Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out

by Harry Kemelman

  “Of course.”

  “I was away for the weekend—a little trip—so I didn’t hear about Jordon until last night when there was that item about William Green. I try to cooperate with the police as much as I can. Got to, you know, since as a member of the bar I’m an officer of the court. But there didn’t seem to be any sense in calling last night after eleven. I figured this morning would be soon enough.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Lanigan assured him.

  “Then that’s settled. Now to business.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “Ellsworth Jordon came to see me a couple of months ago and asked me to draw up a will for him. Now while Ellsworth was meticulous about money and wouldn’t take a dime that didn’t belong to him, he also had a strong sense of meum and tuum. And in this matter the tuum was the government, federal and state.” His little smile broadened again to show he was amused. “Quite indignant he was about inheritance taxes. He couldn’t see why he should have to pay inheritance taxes where he’d already paid income taxes on the money when he earned it. And he wanted me to work out some plan, a trust fund maybe, that would keep the inheritance tax to a minimum, eliminating it altogether if possible. I suggested he might do better with a tax lawyer, but he insisted I do it, even if it involved my engaging the services of a specialist. So I proceeded on that basis. It involved considerable work on my part. There were various suggestions that I made that he took exception to. But finally I got in everything he wanted, or at least had been induced to accept.”

  “And who was the beneficiary?”

  “Why, that’s why I called you. It was that same young man, William Green, Ellsworth’s natural son. He was leaving it all to him.”

  Lanigan nodded slowly. “It explains Jordon inviting him to come and live with him. And yet when I questioned him the other night, he said Jordon was just an old friend of the family.”

  “The young man may very well think so,” Sawyer said. “Jordon was sure he did not know.”

  “And Billy inherits it all?”

  Sawyer shook his head. His smile expanded until it seemed to extend from ear to ear. There was even a gurgle, which Lanigan interpreted as laughter. “No, he gets nothing. Not a dime. My guess is it will all go to the commonwealth.”

  “But why not? Is there something wrong with the will?” asked Lanigan bewildered.

  “There is no will. There is only my draft of the will. I sent it to Jordon a few days ago, and he sent it back with some suggestions for changes penciled in the margin. I got it Friday morning. It was never signed.” This time he laughed out loud. “The best laid plans of mice and men, you know.”

  Lanigan looked at him curiously, wondering why he should take such pleasure in Jordon’s plan having been thwarted. “You’ve known Jordon a long time?” he asked tentatively.

  “Oh, yes,” said Sawyer archly, “quite a long time.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  Sawyer pursed his lips. “I don’t think I disliked him. He rather amused me.”

  “Amused? Why amused?”

  For answer Sawyer gestured at the room. “It doesn’t suggest a prosperous practice, does it? Well, it isn’t. I think I’m a good lawyer, Mr. Lanigan, but attracting cases that involve large fees calls for a special talent that I’m afraid I don’t have. However, I’ve always managed to make a living. Nothing spectacular, you understand, but a living. Now, if you’re a millionaire like Ellsworth Jordon, why would you come to someone like me to draw up your will, especially when it means coming all the way to Boston from Barnard’s Crossing?”

  “Maybe he thought if he went to a local lawyer, word might get out about the provisions of the will,” Lanigan suggested.

  “Most unlikely, Mr. Lanigan, most unlikely, I assure you. Besides, there were other occasions over the years when he made use of my services, usually concerning large, spectacular purchases or sales of land. Never anything small or ordinary like the sale of a single houselot, and never to defend him in a law suit. And I’m sure he’s been sued. A man like Ellsworth Jordon is apt to be.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “The answer, Mr. Lanigan, is Emily—” again a tilt of the head in the direction of the outer office. “Our acquaintance, Ellsworth and I and Emily, goes back to when we were in college. We were all at different schools, but we belonged to a social club called the Collegiates. He was pretty sweet on Emily, took her out a lot, and finally asked her to marry him.” The smile broadened. “But she turned him down and married me. I’m quite sure, and Emily agrees, that each time the purpose of his coming here was to let us know how well he was doing. Asking me to draw up his will, of course, was to apprise her of the sum total of his success, and also to inform her that though he had never married, he was not unacquainted with conjugal bliss and was the father of a son.”

  “You mean he was still in love—with your wife?”

  Sawyer shook his head. “I don’t think he cared a rap for her. He barely spoke to her on the occasions when he came here. He was just determined to show her what a terrible mistake she had made in turning him down. Do you wonder, Mr. Lanigan, that I’m amused?” He peered at Lanigan through half-lidded eyes. “Interesting, at least, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, it’s interesting all right. You know anything else about him that’s—interesting? Anything that might help me?”

  “Well, I might make a suggestion, speaking only as a lawyer, you understand. The fact that the boy had come to live with him suggests that he was still in contact with the boy’s mother. And while he did not tell the boy that he was naming him his heir, he might have confided in the mother. It might be worthwhile inquiring where she was Friday night.”

  “She was in Europe.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked pointedly.

  “Well …” A thought occurred to Lanigan, and he smiled. “Where were you—and Emily that Friday night?”

  Sawyer began to laugh, a deep gurgling in the throat that sounded as if he were choking. Finally he stopped and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Very good, Mr. Lanigan.”

  “Well, where were you?”

  Sawyer’s face showed annoyance. “We were right here, working late on that same blasted will to ready it for Saturday when he said he’d be in.” He smiled again and purred, “No doubt the night watchman noted the time of our departure on his register.”

  32

  It was Herb who opened the door to the sergeant. They had finished Sunday dinner. His mother had gone upstairs to her room for a nap, and while Molly was in the kitchen finishing the dishes—the division of labor between them called for him to wash and for her to wipe and put away—he had been in the living room reading the Sunday paper.

  “Sergeant Holcombe,” his visitor announced and showed his badge pinned in his wallet.

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Herb stood aside for him and motioned him to a chair.

  “You’re Mr. Mandell? You’re up at the high school, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You got my kid sister in bookkeeping.”

  From the kitchen, Molly called out, “What is it, Herb?”

  “Just some school business,” he called back.

  The sergeant was embarrassed. “Oh, I didn’t come to see you about my sister, Mr. Mandell. I wouldn’t come to your house and on a Sunday. I’d go to the school. Chances are, I wouldn’t go at all. I mean, it would be my dad who’d come to see you. It was Mrs. Mandell I came to see.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, it’s just routine, Mr. Mandell. Could I see her for a minute. Could you ask her—”

  But it was unnecessary, for Molly had finished with the dishes and had come into the living room. She looked questioningly at the sergeant.

  “It’s just a matter of routine,” he apologized. “I’ve got some questions—”.

  “Of course, Sergeant.” She seated herself beside Herb on the sofa and waited
as the sergeant flipped pages of a notebook to a clean page.

  “It’s about this business Friday night. Mr. Gore said he stopped at a gas station on the road to Boston and phoned you—”

  “You mean they suspect Mr. Gore?” she asked indignantly.

  “Oh no. It’s just that the chief wants everything neat and tidy. This is a pretty important case, and everything has to be just so. I guess what he’s after mostly right now is pinning down the exact time when—well, when it happened. Now Mr. Gore don’t remember what time it was when he stopped at the gas station, but he remembers calling you. And the attendant at the gas station don’t remember what time it was but he remembers Mr. Gore making the call, mostly because the outside pay station was out of order and he used the one in the office. So I thought maybe you might remember.” He looked at her hopefully, pencil poised over his notebook. “He did call you, didn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, he called all right,” she said, “and I remember what time it was, too. It was half past eight.”

  The sergeant wrote happily in his notebook and then looked up. “You’re very sure of the time, Miss. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I looked at my watch, of course.”

  “And how did you happen to do that? Did he ask what time it was?”

  “Oh no. I was working on a report for the bank. The reason for Mr. Gore’s call was to see how I was getting on. I was practically finished, and I looked at my watch to see about how soon I would be done.”

  The sergeant shook his head in wonder. “For the bank, you say. I guess this talk about bankers’ hours is just a lot of talk.”

  She smiled. “I very frequently take work home, and I know Mr. Gore does almost every night. Most people at the bank do, that is, the executives.”

  He digested this with a slow nodding of the head. “So he called and asked you how you were getting on and you looked at your watch and said you were almost finished.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it was half past eight by your watch?”

  “M-hmm.”

  He smiled as he rose to go. “And did you? Did you get it done?”

  She smiled back at him. “I did, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant read over what he had written, “Anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Mandell?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, anything that might have bearing on this business.”

  She hesitated and then shook her head slowly.

  A thought occurred to him. “The chief may want me to type this out and then have you sign it,” he said.

  “Then I’ll sign it, of course.”

  As Mandell showed him to the door, the sergeant said, “My sister, the one who’s taking your course, she likes it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Mandell. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Same as mine. Holcombe. Doris Holcombe.”

  “Oh yes. Tall, blond girl. She’s a good student.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so, Mr. Mandell.”

  “You do that, Sergeant.”

  33

  The voice on the telephone was excited and impatient. “Rabbi Small? I’d like to see you about something. It’s terribly important. Do you have office hours?”

  “If it’s terribly important, my office hours are twenty-four hours a day. Whom am I talking to?”

  “You don’t know me. My name is Segal. It’s about—well, I’d rather not say over the phone. If you’d let me know when I can come—”

  “I’m free for the evening, Mr. Segal. You can come over anytime. Right now, if you like.”

  “I’m on my way, Rabbi.”

  Twenty minutes later as they shook hands, Rabbi Small said, “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Segal.”

  “Oh? You take a flyer in the stock market?” And as the rabbi smiled in obvious negation, “Oh, I know. The real estate man, Mr. Maltzman, spoke to you. He said he was going to. He hasn’t got back to me yet. Is it all right?”

  “I’m sure we’d all like to have you join our temple, Mr. Segal. There’s no special ceremony necessary.”

  “But the Bar Mitzvah—”

  “You were Bar Mitzvah when you reached the age of thirteen, whether you had a ceremony or didn’t. It just means that by our law you are of age.” He went on to explain the significance of the ceremony and how it had developed to its present proportion. Segal listened, but with no great interest.

  “Good,” he said when the rabbi finished. “You know after I agreed to do it, I got to thinking about it. I was prepared to go through with it, but it occurred to me that it might be kind of embarrassing. I’m certainly glad I don’t have to.”

  “Is that what you wanted to see me about, Mr. Segal?”

  “Oh no, nothing to do with your temple. It’s about this William Green who’s involved in the murder. Have you been following it at all?”

  “I read the local papers, and I listen to the news broadcasts.”

  “You see, Rabbi, I’m living in the hotel for the time being, and I take my meals there, too. You can’t help overhearing conversation, and that’s all they’re talking about. The general consensus seems to be that this William Green did it. I gather that he’s new in town and that he was just visiting with the man who was murdered. And there seems to be some suggestion that the young man is somewhat strange, that he has no friends and keeps to himself. I heard one man say that the proof he was guilty was that the police were keeping him under wraps. I guess there was some truth to that, because in one newspaper story, it said they were unable to contact him, and in the news broadcast this evening, it said he was unavailable for questioning by the reporter. Then he went on to say he was the son of Hester Grimes, well-known nightclub and TV entertainer. That brought me up sharp, Rabbi, because I know Hester Grimes.”

  “And you mean he isn’t her son?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean, I don’t know her that well. What I’m trying to say … Look here, I get asked to serve on lots of committees for civic campaigns and charity drives. It isn’t that I’m more charitable or civic-minded than the next fellow, but while the rationale is that I’m supposed to have proven administrative and executive ability, the main reason is that it’s presumed I’ll make a large contribution to the cause and induce my wealthy friends to do the same. Well, last year I was involved in a charity bazaar where we got a lot of show people to come—to do a benefit. And when they come, the members of the committee are expected to entertain them, take them to dinner, have them to the house, the works, because they’re not geting paid, you see. Although some of them do. Anyway, I drew this Hester Grimes. I arranged to have her picked up at the airport and brought to our hotel. Then we had dinner, and after her stint at the bazaar, we had her come back to our place. She is a delightful, charming woman, and we sat around and talked, and she told us quite a bit about herself. Grimes is her stage name, Rabbi. Her real name is Green.”

  “Then that accounts for—”

  “Her original name is Esther Green. She’s a Jewish girl, Rabbi.”

  The rabbi pursed his lips and considered. He was silent for quite some time as Segal waited expectantly. Then he said quietly, “What is it you would like me to do, Mr. Segal?”

  “Well, Rabbi, here’s this young man, just a kid, eighteen or nineteen years old, who is new in town, has no friends, and his mother is somewhere in Europe and probably doesn’t know anything about this. Now I’m new here and I don’t know this town, but I know how administrators work. They don’t go looking for trouble, and when it comes, they try to get rid of it as soon as possible, the easiest way. I know if he’s charged, he’ll be represented by a lawyer, maybe one that the court appoints, but … look, I don’t care how fair and decent the policemen or the town fathers are, I know that a young immature boy will be treated like a grown man, and a friendless stranger won’t get the same kind of treatment that a resident of the town with family and friends would get. I thought you, as rabbi of the community, and sinc
e it’s a Jewish boy, you could claim some standing. I mean, even if I got him a lawyer, he couldn’t just enter the case and say he’s representing William Green where he hadn’t asked for him. You see?”

  “All right. All right, Mr. Segal. I’ll arrange to see William Green and let him know, well, that he’s not alone.”

  34

  Henry Maltzman drummed his fingers impatiently on the desktop. “If you want to sell your house, Joe, you’ll fix it up. Have it painted—”

  “Painted?” Krasker was aghast. “That will cost me a thousand, fifteen hundred bucks, maybe more.”

  “So what? I’ll get you another five thousand for it.”

  “Will you give me that in writing?”

  “Yeah. That’ll be the day. Look, Joe, get this through your head. Houses aren’t bought; they’re sold. And if you want to sell them, they’ve got to be attractive. I took a party out to see your place last week, and he pulls out a jackknife and starts jabbing it into the doorframe where the paint is all bubbled and chipped. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he wanted to see if the wood was rotted. Get the point? When a place is run down, the customer always thinks it’s worse than it is. Now, it doesn’t have to cost you all that much to spruce it up. It doesn’t have to be an A number one job, like if you were doing it for yourself. I got a couple of Greek boys that will slap some paint on it for cheap, and it will look real good.”

  Krasker finally let himself be convinced. “All right, let them come down and give me an estimate.”

  Maltzman leaned back in his chair and smiled his satisfaction. “I’ll talk to them personally and tell them I want them to give you the best price they can. I throw a lot of work their way, and they’re good boys. Now, how about Sunday? I’m depending on you to come through for me.”

  Krasker squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and focused his eyes on the desktop. It was not easy to disagree with Henry Maltzman. “I don’t know, Henry,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It seems a terrible thing to fire a rabbi, especially where he hasn’t done anything.”