CHAPTER 11

Great people and champions are special gifts of God.

Martin Luther

When Alan arrived at Number 115 Commonwealth Avenue, he found Homer Kelly waiting for him. Homer’s greeting was hearty. Alan guessed that other people’s business was his meat and drink.

“Oh, shit,” said Alan, when his stolen key failed to open the front door.

“Damn,” said Homer, whose obscenities derived from an earlier age. “Do you suppose there’s a back entrance?”

“The key says Rear. Let’s try the alley.”

They walked past the church and turned the corner on Clarendon. “What’s going on over there?” said Homer, staring across the street at the excavation, where power shovel and crane still sat idly in the hole.

“Litigation, I think. Somebody’s suing somebody. Everything’s on hold.”

In the alley it was easy to distinguish the first private house. A brick wall surrounded its small back yard, separating it from the parking places for MINISTER and BUILDING MANAGER. “This must be Number 115,” said Alan. “You can see this wall from her living room.”

“But there’s a padlock on the gate. Your key won’t open that.”

Alan looked at him inquisitively. “How good are you at climbing?”

“Old hand,” said Homer. Wedging the toe of one shoe on the edge of a brick, he grasped the top of the wall and tried to heave himself over. “Ugh, umph, whoops!” Alan gave him a boost, and Homer fell clumsily into a bush on the other side.

Alan vaulted nimbly after him, and helped him up. “Oh, no, I’m afraid you’ve torn that handsome jacket. Gee, I’m sorry. It looks expensive.”

“Morgan Memorial,” mumbled Homer, looking with horror at the ripped fabric. In truth the jacket was a Christmas present from his wife, and it had come from a fancy men’s clothing store, probably Brooks Brothers. Mary had pasted a discount-store label on the box, because that was more Homer’s style.

Rosie Hall’s garden was handsome, even in winter, with its ivy-ringed circle of grass. The back door of the house projected at one side.

The key worked. Homer grinned at Alan, and said, “Sshh.”

“Don’t we need a search warrant or something?”

“And you with a stolen key in your hand? What a question.”

They pressed forward into the small entry, which contained only a couple of plastic trash barrels. When Homer tried the knob of one of the inner doors, it turned freely in his hand, and they entered the living room of Rosalind Hall’s apartment.

In a moment they were looking at the snapshots on the wall above Rosie’s desk. Homer had seen the big picture of Rosie and Charley on the front page of the Boston Globe. Looking at it again he was unprepared for the sense of pathos. “The baby’s safe enough, I suppose, but where the hell is his mother?”

Alan grimaced, and turned away to the shelf of cassette recorders beside the desk. Their black plastic surfaces were dusty. “I told you about these. They were switched on when I came in. She must have been recording from one to the other. Yes, look, they’ve both got cassettes.”

“Well, go ahead, find out what they are.”

“Got to rewind first.” Alan set the two pairs of spindles whizzing backwards, and led Homer into Rosie’s kitchen. “This is where the blood was. Right there on the floor.”

“All cleaned up, I see.” Homer knelt and looked at the quarry tiles. The uniform dull sheen was everywhere the same. “I suppose every surface has been tested for fingerprints.”

“All I know is what it said in the paper. There weren’t any prints they could match up with anybody in their files, except for the ones that were all over the place. They assumed they were Rosie’s. They were surprised to find they matched a set in the police file.”

Homer was astonished. “They did? Rosalind Hall was fingerprinted before?”

“Juvenile, that’s all it said, with a date ten years back. I suppose there must be a way to find out what her prints were there for. Otherwise what’s the point of having them in the file at all?”

Homer looked at the face of Rosie on the wall. “She must have done something naughty when she was a kid. I’ll look into it. It’s odd, but I don’t see how it helps. Maybe it will come in handy later on. Then again maybe not.”

Alan went back to the tape recorders and touched one of the play buttons. He grinned at Homer as the sober rhythms of a famous organ chorale prelude began pouring into the room.

“Nice,” said Homer, wagging his head in time. Homer knew almost nothing about music.

“Listen, it’s ‘Wachet Auf,’ a chorale prelude by Bach. Every organist plays it. It’s an old warhorse.”

They wandered around the apartment. “What a great place,” said Homer. “She must be rich, Rosalind Hall.”

“I don’t know. According to the paper she inherited the house from her parents, and rented out most of it. I gather she wasn’t working full time as an organist, she was mostly just taking care of Charley. That’s what Mrs. Garboyle told the reporter. Maybe Rosie inherited a lot of money from her family.”

“Mrs. Garboyle? Who’s Mrs. Garboyle?”

“She lives here. The rest of the house is sort of a dormitory for girls at Boston University. Mrs. Garboyle’s in charge, that’s what it said in the paper.”

Homer screwed up his big face, searching his memory. “Mrs. Garboyle—it sounds familiar somehow.”

They inspected the kitchen, Rosie’s bedroom, the bathroom. In the baby’s room Alan was overcome by the memory of Charley’s fat cheek against his own.

They returned to the living room as the steady merriment of the sixteenth notes of the chorale prelude rollicked to a close and the tape recorder fell silent. Alan extracted the tape and read aloud the handwritten inscription, Wachet Auf, Harv. Mem. Church, RH. He looked up at Homer. Once again he felt bereft. “It’s her own performance on the Fisk organ at Harvard.”

Homer watched with inquisitive interest as Alan stroked the cassette and put it back in the tape recorder. “You said you didn’t know her?”

“No. I’d heard of her, of course, but we’ve never met. Let’s hear what’s on the other one.” Alan touched the PLAY button on the second recorder. Homer was amused to see him lean his hands on either side of the picture of Rosalind Hall and stare at her as he listened. There was something a little goofy about his obvious obsession with the woman. Homer controlled an impulse to kid him about it.

Instead he waved his hand at the second cassette recorder. “Isn’t that the same thing?” he said, feeling clever.

“Right, it’s ‘Wachet Auf.’ She must have been copying it.” Alan switched it off.

They left by the rear entry. On the way out Homer obeyed a nosy instinct and lifted the lid of the trash barrel. “Trash is always so revealing,” he said softly. “Hmmmm, how strange.” He pawed in the barrel with a big hand. “Candles. A lot of perfectly good wax candles. And ashtrays. Look, a lot of ashtrays. And a couple of unopened packs of cigarettes.”

“Maybe it’s not trash. Maybe she was going to give that stuff away. To the Morgan Memorial or something. Maybe she stopped smoking and decided to give away all her ashtrays.”

“But there’s trash in here too. See?” Homer picked up a wad of greasy paper towels and dropped them again. “It was all supposed to be thrown out. Wasteful, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, you know how people are when they make a vow to quit smoking. Everything connected with it seems dangerous.” Alan opened the outer door and they went out into the cold air. “I ought to know. I quit smoking myself a couple of years ago.”

This time Homer managed to get over the brick wall without incident, and they parted on Clarendon Street. “I’ll see what I can find out about those old fingerprint records of Rosie’s,” said Homer. “I doubt it will help, but I’ll look into it. And maybe I can throw my weight around in the Department of Social Services and find out what’s happened to the baby.”

Alan thanked him, surprised at the strength of his gratitude, and hurried off in the direction of the Public Garden.

Homer made for the subway in Copley Square, striding along Commonwealth Avenue past a young couple walking their Dalmatian, a pair of Boston ladies bundled up in fur coats, and an old woman stepping timidly along the sidewalk with a cane, avoiding the slippery places.

He couldn’t help smiling at the way young Alan had revealed his interest in the missing mother and child so nakedly. The kid was fond of the baby, that was obvious, but his attachment to the missing Rosalind was also absurdly apparent. And he didn’t even know the woman! She might not be lovable at all. Who could tell? Rosalind Hall might be a genuinely ghastly girl.