“None! Haven't they ever done it before?”
“Yes. Every year since Solomon died.”
“What happened to 'em?”
“They died.”
“Right there in the mausoleum?”
“I don't know. At least their deaths weren't reported until much later.”
That was swell! I would look fine if the Grayson girl died. I asked: “When is this ceremony?”
“In three days.”
I thought, what a goddam case! I was about to ask some more questions when three of the Brothers came up to us. They looked unpleasant.
One said: “We have asked you not to come to the Vineyard, Mr. McGee.”
“This is a public day,” McGee said.
“Yes, but we do not care to have you in the grounds.”
“Are you going to put me out?”
“If necessary, Mr. McGee.”
McGee got oil the bench.
“Let's go,” I said.
“No.” McGee glared at the three Brothers. “I believe you are incorporated as a religious institution.”
They stared at him, not answering.
“You see,” McGee said triumphantly to me. “They don't know.” He turned to them. “I'll inform you. You are so incorporated. And the law reads that such incorporated property is open to those who wish to worship.”
One of the Brothers had red hair. He said: “You are not here to worship.”
More of the Brethren were collecting. A half a dozen were moving in on us. “Let's go,” I said.
“You don't know whether in my heart I worship or not,” McGee said to the red-headed man.
“You will please go.”
Several of the Brothers moved close to McGee. “So much as touch a finger to me,” he said, “and I will bring suit.”
“Will you leave?” the red-headed man asked grimly.
“In my good time,” said McGee.
More were coming. Suddenly I noticed one was the dark man I'd knocked out in the women's building the time I'd first seen Penelope Grayson. He recognized me at the same moment. He nudged the man next to him and whispered something, and they both scowled at me.
“For God's sake,” I said to McGee, “let's go.”
He was having a fine time. He bowed to the red-headed man. “I leave now, but only of my own free will.” He smiled at him. “Do you understand?”
The man didn't reply. We went to the touring car, followed by my dark friend, the red-headed man and twenty other Brothers. The line was still waiting on the mausoleum steps, and cars were still coming up the driveway. A lot of people were rubbering at us. We got in the car. McGee started the engine and waved to the Brothers. “Giddap,” he said, and we drove away.
I turned back. The Brothers were still watching us. “They don't seem to care for you,” I said to McGee.
“I don't care for them either,” McGee said, swinging the car on to the main highway. “Do you know what I once did?”
“No.”
“Well, the Vineyard doesn't own any of the places it operates. Never has. I came into some money, so I bought half a dozen of the places, thinking I could force the Vineyard out. I raised the rents a hundred per cent.”
“Well?”
“The Vineyard met the raise without a holler.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
McGEE let me off at the Arkady and I went down to the Turkish bath. I intended to steam out some brandy, but first I had to tend to my gut. It seemed to me I was hungry all the time now. I had the Finn send for a double tenderloin steak, french fries, two orders of sliced tomatoes, bread, coffee and half an apple pie. I read the paper while I waited.
I got a laugh right away. A man hunt was going on in the county, and the man was Peter Jensen, of Fond du lac, Wisconsin. Me! What had happened was this: the cops discovered the car that crashed into Papas's cabin had been rented from the Drive-It by a Peter Jensen. He had reported it stolen, but this, the cops said, was a trick to throw them off the track. The theory now was the shooting at Papas's had been an attempted hold-up, with Jensen the brains behind it. The paper called him a mystery man.
That was fine. I liked being a mystery man. It wasn't such a hell of a distinction, though. I'd never heard of a
