Dead-Bang (14 page)

Bruno got slowly to his feet as Dru came back to the divan and sat down, then, looking at us, started ticking his points off. “First, Festus Lemming is, as you say, Sheldon, a liar. But he is not a fraud. He is sincere. He
believes
, believes not only his message but that whatever he does in preparation for the Second Coming, if it in any way furthers the imminence of that desired goal, is justified. Not merely justified but is his holy, his sacred duty. I know the man, have studied him, observed him; he is sincere. He is thus—contrary to your conclusion, Sheldon—all the more dangerous. The sincere fanatic, convinced of his righteousness, has always been more dangerous, bloodthirsty, cruel, more horrible, and horrifying than the conscious fraud. To him who is sincere, nothing is too monstrous and nothing is forbidden if it saves souls from hell or the world from sin. On the contrary, no matter how hellish the act, it is virtuous because it is pursued in the name of heaven by a
righteous
man.”

“I apologize for my too-precipitate
human
error.”

“Yes, that was rather well done, wasn't it? If God is on Lemming's side—even if Festus, exercising admirable restraint, won't come right out and
admit
it—who can be against him? And I dare say that is precisely what he believes. Surely, Sheldon, you have known other men who could steadfastly believe the unbelievable? And make others believe it—or him—as well?”

“Hasn't everybody?”

Bruno began pacing while he talked. “We are in a most unusual and interesting predicament. Consider: Every ding-dong anywhere loose now knows that an agent controlled by the Antichrist attempted to kill the agent of the Lord, who was saved only because the forces of good are stronger than the forces of evil, after which both the mindless puppet and his master escaped on a red scooter—it
would
have to be red, wouldn't it? The ding-dongs are few in number, but we ignore them at our peril. Our greatest peril, however, probably comes from the others, those millions who now know that
someone
tried to kill Festus Lemming, that
someone
fled the scene, and that in the preceding hour Mr. Sheldon Scott had threatened to inflict upon the Pastor such huge injuries as to a lesser man than Festus would prove fatal.”

“You make it sound worse than it is.”

“It
is
worse than it is. If that comment puzzles you, Sheldon, I ask you not to doubt but to have faith. Out there—” he pointed at nowhere in particular—“sits a tuna salesman who has just experienced the Midnight News. Who, he is wondering, could that murderous
someone
be? He has heard the name Sheldon Scott an even dozen times, I would say. And the name Emmanuel Bruno four times. And directly, or by implication, the name of Almighty God six or seven times. Our tuna salesman wisely eliminates Almighty God. Who, then, is left?”

“Beats me,” I said. “I'm only a mindless puppet.”

“Our salesman will puzzle it out soon enough. And his suspicions, now uncertain, will be strengthened when he learns that André Strang, Sainted Less-Holy Pastor of the Church of the Second Coming, associate of Festus Lemming, has been murdered. And more, murdered most foully and by a strange and diabolical means. More, slain on the very night when the Sainted Most-Holy Pastor himself was well-nigh assassinated. More, near the body of André Strang lies a dead stranger. More, in the dead stranger's corpse are three bullets from the gun of
someone
. Who? We
know
who, you and I—”

“Stop. That's enough more. I'd thought of that—or, rather, I had thought of
part
of it.” I paused. “You're right. Faith wins. It
is
worse than it is. One ray of light, though, the three pills were hollow-points, which break up in the body.… But I am the man who reported the two dead guys to the Captain of Homicide, right? So Sam won't need a ballistics comparison to guess I was familiar with the scene, right? And I had better call my pal, Samson. O.K. if I use your phone?” I looked at Dru and she nodded, indicated the Princess phone on a table across the room.

But before I got up she said, “There's another thing, Shell. By now Dad's car must have been noticed in the parking lot at the church. To some, that's going to look at least suspicious. And for the Lemmings, that will
settle
it.”

“Ye gods, yes,” Bruno boomed. “I hadn't thought of that aspect. Indeed, for many this will further congeal their suspicions, but for
Lemmings
it will be final and incontrovertible proof of my guilt. My automobile is, alas, a convertible Silver Shadow.”

“You both lost me. Proof? I don't quite …”

Doctor Bruno stretched, then walked to his chair and sat down. Apparently studying his long fingers, he said, a bit wearily it seemed to me, “Most Lemmings of the Lord are quite poor. The few who were relatively well-to-do when they joined the Church of the Second Coming have in almost all cases—if they remained as members—given the bulk of their money or property to the Church. That is, to Festus Lemming. For they consider wealth undesirable, if not actually a mortal sin, and poverty a virtue.”

He fell silent, examining his thumb, so I said, “That kind of grabs me. Why is being broke a virtue for the Lemmings but not for Lemming, for the sheep but not for the shepherd? And I still don't get this proof—”

“Ah,” he interrupted, “that is a difficult question to answer. I have personally found it impossible to answer. If I were a cynic, I would say that—if I were a
Church
—from
my
point of view it might be very helpful if my members believed poverty, humbleness, meekness, sacrifice, denial, obedience to me, faith in me, love offerings to me, even chastity and celibacy, and so on were stairways to the stars, little steps on the long-suffering ladder to my Heaven. But I am not a Church. I
am
something of a cynic, however, so I confess that I simply cannot imagine why the Law which applies to Church members does not also apply to the Church of, which the members are members.”

He turned his hand and examined his thumb from the other side. But never mind. To Lemmings, poverty is a virtue because as good Christians they believe, first, it is better to give than to receive, and second, it is easier for a bean to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God.”

“Yeah, I went to Sunday school myself, believe it or … Bean?”

He finally folded up his thumb and looked at me. “The word—
Gamla
—translated as ‘camel' in the Synoptic Gospels does mean camel, but it also means ‘bean,' and ‘rope' as well. If Jesus actually did make any such ridiculous statement about rich men, which is subject to reasonable doubt, he was certainly of such intelligence that given a choice among camel, bean, and rope, he would instantly have chosen rope—which though larger is of the same nature as thread. I will accept the premise that Jesus was divinely inspired, but not that the same is necessarily and equally true of all human translators of the Bible—lo, even unto this day. The translalator of Matthew, Mark, and Luke simply made a mistake. He—and all who copied him—wrote ‘camel' when he should have written ‘rope.' I choose the third possible translation, bean, just for the hell of it.”

“It is easier for a rope … yeah. But this proof—”

“Of course. I said my automobile is a Silver Shadow, which is to say a Rolls Royce, a not inexpensive vehicle. Because poverty is virtuous, and a Silver Shadow costs a great many beans, or dollars, its purchaser must be far removed from virtue. But, worse, a
convertible
Silver Shadow is
stupendously
costly. I paid … I would hate to tell you how much … for the undeniably sinful pleasure of owning such a vehicle. Therefore, at best I am damned, and at worst consciously in league with Satan.”

“Now
I get it. I suppose it's too late to sneak your heap out of … yeah. No way.” I shrugged. “Well, Doc, I own a convertible Cad, so I'll see you in hell. Probably be glad to see a friendly face, too.”

“Yes, though Heaven may be a nice place to visit, I really wouldn't want to live there. But consider: Would it not be sad, very sad, if the translator who wrote of the rich man, made, among his hundreds of other errors, a mistake there, too? What if the word should be, not rich, but mean, dumb, cruel—ding-dong—even poor?” He smiled sardonically. “I'm only guessing, I have no evidence. I do not contend that wealth, of itself, is virtuous.”

I got up, walked to the phone, lifted the receiver.

As I started to dial, Bruno said, “I know this will be difficult for you. But if it is at all possible, I think it would be wise if you continued to avoid mention of my name. For as long, at least, as you can.”

I thought about it, mentally agreed, and nodded. Then I dialed, got the LAPD and, in another half-minute, Captain Samson.

“Hi, Sam. This is Shell. I—”

“Where in hell have you been?”

“Well, first in Church, but I suppose you've heard—”

“Are you coming in or do I have to put out a local on you?”

“Coming right in, Sam,
right
in.” I decided instantly. I knew that biting-through-the-cigar note. “Can't wait to tell you all the things—”

“We'll get to your howling and stomping around in Church in a minute—”

“Ah, Sam, come
on
. Surely you of all people don't believe
every
thing—”

“—but right now, what's the story on those two stiffs at fifteen twenty-one Fifty-eighth Street? Two stiffs, isn't that what you said?”

“Yeah.” I squinted. Sam did not make dumb-sounding statements just for the fun of it. “Yeah, that's what I said. That's what's there, all right. Right?”

“You want to know how many we found? Try a guess.”

“Not two?”

“No.”

“Well.… Three?”

“Funny fellow. No, Shell, not three. None.”

“What do you mean, none?”

“What the hell do you think none means?
It means NONE. No stiffs. Not three, two, or even one—
less
than one.”

“You're—” I cut it off. I'd started to say he was kidding. But I knew he wasn't. And I didn't want to upset him any more than was absolutely necessary. My pal, my good friend, was not averse to clapping me in a dungeon if it seemed to him a good idea. He had done it before.

So I changed the question to: “You're sure the officers went to the right address? It, ha-ha, can be identified by two stiffs and a lot of blood—”

“Shell, don't get gay with me. The report's here on my desk.… At twelve minutes after eleven
P
.
M
. officers entered the house—exercising the great care which you so helpfully suggested. It was the right address, right house. In the back, door broken and two windows smashed. Front door unlocked. Room with smashed windows contained furniture, cut rope, strips of adhesive tape, broken glass, blood, a
lot
of blood, and no two stiffs.”

“A lot of blood, huh? Well, that's the place. But, Sam, the stiffs were there when I was. That's where I left them.”

“Did you also stiffen them?”

“No—well, one of them, yes. When the lab finishes checking they'll find a slug from his gun in the wall near the door where I came in, which slug he fired at me before.… Um, no gun, either, I'll bet.”

“You win.”

I didn't like the way he said it. It sounded like, “You lose.”

“O.K., Sam. See you as soon as I can—on my way—take a little while to get there, since I'm someplace else, but I think it—you'll get a clearer picture if we jaw person-to-person, just a couple of old buddies chewing the fat—”

“Get down here.”

“Sure. Right.” I paused. “Sam, you'll wait for me, won't you?”

I hung up and dug a finger into my ear. When the pain lessened, I took my finger out of my ear and looked at Doctor Bruno, at Dru, and told them:

“I … think I'm in a little trouble.”

12

I explained to Dru and the Doc what Samson had told me, and for a couple of minutes we discussed what the info might mean. Then I said, “We need more facts before we can even make intelligent guesses. Our best bet is to get a lead to those guys who grabbed you and Cassiday. Ill give odds they also tossed those pills at Lemming. But I haven't the faintest idea why they'd have done it.”

“Nor do I,” Bruno said. He chewed his upper lip for a moment. “However, the unexplained disappearance of the bodies is fortunate in one way. The longer news of André's death is unknown to the public, the better it probably is for us.”

I nodded. “You don't suppose, do you, that Festus hates you—us—enough that he might have arranged for one of his worshippers to let fly a couple of near misses at him?”

“Anything is possible. But the element of coincidence disturbs. The good Pastor could not also have been responsible for removal of the two bodies, for he did not know about them.…” Bruno paused. “Or did he?”

“Well, he seems to know everything else,” I said. “Anything is possible. It is even possible I will get busted for loitering unless I arrive very soon at the LAPD.”

I had already told Bruno I would drive him home, and now he said, “Can you wait another two or three minutes while I phone Dave? He should be informed about the disappearance of those bodies, and he may not even know of Lemming's most recent convulsion.”

“Sure, go ahead. I'll sit on the couch and molest your daughter.”

He smiled a sort of Papa Lisa smile and walked to the phone.

I sat down by Dru. “Are you ready to be molested?” I asked.

“What's that?”

“Never mind. If I have to explain it to you first, it's going to take a lot of fun out of it.”