“All right.”
“How did Moose get them?” asked the rabbi.
“What do you mean?”
“He could have taken them, or they could have been given to him.”
“Oh, I see. Well, obviously they were given to him, because if he had taken them, why stop at just two?”
“Precisely. Now why were they given to him? Two of them, mind you.”
“We can’t know that, Rabbi.”
“Let me put it another way. Suppose in the course of conversation Moose had mentioned that he was broke. Conceivably, Wilcox might have been willing to lend him some to tide him over. Normally, that would mean a dollar or two, or five dollars, or even ten. But if he had nothing smaller on him at the time than twenties, he might have given him one of those. But he gave him two twenties–forty dollars. What does that suggest?”
Lanigan shook his head. “I pass.”
“It suggests payment for something. But since Moose was broke and had nothing Wilcox could want, it suggests some sort of payment in advance.”
“For what?”
“We can’t be certain, of course, but didn’t you say this Wilcox was connected with the drug traffic?”
“The Boston police are sure he was a dealer.”
“All right, and since you also found a rather sizable quantity of the marihuana on Moose, and Jenkins admits having taken ten cigarettes from him, I suggest this was either an advance on salary or on commissions on sales. Mrs. Carter said that Moose had gone to Boston for a job. I think he got it.”
“Yeah, could be. Could be he was setting him up in business. All right, I’ll buy that. What’s the connection with his death? And with Begg?”
“We haven’t finished with Moose’s activities,” said the rabbi reproachfully.
“Why, what did he do then?”
“He came back to Barnard’s Crossing and went directly to see Mr. Begg.”
“Any more on Moose?”
The rabbi shook his head. “I didn’t know the young man. I can only speculate that the description of his behavior at the cookout, his drinking and carrying on there and again at the Hillson House, suggests he was euphoric. And when you add in the fact he neglected to go home to dinner, which was a serious offense in the Carter household, it indicates he no longer bad reason to fear his father.”
“And Begg?” Lanigan asked sarcastically. “Do you know what he did? Where he went after he left Moose?”
“I’m afraid it would be pure speculation,” said the rabbi primly.
“I see. Well, why stop now? Go ahead and speculate.”
“Very well, I imagine he went to see Wilcox. The fact that Moose came to see Begg directly after leaving a narcotics dealer who had just set him up in business suggests that Begg was another agent of Wilcox, or a partner. If he were an agent, he certainly would have objected to anyone sharing the territory, Moose particularly. And if he were a partner, he may have gone to protest an injudicious appointment.”
Lanigan sat back and stared at the rabbi in silence. Finally he said, “I don’t suppose you’d care to amplify that with a fact or two, would you? Or did you mention something I happened to overlook?”
The rabbi grinned good-naturedly. “I said it was pure speculation, but if we consider it from the other end, it may seem more reasonable. For example, it gives us the first real motive for killing Moose. When Begg left his house, Moose knew where Begg was going, and when he heard of the death of Wilcox, he would know who did it.”
Lanigan stared at the rabbi in silence. Finally he said, “So now you’ve got Begg killing Wilcox, too.”
“It adds up.”
“And proof?”
“Perhaps fingerprints, Begg’s, in Wilcox’s apartment?”
Lanigan shook his head. “Not after a week, with cops all over the place.”
“Just a minute. Didn’t you say some woman had seen him?”
“Madelaine Spinney. The Boston police thought they had something when she recognized Moose from a photograph they got from the files of the Boston papers. It’s a different size than rogue’s gallery pictures. That’s probably why she picked it; it was different. From what they say, I doubt if she’d be able to identify your man. She’s not very bright.”
“Maybe he would identify her,” suggested the rabbi.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SEVEN
His car is in the driveway? … Good, then he’s home.”
“Now, how do you want us to work it, Chief?” asked the Boston detective.
“Just drive along, and when you come to the house, stop,” said Lanigan. “Keep your motor running, just as you would if you stopped to ask someone for directions. Madelaine will get out. The house will be on her side. Keep your coat buttoned and push the collar up, Madelaine. That’s fine. Put your head down a little. That’s right. Then you just go up and ring the bell. When the door opens and he answers, you let him get a good look at you and ask how to get onto the road to Boston. Nothing to be afraid of. The worst he can do is slam the door in your face.” He turned to the policeman. “You just sit tight unless you see something unusual.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything different from the way a man normally would behave if somebody asked him directions. We’ll be behind you, but we’ll keep out of sight. If we see you get out of the car, we’ll come a-running. All right?”
“Check.”
The two cars began to move, Madelaine Spinney and the policeman from Boston in one, Lanigan and Jennings in the other. When they reached Tarlow’s point, the woman got out and walked up to Begg’s house. She rang the bell, and a moment later the door was thrown open. “Yes?”
As instructed, she raised her head from her coat collar. The two stared at each other.
“You!”
The policeman moved rapidly toward the house.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
It was late in the afternoon, and Miriam watched with some concern as her husband paced the floor. Every now and then, he would pick up a book and try to read, only to put it aside and resume his pacing.
“Don’t you think you ought to go over to the temple, David, just to see if everything is all right?”
“No, I’m staying home until I hear from Lanigan. Somebody will be there to check, the cantor or Brooks or maybe Mr. Wasserman.”
Whenever the phone rang, he ran to it. Most of the calls were indeed for him, but he answered as briefly as possible, fearful that Lanigan might be trying to reach him. Finally, when it was almost time to go to the temple to begin the seder, Lanigan called. The rabbi listened for a moment and then smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “and thank you for calling me.”
“Is it all right?” Miriam asked when he hung up. “Can we go now?”
“Yes, we can go now.”
The baby-sitter had been there for half an hour, waiting for them to leave so that she could turn on the TV. Miriam gave her some last-minute instructions and went out to the car. When the rabbi came out a minute later, she saw that he was carrying the tape recorder he used to dictate letters, presumably so that he could tape the proceedings. She was mildly amused at his sudden sentimentality.
When they arrived at the temple, the members were still milling around, looking for place cards, talking, trying to shift from the table they had been assigned to another where their friends were. The tables looked festive, with snowy white tablecloths and gleaming silver, and the long head table had a magnificent floral centerpiece. Drawn up to the head table were armchairs, each with a pillow to lean on in accordance with the prescribed ritual, and beside each armchair, ordinary chairs for the wives. In front of the rabbi’s place were the required three mat-soth covered with a napkin and the seder plate, with its egg, shank bone, bitter herbs, green herbs, and its two little dishes, one for horseradish and the other for the mixture of chopped nuts and apple.
Those at the head table were already seated, and before taking his place, the rabbi went to each
one for the customary greeting and handshake.
“In good voice, Cantor?”
“Fine, Rabbi.”
Mr. Wasserman looked old and frail swallowed up in the huge armchair reserved for the chairman of the Ritual Committee. He clasped the rabbi’s hand with both of his.
“Always I like to have the seder in my own house, but this year my children couldn’t come. And besides, sometimes for the good of everybody …”
Gorfinkle had been covertly watching the rabbi’s progress down the line. When he approached him, he rose and formally offered his hand.
“Stu planning to go back to school tomorrow?”
Gorfinkle shrugged. “He was hoping to, but I haven’t heard from Lanigan yet. Maybe he’ll call tonight.”
“It’s all right. He can go.”
“And the others?” asked Gorfinkle eagerly.
“They too.”
Emotion welled up into Gorfinkle’s eyes. “That’s wonderful, Rabbi, just wonderful. I don’t know how we can ever thank you.”
The rabbi circled the table and took his seat. He looked out across the crowded room and waited for the last person to find his seat.
When he saw that the waiters had filled all the wineglasses, he nodded to the cantor, who rose and, holding his glass high, began to chant the benediction over the wine.
The men at the head table left the room for the ritual washing of hands, and when they returned, the rabbi dipped a sprig of parsley in a dish of salt water and recited the benediction over the fruits of the earth.
He uncovered the matzoh and, removing the egg and the shank bone from the plate, passed it to Mr. Wasserman, who recited the Holachmanya, “Lo! this is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt; let all those who are hungry enter and eat thereof; and all who are in need come and celebrate the Passover …”
Once again the wineglasses were filled, and the rabbi nodded to the principal, who was seated at one of the round tables with the family of the youngster who was to ask the Four Questions. Morton Brooks whispered to the child, who stood up and in a childish treble began to recite: “Ma nishtana halayla hazzeh …”
When the child finished, the rabbi placed on the table in front of him the tape recorder he had kept on the floor beside his chair. “The English translation was to have been given by Arlene Feldberg,” he announced, “but unfortunately, Arlene came down with the measles. However, we wouldn’t want her to miss her portion.” He pressed the switch–but it was his own voice that came through the machine, saying, “Sincerely yours. Make an extra copy, will you, Miriam?” This was followed immediately by the thin, reedy voice of the little girl: “Wherefore is this night distinguished from all other nights?” Weeks of coaching by the principal were reflected in the slow, stilted reading of the lines. “All other nights we may eat either leavened or unleavened bread, but tonight only unleavened.”
The rabbi looked down at Miriam. “You see,” he whispered, “I can bend a little.”
“And it works,” she whispered back.
“Why may we eat only bitter herbs … dip our food twice … eat while leaning?” Mr. Wasserman plucked at the rabbi’s sleeve, and he leaned over to hear what the old man was saying. The tape recorder whirred on. “… beg off from that dinner, will you, Miriam. Fib a little if you have to.” It was the rabbi’s voice.
There was a roar of laughter from the assembled company, and Miriam hastily reached forward and shut off the machine. The rabbi blushed and said, “We will now read in unison…”
Dinner was served, a traditional festive meal, beginning with gefillte fish and chicken soup. As soon as it was over, a number left, pleading that their children were tired and falling asleep at the table, but most stayed on for the rest of the service with its prayers, benedictions and ceremonial songs. At last the fourth cup of wine was drunk, and the president announced, “The order of the Passover is now accomplished and prescribed according to all its laws and customs …” and then all called out in loud and joyous voices the traditional fervent hope expressed for centuries by Jews all over the world at the end of the Passover service: “Next year in Jerusalem.”
The rabbi leaned over and whispered to Miriam, “Why not?”
“What?”
“The way things look, we’ll be free next year. Why not spend it in Jerusalem?”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
You’ve heard the minutes of the previous meeting. Any corrections or additions? Chair recognizes Mr. Sokolow.”
“Seems to me we spent most of the meeting arguing about a new contract for the rabbi, but there wasn’t a word of it in the minutes.”
“You left early, Harry,” said Gorfinkle. “It was decided not to mention it in the minutes for obvious reasons. What if the rabbi were here today? It might be embarrassing.”
“Well, so how do I know what happened?”
“I appointed a committee with Al Becker as chairman–maybe you’d like to fill him in, Al.”
“Sure,” Becker got up and walked to the head of the table. “We discussed mostly the terms of the contract. Some of the guys thought we ought to just make it for another five years, with a raise, of course. But there was a lot of sentiment for a lifetime contract, too. For that we’d have to discuss it with the rabbi himself.”
“So how’d you make out with the rabbi?” asked Harry Sokolow.
“Well, we decided not to speak to him just yet,” said Becker. “See, something came up that I think we ought to hash out first.” He cleared his throat. “At the end of this year, as many around this table may not realize, the rabbi will be rounding out his sixth year with us. So the new contract will be starting the seventh year. Well, a lot of congregations give their rabbi the seventh year as a sabbatical. So we on the committee didn’t want to get caught short if the rabbi raises that question without knowing beforehand the pleasure of this board. Speaking for myself, I’m all for offering it to him even before he asks.”
Immediately there was a storm of discussion.
“Plenty of temples don’t give sabbaticals.”
“In my brother’s place they gave their rabbi a sabbatical last year, sure, but he had been there twenty years already.”
“Teachers get them.”
“Yeah, but only if they’re going to do some special study.”
“My wife tells me she heard the rebbitizin say they wanted to go to Israel. That seems a reasonable project for a sabbatical for a rabbi.”
“What does he need it for? After all, he gets the whole summer off. I should be so lucky.”
Mr. Wasserman was recognized. “The seventh year is a special time. It’s like the Sabbath year. What is the Sabbath? It’s something we invented, no? Six days you work, and on the seventh day you rest. Used to be people worked the whole seven days. So it’s ours–an invention. And the whole world accepted it–you should take one day in the week a rest. The only one who doesn’t get a rest one day in seven is the rabbi. On the Sabbath, when we get off, he works. And on the days we work he works, too. He’s a scholar, our rabbi, so that every day he’s at his studies. And when he’s not studying, he’s called different places to speak, or he goes to committees. And all the time, seven days a week, he’s still got the congregation. One day a Bar Mitzvah, the next day a wedding or, God forbid, a funeral. So the only way he can have a rest is if he goes away from the congregation and the community for a while where he won’t have to give sermons or be on committees or have to answer all kinds of questions. So I say, we should offer him this Sabbath if he asks for it, because I tell you the rabbi needs a rest sometimes from his congregation.”
No one said anything, and then Paff muttered something in his deep bass to Doc Edelstein.
“What’s that?” Gorfinkle looked up. “Did you say something, Mr. Paff?”
Paff raised his big voice and said, “All I said was that goes double–sometimes the congregation needs a rest from the rabbi.”
Brennerman laughed.
Edelstein chuckled. Jacobs guffawed. Then they all laughed and kept on laughing. And Gorfinkle said, “You may have something there, Meyer. By God, I think this time you really hit the nail on the head.”
Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home Page 21
