A Visit to
Saint Nicholas
by Edward D. Hoch

DAYLIGHT Savings Time had ended a few weeks earlier, and the evening was already dark by the time he parked his car down the block from the bingo hall and zipped his leather jacket against the November chill. The hall was in the basement of a Catholic school on the east side of the city, and ordinarily on a Sunday night the place would have been crowded. He was surprised that it was only half full this night, and questioned the cashier about it. "Where's your usual crowd tonight?"
"They've been dropping off lately, " she explained. "It's all these smoking regulations. Bingo players like to smoke, and if we don't have a separate smoking room available they stay away rather than quit. It's like this all over town. "
"Too bad, " he said, showing her the gun.
"What—what is this?"
"Just what it looks like. Put all your cash in this bag and don't raise a fuss or I'll shoot. "
"You're the bingo bandit!"
He smiled. "You're lucky I'm not the kissing bandit. " Then he scooped up the bag and was gone.
Later, when he'd had time to count his loot, he threw down the seven hundred and fifty-four dollars on the bed in disgust. It was the first time he'd ever made less than a thousand. That was when he decided he'd have to find a new way to make money off the Church.
A light snow had been falling all day, barely visible at times but enough to provide the promise of a white Christmas by the time the first worshipers began to arrive at Saint Nicholas Church for midnight Mass. Terry Foster sat in his car down the block for some time watching the congregation arriving. Many came by car, but there were walkers too, the younger ones often turning their faces skyward to catch the delightful dampness of falling flakes.
Presently he entered the church himself, standing near the back as the choir sang Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. He remained standing even though an usher tried to stuff him into one of the already overcrowded pews. For Midnight Mass each Christmas Eve the church of Saint Nicholas attracted larger crowds than the cathedral itself. The association of a half-legendary fourth century bishop of Asia Minor with the fully legendary figure of Santa Claus was enough to fill the church. If the Christmas worshippers knew that Pope Paul VI had dropped the feast of Saint Nicholas from the official church calendar in 1969, it bothered them not at all.
Terry Foster hovered in the back of church throughout the Mass, listening with half an ear as Father Murphy, the tall and stately gray-haired pastor, delivered the familiar gospel and Christmas sermon. When the ushers worked their way through the crowd for the collection, he dropped a five-dollar bill into the basket. When it came time for Communion he noticed that Father Murphy and an older retired priest needed the help of several parishioners to distribute the sacrament to the long lines of the faithful.
As the Mass ended and the choir raised their voices in the final hymn, Foster made his way out of the church with the rest of the congregation. Though the time by now was one in the morning, it was some fifteen minutes before the various friends and families began to disperse, caught up as they were in the joviality of the occasion. Foster saw a young priest in a cassock standing by the side door of the rectory, watching the departing flock. The snow had stopped now and the clouds were breaking up. No one cast an eye aloft for Santa's sleigh, but as the stars began to appear, one or two of them seemed a bit brighter than usual.
Foster walked up to the rectory and rang the bell. After a few moments the young priest answered it, giving him a questioning smile. "Can I help you?"
"Is Father Murphy in? I'm Terry Foster. I phoned him earlier about doing an interview for the paper after midnight Mass. "
The priest looked perplexed. "He's not back yet. Perhaps he's been delayed at church. "
"Could I come in and wait?"
"I guess you could. I'm Father Lambert. I'm over here from Rome, visiting my family for the holidays. We can wait in the office. " He was a man of average height and build, with dark hair that formed a widow's peak over his forehead.
They shook hands and Foster followed him into a cluttered little space where a computer took up most of the desk area. "Christmas really brings out the crowds, doesn't it?"
The priest nodded agreement. "I'm sure Father Murphy wishes he had this many every week. "
"For the collections, if nothing else. "
Father Lambert frowned slightly. "And for their souls. Running a parish isn't just about money. " He glanced at his watch. "Perhaps I should hunt up Father Murphy and tell him you're here. "
Foster shrugged. "I could interview you just as well. I'm sure you've celebrated many Christmas Masses in Rome. "
"A great many, yes. The people are very religious there. " He added with a smile, "Even the sinners. "
"Has the image of Santa Claus taken over the holiday as it has in America?"
"Not so much, but I'm sure you know that legend began in Europe with Saint Nicholas. You wouldn't be visiting Saint Nicholas Church if you didn't know that. "
"I've researched it, " the reporter admitted. "Saint Nicholas inspired the Dutch legend of Sinter Klaas, which the early American press translated as Saint A Claus. Washington Irving described the arrival of the saint on horseback each Eve of Saint Nicholas. He was fully Americanized through Clement Clarke Moore's 1823 poem A Visit from Saint Nicholas. He was still an elf in those days, of course, able to go up and down the chimneys with ease. The late nineteenth century cartoonist Thomas Nast was the first to depict a rotund Santa, and a human-sized version started appearing in Coca-Cola ads in 1931. The image has been pretty well set since then. "
The priest folded his hands and smiled. "You've done your research well. "
The reporter shrugged. "I've got kids who were curious. "
"As Santa Claus emerged, Saint Nicholas faded, even in the eyes of the Church. Indeed we live in strange times. "
"Secular times, " Foster corrected.
"For some people, yes. What is it that your readers want me to say?"
"Is attendance still good here at Saint Nicholas? Does the Christmas collection hold up well from year to year?"
"That's something you'd have to ask Father Murphy. I am merely a guest here because my parents have no space in their apartment. "
Foster glanced at his watch. "He should be returning soon. "
"You're an odd sort of reporter, " the priest observed. "You haven't made any notes. "
"You haven't told me anything yet. What about Rome?"
"It is a city of churches by the hundred. I have not visited them all. "
"And the Sistine Chapel?"
"A thing of beauty. Michelangelo's masterpiece. "
Foster nodded. "I especially admired his Sistine Madonna. "
"A fine piece of art. The man was a genius. There are some who objected to the Chapel's cleaning and restoration but it was well worth the cost. "
"I imagine struggling parishes such as Saint Nicholas' must sometimes wish for more financial help from Mother Church. "
"Father Murphy gets by, " the priest assured the reporter.
"Does he have bingo here?"
"I understand many of the churches have eliminated it because of falling attendance. Something about the city's smoking regulations. " He glanced again at his watch. "I'm becoming concerned about Father Murphy. After Mass he told me he'd only be a few minutes. "
"Perhaps we should go in search of him, " Foster suggested. "He might have slipped on the snow and fallen. "
"Good idea, " Father Lambert agreed. He led the way out of the office and through the rectory's back door, using a covered walkway to reach the side door of the church. "His car's still here. He couldn't have gone far. " A bit of snow had blown in and the bottom of his cassock dragged in it as he hurried to the church door and pulled it open.
The interior of Saint Nicholas Church was mostly in darkness, though a few lights still burned in the altar area. "Father Murphy?" the priest called out. "Are you here, Father?"
There was no answer.
"Perhaps he went off in one of the parishioners' cars, " Foster suggested.
"At one in the morning? That's not too likely unless it was an emergency, and then he probably would have called the rectory on his cell phone. "
In the near darkness the church had taken on an eerie quality that Foster found a bit unsettling. As they passed one of the spotlights directed at the altar, their enormous shadows played on the opposite wall, enmeshed with the Christmas wreaths and decorations. "You don't think anything's happened to him, do you?" he asked the priest.
"Not yet. He'll turn up somewhere. " But his voice seemed uncertain.
"What do you do with the collection money after midnight Mass? It must be a sizable amount of cash. "
Father Lambert agreed. "The people are especially generous at Christmastime. I believe it stays in the rectory safe until it's counted. " He led the way to the sacristy and snapped on a wall switch. Cabinets of vestments for the clergy and servers lined the walls, along with an assortment of chalices, candlesticks, and other items. "Father Murphy?" he called again, but there was still no answer.
"Is it like him to just disappear this way?"
"I don't really know him that well, but if he had an appointment with you I'm sure he would have kept it if he could. Unless he's been kidnapped by the bingo bandit. "
"Bingo bandit?"
Father Lambert glanced at him curiously. "If you're with the newspaper you must know all about it. Father Murphy spoke of the robberies at dinner tonight. "
"Of course I do. I reported on one of the robberies myself. He comes in after the games have started and people have paid for their boards. While everyone's busy with the game he shows the cashier a gun and makes off with the receipts. On a good night he could get away with a few thousand dollars. "
The priest thought about that. "Have there been any reports of church robberies?"
"None that I've heard of. Sometimes minor break-ins don't make the news for fear of encouraging copycat criminals. I suppose large churches might be targets on Christmas Eve. "
Father Lambert nodded. "Indeed. I know of churches where the pastor hires a security guard for the night, or calls upon a parishioner who's a retired police officer. "
The priest turned off the sacristy lights and they left the church, going back along the covered walkway to the rectory. Father Lambert closed the door behind them and turned the bolt. "I don't suppose there's much point in my staying, " Foster said. "It doesn't look as if he'll be back for awhile. "
"Perhaps a neighbor just invited him in for a bit of Christmas sherry, " the young priest suggested, sitting down behind the desk.
Terry Foster didn't resume his seat. He stood across the desk from the priest and slipped a hand into his pocket. "Perhaps. "
"Will you be leaving, then?"
"I have to confess something to you, Father. I'm not really a reporter. " His hand felt for the gun in his pocket.
"What?"
"You suspected as much when I wasn't taking notes, and you were right. " Foster kept his eyes on the man behind the desk. "But then I guess that makes us even because you're not a priest, either. "
"You're quite mistaken—"
"I don't think so, Lambert, or whatever your name is. You told me you were stationed in Rome and you discussed Michelangelo's work on the Sistine Chapel, apparently without realizing that the Sistine Madonna is the work of Raphael, not Michelangelo, and is located in Piacenza, not Rome. When we walked to the church your cassock dragged in the snow, because you're shorter than Father Murphy and that garment is his. When we came back here just now you bolted the door because you knew he wouldn't be returning. What have you done with him?"
Lambert came out of his chair, drawing a pistol from under his cassock, but Foster was ready for him. His own gun barrel came down hard on the man's wrist, bringing a screech of pain. "Damn! My wrist—" he gasped as his gun dropped to the carpet.
"Where is he?"
"Bound and gagged in his bedroom. " He was holding his wrist in obvious pain. "I didn't hurt him. I only wanted the collection money. I slipped into his cassock to make my escape after the crowd departed. Are you a cop?"
"That's right. " Foster showed his badge and called for a patrol car on his cell phone. Then he handcuffed Lambert and had him lead the way to the bedroom where they found Father Murphy.
The gray-haired priest worked his jaw muscles as the gag came free. "Thank God it's you, Foster. How did you catch him?"
"I glimpsed him by the rectory door after Mass and wondered why he hadn't helped you give out communion. I stopped by, posing as a reporter, and things didn't add up. I didn't think he was a priest at all and I was afraid of what he'd done to you. "
"I'm all right. He surprised me just as I was putting the collection money in the safe. "
Foster glanced over at his silent prisoner. "I do believe we've captured the bingo bandit at last. And that's certainly a fitting Christmas gift. "