“I have no idea,” Roman said. “But you can start at St. Patrick’s.” He held the paper against the bright sun so that Isadore could see the watermark of a dove with an olive branch. “It’s the church’s stationery.”
15
At 100th Street, Isadore switched his siren on. The police car slewed through reluctantly parting traffic. The normally cautious detective ran his car half on and half off the road, shouldering cabs aside whenever he leaped away from an approaching light standard.
He turned onto Second Avenue and plunged through its truck traffic. When he turned right at Fifty-third, he cut the siren but not his speed until they were within a block of the church. He parked in a loading zone and they ran to St. Patrick’s.
The patrolman outside the north transept greeted them nonchalantly, and inside the Hungarian guard waved them past the metal detector.
“A Gypsy rushing to church?” he joked.
Their steps reverberated through the empty cathedral. Reggel was in the sanctuary.
“I almost didn’t wait for you!” he yelled and jiggled his keys in the spotlight. “Isadore, too? What zeal. And a red face like an Irishman. The church is affecting you.”
“Like some halvah?” Isadore asked tersely when he reached the bay.
Reggel slapped Roman on the back. “When this is over I’ll invite both of you to Budapest. You’ll be heroes.”
He opened the double doors and they descended into the crypt. Csonka rose from his chair beside the chest and went to guard the bay.
Reggel began unlocking the chest. His good-natured chatter reached Roman and Isadore no more than the sound of a running faucet. Reggel undid the last padlock and pulled the lid open.
Orb, scepter and crown reflected the crypt’s fluorescent light.
“Why do you two look surprised?” Reggel laughed. “Here.”
He picked up the cushion bearing the Holy Crown and gave it to Roman.
Roman returned the cushion to Reggel and carried the crown closer to the light. His eyes flitted over kings created with naïve, staring faces, over miniature posts carrying pearls individually formed and impossible to imitate, and finally to the distinctly awry cross. The Hungarian let the cushion hang in one hand and shook keys impatiently in the other. Roman turned the crown over to look inside.
“I suppose he deserves to have a close look,” Reggel conceded.
Roman finished his examination.
“It’s the wrong crown.”
Reggel flushed. The last of Isadore’s saliva suddenly disappeared from his mouth.
“Don’t joke, Gypsy.”
“No joke. It’s the wrong crown. A fake.”
He handed the crown back to Reggel.
“You’re crazy. There’s no way anyone could get in here.” Reggel hit the face of a burial vault. “There’s nothing here but marble and bones. And Csonka was here all the time.”
“I’m not talking about how it was done. I’m only saying that’s a copy. For all I know, you’ve got the real Holy Crown at your mission.”
Reggel put the crown back in the chest and rushed out of the crypt.
“Where is he going?” Isadore asked Roman.
“To get Dr. Andos, I suppose. He doesn’t want to believe me.”
“He’s bigoted.”
“No. He’s scared.”
All the weight of the church seemed to descend on Isadore.
“He’s not the only one. I’d better stall the ushers and call the commissioner.”
“Call the cardinal first,” Roman suggested. “He got us into this.”
* * *
“This is the real crown,” Andos said as soon as he arrived in the crypt. Killane accompanied him, and the burial vault was full. “This is the same crown I examined last night and put in the chest, the same crown given to Saint Stephen a thousand years ago. Whose word are you going to take?”
“A Gypsy’s, but not mine,” Roman said. He took the crown, handling it like a piece of costume jewelry. “The real crown was handed over to the American Army by a group of Hungarian officers at Maltese, a bathing resort near Salzburg. Am I right, Captain? Some things have never been explained about the transaction, such as why the crown was missing from the chest when that was first delivered.”
“It’s no great secret that it was,” Reggel said.
“But it is a secret why it was hidden in an oil drum near a concentration camp for Gypsies. There was a young Hungarian officer who spoke Romany who took one of the Gypsies to the crown because the crown had had some rough treatment and had to be repaired before it was handed over to the enemy.”
“I’ve got to call the commissioner,” Isadore interrupted. “Get to the point.”
“Let him talk,” Csonka said from the corner. They were the first words anyone had heard from him. He stared at Reggel.
“The Gypsy was a goldsmith. The crown was broken, the top bows removed from the diadem. The officers had the clips to fasten it back, but they were afraid of trying to work the old gold. He did it for them, heating the gold and joining the halves together. But there was a clip missing for the left side, so he had to do with only one there. The Holy Crown that arrived here had just one. You can see for yourself, this crown has two.”
The crown shook as Andos examined it again.
“Afterward, the officer who spoke Romany was given the task of killing the Gypsy so no one would know it had been tainted by his work. For some reason, the officer didn’t have the heart for it. He only shot him in the arm and told him to lie still until they left.”
“He’s lying. He’s making it up.”
Roman took the crown back from the protesting doctor. Before they could stop him, he had cut out a sliver of gold with his penknife.
“Here.” He gave it to Isadore. “Have your laboratory examine it. When this crown should have been made, goldsmiths used crucibles of white clay. A modern forger may melt down old coins, but he uses a graphite melting pot. You’ll find traces of graphite in this.”
Andos covered his face. Killane put his arm around him, less for comfort than support.
“I’ll have Monsignor Burns take him to my residence.” He turned to Roman. “I’m surprised at how cruel you can be.”
“You’ll find I wasn’t.”
Killane was skeptical. He walked Andos out of the crypt.
“The crown is out of the city by now, unless it’s holed up with Freedom Fighters in Yorkville. We’d still have a chance, then,” Isadore reassured Reggel. “It’s a pretty tight neighborhood, but we can find the crown if it’s there.”
Reggel was amused.
“Very good, Sergeant. You search your Freedom Fighters. In the meantime, my friend and I have a plane to catch to Budapest. You can tell your police to open the doors. We’ll be out of the way.”
“We can’t open it up, not until the field examiners have a chance to check all the prints, including Csonka’s. He’s the only live suspect we have.”
“Not necessarily.”
No one had expected Killane’s return. He stooped, reentering the crypt. In his black cape and red skullcap he looked like an ancient bird of prey.
“If Dr. Andos didn’t know one crown from the other, it’s just as likely he brought the false crown here last night. Which means that it could have been stolen any time during the day.”
“Your Eminence,” Isadore sighed, “during the day the crown was in plain sight of thousands of people. No one came near it then.”
“Captain Reggel, was anyone close to the crown during the day?” Killane asked.
Reggel’s eyes meandered over the panels etched in gilt.
“Of course,” he laughed. “You and the priests. During the Mass you were all around it.”
“Where can we find the priests?” Isadore asked.
“I’v
e already inquired about that. I’ve also had Monsignor Burns tell your officers there’s been a breakdown in the lighting system but that the doors would be open soon. You can put the crown on display whenever you want, Mr. Grey.”
“A fake? Why?”
“Because, even if the priests did steal the crown, they couldn’t leave with it. According to Captain Reggel’s orders, they were searched with a metal detector. The Holy Crown is still with us, probably hidden in the sacristy or near a door. And whoever made the switch will have to come back for it.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sergeant, but it is true, isn’t it, that if the crown is gone from St. Patrick’s you won’t find it by roadblocking airports but as a result of information, a tip? In other words, raising a hue and cry would be little aid to finding the crown if it is gone and no aid if you want the thieves to return and lead you to the crown here. Time is a consideration, isn’t it?”
“Your Eminence, you could talk me into fish on Friday,” Isadore congratulated him. “But priests stealing the crown and leaving it in St. Patrick’s? How long do you think I’d last in this police department if I came up with a story like that?”
“How long will you last if you say the crown is not in the church? If the Hungarians didn’t take it and it is gone, there’s only one man who could have taken the crown out without being searched. Me.”
“There is a certain logic to that.”
After Killane left, Isadore and Reggel searched the ambulatory, the sacristy, anywhere the crown could be hidden. A breathless Monsignor Burns joined them.
“The fathers who came from Chicago to say evening Mass yesterday? I located them in Chicago. They never left and they were never here. They even say I called them three days ago and told them not to come. There’s something else, a small thing that probably means nothing. I wouldn’t mention it if the situation weren’t so—”
“Mention it,” Isadore said. “Please.”
“One of the maintenance men didn’t show up for work today. Not that it’s unusual, you see.”
Isadore interviewed the chief of the maintenance crew, who identified Morton’s picture.
“Tell me,” Isadore asked Burns. “The boy who worked here, would he ever be able to find out these priests’ names and where they could be reached?”
“The list was posted in the sacristy, names and churches.” The monsignor’s jaw hung elastically. In front of the high altar Roman was finishing the arrangement of the crown on its stand. “I thought the Holy Crown was stolen.”
Reggel’s hand gripped Burns’ arm in a vise.
“The Holy Crown is not stolen. Do you understand—the crown is here.”
16
“There weren’t going to be any special viewings.”
“Captain Reggel.” Nagy rolled a fat, unlit Cuban cigar between his fingers. He stroked his stomach with a pudgy hand adorned by a pinky ring of amber and gold. “Captain, we can afford to be generous now. I won’t hear any more protests. Let the American scholars look at the Holy Crown. It will be the last chance they ever get.”
At the door he stopped.
“And one more thing, Captain. The Gypsy the cardinal employed. Keep him away from the crown when the Americans come. It makes a bad impression.”
“That’s it, then,” Reggel said when he returned to Roman. “And if the man from the Metropolitan Museum is as good as you say, he’ll spot the fake from the last pew.”
St. Patrick’s evening Mass was over. Patrolmen and Hungarian secret police guarded a church that was empty except for the three men and the fake.
Isadore led the way to the radio in the bridal room. He picked up the receiver once and put it down.
“That’s all he said?” he asked Reggel. “Nagy didn’t get a call about the crown?”
“We can’t find the crown. What does a call matter?”
“How much could they ask for the Holy Crown? A million dollars? Ten million? You don’t sit on a ransom like that. If you have the crown, you call. God, you can imagine what we’d be willing to pay, let alone the Hungarians. If you have the crown.”
“Call the commissioner,” Roman urged Isadore. “You’re thinking too much.”
The Gypsy was not being sarcastic.
“Yeah, sergeants aren’t supposed to think, I know,” Isadore murmured. “Run scared, cover yourself. The Jew blew the Holy Crown.”
He snatched the receiver. An electronic bark answered.
“This is Detective Harry Isadore at St. Patrick’s. Get me five men from the bomb squad and a pair of field examiners. No fuss, just send them over.”
Isadore let the receiver drop back into its cradle.
“The squad can find anything. I figure they’ll say something if they come up with a crown.”
Roman shook his head. “It’s not worth it, Harry.”
Isadore leaned back in the gilded bridal chair. The Gypsy had never called him by his first name before.
“You made this my case, Roman. Now, what can you do about the crown?”
* * *
Roman and the fake were gone when the bomb unit arrived. Isadore set the field examiners to work spreading fingerprint powder over the altar with generous turkey feather dusters. Once they were hard at work, he stole a small hammer from their kit.
A new shift of Hungarian guards and patrolmen arrived. Reggel joined Isadore with two of the Hungarians, who had red ears and blanched faces.
“Something new,” Reggel reported. “These heads of lettuce have just informed me that while they were on duty about an hour after last night’s Mass the priests returned. The priests were here for maybe half an hour. That was before Csonka’s shift. They claim they searched the priests thoroughly before letting them leave.”
It was then Reggel’s turn to watch the detective weed out the patrolmen who had been on duty after Mass. Isadore found his men cracking gum outside the transept door. Their conversation didn’t reach Reggel until Isadore became agitated.
“Why not?”
“Because they were priests,” one of the patrolmen answered defensively.
“And if the Cardinal Hayes marching band showed up, would you let them in, too?”
“Things are really falling apart,” Isadore admitted when he returned. The two men sat in a pew. Like dark, armored mice, the bomb squad slipped in and out of chapels.
“Five priests returned with an excuse about forgetting something in the sacristy. They had a note supposedly signed by Burns, but his stationery seems to be turning up everywhere lately.”
“My man on the sacristy steps never saw the priests.”
“Once they were inside, nobody did. Until the priests left.”
“They came for the crown without taking it?”
“Your men had the metal detector,” Isadore said. “Am I cutting my throat because they did a sloppy job?”
“No. I would cut their throats if they did.”
The phrase was not figurative in Reggel’s mouth.
“Okay. At least now we know the crown was here to come back for. The priests must have moved it.” Isadore took a church pamphlet from his jacket and opened it to a floor plan of St. Patrick’s. He penciled X’s where the Hungarians had been stationed and from the X’s drew fields of vision.
“Csonka and the man on the sacristy steps could see the bay, period. The others, at the transept doors, could see the transept area, the Communion rail and the front pews. Columns would block off everything else. The priests had more than stolen stationery; they must have had Morton’s keys. So they had nine-tenths of St. Patrick’s to hide the crown in.”
The bomb squad worked its way to the front of the church. So far no one had searched the galleries, boiler room, the forest of pipes in the organ loft or the spires. What if Quasimodo had something to hide? Isadore wondered.
“Sergeant
Isadore!”
Not Quasimodo but Commissioner John Lynch strode into the church. At his voice, the bomb squad froze as if a director had called a halt on a movie set.
“There’s a bomb here and you didn’t call me?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Isadore and Lynch huddled beside a confessional. As he listened, Lynch combed his hair feverishly with his hands.
“Could you show me the crown you do have?” he whispered through his teeth.
The two men marched along the communion rail toward the Gypsy.
“And what the hell are you doing?” were Lynch’s first words to Roman.
The maintenance room Roman worked in was a leftover hole in the wall opposite Killane’s private sacristy. Cans of putty littered the floor around a sink and an oven used for melting the old wax out of votive candles. On the drainage surface of the sink sat one box of green vitriol and another of salt. Roman was using the hammer Isadore had stolen to beat on the inside of the crown.
“It’s the commissioner,” Isadore explained, and hoped Roman had an answer.
“Trying to—” Roman began, when Lynch pulled the hammer from his hand.
“Beautiful, Sergeant. You lose one crown, and by the time I find out, you’re tearing apart a second one. Is it possible you’re insane? Hand over the crown,” he ordered Roman.
“Will you listen to him, Commissioner?”
“The only person I want to talk to now is the cardinal, as soon as I’ve cleared out your menagerie. Where’s that Hungarian?”
When Reggel squeezed into the room, Lynch gave him the crown and reported what he’d found happening to it. Reggel handed it back to Roman.
“Are you crazy, too?”
Reggel gestured for Roman to speak.
“I’m trying to buy us some time before word gets out that the Holy Crown is stolen. Sergeant Isadore thinks the longer this can pass as the real thing, the sooner the thieves will feel safe about coming back for the Holy Crown. There are going to be some men here tomorrow who won’t be easy to fool. So I’m doing a little restoration work on it.”