Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry

by Harry Kemelman

  “I suppose so,” she said softly. “And I know you’re right, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But I’m just a young married woman, a couple of hundred miles from my mother and my family, and I’m going to have a baby any day now.”

  “So?”

  “So I wish I were sure my husband had a job.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  I never interfere, Hugh. You know that. I’m no policeman and I’d be the last one to try to tell you your job, but the police department does come under the administra­tive supervision of the selectmen, and it’s the broader as­pects”—he made a wide sweep with his arm—“that I think it’s our duty to go into.”

  Alford Braddock was not the typical Barnard’s Cross­ing selectman. He was a native, to be sure—it was un­thinkable that anyone not a Crosser born would be elected to the Board—but whereas the rest of the members were small businessmen with a taste for town politics, he was a man of considerable wealth, inherited wealth, which included a stock brokerage firm in Boston. Where others had to campaign personally, calling on voters, ap­pearing at meetings of fraternal orders, speaking before the League of Women Voters, he blitzed the electorate with campaign posters and door-to-door house calls by a group of paid “volunteers.” He outpolled all the other candidates easily and consequently was elected chairman of the board. He was tall and distinguished with snow-white hair and the ruddy complexion of the yachtsman. His clear blue eyes were candid and without guile and yet could look hurt—hurt, but determined to bear up and not show it—when you disagreed with him.

  “What is it that’s bothering you, Alford?” asked Lani­gan quietly.

  “Bothering me? Bothering me? Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way. Something Dr. Sturgis men­tioned. Said you were inquiring about Peter Dodge. Now he got it into his head that it had something to do with this Hirsh business. Of course, I assured him it was un­likely, most unlikely. After all, what connection would Peter Dodge have with Isaac Hirsh?”

  “He might have been trying to convert him,” sug­gested Lanigan with a smile.

  “Think so? Yes, it’s possible. A very enthusiastic fel­low, this Dodge, from the Midwest I believe,” he added as though that explained everything.

  “As a matter of fact, we know he was planning to see Hirsh the night he was killed,” said Lanigan. “About this Civil Rights business, perhaps.”

  “Yes, that must be it. That must be the connection. He was terribly enthusiastic about Civil Rights. Now I know that for a fact, Hugh. I mean I know that personally.”

  “There’s another connection, Alford. He happens to know Mrs. Hirsh. They come from the same hometown—South Bend.”

  “Whatsat? Knew Mrs. Hirsh? What are you trying to say, Hugh?”

  “Not a thing. I’m not suggesting anything. It’s just that we’d like to ask Mr. Dodge a few questions. We sent him a wire down in Alabama asking him to get in touch with us. But he didn’t. We called the hotel in Birmingham where he was supposed to be staying, and he wasn’t there. I don’t mean that he checked out, I mean he wasn’t there. In fact, he hadn’t been there since checking in a couple of days ago. I spoke to the hotel people and they said it wasn’t unusual, not too unusual where these Civil Rights people are concerned. They register at a hotel, but then they contact the local headquarters of their organiz­ation down there and that’s usually the last the hotel sees of them. Usually, they check out though. So we called the Alabama authorities to contact him for us, but so far we haven’t heard.”

  “You’re trying to say something, Hugh. Dammit, why don’t you come right out with it? You’re trying to say that this man Dodge, an Anglican priest, got involved with the wife of this Jew, and as a result became mixed up in this murder business and ran off—flew the coop, beat it.”

  Lanigan grinned. “You mean, he took a powder?”

  “Dammit, Hugh, it’s no laughing matter. That what you’re trying to say?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But dammit, a man of the cloth, and from my own church.”

  “But he’s young, unmarried, and—to use your own word—enthusiastic.”

  “Hugh, do you realize what this could mean?”

  “Yeah, but I honestly don’t think it will. We don’t really have anything on him, we just want to question him. Find out if he saw Hirsh, and if he did, what time he left him.”

  Braddock was obviously relieved. “You’ll probably find there’s nothing to his absence from the hotel. I mean, as far as I can gather from news stories, these people who go down to march and picket and whatnot make a point of living with the—er—with the people. You’ll probably find he has been staying in some colored sharecropper’s shack out of reach of a telephone.” Braddock smiled broadly. “You know, Hugh, you really had me going there for a minute.”

  Lanigan grinned.

  “You’ve got a real suspect now, haven’t you? This in­surance fellow?”

  “Brown? Marvin Brown? We’re interested in him. At least we’d like to know where he was at the time.”

  “No alibi, eh?”

  “We haven’t asked him yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, there’s no hurry. We have nothing on him ex­cept a couple of points of contact with Hirsh. He’ll keep. It won’t do any harm to let him stew for a while. These quick, nervy types—they get bothered and start worrying if you leave them alone, and after a while they’re apt to do something just a little foolish.”

  Braddock rubbed his hands. Police business was fasci­nating, and as chairman of the Board of Selectmen he was in on the ground floor. “I get it, I get it,” he said.

  “Actually, we find Mr. Benjamin Goralsky a lot more interesting.”

  Braddock sat up straight. “Goralsky? Ben Goralsky of Goraltronics? Hold on a minute, Hugh, now you’re bark­ing up the wrong tree. I know the man. He’s one of the finest specimens of his race. His plant employs over a thousand people from around here. When they went public, our firm helped float the initial stock issue, and we’ve been close to them ever since. No, nothing there, I assure you.”

  “Well, maybe not, but we plan to have Ben Goralsky down and ask him a lot of questions.”

  “I won’t have it, Hugh. You’re planning some kind of psychological third degree and I won’t permit it. You haven’t got anything on him, and you’re just going on a fishing expedition. Well, I won’t allow it. There are things in the wind that you don’t know about and this could have repercussions that would affect the whole community.”

  “You mean the merger?”

  “Who said anything about a merger? What do you know about a merger?”

  “Oh, come now, Alf, everybody knows there’s talk of Goraltronics being involved in a merger.”

  “Well, maybe, maybe. I suppose there are rumors float­ing around. Well, I’ll admit it, but you keep this under your hat, understand? It’s true—there is a merger in the offing. And it could be a tremendous thing for this whole area. I don’t mind admitting that my firm is a little inter­ested, and right now things are very touchy. Understand? So I’m telling you to keep your hands off Ben Goralsky.”

  “And let him get away with murder?”

  “Dammit, he’s not getting away with murder. You prove that he did it, and he’s all yours. But until you have something definite on him, you leave him alone. And that’s an order, Hugh. Because if you badger him and come up with nothing, I’ll personally have your head.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sergeant Whitaker was a young man, and ambitious. Three nights a week he went into Boston to attend law school. If all went well, he would be able to stand for his bar examination in another four years. It would be a tough grind, but at least Chief Lanigan was understand­ing and tried not to schedule him for night duty on those evenings when he had school. Tonight he was working late, but since it was Friday and his class did not meet, he did not mind. True, he hadn’t
had dinner and Aggie was always upset when he couldn’t eat with her and the chil­dren, but Lieutenant Jennings had made it plain he wanted all his assignments covered before he went off duty, no matter what time that was. Whitaker’s sergeant’s stripes were quite new, and he had no intention of letting the lieutenant down.

  He was seated now in the Goralsky kitchen across the table from Mrs. Chambers, the housekeeper. His notebook was spread out before him, and though he tried hard to be the dignified, impersonal police officer conducting an important investigation, it was difficult. Mrs. Chambers was from the Old Town and knew him from the time he was a grubby little school urchin.

  “Now what is it you want to know? You’re not plan­ning to cause Mr. Goralsky any trouble, I hope. Because if you are, I’ll have no part of it. Mr. Ben is a fine, decent gentleman, and his father is an old dear, for all he’s a for­eigner and talks funny.”

  “As I explained, Mrs. Chambers, this is just a routine investigation that I’m conducting—”

  “Well, aren’t we grand, conducting investigations. And what is it you’re investigating?”

  “We’re just checking anyone and everyone who had any connection whatsoever with the late Isaac Hirsh, the man whose picture I showed you. It’s just routine.” He flipped the pages of his notebook. “I’ve been at it all day and I must have questioned twenty people or more.”

  “Well, I never laid eyes on the man.”

  “Did he never come here at any time? Think now.”

  “Who you telling to think, Henry Whitaker? I told you I never laid eyes on him, didn’t I?”

  “Well, did Mr. Goralsky, Mr. Ben Goralsky, did he ever mention the name Hirsh?”

  “Not to me, he didn’t.”

  “And the old man?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Well now, think back to the evening of September 18. That was a Friday night. It was the night of the big Jew­ish holiday—”

  “That was the night the old gentleman took sick.”

  “And Mr. Ben got home early I suppose. At least, all the rest of them, the Jews, I mean, worked a short day, so I suppose he did too.”

  “That’s right. And all the servants were dismissed early too, so it wasn’t that they were taking any special privi­leges that they weren’t passing on to others.”

  “But you stayed on.”

  “Well of course. Who else was there to take care of the old gentleman, and him burning up with fever?”

  “So Mr. Ben got home around three? four?”

  “Around four it was, as near as I can remember.”

  “And he remained here at home until it was time to go to the temple, I suppose.”

  “He didn’t go to the temple. At least he didn’t go to pray. He just drove the rabbi and his wife there and came right back.”

  “So while he was gone, you were here alone with the old man.”

  “That’s right. I was right up there in his room sitting by his bed.”

  “And when Mr. Ben got back from driving the rabbi to the temple, he came up to the room to see how his father was getting along, I suppose.”

  “No.” She shook her head decisively. “He didn’t come up because he didn’t want his father to see him. You see, his father assumed that he had gone to the temple and would have been upset if he knew he hadn’t. So Mr. Ben stayed out of sight.”

  “Then how do you know he came right back?”

  “Because he told me, of course.”

  “The next morning, you mean?”

  “Oh, no, I saw him later in the evening. The old gentleman dozed off and I came down here to the kitchen to get a bite. That’s when I saw Mr. Ben in the living room.”

  “And that was what time?”

  “Nine, half-past.”

  “So you didn’t see him from around seven when he took the rabbi to the temple until about nine.” He frowned at his notebook. “But I suppose you heard him moving around downstairs earlier.”

  “No, can’t say that I did,” she said tartly. “The door of Mr. Goralsky’s room—I kept it closed because there’s a draft from the hallway. And the living room is on the other side of the house.”

  “But you heard the car coming up the driveway?” he persisted.

  “I did not.”

  “No? That’s a little funny—”

  “It’s not funny at all, Henry Whitaker. Do you think Mr. Goralsky drives one of those jalopies that you can hear through the walls of a building like this over the sound of the surf, and me watching the old man and wor­rying every minute of the time?”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” he said meekly.

  “Well now, if you have no more questions, I’ll be get­ting about my work. Mr. Ben will be coming back from the temple soon and will be wanting a late snack.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  Got it all wrapped up, have you?” asked Lanigan. “Know exactly how she did it? Why don’t you stick around till we get a confession from her, and then we might give you a copy to frame and stick up on the wall of your office?”

  But Beam refused to be drawn. “Look, Chief, I’ve got a job to do same as you. It isn’t up to me to solve crimes. I just inquire around and then make a report to the home office. I spoke to them yesterday, and they decided there was sufficient question here to withhold payment to the widow for the present. If it turns out that she’s guilty, she wouldn’t collect anyway. As a matter of fact, without any other beneficiary the whole amount may escheat to the State. Of course, you may come up with someone else, in which case we’ll be happy to pay her.”

  “And if we don’t come up with someone else, your company sits tight and tells the widow to sue if she wants her money. And God help her if she does, because you’ll dredge up every bit of scandal, any little tidbit of gossip, so that even if she wins she’ll be unable to go on living in the community.”

  “No, Hugh,” said Jennings, “they just threaten to do that and then offer her ten cents on the dollar to settle.”

  “That’s normal business procedure,” said Beam.

  “I suppose next you’ll be off for South Bend to start smelling around.”

  “Cops are always sore at private investigators,” said Beam philosophically. “And everybody has it in for the insurance company. We’re the big bad wolf when we come up before a jury, especially if there’s a good-looking dame involved. But I didn’t come here to fight with you boys. I just came to tell you I was being called back and to say goodby.”

  “All right, goodby.” Morosely, Lanigan watched him leave the room.

  “What do you think?” asked Jennings.

  “I think he’d accuse his mother if he thought it would help the company.”

  “It’s nice business. The widow practically has to prove she didn’t do it.”

  “That’s right. And about the only way she can do so is for us to prove someone else did. And right now, we don’t have a thing.”

  “Well, my money’s on Peter Dodge. I think it’s funny he left right after Fred Stahl’s Roundabout column. His landlady was under the impression he wasn’t planning to leave till the end of the week.”

  “That could be coincidence. I’d be very much surprised if he read Stahl’s column.”

  “Yeah? Then why hasn’t he been heard from since?”

  “The chances are he’s been so involved with the Civil Rights business, running around attending meetings, that the police haven’t been able to locate him. Besides, I can’t see the police down there exactly knocking themselves out to find some Northern agitator for us. They’ve proba­bly got their hands so full breaking up picket lines they haven’t the time to do their regular work.”

  “A man like Dodge,” Jennings ruminated. “A big, tall, powerful, good-looking guy like that, you wouldn’t think he’d be too hard to spot.”

  “For some reason, Eban, you’re always trying to tie in the clergy with some scandal. But the fact is, we don’t have a damn thing on him—”
r />   “Except that he had the opportunity—he comes around that way every night at about the right time. He knew Mrs. Hirsh from way back, and she’s a nice-looking woman. He’s single and her age. You know, Hugh, the trouble with you Catholics is that your priests got you buffaloed so, you can’t even imagine a clergyman doing something wrong.”

  “All right, all right. I didn’t say I wasn’t considering him. But I haven’t got him, and all I can do is wait until the Alabama police pick him up. When we get hold of him we can shake him up and turn him inside out to see what makes him tick, but I can’t just sit and twiddle my thumbs until he shows up.”

  “So there’s this Marvin Brown.”

  “We don’t really have anything on him.”

  “Except that he was pretty damn uncooperative and evasive when I questioned him.”

  “Yes—”

  “And he has no alibi, and he refused to tell the rabbi why he left the services before the rest—”

  “Sure, but that’s nothing I could go to the D.A. with.”

  “All right, then how about Goralsky?”

  “Now he interests me.”

  “Why? You haven’t got any more on him than you do on Brown.”

  “No? How about this?” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “One, he was not at the temple. Two, he had some special interest in getting Hirsh out of the cemetery. Three, he knew Hirsh from way back, and he’s the only man in town who did. Four, he was also in business with him and got rich from him. Finally, he got him the job at Goddard.”

  “Yeah, but he never saw him after he got here.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “It’s also what Mrs. Hirsh says.”

  “He might have been in touch with him by phone—or secretly so she wouldn’t know.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just a lot of maybes—he might have, he could’ve—”

  “All right, let’s stick with what we do know. Goralsky and Hirsh were partners. Goralsky forced him out, and then right afterward built up the business to a multimillion-dollar concern. There at least we have a mo­tive for the killing.”