Someday the Rabbi Will Leave

by Harry Kemelman

“That’s nonsense. Wasn’t I a bridesmaid at Toby Berman’s wedding a couple of years ago? The groom was Christian, and they had a rabbi, with a beard even, doing the necessary hocus-pocus. Although I do seem to remember that Toby said they had to get him from outside, from someplace in New Hampshire.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to your father about it. Maybe you’d better have your young man come to dinner one night first.”

  “Will do,” said Laura enthusiastically. “You’ll see, you’ll like him, and so will Dad.”

  “I hope so. I’m sure we will.” Mrs. Magnuson got up to leave. At the door, she hesitated. “Did you consider the possibility of a purely civil ceremony, by a judge? Your father knows Justice Pearsall of the Massachusetts Supreme Court.”

  Laura pressed her lips together to form a thin line, a grimace which her mother knew meant that she had made up her mind and that there was no changing it. “It’s my wedding, and I make the rules. And it’s just as well that Jack recognize it from the beginning.”

  24

  The Police Chief of Revere, Cesare Orlando, Chezzie to his intimates, thought it only proper for the sake of regional harmony to report personally to Chief Lanigan. “Hugh? Chezzie Orlando. I thought I’d let you know that we took care of that hit-and-run business for you. I sent Detective Lance. You know him? He looks like an undertaker. Very good in these matters. Sympathetic, you know.”

  “I guess you have to use him a lot over in your town,” Lanigan suggested.

  “Now, now, Hugh. Remember, we’re a city, not a small town like you. Anyway, Lance went to the address. It’s an apartment house—residential hotel-type place. Not too clean, but fairly respectable. It isn’t a place that gives us any particular trouble, you understand? Mostly transients, but there’s some old people been living there for years.”

  “I understand.”

  “So there’s a broad there. Looked decent enough. Not flashy. Maybe thirty-five or even a little older. They been living together for some months, she and the victim, Tony D’Angelo. These days that’s practically a marriage.”

  “She got a name?” Lanigan reached for a scratchpad.

  “Oh, I didn’t give it to you? Mildred Hanson. But when the neighbors called her Mrs. D’Angelo, she didn’t correct them. Lance said she seemed like a decent woman. He took her to the morgue and she identified the body all right.”

  “Get anything on him?”

  “She said she thought he came from New York originally.”

  “And what he did for a living?”

  “She wasn’t too certain except that he was in politics.”

  “And you didn’t know him, Chezzie?” Lanigan was frankly incredulous.

  “He didn’t operate local. He played with the big boys in Boston. So, for all that it’s your job rather than mine, I called up a couple of pals, Italiano, as a favor to you—”

  “Thanks, Chezzie, you’re a sweetheart.”

  “Well, like I always say, one hand washes another. Anyway, he was a kind of gofer.”

  “For whom?”

  “Sort of free lance, but he did a lot for the Majority Whip.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Look, Hugh, it’s not like it was a murder, it was a hit-and-run. Oh yeah, one thing I wanted to ask you. Your people searched him. What money did they find on him?”

  “Just a few bucks. Hold it a minute. Here it is, twenty-seven dollars in his wallet, and some loose change, fifty-two cents in his right-hand trouser pocket. Why?”

  “The girl hinted that he had a lot of money on him, or was supposed to have.”

  “I see. Where’s the girl now? Where is she living?”

  “She’s staying on, as far as I can make out.”

  “She got any money? How’s she going to live?”

  “Well, she’s a waitress. In the Blue Moon. It’s a kind of cocktail lounge.”

  “Okay, Chezzie, thanks. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “You know me, Hugh.”

  It was not that Detective Sergeant Dunstable was lazy, or a complainer, but he disliked doing useless work. So when he got his assignment, he said, “Jeez, Lieutenant, a guy would have to be out of his mind to have his headlight fixed in a local garage after he’d broken it in a hit-and-run.”

  “So how do you know he wasn’t out of his mind? Maybe he was drunk and he hits the guy and thinks he’s just gone over a bump in the road. And it’s Glen Lane, remember, where there’s more potholes than pavement. So he drives on home and goes to bed. And the next morning when he wakes up he sees he’s got a broken headlight.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So it would look pretty damn funny if we didn’t bother to look, and all the time there’s a gas station attendant who remembers putting in a sealed beam for a guy. And when one of the selectmen calls Hugh Lanigan on it, what’s he supposed to say? ‘Officer Dunstable said a guy would have to be out of his mind to have his headlight replaced if he’d been in a hit-and-run, so I didn’t bother to check the local garages.’”

  “It was just a thought, Lieutenant.”

  At the first garage, the proprietor shook his head and said, “It’s about the hit-and-run, huh? Look, a guy would have to be out of his mind to replace a headlight locally where’d he’d just been involved in hit-and-run.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Bill Knowland mentioned it at the coffee shop this morning.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s routine, but we don’t take any chances,” the sergeant answered stiffly.

  “Try Gately’s,” the garageman called after him.

  On his fourth call, Sergeant Dunstable struck pay dirt. Mr. Glossop of Glossop’s Automotive and Gas peered up from under sun-bleached eyebrows and said, “Yeah, I installed a sealed beam yesterday.”

  “You sure it was yesterday?”

  Glossop removed his heels from the top of the desk and sat up, annoyance writ large on his long weather-beaten face. “Sure, I’m sure it was yesterday. How often do I install a headlight?”

  “Anyone you know?”

  Glossop shook his head. “Black Chevy, a seventy-three, kind of beat up, but no one I know.”

  His assistant, Tom Blakely, a large, redheaded young man, who had been pumping gas came in to make out the charge slip for a credit card and volunteered, “I know him, Sergeant.”

  “You do? What’s his name?”

  “Well, I don’t actually know him, but I’ve seen him around. Just a minute, Sarge.”

  He went to get the customer’s signature on the charge slip, and Glossop took up the story. “He drove in sometime late in the afternoon and told me to fill her up. I noticed the broken headlight and asked him didn’t he want to replace it.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe I used a little salesmanship on him. I kind of hinted that you guys were conducting like a campaign to see that all cars were properly equipped, and that if it got dark and he had only one headlight … Why should Sears get all the business?”

  “Sure, keep it local.”

  Glossop nodded. “That’s the way I feel. So he got out and came around and took a look at it and said something like he must have kicked up a rock, and sure, go ahead. So I unscrewed the rim and took out what was left of the light, the neck, you know—”

  “What did you do with it, the neck, I mean?”

  “In the trash barrel over there.”

  Tom Blakely returned. “Like I said, Sarge, I don’t actually know him, but I’ve seen him around. I think he’s new in town. He’s almost as tall as me, maybe six feet, but he’s on the thin side. He lives over on Maple Street, down the end, near Glen Lane. I’ve seen the car parked there. Last house, I think. He’s got one of those stickers on the rear window, you know, Northeastern University, so I guess he goes to school in Boston.”

  The sergeant walked over to the trash barrel and poked a tentative hand in. Then he came back and said, “I want to use your phone to call the station house. I gotta get someone to come down here and take that trash bar
rel.”

  “What do you mean, take it?” demanded Glossop.

  “Just for a little while. We’ll return it. I just want them to empty it down there.”

  “And what’ll we do in the meantime?”

  “There’s a carton out back we can use,” said Blakely.

  “What do you do on Maple Street?” Glossop asked him curiously.

  Blakely grinned. “Oh, there’s a girl I know lives there.”

  Later at the station house the sergeant reported to Chief Lanigan. “The guy lives on Maple Street, corner Glen Lane. Name is Kramer. You want me to go down and bring him in?”

  “No, we’ll wait until we hear from the Registry people. If it matches up with the rest of the glass, then we’ll bring him in. Good job, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Dunstable smirked. “Just a little straight detective work.”

  25

  “Well, what do you think of him?” asked Mrs. Magnuson as she closed the door of their bedroom behind her.

  Howard Magnuson temporized as he unknotted his tie. “He’s a nice-looking fellow.”

  “He’s obviously devoted to Laura,” said Mrs. Magnuson. “He couldn’t take his eyes off her all through dinner.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. Even when he was talking to me, he kept glancing over to her. Maybe it was devotion, but at the time it seemed to me he was looking to her for cues.”

  “Well, he was in a strange environment,” said his wife defensively. “I can understand his not wanting to make any mistakes.”

  “Oh sure, I understand.” He was trying hard to feel pleased. An innate reluctance to fool himself, however, made him add, “But you’ve got to admit he’s no ball of fire.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I gathered from Laura he went into politics because he isn’t making it in the law. And if it weren’t for Laura, he wouldn’t be making it in politics. He has a few thousand bucks that he inherited, and he puts it in a savings certificate. He buys a pink car because he was able to get it cheap. He—”

  “Well, who says a ball of fire is necessary for a good marriage?” demanded Mrs. Magnuson, trying a different tack. “You take a girl like our Laura, determined, strong-minded, yes, stubborn, and if she were to marry a forceful man of determination, you know what would happen? They’d tear each other apart. Maybe Laura is smarter than you are, at least in what she needs in a husband. I’m inclined to think that Laura needs a man who is easygoing, flexible—”

  “Why don’t you say it?” he challenged. “Soft, weak, dumb.”

  “All right,” she said calmly. “What of it? She’ll guide him. She’ll direct him. He’ll know it and be grateful, and devoted. He has no money? So what? She has, and someday she will have a lot more. She wants a political career, and she’ll get it through him. With her behind him, advising and directing him, my guess is that he’ll make a successful state senator. After a couple of terms, he’ll run for Congress, and he’ll win, and they’ll go to Washington. If you are interested in your daughter having a successful life, fulfilling herself, you’d be delighted with her choice.”

  “Sure, but dammit—”

  “You know what would happen if she brought home the kind of man you think she ought to choose? A bright young doctor, or lawyer, or businessman? He would have a successful career, and she’d be at home, planning and arranging dinners for his friends. She’d be a housewife and that’s all. He’d be doing the interesting things, and she’d be conferring with interior decorators on the color of the drapes. Look, Laura is the son we didn’t have. And we brought her up that way. When all her friends were going off to finishing school, you insisted she go to college. If she were a man, you’d be delighted to have her go into politics.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Suppose she were a man. And he brought home a female Scofield. You’d be tickled about her putting what little money she had into a savings certificate, about her buying a pink car because it was cheap, because she kept looking to your son for proper cues before speaking.”

  “How about children?” he demanded.

  “She’ll have them.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m thinking that children take after their parents. They might take after Laura, or they might take after him, or they might be a combination of the two. Are you looking forward to having grandchildren with minds and characters like Scofield’s?”

  She was nonplussed for a moment but recovered quickly. “Would you think of that if Laura were our son, Larry, and brought home a girl like Scofield? If you thought of children at all, you’d be thinking only if she were healthy enough to have them. Well, he certainly looks healthy enough, and for the rest, it’s a matter of luck.”

  Magnuson sighed. “Okay, Soph, you win as usual.” He smiled. “Let’s hope it works out as well for them as it has for us.”

  She bridled. “Are you suggesting that I try to boss you? You know very well you make all the decisions.”

  “Yes, you only advise, but your advice is awfully persuasive. I suppose that’s how Laura works it, too. Maybe all women do. Has she advised you when she’s planning to get married?”

  His wife shook her head. “She hasn’t mentioned a specific date. I got the impression that it would be right after the election, though.”

  “That’s only a month away. I better get cracking.”

  “Why, what do you have to do?”

  “I’ve got to get it all set with the rabbi. Something tells me that might not be easy.”

  26

  Paul Kramer opened the door and looked questioningly at the two men. One flipped a leather folder displaying a badge and introduced himself. “Sergeant Dunstable, Barnard’s Crossing Police.” He nodded to his companion. “Officer Norton. We come in?”

  “Sure, I guess so. My folks aren’t here if you want to see them.”

  “Is that your car parked on Glen Lane? The black Chevy?”

  “Yes, that’s my car.”

  “It was parked there last night?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “And the night before?”

  “Uh-huh.” Then understanding came. “Oh, I know I’m not supposed to park overnight on the street from November on. But I figured Glen Lane didn’t count because it’s not really a street. Besides, it’s sort of a little in”—he laughed nervously—“on what would be the sidewalk if there were a sidewalk.”

  “Why don’t you park it in your garage, or in the driveway?” asked Dunstable curiously.

  “Because my battery acts up sometimes, especially when it’s rained during the night, and I have a hard time getting started. So I park on that little incline at the end of Glen Lane. That way I can get her started by letting her roll down.”

  “You lock your car when you park it for the night?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Again he laughed nervously. “See, I drive in every morning to school where I park on Huntington Avenue. I always lock it there because there’s a lot of car theft. Around here I realize I don’t have to be so careful because who would bother to pinch a beat-up seventy-three Chevy? But I got in the habit.”

  “Was it locked Wednesday night?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He thought a moment and then, “Yeah, I’m sure it was Wednesday night. Why? What happened Wednesday night?”

  “You don’t know? It was in the Lynn Express.”

  “I don’t read the Express, just the Boston papers.”

  “There was a hit-and-run on Glen Lane.”

  “So what’s that got to do with me?”

  “You had a broken headlight replaced yesterday, didn’t you.”

  “That’s right. I was in Boston most of the day. It must have been broken there. Or I might have kicked up a stone while on my way home, or even on my way to Boston. I didn’t know about it until the guy at the gas station pointed it out to me.”

  “And where were you Wednesday night?”

  “I was right here, studying for an exam. I didn’t even go out to eat. I made someth
ing right here.”

  “Well, suppose you come down with me to see Chief Lanigan, and you can tell him all about it.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow you.”

  “No, you ride with me. Give Officer Norton your keys and he’ll drive your car down.”

  The young man hesitated. “Is this a—are you arresting me?”

  Sergeant Dunstable was elaborately casual. “I don’t have no warrant. The chief just told me to ask you to come down. Of course, if you don’t want to, I’ll go back and report. Then he might decide to get a warrant, or have the Registry people get one.”

  Paul thought quickly. It was all a mistake, of course. Some guy got clipped by a drunk driver. There was probably glass found at the scene, so the police were checking up. He had had his headlight replaced, so he was one of those who were being questioned. Maybe others were also being questioned by the Lynn police and the Revere police, maybe even by the Boston police. He would explain that he had not even been on the road at the time. Maybe they would have him make a statement which would be taken down and typed up for him to sign. And that would be it.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”

  It was not that simple. Chief Lanigan, whom he was supposed to see, was not there when they arrived. He waited on a settee under the eye of the desk sergeant. Once or twice he got up, to stretch his legs, to get a discarded newspaper from the wastebasket in the corner. Once, when he went to the door, the sergeant asked him where he was going.

  “I thought I might be able to get a cup of coffee someplace.”

  “The chief will be along in a minute. He wouldn’t like it if you weren’t here. You want a cup of coffee? Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  The sergeant had someone bring coffee and even a doughnut from the wardroom. Paul did not feel that he was under restraint, and he had not been told he could not leave. But they had the keys to his car and there was no point in leaving until they were returned to him. It was after seven when Chief Lanigan finally arrived and asked him to come into his office.

  He sat in the visitor’s chair as Lanigan spoke on the telephone. Finally, Lanigan turned to him. With his hands behind his head, fingers intertwined, he teetered back and forth in his swivel chair. Then smiling, he said, “All right, now suppose you tell me all about it.”