A quick, easy smile. “My people? Oh, you mean the religious. Well, it isn’t that you can’t visit her. It’s that you have to ride to Hadassah, by bus or by car, and that of course would be a desecration of the Sabbath.”
Adoumi held up a stuffy forefinger of warning. “One day the rest of us aren’t going to stand for it, Chaim.”
“Then it won’t be a Jewish state anymore.”
“Oh, it will be a Jewish state all right, but it will be for all the Jews and not just for your little handful. Now, to business. Did you get anything on Memavet?”
“No, but I’m sure it was him they were after. The kind of business he was in—”
“Shady? Stolen cars? He was dealing with the Arabs?”
“Not as far as we know. But in that business, automobiles, there are always people who are dissatisfied. A customer thinks he’s been sold a lemon, or a seller thinks he could have got more on his own. Or he might feel that Memavet was holding something back. He was a broker, after all, and only entitled to a commission, not a profit.”
“But everybody you questioned said he had a good reputation, that he was honest.”
“Yes, but—”
“All right, I won’t argue with you. Follow it up if you like, but I can tell you now, you’re wandering down a blind alley. The university professor—”
“We found an Arab connection there,” said Ish-Kosher quickly.
“Sure, but it was the wrong kind for our purposes. He was going to help them. He was their friend.”
“But that’s just it,” said Ish-Kosher excitedly. “You see—”
“I know, I know. The terrorists don’t want their people helped. All this theory”—a wave of a broad, freckled hand—“it’s just theory. The terrorists don’t work that way. They don’t think that way. Arabs don’t think that way. One Arab kills another, so the victim’s family will try to get revenge by killing the killer. That’s understandable. That’s normal. It isn’t our way. It isn’t the way of civilized people, but it’s understandable. But if they can’t get the killer, they’ll get their revenge by killing some member of his family, a brother or an uncle or his father. That’s already different, you see. Ever since the Six-Day War when our army defeated theirs, they want revenge. That’s normal. But they can’t get it by defeating our army, so killing any of us is for them a reasonable substitute. Which of us? It doesn’t make any difference to them. It could be an old man like Memavet, or it could be women or even children.”
“But—”
Adoumi stopped him again with a raised hand. “Naturally, the more of us they can kill, the better. And that’s why they’ve bombed places like markets, public places where there are likely to be a lot of people gathered and where a lot can be hurt. But we’re on the watch, and the danger of being caught is great. So they play it safe for a while. They pick safe targets. If we don’t catch them, they get their courage back and try the public places again. Why did they bomb Memavet? I’ll tell you: because he was an easy target. Here’s an old man living alone in a new block of flats, the only resident on the street, and it’s a dark street. They can go down the street, unseen—”
“But they were seen. The doctor saw—”
“The doctor saw a young man who said he had business with Memavet. And that’s quite possible. Now, that young man might have seen something. He might be worth questioning.”
“Then why did you cut out that part of the doctor’s statement when we released it to the reporters?”
“Because, Chaim, I thought it would be better if he came forward on his own. That would prove he was not connected with this in any way. He didn’t come forward, so it suggests that he might not be entirely innocent.”
“Or just that he doesn’t want to get involved,” said Ish-Kosher.
“This was a terrorist bombing. Anyone would want to help.” Adoumi shook his head gloomily. “I gambled in withholding that portion of the statement from the press.” Then he brightened. “But if he hasn’t come forward, the chances are that even if we had mentioned he had been seen, he probably would hold back. It was raining, and he had his coat collar turned up. He’d know that the doctor wouldn’t be able to recognize him. I’d sure like to get a line on him, though.”
Ish-Kosher smiled broadly. “Well, perhaps I can help you. How would you like to have his name?” From the briefcase on his lap, he drew a slip of paper and passed it across the desk to Adoumi. It read: “I came back at seven as I said I would. Stedman.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“One of my men thought to look in the mailbox. It was there.”
“But there’s no date. This could have been left a couple of days earlier. The doctor didn’t mention his writing a note. In fact, he said he watched him go up the street.”
“But he could have come back after the doctor left.”
“Possible.” Adoumi studied the note. “Stedman, Stedman—where have I heard that name?”
“There’s a fairly well-known American journalist named Stedman. He’s in the country now, staying at the King David.”
“No, no.” He began rummaging through the folders on his desk, flipping one after another open to glance at the contents. “Ah, here it is—Stedman. That, Chaim,” he said impressively, “is the name of an American student at the university who has been seen frequently in the company of an Arab student named Abdul El Khaldi. Now, Abdul is someone we’ve been interested in for some time.”
“You have something on him?” asked Ish-Kosher eagerly.
“Something in the sense that would interest you police people? No. Nothing suspicious about his behavior. He has been most circumspect.”
“Well, then—”
“That in itself might be suspicious, Chaim.”
“You mean that the Arabs who act up you are interested in, and those who don’t you are also interested in?”
Adoumi laughed shortly. “Chaim, that’s not far from the truth either. We are suspicious of all of them. But when I say that we’re interested in Abdul, I mean that we try to keep an eye on him because while he’s done nothing that we know of, there have been rumors. Arabs who for one reason or another want to be on the good side of us pass us little tips every now and then. And his name has come up more than once. So we keep him under observation. Not a twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance, of course; we don’t have the manpower. But we keep an eye on him, and the last report I have mentions a student named Stedman who is frequently in his company. So that stirs my interest in Stedman. And when I see that someone named Stedman has some connection with Memavet, maybe went to see him the very night he was killed—”
“Are you going to pick him up?”
“No, Chaim. I think for the time being I’ll stay out of this. Your people will pick him up, and you will question him. Now this is what I’d like you to do….”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Ish-Kosher glanced through the passport and then pressed a button on his desk. To the clerk who entered in response to his ring, he handed the book and said, “Check it through.” Then he turned to Roy once again.
“Now, Mr. Stedman, I’m curious why you didn’t come forward. As a guest in our country, I should think that having some knowledge of a crime, you would be only too eager to cooperate with the police.”
“But I didn’t know of any crime. I mean I heard about the bombing, but it took place after I’d left. And I didn’t see anything.”
Ish-Kosher fingered his yarmulke and smiled. “You are not an ignorant man, Mr. Stedman. You are a student at our university. Surely, you must realize that negative evidence is also important. The fact that you saw nothing between, say, five minutes of seven and fifteen or twenty past means the bomb must have been set earlier—or later. Didn’t it occur to you that this might be helpful to the police?”
“Well, I thought of it,” said Roy, “but since this doctor was there, he was able to see anything I could see.”
“Not quite,” Ish-
Kosher corrected him. “He was in the house while you were outside. But then when you came back to leave the note, he was gone.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t figure it out that fine. I just thought he was there and went to the police because he made a statement, so why should I?” Roy had been frightened when the police had first come for him and again when he had been brought into the office of the inspector. But he was at ease now. An inspector with a yarmulke—it was reassuring.
“This appointment with Memavet, you made it when?”
He had thought not to mention the earlier meeting, if only not to involve his father and the rabbi; but the inspector was so matter-of-fact that it seemed pointless to conceal it. “I didn’t make the appointment. Memavet did. You see, we were there in the morning, well, it was practically noon.”
“We?”
“Yes. My father called and said he was planning to see Memavet about buying a car, and since he thought I might know more about cars and besides, I’d be using it, suggested we should go the next day, Saturday—”
“The Sabbath.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right but my father said Memavet wouldn’t mind and I didn’t have much other free time. Well, anyway, we met up at the corner of Shalom and Mazel Tov—”
“You and your father?”
“That’s right. And he had a friend with him, a Rabbi Small from America—”
“Rabbi Small?” Ish-Kosher’s voice gave no hint of his surprise.
“Yeah, Rabbi Small. David Small, I think.”
“And he was along as another expert on cars?”
Roy glanced at Ish-Kosher. Was he being sarcastic? But the inspector’s face was impassive. “He had arranged to take a walk with my father, and so he just came along.”
“I see.”
“Well, we saw Memavet and we talked about cars. He offered us a drink, and he talked about himself a lot about his early life, I guess. It was in Yiddish—that part, so I didn’t get any of it, just a word here and there from my German, you know. Then he says if we’ll come back at seven, he’d probably have a car for us.”
“But you returned alone.”
“Yeah, well, my father said he wouldn’t come back because he didn’t want Memavet to think he was overeager. That was after we left the place, you understand. I mean, he didn’t say it to Memavet, but to me.”
“Then why did you come back?”
“Well, I thought I could take a look at the car if there was one.”
“But there wasn’t.”
“That’s right. But I thought the fact we’d showed up for the appointment or at least I had, and there wasn’t a car for us, would put us in a better bargaining position. After all, since he hadn’t kept his part of the bargain, he might shade the price a little.”
“I see.”
“But then this doctor said he was asleep and couldn’t be disturbed, and like what was I doing bothering a sick man—so I left. But then I thought why couldn’t I write him a note and leave it in his letterbox. So I came back.”
“M-hm. Your father does not live with you—”
“No, he’s at the King David. But he’s not there now. He’s gone up to Haifa for a few days.”
“His address there?”
“I don’t know it. I called him at the hotel and they said he had gone to Haifa. I didn’t ask for the address. Maybe they know it at the hotel though.”
“All right, Mr. Stedman. That seems clear enough.” He rose to indicate that their meeting was over.
“Is that all?”
“I may want to see you again, but that is all for the present.” He smiled in dismissal.
“Yeah, but my passport. You still got my passport.”
“Oh, of course.” Ish-Kosher picked up the phone. “The passport, Mr. Stedman’s passport. Will you bring it in, please…. What? … Well, look on his desk … oh, I see…. Well, I suppose it will have to do.” He replaced the instrument and turned to Roy. “The man who was working on it, he’s not at his desk. He probably has it with him. We’ll send it to you through the mail.”
When Roy had gone, he lifted the receiver again. “Avner? Ish-Kosher. Young Stedman was just here…. No, nothing special, except that he had been to see Memavet earlier with his father, and his father was accompanied by a friend. And who is this friend, Avner? It is Rabbi David Small…. Don’t you remember? He lives at Five Victory Street…. No, he was the one tenant who was out when we checked on the Carmi bombing.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
In spite of the yarmulke, Inspector Ish-Kosher was not a religious man, but he was strongly traditional; he had a distinct image of what a rabbi should look like, and Rabbi Small did not fit it. A rabbi should have a beard and wear appropriately dark and somber clothes, preferably black. Rabbi Small was beardless and wore light-gray summer trousers and a seersucker jacket. At the very least, a rabbi should not go uncovered; Rabbi Small was hatless. Ish-Kosher could not help feeling a little antagonistic as he motioned the rabbi to a seat.
The inspector thumbed through a folder on his desk and then looked up and said pleasantly, “A little while ago we made an inquiry at your apartment house to see if anyone there was expecting a visitor on a certain night. You were not at home, but your neighbor, Mrs. Rosen, said you had just arrived that day, late that evening, in fact. She said you were a rabbi from America. And yet, the little card in your letterbox says only David Small. Are you a rabbi?”
“Yes, I am a rabbi.”
“Then why doesn’t the card say Rabbi David Small?”
“Because here I am not a rabbi.”
“And yet a doctor coming from America would probably keep his title on his letterbox,” said the inspector.
“The two cases are not the same. The doctor probably could practice in an emergency, in an accident for example.”
“This shows great delicacy on your part, Rabbi. Just what kind of rabbi are you?”
“I am a Conservative rabbi. I am the rabbi of a Conservative temple in America.”
“The training is different for a Conservative rabbi than for one of ours?”
“No, not really,” Rabbi Small said. “The emphasis is a little different, but the work itself does differ. Many of your rabbis here perform largely legalistic functions. Our work is rarely legal. Most of the time it is concerned with the emotional and spiritual health of the congregation we serve.”
“I see.” The inspector smiled suddenly. “Just to clear up and complete our records, were you expecting someone the night you arrived?”
“No, no one that I can think of.”
Ish-Kosher made a note in the folder, closed it, and leaned back in his chair. Again he smiled pleasantly. “You are here on a sabbatical from your congregation?”
“No. I wouldn’t call it a sabbatical. I took a leave of absence for a few months.”
“Ah, on vacation. And what do you do, Rabbi? Do you go sight-seeing? Are you perhaps studying at the university?”
“No, I’m not doing much of anything; just taking a vacation, resting.”
“From your arduous labors with your congregation?”
He was smiling, but there was also a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Something like that,” said Rabbi Small good-naturedly.
“It appears that you are not only taking a vacation from your congregation and your work, Rabbi, but even from the religion you profess.”
“What do you mean?” said the rabbi in surprise. “If you refer to my not going to the synagogue every Sabbath—”
“I am referring to your going on the Sabbath to see someone about buying a car, specifically one Benjamin Memavet, whose apartment was bombed and who died as a result.”
“How do you know I went to buy a car?”
“Please, Rabbi,” said Ish-Kosher reproachfully, “I ask the questions.”
“I had an appointment with my friend, Dan Stedman, and he had made another with his son. He was anxious for me to meet him,
so I agreed to come along.”
“But he was going to buy a car, to conduct business—and on the Sabbath. Again I ask, what kind of rabbi are you?”
The antagonism was now unmistakable. Rabbi Small smiled faintly. “As a rabbi, like all rabbis, I give these matters more thought than does the average layman like yourself,” he began patiently. “Adherence to the traditional religious practices like covering the head or even observing the Sabbath according to the strict rabbinical code, these we do partly out of habit, partly because people expect it of us and perhaps to set an example to others in maintaining rabbinic tradition and rabbinic authority. I don’t think anyone who has given the matter any thought actually thinks that God requires it of man or is pleased by it. According to Isaiah, ‘I am full of burnt offerings … it is an abomination unto Me, saith the Lord. Your new moons and your appointed seasons, my soul hateth.’ That’s putting it rather strongly, but it suggests how the God of Isaiah at least might view conformity and religious conventions in general.”
“The God of Isaiah!” Ish-Kosher was outraged. “Tell me, Rabbi, do you believe in God?”
“I suppose as a police officer you’d like a yes or no answer.”
“I—”
“It’s a difficult question,” the rabbi went on easily, “since it involves three variables—”
“Variables?”
“Of course. You ask if I believe in God. Do you mean at this moment in time, or the I of yesterday, or the I of three years ago? And what do you mean by ‘believe’? That’s another variable. Do you mean in the same way that I believe that two and two make four? Or the way that I believe that light travels a certain number of miles per second, which I myself have never seen demonstrated but which has been demonstrated by people whose competence and integrity I have been taught to trust? Or do you mean in the sense that I believe that there was a man named Washington who won independence for the American colonies from Britain, or in the sense that I believe there was a man named Moses who did the same thing for the Jews from Egypt. If you think about it, you’ll see that there are many more forms of belief, and all of them a little different from each other. And finally, the third variable—God. Do you mean a humanlike figure? Or an ineffable essence? One who is aware of us individually and responsive to our pleas for help? Or one who is so far above us that He can have no interest in us? Or any one of the other conceptions that men have had over the ages? But speaking more generally, I suppose I have the feeling of belief and certainty some times and lack it at others, just as you do, or the Chief Rabbi, or the Pope for that matter.”
Monday the Rabbi Took Off Page 18
