Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out

by Harry Kemelman

  They continued to question him, but at eleven, Lanigan called a halt. The three men retired to a far corner of the room and discussed the story in low voices. “It seems pretty straightforward,” said Lanigan, “but, of course, he may be lying.”

  “He’s had plenty of time to work up a story and get it down pat,” said McLure’s comment.

  “We could question the driver of the Boston bus,” Jennings suggested.

  “Oh sure,” said Lanigan. “We’ll get a picture of him, and if the bus driver doesn’t remember him, he may know some of the people who take that bus regularly, and they might remember him. Also, the driver of the New York bus, and the ticket clerk.”

  “It’s even more important to check the drivers of the later buses,” said McLure. “I’m betting he took the ten o’clock bus to New York, or even eleven. I’ve seen it again and again. A guy does something that won’t bear thinking about. So he blanks it out of his mind, but he adjusts his story just enough so as to make it impossible. Get it? By saying he took the nine o’clock, it means he couldn’t have killed the old man at half past eight. And he keeps the rest of the story the same, so he doesn’t have any trouble remembering any lies.”

  Lanigan looked at him curiously. “You’re pretty sure he did it?”

  “Cummon. You can see he’s a jerky sort of kid that everybody steps on. Take this business of being sent to his room. Is that the way you discipline the average eighteen-year-old? Would any other kid stand for it? Or, for that matter, what kid that age would consent to being shifted off to the country to live with an old man so his ma can be free to go gallivanting around Europe? Okay. His boss feels sorry for him and invites him to go in town with him. That kind of kid is crazy about guns. It gives him a sense of power. Now the old man shames him in front of the boss by sending him to his room. So when Gore leaves and the old man dozes off, he climbs out of the window. But he doesn’t go down to get a bus. Oh no, he sneaks around to the front of the house and comes in. And there’s the gun on the table. He has this urge just to hold it. My guess is he picks it up and just kind of fondles it, and it goes off. Maybe he shoots out the light, and the place goes dark. Then the kid knows he’s in trouble, and he panics and just goes on shooting. And when he comes out of it, the old man is dead. So he runs—to Boston and then to New York.”

  “And why does he come back then?” asked Lanigan.

  “Like I said, because he’s wiped it clean out of his mind. You might have to get a psychiatrist to hypnotize him and bring it back.”

  “What are you going to do with him tonight, Hugh?” asked Jennings. “He can’t sleep here.”

  “Well, for tonight I figured we’d put him up at the stationhouse in one of the cells. If we get him a place at a hotel, I’m not sure the town would stand for the expense, and he’ll be pestered by all kinds of people as soon as the news is out.”

  “He will anyway when he goes back to work at the bank on Monday,” Jennings pointed out.

  “Yeah, unless—unless—say, is Tom Hegerty on the island now, Eban?”

  “Ever since Labor Day.”

  “Think he might like a boarder?”

  “I know he’d like a helper.”

  “That’s even better. Let’s see what we can arrange.” He approached the young man and said, “Look, Billy, you can’t sleep here because we’re still working here. It’s pretty late to get you a hotel room, so how would you like to sleep down at the stationhouse?”

  “Oh sure. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Fine. So that’s settled. Now, I’d like you to stay around town for the next few days, but I don’t think you ought to go back to the bank just yet.”

  “Gosh, no. I bet people would be coming up to my window just to look at me like I was some kind of freak.”

  “That’s what bothers me, too,” said Lanigan. “So I got an idea. Do you know Children’s Island in the harbor?”

  “Where they have the YMCA camp in the summer for the kids? I’ve never been there.”

  “Well, Tom Hegerty lives out there, getting the place ready for the winter. How would you like to work there with him as a helper, painting, rough carpentry—”

  “Gee, I’ve never done anything like that.”

  “You don’t have to know anything,” Lanigan assured him. “Most of the time you just hand him things or hold them while he works on them or fetch them for him.”

  “If I can do it, I wouldn’t mind. It might be kind of fun living on an island.”

  “Fine. Then it’s settled. I’ll arrange it.”

  He rejoined the other two and nodded to indicate his satisfaction.

  “How about Miranda now?” sneered McLure.

  Lanigan looked at him in surprise. “What’s Miranda got to do with it? All I did was arrange for a job for the young man.”

  30

  When Herb Mandell returned from his after-dinner constitutional to the drugstore for the Sunday papers, he found Henry Maltzman sitting on the sofa in the living room, Molly beside him, their heads close together as they pored over a sheet of paper spread out on the coffee table in front of them. His entrance momentarily startled them, and they sprang apart.

  “Oh, hi there, Herb.” Maltzman waved to him. “I thought since it’s your first board meeting, we’d drive down together, your car or mine, and I could fill you in.” He gestured to the paper on the coffee table. “I’ve been going over the list with Molly. We’ve got five I’m sure of, three probables and a couple or three possibles.”

  “I think Mrs. Melnick is another possible,” said Molly, “and I think you can list Mrs. Kaufman as a probable.”

  “It’s still not enough to take a chance on,” said Maltzman. “I want a straight up-and-down vote without discussion. The only thing to do is to put it over for a week. That’ll give us time to contact the probables—”

  “I’ll talk to Anne Kaufman,” Molly volunteered. “I’m sure I can get her to go along.”

  “Swell. And I’ll sound out Joe Krasker and Harvey Gorin. If we get all three, that will give us eight, and we’re in like Flynn.” He had risen, and taking Herb by the arm, he said, “Now, here’s what I want you to do, Herb….”

  Maltzman drove—and talked. Herb wanted to make his own position clear on the matter of the rabbi’s ouster, but each time he made the attempt, Maltzman said, “Listen, will you.” The tone was not peremptory; it was even kindly, but Herb was restive, feeling that he was being treated like a youngster.

  Once they had arrived at the temple, however, Maltzman’s manner changed. With his arm around Herb’s shoulder, he led him up to the other members, who were standing in the basement corridor, and introducing him to those whom he did not know jovially assured them, “Herb is a comer and he’ll add some weight to this board.”

  The group moved down the corridor past the classrooms of the religious school to the directors’ room at the end. It was a small room. Like the classrooms, it had beige plaster walls and a low ceiling. Along one side, high up on the wall and hinged on top so that they could be swung inward, was a row of small windows level with the ground outside. Above the windows ran the asbestos-covered pipes for heating the building. It differed from the classrooms only in that, instead of pupils’ desks, it had a long oblong mahogany table surrounded by small bridge chairs that took up most of the room, except for a small space at the end near the door, where there stood a blackboard on wooden uprights.

  They shuffled to places around the table, while Maltzman remained standing at the end near the blackboard. They had been talking about the murder while awaiting Maltzman’s arrival, and they continued after taking their places around the table.

  “It must have been the boy,” said Harvey Gorin. He ticked off points on his fingers. “He was the last one in the house. He ran off—”

  “But he came back.”

  “They always return to the scene.”

  “Did he come back, or was he brought back? That’s what I’d like to know
.”

  Maltzman rapped on the table. “Let’s come to order and get this meeting started. Who killed Ellsworth Jordon is the business of the police—”

  Doris Melnick, who had been a high school civics teacher, said reprovingly, “Murder is the concern of every citizen, Henry.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, count me out of this one. This Jordon was the biggest anti-Semite in town, and whoever did it deserves a medal.”

  “How do you know, Henry?”

  “You knew him, Henry?”

  “You ever have dealings with him, Henry?”

  “If it’s true,” said Mrs. Melnick, “I don’t think it’s wise for you to go around saying so.”

  “Why not?” demanded Maltzman.

  “Because it’s apt to cause bad feeling in town for all of us, and it may suggest to the police that they ought to investigate us.”

  “Let ’em. We’ve got nothing to hide. Now let’s get this meeting started. If you want to talk about murder, then I’ll just walk out because I’ve got better things to do.” He looked around the room. They were restive, but remained silent.

  He rapped sharply on the table with his knuckles and announced, “All right, this meeting is now called to order. Before we begin with the regular business, I’d like to say a few words. When I announced last meeting that I was appointing Herb Mandell to fill the vacancy on the board caused by the resignation of Joe Cohen on the basis of the new regulations that permit the president to do so, I did not ask Herb first. I didn’t ask him if he wanted to serve on the board. I just told him that I had appointed him and I expected him to serve. Why? I’ll tell you. Because Herb Mandell is that sort of guy. You tell Herb there’s a job that has to be done and you want him to do it, and Herb’s answer is ‘Okay.’ And that’s the kind of guy we need on the board. And that’s why I didn’t let any grass grow under my feet when Joe Cohen resigned. All right. Now, let’s go ahead with the meeting. The secretary will read the minutes.”

  Herb Mandell listened intently to the reading of the minutes, to the reports of the committee chairmen, to the questions and objections raised on the reports. He would have liked to take part in the discussions, if only to justify the reputation Maltzman had given him, but it was all new to him and dealt with matters about which he knew nothing.

  Finally Maltzman announced, “Unless there are any strong objections, I’d like to dispense with any further business and go on to a consideration of the budget. All right? Mike, it’s all yours.”

  Meyer Andelman, chairman of the budget committee, ducked down and retrieved a dispatch case that he had kept on the floor between his feet. “Although we discussed certain items last meeting, and had a look at all the items, I thought it would be a good idea to get it all down in black and white. So I had my girl run off Xeroxes so that you could each have one in front of you as we talk about each item. I’ll pass these along so you can follow each and every item as we talk about it. Now, I suggest that we kind of dispense with the rules, and if you got anything to say as we discuss each and every item, why, just talk up and let’s have your two cents’ worth. Take a minute now to look over these sheets, and then we’ll start with item number one and go through each and every item.”

  It was Herb Mandell’s cue. “Mr. Chairman, I’d like to make a suggestion. Since we have this all in black and white, why can’t we postpone action on the budget for a week so we can take these home and go over them carefully in the privacy of our own homes?”

  Meyer Andelman said, “I’d like to talk to that, Mr. Chairman. It’s like this, Herb. This is the first of the month, or the Sunday that’s nearest the first. And we always pass the budget on the first of November.”

  Maltzman cleared his throat. “Well …”

  “Is it in the bylaws that we have to?” asked Mandell.

  “No, it’s not in the bylaws,” Andelman admitted, “but we always do.”

  Mandell pressed his advantage. “Then, if it’s not in the bylaws, why don’t we hold it over so we can do a thorough job now that we have it all down in black and white?”

  “But a lot of this we went over last week,” said Andelman.

  “Well, I wasn’t here last week.”

  “Well, sure, I realize that, Herb, but any item that you can’t make up your mind on, you could abstain. Personally, I don’t think your vote is going to be all that necessary. I mean, it’s my opinion that we’re not likely to have any item where the vote is going to be that close where one vote will make a difference. See what I mean?”

  “Sure, I understand your point of view, Meyer,” said Mandell, “but maybe I can make you see my point of view. It’s like a matter of principle with me. See, I’m an accountant. So, it goes against my grain that I should be handed any kind of financial statement and be told to approve it before I’ve had a chance to look it over and study it. That’s my training in me, see? Now, you can say that I can abstain. But as long as I’m an official member of this board, I feel like I’ve got a kind of responsibility to participate on financial-type matters. Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “Aw, let’s put it over, Mike,” someone called out.

  “Sure, what’s the point of hassling. Herb would like another week to look it over, so why not? I think maybe I’d like a little more time on it.”

  “What difference does it make, this week or next?”

  Andelman looked around uncertainly. “Well, if that’s the pleasure of this body …”

  Maltzman quickly put it to a vote. “All those in favor of putting off consideration of the budget till next week, say Aye. All opposed, Nay. The Ayes have it.”

  When the meeting was adjourned shortly afterward, Maltzman signaled Mandell to wait for him. When the others had gone down the corridor out to the parking lot leaving the two alone in the room, Maltzman said, “I just wanted to tell you, Herb, that you did that absolutely perfect. That idea of yours explaining how it was against your principles as an accountant, that was”—he searched his mind for the right word—“that was sheer genius. And you see now why I wanted you to do it. If it had been one of the guys who’s associated with me, the other side would have smelled a rat. This way, nothing.” He winked and punched him playfully on the arm.

  31

  When the call came in Monday morning, Lanigan’s first inclination had been to send someone, Jennings or McLure, or even Sergeant Holcombe. But the weather was fine, a cool early November day, and it occurred to him that he might himself enjoy a day in Boston and, more particularly, some time away from the office, even though it meant going home to change from his uniform to civilian clothes, which he considered more appropriate when he went outside his jurisdiction.

  When he entered the lobby, the office building automatically registered in his mind as second-rate. It was an old building that had been spruced up with a new self-service elevator and fake plastic mahogany paneling. The renovation did not extend to the upper floors, however. The corridors there were covered with worn linoleum tile of brown and yellow, which clashed with the bilious lime green of the walls.

  The office of Charles Sawyer, Attorney, was in keeping with the rest of the building. There was the same brown-and-yellow tile on the floor and the same lime-green walls. It was a small room with a single window facing another office building. Ranged along one wall were several chairs and a small round oak table on which were a number of old law journals. Seated at a small desk was a pleasant-faced gray-haired woman typing away rapidly. She stopped and looked up inquiringly when Lanigan entered.

  “I’m Chief Lanigan of the—”

  “Oh yes.” And jerking her head toward a door beside her that was ajar, she said, “Go right in. He’s not doing anything.”

  The inner office was somewhat larger, but also with one window. Against one wall there was a glassed-in bookcase with law books, and with files and papers and corporation seals on the lower shelves. A single visitor’s chair stood in front of a large green metal desk. Lanigan assumed that wh
en there was more than one client present, either the others had to stand or chairs were brought in from the outer office.

  Behind the desk, his fingers laced over his belly, teetering back and forth in his swivel chair, was Charles Sawyer, a smiley man with a round head and small ears flattened against it as though stitched in place. His hair was gray and sparse.

  “I’m Chief Lanigan of the Barnard’s Crossing Police and—”

  “You got anything in the way of identification?”

  “Why sure.” Lanigan reached for his wallet and flipped it open to show his badge.

  The little smile, which Lanigan decided was merely the way he held his mouth, broadened to show a real smile. “I have to be careful when it’s criminal business,” he said. “I once had a reporter try to pass himself off as one of the D.A.’s men.” He raised his voice and called out, “Emily, when was it that reporter tried to bamboozle me?”

  “Two years ago. The Blatz case,” came the answer from the other room. Lanigan turned and saw that the door, which he had closed behind him on entering, had opened of itself and was standing ajar again.

  “I don’t get much criminal business,” Sawyer informed him, “but I get some, and I’ve learned to be careful.” He smiled again. “That’s what you go to a lawyer for, isn’t it? To have someone in your corner who knows how to be careful?”

  “I guess so. Were you Ellsworth Jordon’s lawyer?”

  “Oh, off and on, now and again.” He got up and circled his desk and closed the door, pushing it with his shoulder and turning the knob at the same time. This time it remained closed, and he came back to his place behind the desk. “I’ve complained to the management about that door, but you know how service is these days.”

  Lanigan smiled sympathetically.

  “Not that I mind if Emily hears what we’re saying. She knows everything that happens in this office. But someone else might come in while we’re talking, another client …”