The Day the Rabbi Resigned

by Harry Kemelman

  “So then what did you do?”

  “I called Ira Lerner. He told me not to sign anything and not to answer any more questions. When he comes back tomorrow, I’m to tell him he should see my lawyer first.”

  “So Lerner will see him and ask him what he wants. And if he’s trying to make trouble, Lerner will know what to do.”

  “Yeah, to him it’s just another case,” Gorfinkle scoffed. “And suppose it gets in the newspapers—‘Doctor Questioned in Pine Grove Death’? And then goes on to say I refused to cooperate, will Lerner sue the police department? Or the newspaper?”

  “So what else can you do?”

  “I could go see the rabbi.”

  “So he can offer a prayer or ask a blessing?” she asked scornfully.

  “No, but he and the police chief are buddy-buddy. Maybe he could ask him what gives.”

  When Rabbi Small saw Dr. Gorfinkle among the fifteen or so congregants present at the evening minyan, he assumed that he had come to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish on the anniversary of the death of a member of his family. Very few came to the daily services who were not mourners, and Dr. Gorfinkle was certainly not one of them. He did appear occasionally at the Sunday morning service, but that was because he had arrived early for the Board of Directors meeting that immediately followed, and attending the service was preferable to waiting in the corridor.

  But Gorfinkle remained seated when the mourners rose to recite the Kaddish, which led the rabbi to suspect that he wanted to confer with him. The ruse was not infrequently employed by those who were unable to see him in his study during the day and were hesitant about obtruding on his privacy when he was home in the evening. Sometimes, he admitted ruefully, it was the only way they were able to make up the necessary ten for a minyan.

  Sure enough, no sooner was the service over, when Gorfinkle said, “Oh, I say, Rabbi, got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well …” Gorfinkle hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but obviously because he did not want to be overheard by the other members of the minyan, who were now leaving. When the door swung behind the last of them, he said, “You know the police chief, don’t you? I mean you and he are pretty friendly from what I’ve heard.”

  “Yes, we’re friendly,” said the rabbi cautiously. “Is there something …”

  “I’m not sure. Today is Wednesday, and I take Wednesday afternoons off. Usually, the wife and I do something together, go into Boston maybe, have an early dinner and catch a movie. But today she had a luncheon to go to. So I thought I’d hang around the office and read some of the medical journals. It’s not easy keeping up, you know. So there’s a knock on the door, and when I open it, there’s a man in an ordinary business suit who says he’s from the police and he shows me a badge, and he says he’s working on the Victor Joyce case. At first I didn’t get it, and then it came to me: Victor Joyce was the guy who was in that accident on Pine Grove Road Saturday night. Did you see the item in the paper? They gave the name as Victor Jones, but it’s the same guy.”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “Well, I was the one who reported it to the police. I was coming home from this formal dinner we hold once a month, and I see this car that’s plowed into a tree. So naturally I stop. The side window is shattered with some jagged fragments along the bottom of the frame, and this guy’s hand is sticking out. There was nothing I could do, but I reached in and turned off the ignition. I read somewhere that the car could explode if the ignition is on even if the motor has conked out. Then I took his pulse, and it was fairly normal even though he was unconscious.

  “Well, I was halfway home, and what was the sense in turning around and going back to Breverton, so I went on home and called the police from there and reported it. If it had been on a regular street, I might have stayed there and stopped some car to report it while I waited. But Pine Grove Road and late at night, and misty at that, I could have been there for hours and no other car would come along.

  “So he comes in—the guy in the business suit, I mean—and he sits down and takes out a notebook. I didn’t know we had any plainclothesmen on the Barnard’s Crossing police.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Jennings doesn’t always wear a uniform, and Chief Lanigan—”

  “No, I know Eban Jennings.”

  “I guess they have one on the force every now and then.”

  “Well, anyway, he starts asking questions and writing down what I say. Every now and then he looks at what he’s written and kind of frowns like there’s something he doesn’t understand. Where was I coming from? What was I doing in Breverton? What time did I start out for Barnard’s Crossing? Is there someone who can vouch for the time I left the club? Did I recognize Joyce? Was he maybe a patient of mine at one time? When did I first see his car? How far back was I? How fast was I driving? To tell the truth, Rabbi, I began to get a little nervous. It was like he was trying to make out that I hit the guy, or forced him off the road. So finally I say, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be at the hospital for an important consultation.’ I figured maybe I ought to see my lawyer, see. So he says, ‘All right, I’ll get this typed out and bring it in sometime tomorrow for you to sign.’ He closes his notebook and gets up like he’s ready to leave. Then he says, ‘By the way, was he wearing gloves?’ and I tell him no. ‘And how about a wristwatch?’ Well, I’m being careful now, you understand, so I say, ‘I didn’t see a watch, but I saw a watchband. Maybe it got turned on his hand from the impact of the crash, or maybe he wears it with the watch on the inside.’ Then he opens the door and says, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with your statement, and if you’ll bring the watch, I’ll take it with me.’ And he’s out of the door. Gone, just like that.

  “What watch was he talking about, Rabbi? So I go to the door, and he’s standing in front of the elevator. He’s got the door open and is ready to go into the elevator, so I ask him what watch he’s talking about. And he says, ‘I figure you took his watch off to take his pulse and you put it in your pocket and forgot about it.’ And he steps into the elevator and the door closes. But I didn’t touch his wrist or his hand, Rabbi. I wouldn’t because it might be broken and I could make it worse. It was when I reached in to turn off the ignition. I put my fingertips at his throat—his head was kind of lolling back against the headrest. That’s when I took his pulse.”

  “I see. And what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, I figured where you and the chief are kind of friendly, if you were downtown and dropped into the station, like to say hello—”

  “The Lanigans are coming over tonight for a bit of supper,” said the rabbi.

  “Well gee, that’s swell. If you could kind of bring it up. Don’t tell him I came to you special, but you could say you bumped into me and—”

  “I understand.”

  “See, I was wondering was this official, or was this guy, the plainclothesman, I mean, just kind of fishing, you know, working on his own.”

  28

  Amy Lanigan was in the kitchen helping Miriam with the dishes. On the basis of previous experience, they were apt to remain there for some time after they finished, so the police chief and the rabbi repaired to the living room.

  “You want another cup of coffee?” Miriam called out from the kitchen. Having received a nod of assent from Lanigan to his questioning look, the rabbi hurried out to the kitchen and returned a moment later with two steaming cups. Then he told his guest of his conversation with Gorfinkle, and explained just how the doctor had taken the victim’s pulse after turning off the ignition.

  Lanigan nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I went to see the widow yesterday to offer my condolences.”

  “Oh, you know her? Or is that your normal practice?”

  “She’s the niece of Cyrus Merton—”

  “The big realtor?”

  “Uh-huh. He makes a sizable contribution to the Policeman’s Retirement Fund each year and buys I don’t know how many tickets to the Policeman’s Ball. Y
ou know how it is. She was more of a daughter than a niece; she was brought up in his house and he has no children of his own. I have seen her in church occasionally on a Sunday. But Amy knew her. She had worked with Amy on some church project Amy was interested in. She’s a very devout girl, according to Amy. Brought up in convent schools, and then went to Saint Madelaine’s, which is a very strict college run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Amy says, from what she let drop from time to time, that she thought she had a vocation—”

  “You mean to go into a convent?”

  “Uh-huh. But then she met Victor Joyce and decided to get married. Happens a lot, I guess. Anyway, shortly after we arrived, she led me into what I guess was her husband’s study. She shows me the stuff that had been turned over to her, her husband’s effects: wedding ring, billfold, handkerchief—the usual stuff that a man has in his pockets. And then she tells me his watch is missing. She was terribly upset about it.”

  “Was it a valuable watch?”

  “Not particularly, from what I could gather. But it had been her father’s. Her mother had bought it for him in Rome, where her parents had gone to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. She had had a relic mounted on the dial—”

  “A relic?”

  “That’s right, a relic of a saint. A Saint Ulric, she said, whoever he was. A fragment of bone, in a tiny silver tube which her mother had had mounted on the dial by a watchmaker. Her father had always worn it on the inside of his wrist so that it was closer to his heart, nearer to the arteries and veins, you know. She had given it to her husband when they got engaged, and he had also worn it inside his wrist. I told her that it was unthinkable that one of my men would have taken it, but I said I would check into it. I thought maybe when he crashed, the impact might have released the catch on the band and that it had been flung off his wrist. So when I got back to the station, I sent a man up to the scene of the accident to comb the area.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. But I also had another idea. I remembered that Dr. Gorfinkle had told Sergeant Pierce, who was on the desk at the time, that he had taken the victim’s pulse. It occurred to me that if Joyce was wearing a wristwatch, especially if he was wearing it inside his wrist, the doctor may have taken it off in order to feel the pulse, that he had put it in his pocket and forgotten about it. So I sent Detective Sergeant Dunstable to ask him about it. I sent Dunstable rather than a uniformed man because I didn’t want it to appear to be an official inquiry, if you know what I mean. If the neighbors see a policeman in uniform ringing your doorbell, they may think you’re in some sort of trouble. So I wanted him just to ask, not institute an official inquiry.”

  “It evidently didn’t work out that way,” observed the rabbi.

  “I guess not. I try to impress on my men that we are a small-town police force and that the people we have to deal with are our friends and neighbors, and what’s more, that each year they vote our salaries at the town meeting. But they watch TV and sometimes they tend to model their behavior on what they see in the crime shows, and besides, it’s hard to resist the lure of authority.

  “I’m sorry that Gorfinkle was upset, and you can tell him that I’ll see to it that Dunstable doesn’t bother him again. I guess what happened is that someone came along after Gorfinkle left, and seeing the watch and that the owner was unconscious, simply took it.”

  “But wouldn’t he have called the police to notify them of the accident? He wouldn’t have had to leave his name.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But the autopsy report said he had died as a result of hemorrhage from a ruptured artery in the left wrist. I guess that in trying to get the watch off, he cut the artery along the jagged row of glass and the blood began to spurt.”

  “Or possibly the other way around,” said the rabbi.

  “What do you mean the other way around?”

  “Well, you think he may have cut the artery in order to remove the watch. It’s also possible that he removed the watch in order to cut the artery.”

  “But that’s murder. Why would anyone kill—”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that anyone did,” the rabbi said hastily. “Merely that it is just as logical to assume that the watch was taken to expose the blood vessels in the wrist as it is to assume that they were accidentally severed in removing the watch.”

  “But the watch is gone,” Lanigan insisted.

  “And the man is dead,” said the rabbi.

  “But it doesn’t take any animus to steal a man’s watch. All that’s required is opportunity. But to kill someone calls for a powerful motive.”

  “A powerful motive is needed to plot a murder,” the rabbi said slowly, “but suppose there is an opportunity to get rid of someone who is a nuisance, an inconvenience. You don’t hate him or fear him. He’s just troublesome, and you can get rid of him with no effort on your part, as here, where all that was required was to press down on the man’s wrist.”

  “I suppose so,” Lanigan admitted. “And it could be that all that was involved was the taking of a watch, but the thief was nervous or clumsy and pressed down too hard. A little thing can make all the difference. The widow said that if Victor Joyce had only waited a few minutes before setting off for this dinner he was going to, it wouldn’t have happened. See, Cyrus Merton was going to that same dinner and he came by to pick up Joyce so they could drive up together. Then they would have come home together.”

  “Then both might have been injured,” said the rabbi.

  “Exactly what I said. But she said Cyrus would not have let him drive if he were drunk. It’s all a matter of luck, I suppose, and for the Mertons it was all bad. That same night Cyrus had his car stolen.”

  “While he was at dinner in Breverton?”

  “No, right here in Barnard’s Crossing, at the mall, while he was at the Donut Shop.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Having a cup of coffee, I understand.”

  The entrance of the wives from the kitchen halted further discussion, but later as they were driving home, Lanigan thought about it. His policeman’s instincts were aroused. Even if the blood vessels had been cut as a result of removing the watch, it would still be murder, felony murder. In any case, it was far more important than the theft of a watch.

  Early the next morning he called in Sergeant Dunstable. “What are you working on, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Well, I was just going to type out that statement of Gorfinkle’s so I could—”

  “Don’t bother, Sergeant. I inquired into it myself and it seems that he took the pulse by placing his fingertips at the man’s throat. He didn’t touch the man’s wrist at all. Which means that someone came along afterward, and if he cut the man’s wrist in trying to take his watch, that’s felony murder.”

  “But that could have been Gorfinkle.”

  Lanigan shook his head vigorously. “Would a successful doctor—and believe me, Gorfinkle is a successful doctor—steal a man’s watch? With his wife right there looking on? What’s more, if he had started to bleed profusely, he would have told us the man was critical. So we could get out there in a hurry. He wouldn’t have suggested the guy was stable by saying his pulse was normal. So what I want you to do is run up to Breverton and make inquiries around the club. Maybe you can find out if he was wearing a watch in the first place.”

  “But you said his wife told you—”

  “Yeah, but if he was driving at the speed he must have been driving to wrap himself around a tree, on Pine Grove Road at night, he must have been drunk. And drunks are always misplacing things. He may have even given the watch to someone for money for a drink. So you go up there and see what you can find out. Who left when? Was there any sort of row before he left? Did anything unusual at all happen that night? Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  29

  It was four o’clock when Dunstable returned to Barnard’s Crossing. He went straight to Lanigan’s office. “I was lucky, Chief,” he sai
d, “real lucky. I see the manager”—a glance at his notebook—“Gerald Foster, and he tells me it was a banquet of the faculty of the Windermere Christian College of Liberal Arts. Just the faculty; no wives, no husbands, no secretaries, just the teachers. Now you’ve got to know the layout in order to get the picture. There’s this lounge with a coatroom on one side and a kind of alcove on the other side, which is the bar. And beyond is the dining room.”

  Lanigan nodded. “I know the layout. I’ve had dinner there several times.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, the point is that the bartender and the coatroom attendant can see the whole scene. I mean, if there was anything going on, like a fight or a big argument, they’d see it. So I see the bartender”—another glance at the notebook—“Jack Bohrman.” Dunstable chuckled. “He says, ‘I’m Bohrman the barman.’ A regular card, that one. And he knows Victor Joyce. Ask me how he knows Victor Joyce.”

  “All right, how does Bohrman know Joyce?”

  “On account he played golf there a few times. And he tells me Joyce was a champion on the nineteenth hole. See, there are eighteen holes in a golf course, and—”

  “I know what the nineteenth hole is, Sergeant. You mean Joyce was a boozer.”

  “Yeah, according to Bohrman, he’d lap it up. Well, for the banquet they had what they call a cash bar. The first drink was free, but after that you had to pay. See, there was like a stub on their tickets, that they tore off and gave the bartender for their first drink. So Joyce hands in his stub, gets his drink, tosses it off, and wants another. But he doesn’t have any money on him, and Bohrman tells him he’s not allowed to cuff drinks. But later he comes back, and he’s got plenty of money now. Bohrman figures he must have had about four drinks altogether. Scotch. Doubles.”

  “That’s a lot of scotch,” Lanigan remarked. “Where’d he get the money?”