Free Relic of Time by Ralph McInerny Page B

under fire from bands of volunteers who had entered the fray. Where the hell it would all end was a good question.
    Meanwhile the rosary crusade for the return of the sacred portrait gathered force and spread throughout the nation. The networks and cable news shows had covered this with surprising tolerance. Just for laughs, Traeger got out of the car and walked to the entrance of the building. The door was open and a little gray-haired lady peered at him over the reception desk.
    â€œNo one’s here.”
    â€œAren’t you someone?”
    She displayed the tips of her denture. “I’m just minding the store.”
    Her name was Gladys Stone, according to the plastic plate on the counter.
    â€œI’d like to leave a message.”
    â€œI told you, no one is here.” Another display of denture. “Other than myself.”
    â€œTell them Traeger was here. Vincent Traeger.”
    â€œTell who?”
    â€œThe people who aren’t here. Grady will do. We’re old friends.”
    â€œYou’re not so old.”
    Good Lord, she had become coquettish. Traeger would have had to be a lot older than he was to respond to Granny’s come-on.
    He wrote his name, handed her the slip, and headed for the door.
    â€œHow can he get in touch?” Gladys called after him.
    Aha. He turned and went back to the desk. Would Marilyn Monroe look like Gladys if she had lived? He took the slip and wrote his cell phone number on it.
    â€œI could give you mine, sweetie.”
    â€œYou flatter me.”
    Flatten would have been more like it. Was it the weather or just California that made growing old so dreadful a prospect?
    â€œCome on back. It’s lonely here.”

    As he drove away, he wondered if Hannan’s offered reward for the return of the portrait was having any more luck than he was. And what was Crosby up to? He had started south, drawn by the Miguel Arroyo brouhaha, when his cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket.
    â€œTraeger?”
    â€œYo.”
    â€œI didn’t know you spoke Spanish. This is Morgan.”
    My God, they should call an alumni meeting. Himself, Crosby, and now Morgan. They could gather on Dortmund’s patio.
    â€œYou got my number from Gladys.”
    â€œWhere can we meet?”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œRight behind you.”
    In the rearview mirror he saw the open convertible. The driver’s hand rose in a wave.
    â€œI’ll pull off.”
    They sat at an outside table under an umbrella at a McDon-ald’s, the building shielding them from the noise of traffic.
    â€œThey told me about you,” Traeger said. “In Washington.”
    â€œWhat did they say?”
    â€œRemember those laugh lines Dortmund used too often? ‘On the other hand, I have four fingers, a thumb, and a wart.’”
    â€œ ‘And a mole on my father’s side.’ ”
    Morgan being identified as the Company’s plant in the Rough Riders, they got down to business.
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
    â€œTry me.”
    Morgan lit a cigarette. When he exhaled, the smoke drifted away on the hot breeze.
    â€œIgnatius Hannan has offered a reward for it.”
    â€œYour pension isn’t enough?”
    â€œHey, I’m still active.”
    â€œTell it to Gladys.”
    Morgan laughed. “Isn’t she something? Look, here’s my plan.”
    Morgan wanted the million Hannan was offering, but could he deliver?
    â€œTrust me.”
    Under the circumstances, that sounded like a joke. There had always been agents who, faced with oblivion, became double agents, working for the other side as well. Fear for one’s life was, if not exculpating, an understandable motive for treachery.
    â€œAnd there can’t be any publicity, Traeger. My principals might not understand.”
    Oh, they would understand. “You would have more to fear from