1940
The uneven chopping of the rickety old fan was never enough to beat back the heat of a San Diego summer. I’ve been meaning to install a new one, but business hasn’t been too good for me since the big depression started. Most workdays see me baking in my little office for hours, waiting for a call, a visit, or anything else to liven things up. So far as the morning was proceeding, today looked like it wasn’t going to be much different from the usual.
I was ready to pour myself a glass of lukewarm bourbon for the slightest refreshment when Lizzie, my petite blonde secretary, chimed in with an announcement and a pearly smile. “Someone’s here to see you, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
I straightened myself in my chair and wiped the sweat off my brow. She held the door open, and there shuffled in a gentleman in a white robe with a tiny gold cross hanging from his neck. He was balding at the top, the hair on the side fading from black to gray, and his tawny complexion was typical for a Mexican or other mestizo. I don’t normally receive clients from the swarthier races, but my family’s always been Catholic, so as far as I was concerned, he would have been a brother by faith if not by blood.
“Well, well, it’s not every day I have a man of the cloth come down to my humble workplace,” I said. “Not that it’s an unwelcome change of pace, to be honest. How can I help you?”
The old priest entwined his hands with a calm smile. “Good morning to you, Señor O’Sullivan. Call me Father Manuel, of the Mission Santa Isabella, a little out into the countryside east of town. It’s small as the old missions go, I will admit, and not very remarkable until recently.”
“Until recently? How so?”
“I know a Frenchman by the name of Pierre Dupont who is like an explorer or antiquarian. He was in the Belgian Congo a year ago, and he was kind enough to donate to our establishment a special relic he’d uncovered there. But first, Señor, have you heard of the legend of Prester John?”
I scratched the back of my head. “Can’t say I recall the name.”
“They say he was descended from one the three wise men who visited baby Christ, ruling over a Christian kingdom hidden somewhere in the Orient. At first, people thought he was in India or perhaps Central Asia, but then the Portuguese started looking for him in darkest Africa. And now my friend Pierre believes he has located the ruins of Prester John’s kingdom, whence he obtained this.”
Father Manuel laid a photograph on my desk. Despite the picture’s murky quality, I could make out a dark artifact shaped like a thick cross or arithmetic plus sign, with an ovular human face sculpted in its center, standing on a stone altar amidst tropical vegetation. The face’s exaggerated features resembled those of a native African mask or idol, but situated on a cross like that, it did nonetheless recall the Crucifixion.
“Imagine, this holy Christian icon has lain rotting in the jungle, surrounded by pagan ignorance, for who knows how many centuries!” the priest said. “It is only by the grace of God that my friend Pierre has found it, brought it back to civilization, and entrusted our mission with protecting it. And protect it we have, until it went missing last night.”
I leaned forward. “Went missing? Any idea where it could have gone, Father?”
“That is where you come in, Señor. At first, we tried contacting the police, but they told us they were stretched too thin, and you know how they are with brown folk like us anyway. So, it is to you we turn. We need your keen eyes to examine the scene of the crime and find who may have taken the cross and why. If you can get it back, the mission would be most grateful.”
Father Manuel bowed his head with palms together as if in prayer. His case was more serious than what I usually received. This cross of his wouldn’t have been the first stolen article I’d been asked to retrieve, but it sounded much more significant than, say, a fancy necklace or a missing cat. The Lord Himself might judge me if I refused.
“I would be more than happy to help, but it’ll cost you a bit,” I said. “Nothing personal, it’s just business.”
“Oh, I expected as much, my child,” he replied. “How does five thousand sound?”
I could not help but grin like a schoolboy examining a shiny new toy he’d gotten for Christmas. “It’s more than what most folks offer me.”
“Excellent! You are truly blessed, Señor O’Sullivan. I must warn you, though, the scene is a bit grisly.”
For once, despite the summertime temperature, I felt a tingling chill in my back.
Continue reading “The Black Cross”