Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (13 page)

“I did. We got him out of bed to identify the body. He was upset, but nothing more than you’d expect under the circumstances.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“Buick convertible.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“We might ask him a few questions,” said Jennings. Lanigan laughed. “And you’ll find he was at that club of his from about eight o’clock Thursday evening to two o’clock Friday morning, and probably in plain sight of half a dozen employees and several dozen diners ail the time. What I’m trying to tell you, Eban, is that if you’re going to consider who could possibly have done it, there’s no limit to the number of suspects. Here’s another one: Celia. She was supposed to be the only one the dead girl knew. She’s a big, strong, strapping young woman.”

“You’re forgetting that Elspeth was knocked up. Celia couldn’t have done that no matter how big and strong and strapping she is.”

“No I’m not. You’re assuming the one responsible for her pregnancy is the one who killed her. It doesn’t necessarily follow. Suppose Celia was in love with some man and Elspeth beat her time with him. Suppose he was responsible for the girl’s pregnancy and suppose Celia found out. She admitted to me that she knew Elspeth had said something about going to a doctor for a checkup. Well, suppose she suspected what was really wrong, or suppose Elspeth confided in her. That would be only natural since she was all alone here. She’d want .to confide in an older woman, and that could be only Celia. She might even tell her who was responsible, not knowing how Celia felt about the same man.”

“But Elspeth didn’t know any men.”

“That’s Celia’s story. Mrs. Serafino didn’t think she knew any man, but did mention something about some letters Elspeth got regularly, postmarked in Canada. I might also point out that Celia was away for the evening and probably got home late. Mrs. Hoskins would be asleep so she wouldn’t know what time Celia got in. Suppose Celia noticed a light in Elspeth’s room. She knew the girl had been to see the doctor, so she drops in to find out what happened. The girl had just had her fears confirmed and she wants to talk to someone about it. Celia persuades her to toss a coat on – her attire makes sense if she’s with a girlfriend – and they go for a walk. It’s raining quite hard by the time they come to the temple, so they get in the rabbi’s car. It’s then that Elspeth tells her who the man is and Celia, in a rage, chokes her.”

“Any more?”

Hugh smiled. “That’ll do for a starter.”

“I’m still voting for the rabbi,” said Eban.

Immediately after Lanigan left, the rabbi went to the temple. He did so out of a sense of fitness, not because he thought he could be of any help. There was nothing, unfortunately, he could do for the poor girl. And he was helpless when it came to police matters. Come to think of ft, what more could he do at the temple than he could at home? But since the temple was involved he felt he should be there.

From his study, he watched the police go about busily measuring and photographing and searching. A group of idlers, some women but mostly men, followed the policemen about the parking lot, edging up close whenever they spoke. He wondered how so many managed to be free at that hour, but then he saw that the crowd was constantly changing. A man would stop his car and inquire what happened. When someone told him, he would join the group for a while and then leave. The crowd never varied very much in size.

There was actually little to see, but the rabbi could not tear himself away from the window. He had the Venetian blind drawn and adjusted the slats so that he could look out without himself being observed from the parking lot. A uniformed officer was standing guard over his car, telling anyone who came too close to move on. There were reporters and news photographers on the scene now, and he wondered how long it would be before they discovered he was in his study and came up to interview him. He had no idea what to say to them, or whether he ought to talk to them at all. Perhaps the best thing would be to refer them to Mr. Wasserman, who would probably in turn refer them to the attorney who handled the temple legal affairs. But then, would not his refusal to discuss the case be regarded as suspicious?

The knock on the door, when it came, turned out to be not the reporters but the police. A tall, watery-eyed man introduced himself as Lieutenant Jennings. “Stanley told me you were here,” he said. The rabbi motioned him to a seat. “We’d like to take your car down to the police garage, rabbi. We want to give it a good going-over and we can do it better down there.”

“Certainly, lieutenant.”

“You got a lawyer representing you, rabbi?” The rabbi shook his head. “Should I have?”

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t be the one to tell you, but we like to do things friendly-like. Maybe if you had a lawyer, he might tell you that you don’t have to agree if you don’t want to. Of course, if you didn’t, we’d get a court order easy enough –”

“It’s quite all right, lieutenant. If you think that taking my car downtown will help you in this shocking business, go right ahead.”

“If you got your keys handy …”

“Of course.” The rabbi detached them from the ring that was still lying on the desk. “This one is for the ignition and glove compartment, and this one is for the trunk.”

“I’ll give you a receipt for the car.”

“It’s not necessary.”

He watched from the window as the lieutenant got into his car and drove off, and was pleased to see a good portion of the crowd leave with him.

Several times during the course of the day the rabbi tried to call his wife, but each time the line was reported busy. He called Mr. Wasserman’s office, but was told that he was away and was not expected back.

He opened one of the books on his desk to leaf through it. Presently he made a note on a card. He checked a passage in another book and made another note. Soon he was completely absorbed in his research.

The phone rang. It was Miriam.

“I tried to get you three or four times, but the line was busy,” he said.

“I took the receiver off the hook,” she explained. “It started just after you left, people calling to ask if we had heard the news, and wanting to know if there was anything they could do. There was even one call to tell me that you had been arrested. That was when I took the receiver off, but then it makes funny little scratchy noises and you start wondering if it might be an important call. Didn’t anyone call you?”

“Not a single call.” He chuckled. “Guess no one wants to admit he’s on speaking terms with Barnard’s Crossing’s Public Enemy Number One.”

“Please don’t! It’s nothing to joke about.” Then: “What are we going to do, David?”

“Do? Why, what is there to do?”

“I thought, what with all this – well, Mrs. Wasserman called up and invited us to stay with them –”

“But that’s silly, Miriam. Tonight is the Sabbath and I intend to welcome it in my own house and at my own table. Don’t worry, it will be all right. I’ll be home in time for dinner, and then we’ll go to the services as always.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Why I’m working on my Maimonides paper.”

“Do you have to do that now?”

He wondered at the edge in her voice. “What else would I do?” he asked simply.

There were four or five times as many people at Evening services than as usual, much to the consternation of the members of Sisterhood, who had prepared cake and tea for the collation in the vestry afterward.

Considering the reason for the unexpectedly large attendance, the rabbi was none too pleased. He sat on the platform beside the Holy Ark, and grimly made up his mind that he would make no reference whatsoever to the tragedy. Pretending to be studying his prayer book, he glowered under his eyebrows at member after member who had never before attended a Friday evening service, smiling only when one of the few regulars entered, as if to show he knew they had come to worship rather than out of vulgar curiosity.

With Myra the president of Sisterhood, the Schwarzes were one of the regulars, but they usually sat fairly well back, in the sixth or seventh row. Tonight, however, although Ben slid into his regular seat, Myra continued on down front to the second row where the rabbi’s wife was sitting. She sat down beside her, and leaning over, patted her hand and murmured in her ear. Miriam stiffened – then managed a smile.

The rabbi caught the little byplay and was touched by this consideration on the part of the Sisterhood president, all the more because it was unexpected. But as he thought about it, its full significance began to dawn on him. It was a gesture of reassurance, the sympathy one extends to the wife of someone who is under suspicion. It gave him another explanation for the large attendance. Although some may have come in hopes he might speak of the crime, others wanted to see if he would show signs of guilt. To remain silent and not mention the affair might give the wrong impression and imply he was afraid to speak.

He made no mention of the subject in the course of his sermon, but later, near the close of the service, he said: “Before the mourners in the congregation rise to recite the Kaddish, I should like to recall to you the true significance of the prayer.”

The congregation sat up and edged forward in their seats. Now he was coming to it.

“There is a belief,” the rabbi went on, “that reciting the Kaddish is a duty the mourner owes to the dear departed. If you will read the prayer, or its English translation on the opposite page, you will notice that it contains no mention of death or any suggestion of a plea for the soul of the dead. Rather, it is an affirmation of the belief in God and in His power and glory. What is the significance of the prayer then? Why is it especially reserved for those who mourn? And why, when most of our prayers are whispered, is this one prayer said aloud?

“Perhaps our very manner of delivery will give a clue to its meaning. It is a prayer not for the dead but for the living. It is an open declaration by one who has just suffered the loss of a dear one that he still has faith in God. Nevertheless, our people persist in thinking of the Kaddish as an obligation they owe to the dead, and because in our tradition custom takes on the force of law, I shall recite the Kaddish with the mourners, for one who was not a member of this congregation, nor even of our faith, someone about whom we know little, but whose life happened through tragic accident to touch this congregation ….”

The rabbi and his wife said little as they walked home from the temple. Finally he broke the silence. “I noticed Mrs. Schwarz went out of her way to extend her sympathy to you.”

She s a good soul, David, and she meant well.” Then, “Oh, David, this can be a nasty business.”

“I’m beginning to think so,” he said.

As they approached their house, they could hear the telephone ringing inside.

The religious revival did not extend to the Saturday morning service; no more than the usual twenty or so turned up. When the rabbi got home, he found Chief Lanigan waiting for him.

“I don’t like to intrude on your Sabbath,” the chief apologized, “but neither do we like to interrupt our investigations. We police have no holidays.”

“It’s perfectly all right. In our religion, emergencies always supersede ritual.”

“We’re about through with your car. I’ll have one of the boys drive it up here sometime tomorrow. Or if you’re downtown, you can pick it up yourself.”

“Fine.”

“I’d like to check over with you what we found.” From his briefcase he drew several pliofilm bags, each marked in black ink. “Let’s see, this first one is stuff found under the front seat.” He dumped the contents onto the desk. It consisted of some loose change, a receipt for repairs to the car dated several months back, a wrapper from a five-cent candy bar, a small calendar giving Hebrew and English equivalent dates, and a woman’s plastic barrette.

The rabbi gave them a cursory glance. “Those are ours. At least, I recognize the barrette as my wife’s. But you can ask her to be sure.”

“We already have,” said Lanigan.

“I can’t vouch for the candy wrapper or the money, but I have eaten that candy. It’s kosher. That calendar is the kind that various institutions and business houses distribute on the Jewish New Year. I must get dozens of them each year.” He opened his desk drawer. “Here’s another.”

“All right.’” Lanigan replaced the contents of the bag and emptied another on the desk. “This is the contents of the trash bag under the dashboard.” There were several crumpled tissues with lipstick, a stick from a chocolate-covered Eskimo Pie, and an empty, crumpled cigarette package.

“Those look all right,” said the rabbi.

“Does that look like your wife’s lipstick?”

The rabbi smiled. “Why don’t you check with her?”

“We have,” said Lanigan, “and it is.” He then offered the contents of the next bag, which was from the glove compartment. There was a crushed box of tissues, a lipstick, several road maps, a prayer book, a pencil, a plastic ball-point pen, half a dozen three-by-five cards, a two-cell flashlight, and a rumpled pack of cigarettes.

“That seems right,” said the rabbi. “I think I can even be sure of the lipstick, because I remember when my wife got it I made some remark about its being worth a king’s ransom if all that jewelry were real. I think my wife paid a dollar or a dollar and a half, and yet see with what brilliant gems it is encrusted.”

“They sell thousands of them, so you would have no way of knowing if this particular one is your wife’s/’

“No, but surely it would be quite a coincidence if it were not.”

“Coincidences happen, rabbi. The girl used the same lipstick. And it isn’t such a terribly remarkable coincidence at that, since I gather it’s a very popular make and a very popular shade for blondes.”

“She was blonde then?”

“Yes, she was blonde. The flashlight, rabbi, shows no fingerprints.”

The rabbi thought a moment. “The last time I recall using it was to check the dipstick, after which I wiped it, of course.”

“All that’s left now is the contents of the ashtrays. The one in the rear had one cigarette, lipstick-stained. There were ten butts in the front ashtray, all the same brand and all lipstick-stained. Your wife’s, I take it. You don’t smoke.”