Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home (25 page)

“I suppose because he had to go there. Before calling the police, he had to make sure that nothing had been taken.”

“Like what?”

“Like marihuana. He’d be more likely to cache it there than keep it in his own house.”

“But Mr. Begg? A pusher? Oh, that’s impossible. Rabbi.” His face showed utter incredulity. “He’s an old-time resident of the town, a crusty Yankee.”

The rabbi’s grin was derisive. “And former teacher and former selectman who couldn’t do anything wrong. It must be an outsider, a stranger.”

“All right. I suppose I deserve that.” said Lanigan, “but what I really meant is that – that he’s a cantankerous sort of man who’s always in our hair. If he were engaged in something like pot peddling, he wouldn’t be calling attention to himself.”

The rabbi shrugged off the argument. “Protective coloration. It evidently worked better than to try to be unobtrusive, especially in a small town like this. He always had the reputation of being a crank, so he went on being one when he began selling this stuff. It was safer than suddenly changing his image.”

Lanigan was silent, then he said quietly. “What made you think of him? Did you work this out by this Talmudic pil – whatever it is?”

“Pilpul? Not at all. I thought of Begg because he was the most obvious suspect. You would have seen it, too, if you weren’t conditioned to focus first and foremost on the outsider, the stranger. Alan Jenkins, who was not only from outside the town, but also colored.”

“But Begg is a kind of outsider. He’s a kind of recluse and a nut.”

“Not at all. He’s eccentric but well within the acceptable. He’s even traditional – the hard-headed, cantankerous Yankee who sticks up for his rights.”

“But what did he do that made you suspect him?”

“For one thing, he runs a place where youngsters hang out. He sells soda and some school supplies and lets them play the pinball machines. You’ve seen the place. What is there in that that makes it possible for him to even pay the rent? For another, Moose came from his house. He had to, because the tide was in and he couldn’t have come from farther along the beach. And then when the youngsters were breaking into the house and they were worried that they might be seen by someone next door, remember it was Moose who assured them that Begg wouldn’t bother them. Begg, a known crank and buttinsky. How could he possibly know that? Only if he knew Begg was going to leave. They probably left at the same time. And finally. I began thinking of B egg because it seemed odd that he should call to report he had seen a light. Unless he were a timid man. I would have assumed that he would first have investigated himself or at least reconnoitered.”

“Then, according to you, there’s a cache of marihuana in Hillson House.”

The rabbi shook his head. “There was. I assume he removed it before calling the police. That’s why he had to go there. And by this time, he wouldn’t have it in his own house either.”

“You realize, of course.” said Lanigan, “that there isn’t a particle of evidence against him. If we find his fingerprints in Hillson House, he says he’s been there many times as caretaker.”

“You might ask him about seeing the light.”

Once again Lanigan got up to stride around the room. “That’s not evidence. He has only to insist that he either saw it or thought he saw it. No jury would convict a man for saying he saw a light that he couldn’t have seen. They’d assume a natural mistake, the headlight of a car, the reflection of a streetlamp. No. it’s a pity we can’t introduce this pilpul of yours as legal evidence.”

“We could try.”

Lanigan hitched his chair up and said eagerly. “For instance?”

“Well, this man in Boston who was murdered the same day. We might think about him for a while to good effect.”

“Wilcox?”

“Yes, Wilcox. We know Moose went to see him because of the two twenty-dollar bills.”

“And the marihuana.”

“Marihuana he could have got from any number of sources, but two twenty-dollar bills whose serial numbers ran consecutive with those Wilcox had – those could have come only from Wilcox.”

“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 had 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.

“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.

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 matzoth 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 nishtanahalayla 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.”