Read Online Where the Dark Streets Go by Dorothy Salisbury Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
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I believe in evil. Deliver us from evil. Amen, amen, amen.
“Well, Joseph, you’ve made The New York Times as well as the Daily News .” The monsignor was walking through the hall with a cup of coffee in his hand, the papers under his arm, when McMahon went down. The old man was an early riser. He had said the first Mass. The smell of coffee carried through the house, coffee and burnt bacon. The monsignor stopped at the office door and looked back at him. “Don’t you want the papers?”
“Not till later, thank you.”
“You spent the ten by the looks of you.”
“Most of it.”
“Did you have a good time at least?”
He thought of the youngsters and the fire truck, and the beads now lying on his bedside table like a rosary. “A fine time,” he said. Then, remembering Phelan: “How did I make The Times ?”
“Finding the victim.”
“Ah, of course.” He cleared his throat.
“You’ll be in fine voice for the nuptial Mass,” the old man said dryly.
McMahon had forgotten the wedding, and he had promised a final rehearsal after the eight o’clock Mass. At ten there was a funeral which Purdy would take. He was fonder of funerals than he was of weddings. But so was McMahon, to admit the truth. Or would have been that morning.
“They’ll give us a good lunch at Costello’s after the reception,” the old man said. “But I hope to God they serve French champagne. The sweet stuff turns my stomach.”
McMahon went out the side door and across the cement yard to the sacristy. He knelt on the prie-dieux near the sanctuary while Father Gonzales finished the seven-thirty Mass, which was in Spanish. Suppose it had been Gonzales whom Carlos had run into? Gonzales who knew nothing of Mrs. Phelan and her marital problems, whom Brogan would never have asked to go on the town with him. Or even going, Gonzales might not have been able to identify Phelan even if he wanted to. It was that which stuck in his craw. But there were more things than that in his craw. If it had not been Muller it would have been something else. What is it about, Lord? I shall try to be silent and hear.
He said his own Mass with no more than twenty or thirty people in the church, and most of them there for the wedding rehearsal. The lector read in Spanish and in English. When the priest raised his hand in the final blessing, he noticed the girl rise and leave the church by the side door. He noticed her because she left without genuflecting. He spoke to the wedding party from the altar to say he would be out in a few minutes.
He was removing the chasuble when the girl he had seen leave the church came into the sacristy. She was tall and quite thin, with heavy black hair down to her shoulders and large dark eyes.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Father McMahon?”
“I am.”
The eyes were not furtive, but she was uneasy. “Am I not allowed to come in here?” she said.
“Why not?” And trying to put her at ease, “We’ve no secrets.”
A little smile. She wore no makeup. But she was not as young as he had thought at first.
He waited before removing the white alb. “Do you want to talk? I’m afraid I have a wedding party out there for a practice run, but it won’t take long.”
“I’ll go,” she said, and put out her hand as though to guide her turn back to the door. Then she shoved the hand into the pocket of her skirt. “Just tell me, what was he like, the man you found?”
“Are you Mim?”
Her head shot up, the lips parted and the eyes grew even wider than before. The face froze in his memory, for almost the instant he said the name she whirled around and was gone. He went to the door after her and called out. But she was running between the sunlight and shadow down the long passageway with all her might. He went out, vestments and all, but by the time he reached the street she was nowhere in sight. The restless groom was pacing the church steps. McMahon did not question him, and he conducted the rehearsal as he was,
“Well, Joseph, you’ve made The New York Times as well as the Daily News .” The monsignor was walking through the hall with a cup of coffee in his hand, the papers under his arm, when McMahon went down. The old man was an early riser. He had said the first Mass. The smell of coffee carried through the house, coffee and burnt bacon. The monsignor stopped at the office door and looked back at him. “Don’t you want the papers?”
“Not till later, thank you.”
“You spent the ten by the looks of you.”
“Most of it.”
“Did you have a good time at least?”
He thought of the youngsters and the fire truck, and the beads now lying on his bedside table like a rosary. “A fine time,” he said. Then, remembering Phelan: “How did I make The Times ?”
“Finding the victim.”
“Ah, of course.” He cleared his throat.
“You’ll be in fine voice for the nuptial Mass,” the old man said dryly.
McMahon had forgotten the wedding, and he had promised a final rehearsal after the eight o’clock Mass. At ten there was a funeral which Purdy would take. He was fonder of funerals than he was of weddings. But so was McMahon, to admit the truth. Or would have been that morning.
“They’ll give us a good lunch at Costello’s after the reception,” the old man said. “But I hope to God they serve French champagne. The sweet stuff turns my stomach.”
McMahon went out the side door and across the cement yard to the sacristy. He knelt on the prie-dieux near the sanctuary while Father Gonzales finished the seven-thirty Mass, which was in Spanish. Suppose it had been Gonzales whom Carlos had run into? Gonzales who knew nothing of Mrs. Phelan and her marital problems, whom Brogan would never have asked to go on the town with him. Or even going, Gonzales might not have been able to identify Phelan even if he wanted to. It was that which stuck in his craw. But there were more things than that in his craw. If it had not been Muller it would have been something else. What is it about, Lord? I shall try to be silent and hear.
He said his own Mass with no more than twenty or thirty people in the church, and most of them there for the wedding rehearsal. The lector read in Spanish and in English. When the priest raised his hand in the final blessing, he noticed the girl rise and leave the church by the side door. He noticed her because she left without genuflecting. He spoke to the wedding party from the altar to say he would be out in a few minutes.
He was removing the chasuble when the girl he had seen leave the church came into the sacristy. She was tall and quite thin, with heavy black hair down to her shoulders and large dark eyes.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Father McMahon?”
“I am.”
The eyes were not furtive, but she was uneasy. “Am I not allowed to come in here?” she said.
“Why not?” And trying to put her at ease, “We’ve no secrets.”
A little smile. She wore no makeup. But she was not as young as he had thought at first.
He waited before removing the white alb. “Do you want to talk? I’m afraid I have a wedding party out there for a practice run, but it won’t take long.”
“I’ll go,” she said, and put out her hand as though to guide her turn back to the door. Then she shoved the hand into the pocket of her skirt. “Just tell me, what was he like, the man you found?”
“Are you Mim?”
Her head shot up, the lips parted and the eyes grew even wider than before. The face froze in his memory, for almost the instant he said the name she whirled around and was gone. He went to the door after her and called out. But she was running between the sunlight and shadow down the long passageway with all her might. He went out, vestments and all, but by the time he reached the street she was nowhere in sight. The restless groom was pacing the church steps. McMahon did not question him, and he conducted the rehearsal as he was,
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