Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Small went on, “The mayor asked about the money. He wanted to know if it had been picked up.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but I raised a silencing hand. I knew that this was exactly what Philip Byron would have wanted had he been here. Containment. Gerald Small knew as little as possible about why a million dollars had been delivered to his museum’s coat-check room for pickup. There is no record, Gerald . Whatever the woman would have to say about why she had shown up with claim number 16 in her purse, I didn’t want her blabbing it here.

The backpack was sitting next to me on the desk.

“Why don’t you stow that somewhere?” I said to Small. “We’ll be back for it.” I slid off the desk.

Small stared at me as if I’d just spoken in a rare Senegalese dialect. “Where are you going ?”

I turned to the woman. “May I have your name, please?”

“Mary Ryan.”

“Mary Ryan and I are going to get some air.”

Small was on the verge of full apoplexy. “I need to speak with my staff! I need to tell them what’s happening!”

“Nothing is happening,” I said. “The police were running an emergency drill. The museum was cooperating. The drill was a success. You may thank them for their professionalism.”

“I demand to know what this is all about! Who is this woman? What is she planning to do with all this money?”

Jigs pushed away from the filing cabinet. “Do we need a muzzle on this hen?”

“But I don’t-”

“Shut up.”

I turned back to the woman. “Miss Ryan?” She rose from her chair. “Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Sister,” she said.

I took a beat. “Sister?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a nun ?”

She answered with a gentle tilt of the head. Next to the file cabinet, Jigs Dugan crossed himself with demon speed.

“Oh shit. JesusMaryMotherofGod…”

SISTER MARY RYAN ASKED IF SHE COULD PAUSE FOR A PRIVATE MOMENT in the Fuentidueña Chapel just around the corner from the stairs. I was sure I’d be struck dead on the spot if I said no. The nun crossed herself at the chapel entrance, then stepped forward, bowing her head before taking a seat in one of the rigid wooden chairs.

“What do you think?” Jigs asked me.

I shrugged. “I suspect whatever she tells us will be the truth.”

“I’m old-fashioned, Fritz. I like my nuns in costume, thank you. Your nuns start looking like everyday Joes, we’ll have to be on our best behavior all the time, just to be safe.”

According to a placard on the wall, the polygonal apse that made up the Fuentidueña Chapel dated from the mid-twelfth century and had originally been part of the Church of Saint Martin in Segovia. Included in the chapel were twelfth-century friezes from San Baudelio de Belarga, also in Spain, as well as sculptures from Austria, Italy and the valley of the Meuse River, wherever that was. The room was narrow, the ceiling was high, the stone walls were cold to the touch.

Sister Mary Ryan spent several minutes in prayer. When she came out, the prayer seemed to have done her good. All the creases in her face had smoothed out. She looked as if a little lamp were illuminating her from the inside. I’ve seen a similar trick work with Jigs and a glass of Jameson’s. The problem with Jigger’s lamp is that it usually tips over and sets everything on fire.

“Thank you,” Sister Mary Ryan said.

Across the Romanesque Hall from the chapel was one of the outdoor cloisters. In secular terms, a courtyard. A pair of paths intersected in the middle, at a stone fountain that was dry as a bone. Arched walkways bordered the courtyard. We settled on one of the low stone walls, in a final wedge of the fast-falling sun.

“I’m with the Convent of the Holy Order of the Sisters of Good Shepherd,” the nun volunteered. “An envelope arrived at the convent this afternoon. That claim tag was in it.”

I asked, “How was the envelope delivered?”

“That was the peculiar part. It was left in a basket at the front door.”

“A basket?”

“A large basket. Like a bassinet, really.”

“You mean like a baby basket?” Jigs asked. “Like if you were going to leave a baby on the front doorstep?”

“I suppose.”

“Did someone ring the doorbell?” I asked.

“No, it wasn’t like that. Sister Anne had come through the door not ten minutes before. She received a phone call from someone. A man. He told her that a package had been left at the front door. He called it a gift, actually, not a package. He said that with love, reverence and respect, he was making a gift to the convent.”

“Those exact words?”

“He repeated them in the note.”

“The note?”

“The note that was in the envelope along with the claim tag.”

“Do you have the note with you?”

She opened her purse, pulled out a letter-size envelope and handed it to me. A GIFT was typed on the front in an all too familiar font.

“Did he say anything else to Sister Anne?”

“He said there was a gift. He said we shouldn’t let anyone take it away from us. He was adamant on that point. It says the same thing in the note.”

I unfolded the piece of paper.

Sisters-

In love, respect and reverence, a Gift awaits you. It is yours. This is my wish and decree. You need not allow anyone to talk you out of accepting it. Do not let them. It is yours. I want this for you. You are deserving. You are purity. You are endangered. I love you so much. Your Gift awaits you at the Cloisters. You will claim it with the enclosed claim check. Today. After three o’clock. Please be trusting. Please be swift. I am your lamb. From slaughter comes Grace. I am in tears with happiness over your Gift.

A Friend.

I read the note through twice and handed it to Jigs. I stared out at the dry fountain until he finished it.

“Fruit Loop,” Jigs said.

Sister Mary turned to him. “Excuse me?”

“Your so-called friend, Sister.” Jigs tapped a finger against his head. “He’s got some of the pieces in the wrong place.”

“What is this all about?” she asked.

I asked, “I can trust you to keep a secret?”

She smiled. “Vows of silence are our specialty.”

“This is related to the business at the parade on Thursday.”

“Those horrible shootings?”

“Yes. And the bomb at Barrymore’s.”

“My goodness.”

“Mr. Dugan is right. Your ‘friend’ has his good and bad in a serious twist.”

“How much money is this we’re talking about?”

“A lot. There’s a million dollars in that bag. I’d say that’s a few new coats of paint for the old convent, wouldn’t you?”

Her tone was hushed. “A million dollars.”

“You understand that we have to hold on to that money,” I said.

“May I?” She took the note from Jigs and read from it. “ ‘You need not allow anyone to talk you out of accepting it. Do not let them. It is yours.’ ” She looked over at me. “You are telling me not to accept this money for my convent.”

“He’s responsible for the killing of ten people, Sister. He made an orphan of a three-year-old boy. Others are still in the hospital. If you’ll excuse my saying it, this money is dripping in blood.”

She looked out toward the dry fountain. “Of course.”

I checked my watch. It was nearly five. The museum was closing. The sun had dipped behind the slanted roof, and the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. I reached for the note. The nun’s hand was trembling.

“What is this all about?” she asked.

“We don’t know, Sister.”