“Same here,” Carroll Mitchell said. “He did everything he could to block me from what I deserved. Honestly, I’m glad the bastard’s dead.”
“To borrow from Rhett Butler,” Dave Palmer said, “frankly I don’t give a damn. If anything, I’d have to agree with Mr. Mitchell here. I’m glad he’s dead.”
Last but by no means least, Valerie chimed in. “I’m afraid, to be brutally honest, I go a bit beyond these gentlemen. I had rather hoped it was my letter that killed the asshole!”
“Well,” said Koesler, “that accounts for almost everyone.”
“Whaddya mean
“Not quite,” Koesler replied. “Not quite.” He looked steadily at Peter Harison.
“What?” Harison seemed to be waking from a shallow slumber. “What? You can’t . . . you can’t mean me! Why, I was Rid’s dearest friend. I was . . . well, you simply can’t mean me. Of all the people here—of all the people in the world—I have got to be the least likely suspect. I say! This is ridiculous! I loved Ridley Groendal!”
“Yes, you did,” Koesler affirmed. “In fact, you were the one I was subconsciously thinking of when I selected that reading. Of you alone might it be said, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”
“Look here: If you are referring to AIDS, I did not give that disease to Rid. I took a test for AIDS—after Rid’s death. It came out negative.” He looked to Koznicki for corroboration.
The Inspector nodded. “That is correct; Mr. Harison underwent testing at our request.”
“I told you how Rid got that disease,” Harison continued. “And,” he almost spat the words at the priest, “I told you in confidence!”
“It has nothing to do with how Rid got AIDS, Peter. And nothing you or Ridley told me in confidence has anything to do with this.”
“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the other night, when Ridley Groendal died. If you could have died in his stead, I’m sure you would have.”
Harison loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Well, Father, that’s very nice of you to say. But it has no relevance here. The police are trying to discover which of these people invited the others to vent their spleen, as it were, on Ridley. That has nothing to do with me.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” Koesler pulled the legal pad back and began making notations again. “I think everybody has wondered about the fact that Ridley opened and read all four letters on the same evening and consecutively—even though they had not all been mailed on the same day.
“Now, from your own statements in the papers and on radio and TV, you maintained that you were the one who prepared and presented his mail to Rid.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“That Rid did not suffer his fatal seizure until he had opened and read all four letters. It was the cumulative effect that brought on his death. And, although the letters were mailed at different times—even on different days— they were presented to Rid at one and the same time, all together, one after another, by you—you who were the only one who knew the part all four of the others had played in Ridley’s past life.”
The four looked at each other as if in tacit assurance of ignorance as to each other’s past role in Ridley Groendal’s life.
Harison, however, seemed to gain a measure of assurance. As if he suddenly had become aware that he had betrayed some anxiety a few moments before, he quickly rebuttoned his shirt and slipped his tie taut to his neck.
“Well, I don’t know who knows what—and I don’t see how you could prove whether they did or didn’t. As for the letters being presented all at once, there’s nothing greatly unusual about that. Really! I mean, you know the post office, particularly around Christmastime. They’re swamped. It’s notorious that mail is delivered helter-skelter at this time of year.
“Besides, we only dropped in at Rid’s office periodically. By no means did we get to his mail on a regular basis. It was quite ordinary for it to back up so that we had to go through quite a pile. It was the rule, not the exception, for us to open mail that had been delivered over the course of many days—sometimes a week or more.
“As to the fact that he opened the letters from these four people consecutively, well, yes, that’s the order in which I gave them to him, I suppose. But routinely, I always stack the junk mail, notices, releases, announcements together. I always put the first class mail at the end. And there seldom is much first class mail at the office. So it’s easily understandable that Rid would have letters that could very well have been delivered at different times. And that they would be together in the first class mail.” Harison appeared quite self-assured.
“Indeed.” Koesler seemed to have expected Harison’s explanation. “But the coincidences go on.
“We all know that Rid’s health was failing. Even for those of us who don’t read gossip columns, we could see it for ourselves in his dramatic weight loss and in just his general appearance and demeanor. His condition, particularly the diabetes and high blood pressure, was common knowledge. But far from being in any sort of fit or even adequate condition for the onslaught he would absorb from the threats in those letters, he was in the worst condition of his life.
“Now, according to what I read, the medical examiner stated that Ridley had ingested large quantities of extremely rich food and, in fact, had had enough alcohol to be legally drunk. Peter, you were his only companion at dinner that evening. The same person who presented him with what turned out to be lethal mail also undoubtedly encouraged him to eat and drink things that would help measurably to prepare the way for a fatal seizure.”
“That’s not true! That simply is not true!” Harison tugged at his tie, but did not loosen it. “You can ask the waiter—what’s his name?— Ramon. Ridley ordered his own food. If anything, I tried to discourage him from abusing himself with all that food, and those drinks.”
Harison turned to face the three officers, who, seated near the door of the squad room, were paying careful attention to this exchange. “Do I have to go through this?” Harison was almost pleading. “Do I have to answer these charges? The imaginings of some priest?”
No one replied for a moment. Then Inspector Koznicki said, “Not really, Mr. Harison. You are under no obligation to continue this conversation with Father Koesler. However, if he stops asking questions of you, we will begin. Of course, if you would prefer an attorney be present . . . ?”
“Uh, no. No, of course not. I have no need of an attorney.”
Harison turned back to Koesler with a defiant look. All three officers silently agreed that Harison should have opted for an attorney.
“All right,” Harison challenged, “you who think you are Father Brown, you have brought up the fact that it was I who handed the letters to Ridley and it was I who dined with him. Both of those things we always did together. But it is obvious, is it now? Somehow, in your fatuous clerical mind you have made me responsible for the death of Ridley Groendal. If that isn’t the most ridiculous supposition! Why on earth would I do such a thing? We were not having any sort of ‘lovers’ quarrel.’ We were the best of friends. He was—”his voice faltered—“my best friend.”
“Of course he was.” Koesler’s sympathy was evident. “And that’s why you did what you thought you had to do. Because he was your best friend.”
“That’s ridiculous! It’s silly! It’s absurd! I don’t have to listen to this!” Harison was close to panic.
“Calm down, Peter. I’m sure the police would eventually have checked your typewriter and found that it was the one used to type the letters all four of these people received.”
It lasted only an instant, but Koesler noted despair flit behind Harison’s eyes. “It’s impossible! Why would I do such a thing?” Still Harison struggled.
“You told me all about it this evening at the funeral home, Peter. But it was only after I left, after we said the rosary, that it all fell into place. That was when I called Inspector Koznicki. He called Sergeants Papkin and Ewing and they called the other four.”
“But, how . . . ?”
“For all your avant-garde ways, Peter, you and Rid were very traditional Catholics,” Koesler explained. “For instance, the liturgy you and I worked out for tomorrow’s funeral Mass is as traditional as it could be short of it all being in Latin. Even then, you requested the “In Paradisum” be sung in Latin and in plainchant.
“And this traditional penchant of yours also prompted you to ask me this evening whether I might get in
