That Day the Rabbi Left Town (24 page)

“Oh yeah,” said Lanigan, “Jacobs, Morton; no, it's a biblical name, Mordecai. That's it: Mordecai Jacobs. Miller used to drive him out Friday afternoons and pick him up at the Lerners' Monday mornings. He lives in Brookline near Coolidge Corner.”

When, on his return to Boston, he reported on his trip to Salem, Ames's eyes widened in surprise. “You thought Baumgold might have killed him?”

“Well, Kent wanted to get to Miller's house in Barnard's Crossing, and he knew that Baumgold lived there, and Baumgold never did tell him off, so the old man didn't know how he felt about him—”

“So he offers him a ride, and on the way Baumgold kills him?”

“Well, he could have given him a dig in the ribs with his elbow while he was driving—”

“And that would have given Kent a heart attack? And Baumgold, a lawyer by profession, would have dropped him in the snow instead of notifying the police?”

“Well, we don't have a definite lead on anyone,” said Schroeder sheepishly. “All we have is that Kent's car is gone. That's really all we have. So either Kent drove it and then parked it and took the bus, or someone drove him. Which means that someone didn't have the use of his own car that day.”

“Or someone could have come in by car, parked it here in the city, and had it plowed in And with the first thaw, he can come in by train or bus and get his car out and drive home, and no one the wiser,” suggested Ames.

“Yeah, I guess that rabbi fellow is our prime suspect.”

Ames shook his head. “I can't imagine a big, strapping young man like that actually violently attacking a little, scrawny old man like Kent.”

“A big man is more likely to attack a little man than a little man is to attack a big man.”

Ames chuckled. “That's very true, Sergeant. But if you recall, the basis for our taking over this case was that according to the autopsy, sketchy though it was, Kent was dead before he landed in the snow.”

“Well, I was talking to a guy from the medical examiner's office, and according to him, determining time of death of somebody buried in snow for a couple of days can be pretty tricky business. There could be something like frostbite, which would then turn dark. And that might account for the discoloration on the buttocks.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ames. “It's also possible that he started out a little after four o'clock, found the going a little harder than he expected, and drove to Haymarket, parked his car in a garage, and took the bus. Maybe if you questioned the bus drivers who left Haymarket for Barnard's Crossing after four—”

“I don't usually have much luck with bus drivers or streetcar conductors. They don't want to get involved. And at that hour there's usually a crowd getting on.”

“But this man was in a tuxedo; he'd stand out in the crowd getting on.”

“Yeah, but chances are in that weather he had his overcoat buttoned up to his chin.”

“It wasn't buttoned up when he was found,” Ames pointed out. “On the other hand, he was wearing patent leather pumps without rubbers or overshoes. As he stepped up, the bus driver was apt to notice and remember.”

“You don't ride in buses much, do you? As passengers get on, the driver's eyes are glued to the coin box. But I'll contact the bus company anyhow. In the meantime, I've got another angle: fellow who lives right here in Brookline but goes to Barnard's Crossing every weekend to see his girl.”

The photo that Sergeant Schroeder showed Sam Patchek, the driver of the five-fifteen bus from Haymarket, had been doctored so that he was not lying in snow, but appeared to be standing and in good health. “Recognize this man? Was he on your bus the day before Thanksgiving?” He expected little and was agreeably surprised when the other said, “Oh, sure, I recognize him. He's on my bus every day. I didn't think he was as old as he looks in that picture. See, he always wears a hat; I didn't realize his hair was white.”

“You're sure it's the one you know?”

“Oh, sure. See, he always wears a tuxedo. That's what makes him stick in my mind. I figured he was a waiter, or maybe a musician. I saw him yesterday. What's he done?”

The driver from the five forty-five from Haymarket was African-American, and truculent. “What's he say I done? I drove too fast? He was thrown off his feet when I went around a curve? Or I gave him the wrong change from a twenty-dollar bill? I don't give change at all.”

“No, nothing like that. I just want to know if he was on your bus the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Expect me to remember who got on my bus a week ago?”

“Well, he was in a tuxedo.”

“So, I'm supposed to remember what kind suit, maybe what kind tie, every guy gets on my bus is wearing? You know how many get my bus at Haymarket? I ride out with a full bus, standing room only. So what's his beef? What's he say I done?”

Chapter 38

There was an urgent note in Al Bergson's voice as he spoke to Rabbi Small on the telephone Thursday evening. “Look, David, I'd consider it a big favor if you and Miriam came out tomorrow to spend the Sabbath with us.”

“It's not the kind of weather I care to drive in, and besides, the roads—”

“The roads are fine now. I had to go up to Gloucester, and the roads were fine. And the weather forecast for tomorrow is much warmer. It might go to forty.”

“We-el—”

“Look, you can drive out in the early afternoon, turn the heat up in your house, and then come right over to our place. I'll try to get home early.”

“Let me get back to you.” To Miriam he said unnecessarily, “That was Al Bergson. He wants us to come out for the weekend.”

“I figured. Why don't we, David?”

“Because he won't get home much before five. It's all right for you. You'll be with Edie in the kitchen, but what will I do?”

“I'll tell you what you can do, David. You can drop me off at the Bergsons' and then go on to the library. You can hang around there and read the magazines. Then come when Al will be getting home. We've been stuck here in the house all weekend—”

“All right, I'll tell him we're coming.”

He left school right after his class, and after a bite of lunch, they started out. He was pleasantly surprised by how good the road conditions were. They made Barnard's Crossing in an hour, and Rabbi Small then went on to the library. He was curiously pleased that the librarian at the desk recognized him and smiled a greeting. He wandered about the magazine room, thumbing through the periodicals until he found an article that interested him, and then sat down in one of the large armchairs with which the room was furnished. It was not hard for him to spend a few hours in a library.

When he left, he first drove to his own house to see if it was comfortably warm from his having advanced the thermostat when they first arrived. Then he went on to the Bergson house, arriving at the same time as his host.

After the usual greetings, he asked, “Something bothering you, Al?”

“Yes, but I'd rather not discuss it in front of the women. We'll talk about it later, after the evening service, or even tomorrow. You won't mind riding to the temple if I drive, will you? It's pretty cold and not many of the sidewalks have been shoveled.”

“Under the circumstances, I think we can ride.”

Edie Bergson announced that she was tired and would not go. Miriam suspected that it was not so much that she was tired, but because she wanted to give the two men a chance to talk alone, so she said she'd stay and keep Edie company. It was a short trip to the temple from the Bergson house, offering little time for discussion.

“So what's bothering you?” asked the rabbi when they got into the car.

“I just want you to experience the Friday evening service. Then we'll talk.”

When they entered the temple, several came over to greet the rabbi and to wish him the traditional good Sabbath. One asked, “You been sick, Rabbi? I haven't seen you around.” Another asked, “Hey, how do you like teaching? College kids easier to deal with than a congregation?” One called to him, “Hi there, Teach.” And one wanted to know if he should address him as Rabbi or Professor.

After the service, when the congregation went down to the vestry for tea or coffee and cake, Rabbi Selig approached him, wished him a good Sabbath, expressed his pleasure at seeing him, and then, dropping his voice, he asked, “Have you heard anything? Have you seen whatshisname, Lanigan?”

“No, I haven't heard from him, but he'll probably get in touch with me tomorrow night or Sunday. If he doesn't, I'll probably call him.”

“How does he know you're here in town?”

“He may see my car in my driveway, or some member of the force will and tell him.”

“You mean they watch your house?”

“Of course. Whenever you leave your house for a while—say you go on vacation—you fill out a form at the police station, and they make a point of keeping an eye on your place. I suppose they do in all small towns.”

“I suppose that's if you live on a street. But what if you live on a hill some distance from the road; would they go up my driveway?”

“I doubt it. The cruiser would slow down as it passes your place. And they might go up and take a look around once in a while.”

“I'll have to remember that. You fill out a form at the police station, eh? Very good.” Again his voice dropped. “You'll let me know if Lanigan has anything, won't you?”

“Of course.”

Ira Lerner approached the rabbi, tugged at his sleeve, and with a conspiratorial air motioned him to a small table in the corner. When they were seated, Lerner leaned forward and asked, “When a Boston cop comes here to Barnard's Crossing to—to make inquiries about someone living here, doesn't he have to check with our police first?”

“I don't know. I suppose he would as a matter of courtesy. Why?”

“Well, a Sergeant Schroeder came to my house and rang the bell. There was no one home except Maud, who does the housework. She's from Ireland, a country girl from Donegal and not too bright. She thought he had come about her status; see, she doesn't have a green card. Scared her half out of her wits. Well, it turned out it was me he wanted to see, so she told him I was in my office in Lynn. So what's he want of me? He wants to know when Mordecai Jacobs got to our house Thanksgiving, what time Wednesday he arrived.”

“That so?”

“And when I tell him that he didn't come Wednesday, but came the next day, I sensed that he didn't believe me. See, Mord used to get a ride every Friday when he'd come out from a colleague, a Professor Miller who lives here in town. Nice fellow. And he'd pick him up Monday morning, top. Then something happened, I don't know what, and Miller couldn't or wouldn't give him a ride anymore. So Mord would come in by train, and Clara would pick him up at Swampscott station. Well, that Wednesday, when it was snowing so hard, Mord called and said he wouldn't be coming out the usual way because he didn't want Clara driving in that kind of weather and maybe having to wait in the cold if the train was late; that he'd come out the next morning. Which he did. So what's it all about? Why does he want to know about Mord? I figure he must have checked with Lanigan, and—”

“You'd like me to ask Lanigan.”

“That's right.”

“All right, I'll try to see Lanigan sometime during the weekend. If he knows, and tells me, I'll let you know.”

As they made their way to the car, Bergson demanded, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Didn't you feel the tension? Didn't you notice the change in atmosphere?”

The rabbi shook his head. “It seemed like any other Friday evening service.”

“Ah, David, you never had any sense of atmosphere. I tell you, the congregation is upset. There are rumors that the rabbi is planning to leave at the end of the year. And that worries a lot of people, even those who don't particularly like him. They think the Gentiles will take that as proof of guilt. And that wouldn't help the congregation in its dealings with the town, to have had a rabbi that was guilty of murder or manslaughter. And if he stays, it's maybe even worse, because here is a congregation whose leader is suspected of a serious crime, and they don't do anything about it.”

“From what you say, I'm glad I have no sense of atmosphere. I'd be worried all the time. Look, Al, I don't for a moment think Rabbi Selig deliberately turned his snowblower on Kent and forced him off the ledge, but if he did it unwittingly because he didn't see him, then he is obviously not to blame. One couldn't even accuse him of carelessness because it was unlikely that anyone would venture on that right-of-way during the kind of storm we had. My advice would be not to worry about what you think the Gentiles might be thinking and—”

“There have been phone calls, David.”

“So whatever was said is merely the opinion of the one person making the call. Look, Al, I'll try to see Lanigan. He'll know the feeling of the town if anyone does.”

Chapter 39

Saturday, the weather began to return to normal for the time of year. At midday the temperature reached forty-two, which seemed almost springlike compared to the below-freezing weather that had been current for more than a week, ever since the day before Thanksgiving. The forecast for Sunday was that the temperature would be in the fifties and might even reach sixty. The snowbanks that lined the road, now blackened by the sand and grime thrown up by passing cars, was now beginning to melt, and there were puddles everywhere. In low-lying areas there were pools several inches deep where the melted water had collected, and as cars drove through, they tossed up sprays of dirty water, and cars going in the other direction had their windshields covered, momentarily blinding the drivers.

Sunday, David and Miriam had just finished their lunch when the phone rang. It was Lanigan. “David? Hugh Lanigan. Saw your car in the driveway. You here for the day?”