen and perceptive.”

“Huh! So now we’re being asked — or told — to validate the so-called findings of a private investigator,” Morgan said.

“Now, now — we are caviling,” Bay put in smoothly, laying a hand palm down on the tabletop. “Mr. Wolfe, I think it is fair to say that Roy Meade was somewhat abrasive at times in his pursuit of the Lord’s work, but after all, so was St. Paul. Roy could be overly zealous, I know, but he also had a vision and a determination that made him truly a warrior for Christ, as I have said often — including to you. Every one of us around this table is the richer for having known him.”

That was a spirited little speech, but I could tell Wolfe wasn’t bowled over by it. For that matter, it didn’t exactly light up the faces of the Circle of Faith members, none of whom was about to spring up and applaud.

“I will stipulate that Mr. Meade was devoted in his faith and diligent in the fulfillment of his duties,” Wolfe said dryly. “But was he popular with his co-workers? Hardly. Every member of this group had a reason to dislike him. The intensity of the animus varied, but it was palpable.”

There was muttering, but no outright contradiction. “Is that an indirect way of suggesting that someone here — one of us — killed Roy?” Bay asked.

“Through the ages church leaders have been among those violating the laws Moses brought down from the mountain, including the sixth.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Reese demanded.

“An honest one,” Wolfe countered.

“Let’s get on with it,” Cramer snapped from the far end of the table. “Have you got something, or not?”

“I do, sir, and I do not feel you will deem your time wasted.”

Gillis snorted. “Okay, since you’re explaining everything, tell us who you think killed Roy.”

“I prefer to first address the subject of the six Bible verses addressed to Mr. Bay, and why they were written. It was obvious to me that the missives were a subterfuge. Mr. Bay was never in any physical danger from the sender of those verses, but they served the purpose for which they were intended.”

“Which was?” Morgan asked with a snort.

“To bring in an outside element, specifically a private investigator. Mr. Meade realized his adversary was up to something, and he took a defensive step, which I will detail later.”

Elise Bay frowned. “What do you mean by adversary?”

Sighing, Wolfe made another futile attempt to get comfortable in his chair. “From the first, I was struck by this institution’s handling of money,” he said. “Thousands of dollars in currency are collected every week, and yet each of you has access to that money in its vault from about noon on Sunday until sometime Monday morning, when the counters arrive.”

Bay jerked upright and set his jaw. “This is the Circle of Faith!” he said gravely, slapping a palm on the table and looking in turn at his colleagues. “I would trust each of them with my life, let alone the modest treasure we take in from our services.”

“Money, particularly when readily and safely accessible, can be an overwhelming temptation,” Wolfe responded. “Ecclesiastes said money answers all things. One among you was tempted, taking amounts not likely to be noticed, at least in the short run. This individual was found out by Royal Meade, however, and I can only surmise the circumstances of that discovery. Having caught the thief, Mr. Meade said nothing to anyone and arrogantly gave that individual a deadline in which to confess.”

“If this is true — and I can’t believe that it is — why wouldn’t Roy have immediately told me about it?” Bay asked.

“Hubris. Mr. Meade thrived on the possession and exercise of power, as several of you here can testify. He wanted to control this unfortunate situation totally. However, he underestimated the resourcefulness and cunning of this adversary. He paid for that miscalculation with his life.”

“Your ‘adversary’ business is hogwash!” Marley Wilkenson barked. “You haven’t said one thing so far that points to anyone other than Durkin as the murderer.”

“I shall rectify that oversight,” Wolfe responded. “First, photocopies of the six threatening notes sent to Mr. Bay were found in a drawer of Mr. Meade’s desk.”

“You’re making that up!” Reese charged, angrily jabbing a finger in Wolfe’s direction.

“No, sir, I am not. Ask Mr. Cramer.”

“Well?” Reese said, as he and everyone else at the table turned to face the inspector and Purley Stebbins.

“He’s right,” Cramer muttered.

“Inspector, why didn’t you inform me of that discovery?” Bay asked evenly.

“I am not obligated to inform you — or anyone other than my superiors — of developments in the course of a homicide investigation,” Cramer growled.

“But Wolfe knows about them!” Morgan spat.

“I have been known to share information with him on occasion,” Cramer shot back. “I see no reason to justify that to you.”

Morgan bristled. “That’s a pretty arrogant attitude for a public servant to take with—”

“Now, now, please,” Bay said smoothly. “We are not here to fight with one another. I would like to ask one of you — Mr. Cramer, Mr. Wolfe, whoever cares to answer — what you think about those copies being in Roy’s desk.”

“One of my men found them. But ask Wolfe, it’s his show,” Cramer grumped, folding his arms across his chest.

Wolfe inhaled deeply, wishing he had beer. “Mr. Meade did not place those threatening Bible verses in the offering pouches. If he had, he surely would not have kept self-implicating copies. Those, of course, were planted in his desk drawer by the individual who stole the money from the vault, who created the original notes — and who later shot Mr. Meade.”

“Oh, come on,” Wilkenson groaned. “This gets sillier by the minute. If one adopts your theory, wacky as it is, then what was to be gained by putting the photocopies in Roy’s desk?”

“A valid question. The author of those notes wanted them to be found and tied to Mr. Meade.”

“Why?” Wilkenson asked.

“To discredit Mr. Meade before he was able to publicly accuse the thief. From the first, Mr. Meade knew who was writing the notes, although he probably was unaware that a duplicate set had been slipped into one of his own desk drawers. However, as self-confident as he was, he sensed he might be in some physical danger and countered one series of biblical passages with another. He realized that if anything were to happen to incapacitate him, others on the staff — including the thief — would surely go through his papers. He needed to veil his message, and then hope someone deciphered it. For a minister, what better way than in a listing of seemingly innocuous Bible verses? With Mr. Bay’s approval, Mr. Goodwin searched the dead man’s office. I had instructed him to be alert for biblical notations, and he discovered a sheet of paper listing seven verses, in what a member of the church staff confirmed was Mr. Meade’s handwriting. I read these verses in each of the Bibles in my library, seeking a pattern.

“I found none, but I was making an easy job difficult. Genius frequently overlooks the obvious,” Wolfe observed immodestly. “Far later than I should have, I finally comprehended Mr. Meade’s message. Mr. Goodwin will now pass out copies of the verses, as taken from the New International Version of the Bible. Upon reading them, some of you may well wonder where my brain was as I read the passages.”

I pulled the sheets from the envelope and walked around the table, placing one in front of each of them, including Cramer and Stebbins. For close to a minute, everyone read before Bay broke the silence.

“I find nothing specific here,” he said, shrugging and looking at the others around the table. “Unless I’m in a total fog, there seems to be no common thread linking these texts.”

“Anyone else?” Wolfe said, raising his eyebrows. “No? Perhaps you all are making the same mistake I did. I doggedly persisted in seeking a substantive message in the passages.” I smiled inwardly; never have I heard a relapse described as such hard work.

“Okay, you’ve stumped us,” Gillis snapped, slapping the sheet. “That is, if there’s really any point at all to this.”

Wolfe dipped his head a fraction of an inch. “I sympathize with your frustration. After realizing that there was no textual link among these seven, I sought a cipher. When I found it, I chastised myself at its childlike simplicity. Mr. Meade drew up this list of verses with the expectation that it would be found only if some grave misfortune befell him, which would make it in effect his last word. There are seven verses in all. The first, from I Timothy, serves only to establish the subject: the love of money as a force for evil. Now study the other six, in the order Mr. Meade set them down, and take the first letter in the last word of each.”

Elise Bay spoke first. “It spells... Morgan,” she said tensely, as Purley Stebbins got up and moved silently around the table, stopping behind an ashen-faced Lloyd Morgan.

“This is ridiculous and farfetched,” Morgan cried. “I’m not going to sit here and—” He started to rise, and Purley Stebbins gently but firmly pushed him back down with a beefy hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Wolfe, an explanation is in order,” Bay said, his composure ruffled.

“Mr. Morgan had been taking money from the Sunday collections. How much and for how long — you’ll have to ask him. Mr. Meade found out about this thievery — very likely catching him in the act. That’s not surprising, given that he, Meade, spent so much time in the building. He gave Mr. Morgan a deadline to confess his embezzlement, perhaps giving him the opportunity to repay the money.”

“Barney, this is absurd. Those letters spelling my name, that’s just a silly coincidence,” Morgan said loudly. Beads of perspiration began to form on his face.

“Coincidence? Hardly,” Wolfe replied. “Depending on the frequency with which letters occur in a language, the odds of six letters from an alphabet of twenty-six coming up randomly in a specific order is something over one hundred million to one.” He turned toward Bay. “Shortly after Mr. Morgan was discovered pilfering funds, he began writing the ominous notes, which were, as I said earlier, a subterfuge to bring a private investigator to the scene. He had been given a grace period by Mr. Meade — a fatal mistake, as it turned out. He persuaded you that a detective was needed to find the writer. I was the first choice, and I declined. Mr. Goodwin then recommended Fred Durkin.

“Mr. Morgan’s hope was that the investigator would search desks and discover the photocopies of the notes, thereby placing Mr. Meade in an untenable position. His logic was that once Mr. Meade had been accused of writing those notes, any countercharge he made would seem the attempt of a man desperately trying to shift the spotlight of accusation from himself. It had not been Mr. Morgan’s original intention to kill Royal Meade, only to discredit him.

“He encouraged Mr. Durkin to spend as much time as he needed — at any time of day — in this building. His plan foundered, however, because Fred Durkin is not by nature a desk-rifler. Mr. Morgan, who could not very well suggest that Fred prowl through desks, grew frustrated and desperate, and on the night of the fateful session in this room, he suddenly saw an opportunity to forever silence his antagonist. When Fred lost his temper and Mr. Bay called for a recess to allow tempers to cool, his plan coalesced. He knew Fred wore a shoulder holster and that he took it off along with his suitcoat while in the building. And he also knew where he hung the holster and pistol.”

“So did everybody here,” Morgan said in a frantic tone. “You’re singling me out to try to save your pal.”

Wolfe ignored him. “Mr. Morgan knew he had fifteen minutes, and he also knew, as did everyone else employed by the church, that both the doors and the walls are so thick as to be virtually soundproof. He went to his office to meditate, but stayed only a short time, probably no more than a minute. He reentered the hall, making sure it was deserted, and got Mr. Durkin’s pistol from its holster. He then went to Mr. Meade’s office, entering it, probably without knocking, and closing the door behind him. Royal Meade undoubtedly looked up, surprised to see his colleague during a time decreed for solitary contemplation. At close range, five feet or less, he was an easy target quickly dispatched, even by someone not familiar with handguns. Mr. Morgan probably had a handkerchief between his hand and the handle of the gun to prevent fingerprints.

“In one decisive move, he apparently eliminated his problem. He had committed murder, and to compound the iniquity, he was perfectly content to let another individual suffer for it.” The last sentence was uttered with more contempt than I have ever heard in Wolfe’s voice.

Bay turned to Morgan. “Do you have anything you’d like to say, Lloyd?” he asked hoarsely. Morgan opened his mouth, but no sound came. He shook his head and looked at the tabletop.

“Let us bow in prayer,” Bay said. “Dear Lord, we thank you for your presence with us, and we ask your guidance. This is a troubling time for your church in this place, and we seek your help....” He stopped because of the racking sobs that came from Morgan, who had buried his face in his hands and was shaking. “... We know that in this fallen world we all are sinners, and that no one among us is fit to judge any other. Only you can judge, and it is in you that we put our faith, our trust, and our unending love. Please be with us now and forever, we pray, in the name of your son Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Four of us — Wolfe, Cramer, Stebbins, and I — had not bowed, but were watching the others, all of whom did pray. Morgan was still sobbing as Stebbins helped him to his feet and, after a nod from Cramer, began to recite the Miranda warning: “You have the right to remain silent...” I didn’t hear the rest, because I was on my way out the door, going to the nearest office to call Fred Durkin.