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"Oh, come now, Dr. Borup; surely thocks of hicker things would be good for
him . . ."
The sharp-nosed, gray-haired man who had been Joseph Noggle sat morosely in
his room, hardly bothering to look up when Park entered.
"Well, my friend," said Park, "what have they been doing to you?"
"Nothing," said the man. His voice had a nervous edge. "That's the trouble.
Every day I'm a different man in a different sanitarium. Each day they tell me
that two days previously I got violent and tried to poke somebody in the
nose.I haven't pokednobody in the nose. Why in God's name don't theydo
something? Sure, I know I'm crazy. I'll cooperate, if they'lldo something."
"There, there," said Park. "The good Lord watches over all of us. By the way,
what were you before your trouble started?"
"I taught singing."
Park thought several "frickful aiths." If a singing teacher, or somebody
equally incompetent for his kind of work, were in his body now . . .
He lit a pipe and talked soothingly and inconsequentially to the man, who
though not in a pleasant mood, was too grateful for a bit of company to
discourage him. Finally he got what he was waiting for. A husky male nurse
came in to take the patient's temperature and tell Park that his time was up.
Park hung around, on one excuse or another, until the nurse had finished.
Then he followed the nurse out and grasped his arm.
"What is it, Hallow?" asked the nurse.
"Are you poor Noggle's regular attendant?"
"Yes."
"Got any kinfolk, or people you like specially, in the priesthood?"
"Yes, there's my Aunt Thyra. She's a nun at the New Lindisfarne Abbey."
"Like to see her advanced?"
"Why I guess so; yes. She's always been pretty good to me."
"All right. Here's what you do. Can you get out, or send somebody out, to
telephone Noggle's condition to me every morning before noon?"
The nurse guessed he could. "All right," snapped Park. "And it won't do
anybody any good if anybody knows you're doing it, understand?" He realized
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that his public-prosecutor manner was creeping back on him. He smiled
benignly. "The Lord will bless you, my son."
* * *
Park telephoned Dunedin; asked him to learn the name of somebody who dwelt on
the top floor of the apartment house next door, and to collect one ladder,
thirty feet of rope, and one brick. He made him call back the name of the
top-floor tenant. "But Hallow, what in the name of Patrick do you want a brick
for . . ."
Park, chuckling, told him he'd learn. When he got off the folkwain at Mercia
Street, he didn't walk boldly up to his own house. He entered the apartment
house next door and said he was calling on Mrs. Figgis, his clericals
constituting adequate credentials. When the elevator-man let him out on the
top floor, he simply climbed to the roof and whistled for Monkey-face. He
directed Dunedin in the tieing of the end of the rope to the brick, the
heaving thereof to the roof of the apartment house, and the planting of the
ladder to bridge the ten-foot gap. After that it was a simple matter for Park
to lower himself to his own roof, without being intercepted by the watchdogs
in front of his house.
As soon as he got in, the phone rang. A sweetness-and-light voice at the
other end said: "This is Cooley, Hallow. Every time I've called your man has
said you were out or else that you couldn't be bothered!"
"That's right," said Park. "I was."
"Yes? Anyway, we're all giving praises to the Lord that you were spared."
"That's fine," said Park.
"It surely is a wonderful case of how His love watches over us "
"What's on your mind, Cooley?" said Park, sternly repressing a snarl of
impatience.
"Oh uh what I meant was, will you give your usual sermon next Sunday?"
Park thought quickly. If he could give a sermon and get away with it, it
ought to discourage the people who were trying to prove the bishop loony.
"Sure I will. Where are you calling from?"
"Why uh the vestry." Some damned assistant, thought Park. "But, Hallow, won't
you come up tonight? I'm getting some of the parishioners together in the
chapel for a homish thanksgiving stint with hymns of "
"I'm afraid not," said Park. "Give 'em my love anyway. There goes my
doorbell. Bye."
He marched into the library, muttering. Dunedin asked: "What is it, Hallow?"
"Gotta prepare a goddam sermon," said Park, taking some small pleasure at his
thane's thane's expression of horror.
Fortunately the bishop was an orderly man. There were manuscripts of all his
sermons for the past five years, and phonograph records (in the form of
magnetized wire) of several. There was also plenty of information about the
order of procedure in a Celtic Christian service. Park set about concocting a
sermon out of fragments and paragraphs of those the bishop had delivered
during the past year, playing the spools of wire over and over to learn the
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bishop's inflections. He wished he had some way of getting the bishop's
gestures, too.
He was still at it next day when he dimly heard his doorbell. He thought
nothing of it, trusting to Dunedin to turn the visitor away, until Monkey-face
came in and announced that a pair of knicks awaited without.
Park jumped up. "Did you let 'em in?"
"No, Hallow, I thought "
"Good boy! I'll take care of 'em."
* * ** * *
The larger of the two cops smiled disarmingly. "Can we come in, Hallow, to use
your wiretalker?"
"Nope," said Park. "Sorry."
The knick frowned. "In that case we gotta come in anyway. Mistrust of
unlawful owning of pipe." He put his foot in the door crack.
A pipe, Park knew, was a gun. He turned and stamped on the toe of the shoe,
hard; then slammed the door shut as the foot was jerked back. There were some
seconds of "frickful aiths" wafting through the door, then the pounding of a
fist against it.
"Get a warrant!" Park yelled through the door. The noise subsided. Park
called Dunedin and told him to lock the other entrances. Presently the knicks
departed. Park's inference, based upon what he had been able to learn of
Vinland law, that they would not force an entrance without a warrant, had
proved correct. However, they would be back, and there is nothing especially
difficult about "finding" an illegal weapon in a man's house, whether he had
one before or not.
So Park packed a suitcase, climbed to the roof of the adjoining apartment,
and went down the elevator. The elevator man looked at him in a marked manner.
Once in the street, he made sure nobody was looking, and slapped on his
mustache and glasses. He pulled his bonnet well down to hide his undyed hair,
and walked over to Allister Park's place. There he telephoned Dunedin, and
directed him to call the city editors of all the pro-bishop newspapers and tip
them off that an attempt to frame the bishop impended. He told Dunedin to let
the reporters in when they came; the more the better. Preferably there should
be at least one in every room. Now, he thought, let those flatfeet try to
sneak a gun into one of my bureau drawers so they can "find" it and raise a
stink.
He spent the night at the apartment, and the next day, having gotten his
sermon in shape, he paid a visit to his church. He found a functionary of some
sort in an office, and told him that he, Allister Park, was considering
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