They reached the office and the rabbi fished for his key. “Do you have a class, Mr. Leventhal?”
“Yeah, but I’d just as soon cut it.”
“Come in, then.” He motioned the young man to the chair and took the swivel chair behind the desk. “Are you looking for advice as to which career to pursue?” he asked.
“Oh well, you know, I’d like to hear how you feel about it, you doing both, kind of.”
The rabbi nodded. “It’s changed, of course,” he said. “In the small ghetto towns of eastern Europe, which was the main center of Jewish culture, the rabbi was hired by the town, rather than by a synagogue. He was subsidized by the townspeople to spend most of his life in study, serving the community by sitting in judgment when the occasion required. He didn’t conduct services or even preach sermons. He was required to address the community only twice a year, and usually it was not a sermon but a thesis on some religious or biblical question.”
As he continued, he realized that he was talking as much to clarify his own thinking as to advise the young man. “He was usually highly respected by the congregation, if for no other reason than that he was the most learned man in the community in the only kind of learning they had—religious, biblical, Talmudic. But here in America, things are entirely different. He no longer sits in judgment, we go to the courts for that. And his special knowledge is no longer the only kind; it isn’t even considered a very important kind by his congregation. Medicine, law, science, engineering—these are regarded as much more significant in the modern world and of course by his congregants.”
“You mean he doesn’t get the same respect he used to?”
The rabbi smiled. “You could say that. He’s had to make his own job, and it’s largely administrative and—well, political.”
“Political?”
“That’s right. And in two senses: he’s usually the contact point between the congregation and the rest of the community; and he has to maintain himself in his position. Like any public figure, he always has an opposition to contend with.” He remembered what Miriam had said. “But actually, although the job appears to have changed enormously, it’s still the same job.”
“How do you mean?”
“Basically, his job was to guide and teach the community. Well, that’s still his job, only now his community is less plastic, less docile, less interested, and even less inclined to be guided. It’s a much harder job than it used to be, Mr. Leventhal, and a much, much harder job than teaching in a college where your teaching is limited to a rigid framework of classes at specified times, quizzes, credits—”
“Well then, why would you choose the rabbinate over college teaching?” the young man demanded.
The rabbi smiled, for he now knew he had found his own answer. “We say it’s hard to be a Jew, and it’s even harder to be a rabbi, I suppose, who is a kind of professional Jew. But haven’t you noticed in your own life, Mr. Leventhal, the harder the task, the more satisfaction there is in doing it?”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
Diffidently the rabbi rang the Hendryx bell. “Oh, it’s you,” Sergeant Schroeder said belligerently. “I’ve got some things to say to you.”
“It will keep, Sergeant,” said Bradford Ames. “Come in, Rabbi.”
The room was ablaze with light from floodlamps mounted on collapsible stands, and several plainclothesmen were busy measuring, photographing, dusting for fingerprints. Ames explained that Hendryx’s relatives from the West Coast were coming for his effects, so this was their last chance to give the place a final going over.
“How about the bureau? You want me to take some pictures of the drawers, Sergeant?” asked the photographer.
“Yeah, take each drawer. It’ll give us a kind of inventory.”
Ames motioned the rabbi to the bed. “Sit there. You’ll be out of the way,” he said. “I’m accepting your explanation on the Kathy Dunlop story, but I might as well tell you, your little investigation at the Excelsior Motel, well, that depends on what you came up with.” He showed no anger, but his tone was distinctly cool.
The rabbi told them what he had learned—that no one at the Excelsior had seen Roger Fine and that the motel switchboard had been out of order that day. “So no one could have called him from outside.”
Schroeder rubbed his hands. “Well, that’s all right then. That’s just fine.”
Ames, too, smiled his satisfaction. In a more friendly voice, he explained, “You see, if it had been the other way, if there had been some chance of a possible alibi, then your inquiries could have fixed it in the person’s mind, or even insinuated it there.”
“I didn’t really expect an alibi from Kathy’s story,” said the rabbi. “All she remembered was the time she called him at school. She did suggest that if Fine had just killed someone, however, he would scarcely be likely to visit her immediately after.”
“And yet,” said Ames, “there are cases reported in the literature of just that sort of thing. Adds a certain zest to the lovemaking as I understand.”
“Well,” said the rabbi, “the next day I checked with Fine in jail on the chance there was something Kathy had overlooked, but he didn’t want it known he had been with her at all. He said even if that offered a possible alibi he wouldn’t use it. To see for myself whether Miss Dunlop’s story was true, I decided to check with the motel people.”
“I can follow your reasoning,” Ames admitted, “but that phase of the inquiry should have been left to the police.”
“Hey Sarge,” the photographer called out “this bottom drawer is empty.”
Ames went over and the rabbi joined him, feeling he was not actually required to remain seated on the bed. “Hendryx probably used that bottom drawer for his soiled laundry,” Ames said. “It’s what I do when I’m staying in a hotel.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Schroeder. “There’s a hamper in the bathroom.”
“Then he probably didn’t have enough stuff for that last drawer,” said Ames.
“And yet the other drawers seem pretty full, even crowded,” the rabbi offered.
“Is that so?” Ames chuckled. “It looks like we’ll have to use that Talmud trick you told me about, and wait for—who was it, Elijah?—to come to solve that little problem.”
“Talmudists didn’t use it until they had exhausted all other possibilities,” said the rabbi reproachfully.
“Well now, I did a little reading on the subject after I spoke to you,” said Ames, “out of idle curiosity, you know, and according to this article in the encyclopedia, a good part of your Talmud is just a bunch of stories and old wives’ tales and moralizing. But even the legal part, I gathered, was largely unsystematic arguing sometimes about the most improbable cases.”
“The Talmud has a little of everything,” the rabbi admitted, “but perhaps the most useful function it serves is the method it developed.”
The technicians had finished and had packed up. Schroeder asked Ames whether he could give him a lift downtown.
“Just a minute, Sergeant. The rabbi is giving me a lesson in the Talmud.” He chuckled. “And what was this method, Rabbi?”
“Basically,” said the rabbi seriously, “it consisted of examining every aspect of a problem from every possible point of view, which is what I assume your encyclopedia meant when it suggested that some of the cases were highly improbable. They had plenty of time, those old Talmudists, and the more recent ones, too, and they didn’t share the concern that you find in Common Law about the irrelevant, the immaterial, and the incompetent. Take this empty drawer, for example—”
“Yes, what would your Talmudists have said about an empty drawer in a bureau?”
The rabbi smiled. “Well, they would certainly have considered the two possibilities: A) that the drawer had never been filled; and B) that it had been filled and then emptied.”
“I don’t get it,” said Schroeder. “Meaning no disrespect to this Talmud, whatever it is, what difference d
oes it make whether it was filled and then emptied, or never filled. It’s empty right now.”
“Well, if it had never been used, wouldn’t you wonder why?” said the rabbi. “Obviously it’s not because he had nothing to put into it. Look where these sweaters have been piled on top of the undershirts.”
“So maybe he was a guy who didn’t like to bend down.”
“But he had to bend down. His shoes were on the floor of the closet,” the Rabbi observed.
“All right,” said Ames impatiently. “Let’s assume there was something in the drawer originally. Where does that lead us to?”
“To the next question: who emptied it? It was either Hendryx or someone else.”
“Well, that sure is logical,” said Schroeder sarcastically. “You could also say it was either me or someone else, or George Washington or someone else.”
Ames grinned, but the rabbi continued as though there had been no interruption. “Or it could be both.”
“It hardly seems that two people would be required to empty one bureau drawer,” said Ames.
“I didn’t mean they did it together,” said the rabbi. “I was suggesting that Hendryx probably emptied the drawer to make room for something else. And that this something else was then removed.”
“And removed by someone else? Is that what you’re driving at?” asked Ames.
The rabbi nodded.
Light broke suddenly on the sergeant. “Hey, I get what he’s driving at! Hendryx clears out that drawer to put something special in it, like papers or documents. Then he gets killed, and—now get this—Roger Fine comes here to get them, because naturally they’re important to him—the confession and the exam papers. They’re the only proof that he leaked the exam. So once he’s here, he sees how easy it is to make it look like Hendryx returned to his apartment after the cleaning lady left, which would put Fine in the clear because he’d have an alibi, so he puts the pipe in the ashtray and lights a few matches.”
The rabbi nodded approvingly. “That’s very good, Sergeant, except that it couldn’t be Roger Fine.”
“Why not?”
“Because Fine has no alibi. Besides, Hendryx wouldn’t have to clean out a drawer for the papers you mention. He’d probably put them in his desk.”
“Then what did he put in the drawer?”
“I suppose the sort of thing anyone puts in bureau drawers—clothing.”
“You mean it was the murderer’s clothing and he came to get it?” asked Ames. “But why? I still don’t get it.”
“Try she,” suggested the rabbi. “She came to get it.”
“A woman?” Ames thought about it for a moment. “Well, if she were—”
“Yeah, why not?” exclaimed Schroeder. “The guy was a bachelor, you’d expect him to shack up with a broad every now and then.” He remembered Ames and stopped.
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” said Ames. “I know the facts of life.”
“Well, what I mean, sir, is that if he had a woman drop in on him every now and then, naturally she’d stay the night.”
“Naturally.”
“And maybe she’d keep a nightgown here, and some pretties if she came often enough.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course! Betty Macomber! They were secretly engaged. They don’t wait nowadays. And come to think of it, she didn’t seem so terribly cut up, not what you’d expect of a girl whose fiancé had just died.”
“You said her father was not terribly upset either,” remarked Ames.
“That’s right. Hey, look—he’s a golf nut,” said Schroeder excitedly. “The kind that keeps his clubs right there in the office. Matter of fact, when I went up to see him, he was practicing putting on the rug.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” snapped Ames.
“Don’t you see, sir, a golf club has a hook on the end like a cane.”
“Hm.” Ames nodded slowly. “Father and daughter. If he resented her marrying him—”
“Or say he found out she was sleeping with him,” suggested Schroeder.
“Then he would kill him?” The rabbi looked his surprise. “Even though they were engaged? And come here to retrieve his daughter’s nightgown so that her honor would not be besmirched?”
“It does sound silly the way you put it,” Ames admitted.
The rabbi pressed on. “And does President Macomber have an alibi? Or his daughter?”
“No one in the case seems to,” Schroeder admitted.
“Except Millicent Hanbury,” said the rabbi.
“The dean?” Schroeder exclaimed. “Cummon!”
“An attractive woman,” the rabbi pointed out. “Still quite young. And unmarried. It was you who first suggested her, Sergeant.”
“I did?”
“When you first came to see me with Lanigan, you suggested she might be involved. We ridiculed the suggestion as I recall,” the rabbi went on smothly, “but it just shows that the intuitions of an experienced investigator are not to be lightly dismissed.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
Ames chuckled. “This alibi you mention—”
“There were actually several,” said the rabbi. “The meeting with the student committee at two-thirty—It was she who picked the time, I understand. Then walking out of the meeting was an excellent alibi because it was not immediately apparent. To ask someone for the time is automatically suspicious. But to leave a meeting and not return is to insure that after a while people will get restive and start looking at their watches. But the clincher was when she got back to Barnard’s Crossing and called the police to report that she had found a window open. They could produce no evidence that it had been forced, of course, but the call had served its purpose—to record the time on the police blotter. Quite by accident I found out that the Barnard’s Crossing Police Department is very strict about it.”
“All police departments are,” said Ames. “But the murder was committed earlier, probably around twenty-past two, and all those alibis are for later.”
“That’s why she had to make it look as though Hendryx was alive after she left. And the students would back her alibi.”
“But what about the medical examiner’s autopsy?” Ames persisted. “She’d have to know that he would report the actual time of death.”
“Ah, but that’s because he examined the body shortly after death,” said the rabbi. “And that was only because of the bombing. In the normal course of events, the body would not have been discovered until Monday morning, probably by me when I came in for class. That’s some sixty hours later, and no medical examiner could have fixed the time within an hour or so, so long after the event. Besides, the evidence in his apartment would show that Hendryx was alive long after she had left the building.”
Ames nodded. “And knowing we’d check his apartment, she stopped to retrieve her nightgown? Panties? Stockings? Yet how could they be identified as hers?”
“How about something a bit more personal?”
“More personal than panties?” asked Ames with a smile.
“I was thinking of a knitting bag,” suggested the rabbi.
“Ah yes,” said Ames. “I can see where she’d have to get that.”
“Look,” said Schroeder, “maybe I’m just a dumb cop, but you still haven’t explained how she could have pulled that statue down on him without a struggle.” He thought a moment. “Even if she once was a Phys. Ed teacher.”
Ames flashed the rabbi a questioning look.
“Let’s go back to the Talmud again,” the rabbi said. “It’s the same business of considering all the possibilities. A statue on a shelf can tumble down as the result of a concussion, like a bomb’s explosion. That was the point of view of the police when you arrested the students. Or it can be pulled down, which is the basis for your suspicion of Professor Fine and a moment ago, Sergeant, of the Macombers. But it can also be pushed off the shelf, and that’s what I think happened.”
“Pushed?” said Ames. “How could it have been pushed?”
The rabbi said quietly, “Our office phone feeds off the line in the dean’s office; the wire comes through a hole in the wall above the top shelf near the ceiling. The statue was right in front of it. In fact, the phone man had to move it to make the hole.”
“So there’s a hole in the wall, and the phone wire goes through it,” said Ames in annoyance. “What of it?”
“The wire comes through it, but there’s still enough room for a thin but strong steel rod to be pushed through,” said the rabbi.
“A thin steel—a knitting needle!” exclaimed Ames.
The rabbi nodded. “My guess is that when she heard me leave—and you can hear through those walls; the office shares a common partition—she moved the desk over to the wall and climbed up. Then she pushed the knitting needle through the hole and toppled the statue. Sure enough, it tumbled down and killed him.”
Ames was silent for a long moment. “And motive, Rabbi,” he said at last. “Do you have some theory as to motive?”
“I have a theory,” said the rabbi diffidently. “My guess is that she assumed she and Hendryx were going to be married, perhaps as soon as he was made head of the department. It was no secret that she was pushing for it but so far had been unsuccessful. Hendryx must have decided he’d have a better chance if the daughter of the president backed him, so he made a play for her and they became engaged. Friday morning, when President Macomber told the dean that Hendryx was at last getting his appointment, he probably told her why, since he’d know nothing of the prior relationship between his future son-in-law and the dean.”
“It’s a lovely theory, Rabbi,” said Ames, “and it seems to cover everything, but you realize of course that you don’t have a particle of proof.”
“I’m not so sure it covers everything, at that,” said Schroeder. “You say she moved her desk and then climbed up on it.”
“I’m sure that’s what happened,” said the rabbi. “Any of the chairs would have been too low.”
Schroeder shook his head slowly in flat negation. “The desk is a good three feet from the wall and it’s screwed to the floor. She couldn’t have moved it.”
Tuesday the Rabbi Saw Red Page 25
