“Don’t stop now, Sarah. You’re getting hot.”
“There was a man named Whately. A butler, I think.”
“A butler, you think. Anyone else? Think hard, now.”
She shook her head, no. “I don’t think so.”
“Remember back in that hotel room, in Princeton? You mentioned a name.”
“I don’t remember what I said in the trance state…”
“You said ‘Jafsie.’ You said you saw the letters J-A-F-S-I-E.”
“I remember Martin told me I said that.”
“Was Professor John Condon a member of the One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street church?”
“No…no.”
“No?”
“But…”
“But what, Sarah?”
“But…he did attend a few times.”
I felt myself trembling; I smiled at her-it must’ve been a terrible smile. “Tell me about it, Sarah. Tell me about Jafsie….”
A resonant male voice behind me said, “He was only an occasional visitor.”
I turned and Martin Marinelli, wearing a black turtleneck and black slacks, looking like a priest who lost his collar if not quite his calling, had entered through the curtain behind the pulpit. His head was as bald as ever, though his eyebrows had grown out and were wild and woolly, not plucked for effect; he still wore a devil beard. He had a small paper bag tucked under one arm.
He walked slowly to us and handed the paper bag to Sarah, who appeared on the verge of tears. “Here are the supplies you requested, my dear.”
I could see as she set it on a nearby chair that in the bag were various cleaning products, cleanser, disinfectant, soap flakes.
Marinelli pulled a chair up and made it a threesome. “We’re the janitors of this building, Mr. Heller. That’s how we keep our rent down.”
“You remember my name,” I said. “I’m impressed, Reverend.”
“I’ve had to keep an eye on the Lindbergh case,” he said, with a little flourish of a gesture. “We’ve been harassed so many times, it’s become a necessity to be well informed.”
“I like to be well informed, myself. Tell me more about this star-studded congregation of yours.”
“There’s nothing to tell. As far as Dr. Condon is concerned, he’s a philosophy instructor, with quite an avid interest in spiritualism. I’m sure we’re not the only spiritualist church he’s visited.”
“Condon taught school in Harlem,” I said. “Either one of you happen to attend Old Public School Number Thirty-Eight?”
Sarah closed her eyes; she began to rock back and forth slowly.
Marinelli put his hands on his knees; they were powerful-looking hands. “I don’t see that our schooling has anything to do with anything, Mr. Heller.”
“Then let’s change the subject. Tell me about Isidor Fisch, and Violet Sharpe, and Ollie Whately. They were in your congregation, Reverend. Surely you must’ve got to know them on a personal basis.”
“We had many parishioners on One Hundred Twenty-Seventh Street in those years. That was a larger church. People walked in off the street all the time. One night we had a Chinaman!”
“I’m not interested in the Chinaman, Rev. How did Violet and Whately wind up in your church?”
He shrugged. ‘They found their way to me. I never ask my flock about their pasts, unless they offer it. But one, or both of them, had been interested in spiritualism before coming to this country.”
“One of ’em, at least, had been involved in a spiritualist church in England?”
“Yes. I believe it was Whately. I think Violet had lost her parents, and had hoped to contact them, through the spirit world. We helped her do that.”
“Did you. You and Sarah and old, what was that Injun’s name? Chief Yellow Feather?”
Sarah, eyes shut tight, twitched.
“As for Fisch,” Marinelli said, ignoring me, “he lived across the street and down, in a rooming house. He wandered in off the street one night, curious, and became interested in what we do.”
“And what is it you do, exactly? I’ve never been able to tell.”
“We are dedicated to the cause of spiritualism, Mr. Heller, whether you believe that or not. We’ve not gotten wealthy, as you can see.”
“You’re doing all right. Better than most in these times, I’d say.”
“Now that I’ve answered your questions, Mr. Heller,” Marinelli said, folding his arms, “I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
“What about Bruno Richard Hauptmann? Was he in your church?”
“No. He never set foot there.”
“Still, Rev-I think the cops might be very interested in knowing that, back in ’32, your church on One Twenty-Seventh was a veritable hotbed of people associated with the Lindbergh case.”
Marineili shrugged. “They already know,” he said.
“What?”
“We were arrested in January 1934, Mr. Heller. On a fortune-telling charge. But we were questioned at length about the Lindbergh case, and we held nothing back. While we were indisposed, our lodgings were ransacked, an address book was stolen and so on. Typical police behavior.”
Sister Sarah was stone quiet, and motionless; eyes shut tight.
“What’s with her?” I said.
“You scared her,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She withdrew into the trance state.”
“Aw, baloney.”
“Mr. Heller, my wife is a genuine psychic.”
I got the nine millimeter out of my topcoat.
He stood and backed up, knocking over several chairs; she remained still as death.
“Izzy Fisch and Violet Sharpe and Ollie Whately,” I said, rising, “have a lot in common, don’t they? They’re all members of your church-and they’re all dead. Maybe we can have a little informal seance, and conjure ’em up.”
“What…what do you want from me, Heller? What do you want me to do?”
I inched forward, gun in hand. “Spill, you phony bastard. Spill it all or I’ll start spilling you…”
He was backing up; backing into the pulpit. “I don’t know anything!”
“Ugh,” someone said.
I turned and looked at Sarah.
She had begun to speak. “Who seeks Yellow Feather?”
“Aw, fuck,” I said, moving toward her. “I’m going to slap her silly…”
“No!” he said, moving forward. He touched my arm. “No. Whatever I am, Mr. Heller, Sarah is an innocent. And truly is genuinely psychic…”
“I can see a child,” she said, her voice a register lower than normal. “He is in a high place. There is a small house, low, with a high barn behind. The child is in the house. On the second floor. There is a bald-headed man, with pouches under his eyes. He is looking down at the child. There is a woman in the house, too. The house is on a hill.”
She shuddered, and her eyes popped open. It made me jump.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “Did I fall asleep?”
He went to her, touched her shoulder, gently. “You were in a trance, my dear.” He told her what she’d said.
“How can you see the baby,” I said, sarcasm hanging on my words like a week’s worth of wash, “when you already ‘predicted,’ accurately, its dead body on the heights over Hopewell?”
“She never said it was the Lindbergh baby’s body,” Marinelli said, his arm around his wife’s shoulder.
“First, she sees a dead baby in the heights, four years ago. And now she sees it alive, only now it’s a ‘child,’ not a baby, and it’s in some farmhouse?”
