vegetable, they surely would have. With this information released, they should be content that he is condemned to this living death . . . sufficiently content not to again attempt his actual extinction.”
“How shrewd. Inspector. An excellent plan!”
“The Polish mind never rests.” Koznicki could not resist a grin.
Koesler grinned back, but stopped suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot: What about Emerenciana?”
“His wife is at the Reverend’s bedside. She arrived today and will remain with him.”
“I’m glad. I’ll phone her tomorrow.”
“Now then, isn’t it a grand play, though?” Ahem returned, on cue as it were, bearing three paper cups of orange juice. He had all he could do to avoid spilling them as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
“Yes,” Koesler agreed, “I’m so glad they’re having this revival of Brian Friel’s
“Oh, yes, definitely,” said Koznicki. “I admire the device of having everyone in the cast speaking English while the interpreter pretends he is translating for the Irish, who are supposed to be speaking in their native tongue, unable to understand English.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to comprehend the English taking over Irish life to such a degree that they would insist on the Irish abandoning their native tongue, and then go on to change the names of places in Ireland so they would sound more natural to the English ear!”
“Arra, but that was how it was just the same.” Ahem sucked in his breath sharply.
Koesler was jolted. He recalled from his childhood, members of his mother’s family, the Irish side of his ancestry, making the same sound. He hadn’t heard it from the time the last of the elderly Boyle clan had passed away until now.
“The hedge schools they have in this play,” Ahem went on, “used to be the only way the Irish traditions and language could be passed on. Not to mention havin’ to hold the Holy Mass with the English in hot pursuit, and havin’ to hide the holy priest of God from them too. Both priests and schoolmasters were banned and hunted with bloodhounds . . . the English paid a bounty of five pounds for the head of a wolf ... or the head of a priest. Not meanin’ any irreverence, Father, but that’s the way it was.”
“It’s a wonder any of you Irish survived,” Koznicki observed, empathetic from the awareness of centuries of persecution of his own Catholic ancestors in Poland.
“That is so,” said Ahem, “we’re only a tiny island, but look, we’ve populated half the United States.”
Koesler and Koznicki laughed.
“Well, that may be a slight exaggeration,” Ahern admitted, “but only slight.”
The marquee lights flashed on and off several times.
“I think that’s management’s way of telling us it’s time for Act Two,” said Koesler.
At that instant, several things happened almost simultaneously. Someone jogged Ahern’s elbow, causing him to spill some orange juice in Koesler’s direction. Koesler, in turn, in an attempt to avoid the juice, jumped back, bumping forcibly into someone behind him.
“Excu—” Koesler was almost deafened by a loud roar immediately behind him. Instinctively, he threw his arm up protectively, and turned. As he did, he saw Koznicki slump to the pavement.
Koesler was so stunned, as were the other bystanders, that no one got a good look at the gunman, who immediately on firing had turned and run swiftly into the night.
Koesler, whose spirits had been buoyed by the news of Toussaint’s improvement, now felt drained. He did not know who had fired the shot or why. All he knew was that his dear friend, Inspector Koznicki, was lying on the sidewalk, very, very still.
Koesler dropped to his knees beside his friend. He hesitated to touch the Inspector before medical help arrived. Whispering, Koesler gave conditional absolution—conditioned by whether there were any sins to be forgiven; by whether, indeed, there was still life.
Then Koesler noticed, on the sidewalk, at the very spot where the assailant had stood, the imprint of a black hand.
It was not a small room, as hospital rooms go, but it was crowded. Besides the large patient in the bed, the room held a nurse, a doctor, a police officer, and a priest.
“You’re a lucky man, Inspector,” said the doctor, “a very lucky man.”
“And there,” said Inspector Koznicki, indicating Father Koesler, “is my lucky charm.”
Koesler came near to blushing. “I think you’re mistaken Inspector; your lucky charm is a self-effacing Irishman named Daren Ahern. If he hadn’t spilled a cup of orange juice in my direction, I would never have jumped backward into the gunman and diverted his shot.”
“Wherever the bit of luck came from,” said the doctor, “you are the beneficiary, Inspector. There’s no doubt about that at all. The gun was fired at point-blank range. It could easily have killed you on the spot if it had hit you in a vital area. And we must assume whoever fired that shot knew what he was aiming at.
“As it is, the bullet is lying up against your spine in the lumbar region. And there it just might remain for good.”
“You’re not going to remove it then?” asked Garda Superintendent Thomas J. O’Reardon, who was head of the Republic’s Murder Squad.
“’fraid I can’t answer that one just yet, Superintendent. It’s in a surgically hazardous area. We’ve just got to watch it for the next little while. But if the Inspector here experiences no symptoms such as numbness or excessive pain, and if there’s no infection or bleeding, we may just leave bad enough alone.”
“That would suit me fine,” said the Inspector, who was in no hurry for an operation. “There are many, indeed, who, from a war, an assault, or an accident, are walking around healthy with lead still in them.”
The doctor sucked in his breath sharply.
There it is again, thought Koesler, that same sound. It must be endemic to the Irish.
“That’s God’s truth. Inspector,” the doctor said. “There’s many a patient walks out of this hospital carrying inside him the same bullet he came in with. And most of them, over the years, are none the worse for it. We’ll just be keeping compression dressings on the wound, like the one the nurse is putting on just now, and pumping antibiotics into you, against any kind of infection. And now, if the nurse is done . . .”
“Yes, that I am, doctor.”
“. . . then we’ll just be leaving these good men alone to carry on their business.”
The doctor and nurse exited the room.
“I’ve set up two Gardai outside your door, Inspector,” said Superintendent O’Reardon, “there’ll be twenty- four-hour security on this room.”
“I thank you,” said Koznicki.
“Two Gardai!” Koesler marveled.
“Yes, indeed. Father,” said O’Reardon. “Someone out there wants the Inspector here dead and we very much intend that they shall not succeed. We generally have fewer than fifty murders per annum here. And we very much object to the killing of a fellow officer.”
“It is just as in the case of Cardinal Boyle and the Reverend Toussaint, Father,” said Koznicki. “Someone wants them dead, but they are still alive, so we must protect them, just as the Irish police will protect me while we try to apprehend those involved in this whole plot.”
“But why shoot you?” Koesler asked.
“If we were back in Detroit, Father,” Koznicki replied, “I am sure I could find many criminals with whom I have dealt who could find reasons for bearing a grudge against me. But,” he exchanged glances with O’Reardon, “I fear I was asleep at the switch here. It seems quite clear that those who wish to get at Cardinal Boyle have now retrenched and are determined to eliminate any and all obstacles. That would explain why they attempted to kill the Reverend Toussaint as well as why they attempted to kill me.
“The Reverend foiled their attempt on the life of the Cardinal once, as have I. With the two of us out of the way, I assume they feel they will have easier access to the Cardinal. But they have failed to take into account the Gardai of Ireland.”
“Indeed!” said O’Reardon. “We plan to be more than ready for them. We have both the Crime Task Force and the Security Task Force with His Eminence now as he tours the country. And even Sir Robert Peel himself would be amazed at the number of Gardai we’ll have in St. Patrick’s Cathedral Saturday evening.
