Chapter XX
The drive to the Morningside campus of Columbia University was direct and short. Michael paid the driver and walked through the main gate onto the lower campus. He consulted a piece of paper and turned left, away from the Broadway side of the quadrangle toward a large building that bordered Amsterdam Avenue. He entered and read the glass-enclosed directory. Over a list of eminent names was the department title: "LITERATURE AND FOREIGN LANGUAGES." He consulted the paper again and searched the list of faculty members. "GREGOR RUZINSKY." The name was near the bottom. Probably Polish. An associate professor.
He walked up the staircase, located room 217, opened the old wooden door and entered a small unevenly lit office.
Behind a desk was a man in his early thirties. Ivy-Leaguish. Incurably unkempt. "Come in," Ruzinsky said belatedly.
"Thank you," Michael replied, turning to a chair.
"I assume you are the gentleman who phoned me before."
"Yes."
"Very interesting."
"What?"
"You. I have a hobby at which I have grown quite proficient."
"And that is?"
"Conceiving a predetermined image for an unknown voice. You are precisely as I pictured, most remarkably so, even your clothes. But-" He paused.
"But?"
"I detect an urgency in your expression that did not come through the phone. That is most peculiar."
"Are you sure there's an urgency?" Michael asked, fascinated by the man's intuitiveness.
"Yes," Ruzinsky said somberly.
"What else can you see?"
The man smiled. "Would you like some tea? It's almost ready." He turned about in his swivel chair and reached for a teapot that sat on a small portable burner.
"No, thank you," said Michael.
"You should try some. A very rare blend from southern China. Exquisite taste and aroma. Are you sure you wouldn't like to try it?"
"I've never been much of a tea drinker. Thank you anyway."
Ruzinsky motioned to the pot. "Then you wouldn't mind?"
"Of course not," said Michael, surprised that the man would ask for permission to drink tea in his own office. But then again, Europeans were very proper. He wondered what the man would have done if he had objected.
Ruzinsky carefully drained the tea through a strainer. "It's more difficult than using a samovar," he declared as he lifted the steaming cup. "Absolutely delicious. There's something in this tea that relaxes me and allows me to think more clearly." He placed the cup on the desk, picked up a pack of Pall Malls and offered them to Michael. "Smoke?"
"No, thank you. I don't smoke."
"No vices at all?"
"Not quite. Let's just say I don't smoke."
Ruzinsky regarded the red pack, half empty, and threw it to the side. He opened the desk drawer, removed a hand-carved pipe, filled it with tobacco, lit it and sat back in his chair. "Now what may I do for you? You mentioned something about a translation."
"And you said you could do it."
"I did, assuming that it is what you say it is. Might I see the material?"
Michael reached into his pocket and removed Allison's transcription. It was rumpled; he laid it on the desk, pressed out the wrinkles with the palm of his hand and passed it to the curious professor, who moved the lamp slightly and perused the document.
"Very interesting," Ruzinsky said. "A form of early Latin, used well before the reigns of the Caesars, maybe three or four hundred years before. You only find it in very old and selective writings."
Now how had Allison come up with something like this? "Can you translate it?"
Ruzinsky suffered the affront and replied indignantly, "Of course. It is simple compared to other extinct languages and idioms. In fact, if you have several minutes, I will work on it now. It shouldn't take too long."
"I have all the time in the world."
Ruzinsky removed a yellow legal-size pad from the desk drawer, sharpened his pencil and attacked the task with enthusiasm. His attention was absolute; he huddled over the desk like a nearsighted monk, eyes only six or seven inches above the paper and hands held ready for execution. There was a preciseness about his manner that assured Michael that the man would do his best to make the translation as accurate as possible. Several times the scholar crossed out a word or phrase, studied the transcription and substituted a more appropriate English equivalent. Each time he would say, "No, no. That's not right," and then, after some study, would exult, "Ah, much better, much better."
It took him slightly under ten minutes to finish, during which time Michael fidgeted nervously, looking at books he had never heard of, let alone read, and doodling aimlessly on a piece of paper that Ruzinsky had given him after he had caught him writing on his desk.
"Are you almost done?" Michael asked after some time.
"Yes, just one more word, I think, right here and-good! The remainder are repeats of the first segment."
Michael sat forward in his chair, expectant. Ruzinsky held out the translation and read:
"To thee thy course by Lot hath given
Charge and strict watch that to this happy Place
No evil thing approach or enter in."
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the scholar.
"But the page was-"
Ruzinsky interrupted. "The phrase was repeated five times."
"I see," said Michael, nodding. " 'Happy Place,'" he repeated thoughtfully.
Ruzinsky began to straighten the desk.
"What does it mean?" asked Michael.
"I don't know," said Ruzinsky, shrugging. He paused. "Though I can't help but feel it is familiar."
"Yes."
"Maybe it's from some piece of literature, at least that's what a little voice keeps telling me."
"What piece?"
"That I wouldn't know. I'm a linguist, not a historian or literary expert."
"Ask the voice."
"Americans have such a piquant humor," he replied, unmoved. "As it is, I read very little that is not written in Latin, Greek, Hebrew or Chinese, and that piece is not from anything I'm familiar with."
"Who might know? Someone in the literature department?"
"Perhaps, but I'm sure most have left for the weekend. Let me see." He consulted his directory. "Mr. Scheffer or Mr. Paulson might know." Ruzinsky turned and picked up the phone. He dialed one extension, waited, redialed, waited again, then hung up concluding that the man was not in. He consulted the book again for the other number and then dialed once more. No one was there either.
Michael stood and began to pace about the room.
"Where did you find the passage?" asked the professor.
"Where? An old book."
"Can I see it?"
"I don't have it with me."
"That's unfortunate. It might have proven helpful. Why don't we do this? Leave the translation with me, and on Monday I will speak with someone who might be able to identify it, that is assuming it is from some piece of recorded literature. I will call you."
Michael nodded; he had no choice, even though he did not relish the prospect of waiting until Monday for his answer.
"Don't you know anyone else we could ask about the passage? It's important."
The professor shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Michael picked up the translation and copied it on another piece of paper. Then he folded it in thirds, added the original transcription and put both in his pocket. "Thank you for your help. Here's my number," he said, writing it down. "If you do find out anything on Monday, please call me.
Ruzinsky placed the paper in his pocket. As Michael turned to leave, the professor smiled and said, "It was my pleasure."
Stepping into the hall, Michael walked down the staircase and onto the campus, his thoughts weighing heavily. He drew the paper from his pocket and studied it. Interesting, but meaningless. What puzzled him more than the meaning was the source. Allison! If she was going to dream up something, why such gibberish. And in old Latin. It had no relation to anything that had happened or to anything she had said. But then again, if she had perceived it, it must have had some meaning. And there must have been a coincidental stimulus.
He studied the paper again. Who was charged? She? To watch what happy place? Certainly no place they had been around recently. The brownstone happy? Ridiculous. And what evil thing? He knew no answer; each question led to another puzzle.
He left the campus, found a telephone booth, pulled another piece of paper from his pocket and dialed the number that was written in red ink. He waited as the phone rang several times. Then there was a click and a recorded voice said, "This is William Brenner. I am not in at the moment, but should be returning soon. Please leave your . . ." He hung up and called Miss Logan's agency. There was no one there. He dialed information, and asked for the number and address of David Caruso, the landlord. The operator replied that both were unlisted. He dropped the phone and leaned against the glass and metal frame, thinking. He wanted to speak to Miss Logan, but she was obviously unavailable. He also wanted to talk to David Caruso. But to do that he needed the owner's address, which, unfortunately, according to Allison, was not posted in the hall of the brownstone. He could ask the police, but they probably would not tell him and even if they did, there would be questions. He stepped out of the booth, concluding that he would have to locate the owner by more circuitous means.
He crossed the Broadway uptown lane onto the central mall, entered the 116th street station of the IRT, took the subway to Foley Square and located the Bureau of Licenses, where he examined Joan Logan's license registration. Everything seemed in order; there was nothing to indicate anything clandestine, nor was there any indication of a registered associate. He also stopped at the Department of Taxation, where he culled David Caruso's address from the tax rolls. From there he went uptown to Miss Logan's office. Having verified Allison's observations, he then taxied back across the park to the west side to David Caruso's apartment, only to be told by the doorman that the landlord had left earlier in the day after the departure of a Detective Gatz.
The last hour had been hectic. He took a deep breath, concluding that he would try to get back later to speak to the landlord. The chance was slight, but the man might know something or at least admit something he would be reluctant to tell the police.
He began to walk up the street, but hesitated suddenly as a vivid image crossed his mind. He shook his head, but the thought persisted.
Father Matthew Halliran.
Chapter XXI
The cab had just exited the Park on Seventy-ninth Street when Michael ordered it to the curb. He sat for several minutes deep in thought while the meter ticked away and the cab driver fidgeted; then he canceled the order for 17 East Seventy-first Street and ordered the driver down to Fiftieth Street and Madison.
While crossing the park he had examined the possibilities. Sifting the facts and clues, he had laid them one on top of the other, and then shuffled them, hoping to arrive at a rational theory that might accommodate the past events. He had found nothing. Frustrated, he had questioned where to start. But all he could think about was the priest. If there was something sinister, the priest had to be involved. How and why he couldn't guess. But yes, he was involved!
The cab stopped on the corner of Fiftieth. He stepped out, slammed the cab door, then looked up at the massive old building that filled the entire block between Fiftieth and Fifty-first streets. Across the entrance in bright gold letters were the words "ARCHDIOCESE OF NEW YORK."
The chapel was small.
A priest kneeled in front of the altar, his hands clasped and his head bowed.
Save for the low hum of his liturgy, the room was quiet. The priest's attention to his prayers was absolute. Even the sound of the rear door opening and closing did not break his concentration.
Michael walked to the front pew and sat down.
The priest murmured the final words, crossed himself and got up.
"Monsignor Franchino?" Michael asked.
The priest nodded. "Can I help you, Mr. Farmer?"
"Yes, you can," Michael replied and after a pause added, "I hope I didn't interrupt."
"No," assured the priest. "I was informed of your arrival."
"You are a difficult man to find. I must have spoken to a dozen people before one led me to you."
"I am a very busy man. And a very personal one. I prefer to perform my services for God in an atmosphere of anonymity." The priest stepped to the pew and laid a gentle hand on Michael's arm. "Shall we go to my office?" he asked.
They left the chapel, climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked down a busy corridor. The activity was surprising-what one would expect in a brokerage house or large corporation rather than in the offices of the Archdiocese.
"The church supports many of its clergy who no longer live in rectories or convents," explained Franchino. "It is our obligation to sustain those who have given their lives to our Savior, Jesus Christ."
"I see," said Michael, his mind marveling at the maelstrom of organized movement.
The monsignor stopped in front of an office. Opening the door, he said, "Who is the particular individual in question?"
"A Father Matthew Halliran."
Franchino walked to his desk, turned, and reflected. His expression remained blank, suggesting his inability to place the name. "Father Matthew Halliran?"
"Yes, Halliran. H-A-L-L-I-R-A-N."
The priest pulled up his chair and sat down. He motioned with his hand toward the handsome seat which stood directly across from him.
Michael sat.
The office was large and lavishly furnished, befitting a man of the monsignor's position and stature. A beautifully carved crucifix hung on the wall. On one side was a picture of the pope, on the other the cardinal. The resemblance was remarkable, as if by some grand design God had chiseled the features of his disciples from the same pattern. Even Fran-chino's face was somewhat . . . Michael shook his head. His mind was wandering, perhaps prompted by the surroundings. But right now he had to keep his thoughts focused. He examined the rest of the room. It consisted of two more chairs, a coffee table, a series of file cabinets and one heavy lead cabinet immediately to the right side of the desk that seemed to be double locked.