Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

Frowning, Father Crumlish put down the newspaper and was about to pour himself another cup of tea when the telephone rang. Once again it was Big Tom Madigan-and Father was not surprised. It was a rare day when Madigan failed to “check in” with his pastor-a habit formed years ago, when he’d been one of the worst hooligans in the parish and the priest had intervened to save him from reform school. And in circumstances like the present, where one of St. Brigid’s parishioners was involved in a crime, the policeman always made sure that Father Crumlish was acquainted with the latest developments.

“I’ve got bad news, Father,” Madigan said, his voice heavy with fatigue.

The priest braced himself.

“Seems Everett decided to demolish quite a few old buildings that he owned. Turn the properties into parking lots. I’ve got a list of the ones that were going to be torn down and the Liberty is on it.” Madigan paused a moment. “In other words, Charley Abbott was going to lose his job. Not for some months, of course, but-”

“Are you trying to tell me that any man would commit murder just because he was going to lose his job?” Father was incredulous.

“Not any man. Charley. You know that he didn’t think his porter’s job was menial. To him it was a ‘position,’ a Big Deal, the most important thing that ever happened to him.”

Father Crumlish silently accepted the truth of what Big Tom had said. And yet… “But I still can’t believe that Charley is capable of murder,” he said firmly. “There’s something more to all this, Tom.”

“You’re right, Father, there is,” Madigan said. “Abbott lived in the rooming house run by his sister and brother-in-law, Annie and Steve Swanson.”

“That I know.”

“Casey-the detective who tried to question Charley yesterday-went over to the house to do a routine check on Charley’s room. Hidden under the carpet, beneath the radiator, he found a recently fired.25 automatic.”

The priest caught his breath.

“Casey also found a man’s wallet. Empty-except for a driver’s license issued to John Everett.”

“What will happen to poor Charley now, Tom?” Father finally managed to ask.

“In view of the evidence I’ll have to book him on suspicion of murder.”

After hanging up the phone, the priest sat, disconsolate and staring into space, until Emma Catt burst into the room, interrupting his troubled thoughts.

“I just went over to church to put some fresh greens on the roof of the crib,” Emma reported. “Some of the statuettes have been stolen again.”

Wincing at her choice of the word, the pastor brushed at his still-thick, snow-white hair, leaned back in his desk chair, and closed his eyes.

In observance of the Christmas season St. Brigid’s church traditionally displayed a miniature crib, or manger, simulating the scene of the Nativity. Statuettes representing the participants in the momentous event were grouped strategically in the stable. And to enhance the setting, boughs of fir, pine, and holly were placed around the simple structure.

So while Father Crumlish was pleased by Emma’s attention to the crib’s appearance, he also understood the full meaning of her report. It was sad but true that each year, on more than one occasion, some of the statuettes would be missing. But, unlike Emma, Father refused to think of the deed as “stealing.” From past experience (sometimes from a sobbing whisper in the Confessional), he knew that some curious child had knelt in front of the crib, stretched out an eager hand, perhaps to caress the Infant, and then…

“What’s missing this time?” the priest asked tiredly.

“The Infant, the First Wise Man, and a lamb.”

“Well, no harm done. I’ll step around to Herbie’s and buy some more.”

“It would be cheaper if you preached a sermon on stealing.”

“ ‘They know not what they do,’ ” the old priest murmured as he adjusted his collar and his bifocals, shrugged himself into his shabby overcoat, quietly closed the rectory door behind him, and walked out into the gently falling snow.

Minutes later he opened the door of Herbie’s Doll House, a toy and novelty store which had occupied the street floor of an aged three-story frame building on Broad Street as long as the pastor could remember. As usual at this time of the year, the store was alive with the shrill voices of excited youngsters as they examined trains, wagons, flaxen-haired dolls, and every imaginable type of Christmas decoration. Presiding over the din was the proprietor, Herbie Morris, a shy, slight man in his late sixties.

Father Crumlish began to wend his way through the crowd, reflecting sadly that most of his young parishioners would be doomed to disappointment on Christmas Day. But in a moment Herbie Morris caught sight of the priest, quickly elbowed a path to his side, and eagerly shook Father’s outstretched hand.

“I can see that the Christmas spirit has caught hold of you again this year,” Father Crumlish said with a chuckle. “You’re a changed man.” It was quite true. Herbie Morris’ normally pale cheeks were rosy with excitement, and his usually dull eyes were shining.

“I know you and all the storekeepers in the parish think I’m a fool to let the kids take over in here like this every Christmas,” Herbie said sheepishly but smiling broadly. “You think they rob me blind.” He sighed. “You’re right. But it’s worth it just to see them enjoying themselves-” He broke off, and a momentary shadow crossed his face. “When you have no one-no real home to go to-it gets lonely-” His voice faltered. “Especially at Christmas.”

Father Crumlish put an arm around the man’s thin shoulder. “It’s time you had a paying customer,” he said heartily. “I need a few replacements for the crib.”

Nodding, Morris drew him aside to a counter filled with statuettes for the manger, and Father quickly made his selections. The priest was about to leave, when Herbie clasped his arm.

“Father,” he said, “I’ve been hearing a lot about Charley Abbott’s trouble. I room with the Swansons.”

“I know you do,” Father said, “I’m on my way now to see Annie and Steve.”

“George says Charley had been acting funny lately.”

“George?”

“George Floss. He rooms there too.”

The same fellow who’s the superintendent of the Liberty Office Building?” Father was surprised.

“That’s him. Charley’s boss.”

Thoughtfully the priest tucked the box of statuettes under his arm and departed. Although his destination was only a few minutes’ walk, it was all of half an hour before he arrived. He’d been detained on the way in order to halt a fist fight or two, admire a new engagement ring, console a recently bereaved widow, and steer homeward a parishioner who’d been trying to drain dry the beer tap in McCaffery’s Tavern. But finally he mounted the steps of a battered house with a sign on the door reading: Rooms.

He had little relish for his task. Annie and Steve were a disagreeable, quarrelsome pair, and the pastor knew very well that they considered his interest in Charley’s welfare all through the years as “meddling.” Therefore he wasn’t surprised at the look of annoyance of Steve’s face when he opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you, Father,” Steve said ungraciously. “C’mon in. Annie’s in the kitchen.”

Silently Father followed the short, barrel-chested man, who was clad in winter underwear and a pair of soiled trousers, down a musty hallway. Annie was seated at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. She was a scrawny, pallid-complexioned woman who, Father knew, was only in her mid-forties. But stringy gray hair and deep lines of discontent crisscrossing her face made her appear to be much older. Now, seeing her visitor, she started to wipe her hands on her stained apron and get to her feet. A word from the pastor deterred her.