One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross

by Harry Kemelman

“Are you referring to Ish-Tov?” asked Rabbi Karpis, surprised at the attorney’s vehemence.

  “He may be one, too,” said Shiah, “but I was thinking of the prosecutor.” Then with a bitter laugh, he said to Rabbi Small, “You remember, I told you we lawyers always try to keep something back? Now I’ve got to rethink my strategy. This Shatz has a good reputation, but he’s a nervous little man, and I might be able to tie him up on the witness stand. I’ll see if I can get permission to have our own expert make an examination of the body. If the man was tied up, then Ish-Tov probably could not have done it by himself. I’ve felt all along that he wasn’t alone in the business.”

  “You mean you’ll implicate others, other students in this?” asked Karpis. “I don’t think that would help us very much.”

  “No, of course not, but—look, if I don’t put him on the stand, then if he had an accomplice, it wouldn’t come out. I mean, the only way they could find out about an accomplice would be in cross-examining Ish-Tov. Right? So I don’t put him on the stand. Then I argue that he couldn’t tie him up single-handed unless the man was already dead, or at least unconscious.”

  “But that in itself suggests that others are implicated, and that would broaden the affair,” said Karpis. “We’ve got to consider the political implications. The Labor Alignment has been putting out feelers to us for the next government, but if there were a suggestion that this might be anything other than an individual—”

  Rabbi Small rose abruptly. “I think I should leave now,” he said.

  Startled, Rabbi Karpis looked up. “Oh, I see. Yes, perhaps this part of our—er—discussion should be limited to—er—well, thank you very much, Rabbi Small, for coming over. I’m sorry I was the purveyor of bad news, but I thought you’d like to know.”

  The lawyer favored Rabbi Small with a broad wink.

  As he made his way out of the building, down the walk, and to the street, Rabbi Small wondered if he was being fair to Rabbi Karpis. After all, he was an administrator, and his first duty was to the yeshiva. From his point of view, if the Alignment was interested in associating the tiny segment of the religious establishment that ran the yeshiva with the formation of a new government, that had to take precedence over any sympathy he might feel for young Ish-Tov. It would mean additional funding for the yeshiva—expansion, perhaps; greater influence, in any case. And from his point of view, Ish-Tov was merely a wrong’un they had tried unsuccessfully to help.

  When Rabbi Small reached the Skinner house on his way to the bus stop, he heard his name called. He stopped, looked back and then up, and saw Skinner waving to him from his second-floor window. He paused uncertainly, and a moment later Ismael came running out.

  “Rabbi Small, Rabbi Small, Jeem wondered if you wouldn’t like to have coffee with us!”

  The rabbi considered and then said, “Why, yes, that would be very nice.” He followed Ismael up the staircase to Skinner’s office.

  “We were just about to have our coffee when I spotted you, Rabbi,” Skinner said. And to Ismael, “Do we have anything in the way of cake or—”

  “Just those cookies Martha baked last week.”

  “Those were pretty good. Why don’t you see what you can rustle up to go with our coffee.” To the rabbi he explained, “Martha doesn’t usually prepare anything for Sunday. And Ismael and I usually eat our meals out on Sunday.”

  Ismael was not gone long, and when he reappeared, it was with a tray on which there was a thermos pot of coffee, cream, and sugar, and a plate of cookies as well as one of buttered toast. “It was all I could manage,” he said apologetically. He served Skinner and then set two cups down on the coffee table, one for the rabbi and one for himself. It occurred to the rabbi that relations between Skinner and Ismael had improved much since his last visit. There was no sign of the embarrassing servility he had noticed in Ismael before. He now addressed him as “Jeem” rather than as “Mr. James,” and he was not only joining them for coffee but also participating in the conversation.

  They talked about the political situation in the country and of the fighting that was going on in Lebanon. Skinner asked about Miriam and Gittel, and when he suggested that he would like to see them again, the rabbi readily agreed and said he would talk to them and see if he couldn’t arrange to have Skinner come to dinner some evening.

  After an hour or so, when the rabbi rose and said he would have to be going, Skinner said, “Ismael, why don’t you drive the rabbi home. It’s awfully hot out and he might have to wait a good twenty minutes before that bus comes.” The rabbi made polite demurral but permitted himself to be persuaded.

  Miriam had returned by the time the rabbi got back to the apartment. In response to her asking how he had spent the day, he told her about his visit to the yeshiva. He tried not to sound bitter as he explained the concerns of the yeshiva authorities. “I suppose it’s natural for him to be concerned for his institution. When you consider the sort of person whom they are apt to attract, young men, many who have led rackety lives, one who gets in trouble with the law is not so unusual. But the fact is that their concern is not so much with Ish-Tov as with the reputation of the school. And the lawyer they engage will naturally have the same attitude.”

  “Oh, dear, is there nothing that can be done for him? Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “Like what? Hire a lawyer for him?”

  “No, but—look here, all those people who came for Barney Berkowitz’s Bar Mitzvah. I gather they were all concerned. Well, maybe they could make up a pool and—”

  “And hire a lawyer for his defense?” He laughed. “They’re not really concerned about Ish-Tov except as something to beat me over the head with. Al Bergson is coming here tonight. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I will.”

  “And if they got a lawyer, what could he do?”

  “Isn’t there anything, anything at all that could be built up into a defense, David?”

  “Well, there is one thing. Perlmutter didn’t recognize Grenish from the photo. That could be worked up. If I could get hold of Adoumi or whoever is handling the actual investigation, I might just possibly.”

  “How about Gittel?”

  “What about Gittel? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “I’ll bet she could get Adoumi, and if he’s not actually handling the case, she might be able to get him to get the one who is.”

  And the rabbi, who had seen Gittel in action before, said, “It’s worth a try.”

  “Oh, David, do you think there’s a chance? Do you have some idea—”

  “Nothing very much, I’m afraid. But maybe I can delay things a little. As near as I can judge, the way the matter stands now, they’re all set to bring the boy before the court and get him sentenced one, two, three. They won’t put him on the stand. It probably will be a deal of some sort between the prosecutor and the defense. Maybe a shorter sentence. Something like that.”

  “Then how can you stop it?”

  “Well, there’s Perlmutter’s testimony. They’ve got to explain that. If Gittel manages to get Adoumi down, I’ll call Perlmutter and have him come, too. His testimony will be more effective if he’s here to tell it than if I just recount it.”

  “Will you call Bergson and tell him not to come?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I should. On the other hand, I don’t see any harm in his being here. It might even help.”

  36

  On the telephone, Gittel was formidable, when Adoumi explained patiently that he was no longer involved in the case, that he had given it over to Yaacov Luria of the Police Department, she said, “So bring him along with you. Maybe it would be better if both of you were here.”

  “But Gittel, I can’t get Luria to come to your house to discuss a police matter. There are lines of authority, and we don’t cross them.”

  “Look, Uri, he’s Tzippe Luria’s boy. I was in the Haganah with her. We were close, like sisters. So, do I have to call her in Tel Aviv and ask her to call her boy here in Je
rusalem, he should do his old mother a favor and go and see her friend Gittel?”

  “All right, Gittel,” said Adoumi wearily, “I’ll call him.”

  She replaced the receiver and said, “Believe me, they’ll be here.”

  Sure enough, shortly after the women had cleared the dishes of the evening meal, the two men appeared. Adoumi began to make the introductions, when Gittel stopped him. “No, me you don’t have to introduce. I knew Yaacov when—when—I attended his Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Hello, Gittel. You’re looking well. I heard you were in Jerusalem, and I was planning to drop around someday and—”

  “But you were busy. I forgive you. This is my niece, Miriam, and this is her husband, Rabbi Small. From America.”

  “Rabbi Small was very helpful to me some years ago,” said Adoumi.

  Bergson arrived shortly after, followed a few minutes later by Perlmutter. As introductions were being made, Adoumi said, “You look familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “I work at the Excelsior Hotel. You interviewed me there. At least, you showed me a photograph and asked if it was anyone I recognized.”

  “Oh, yes, Grenish’s photo. You said you didn’t recognize him.”

  “It wasn’t Professor Grenish,” said Perlmutter firmly.

  “What’s that?”

  “You knew him?” asked Luria.

  “I had never met him before, but when I saw him at breakfast that Sunday morning, I got a good look at him, and I’d know him if I saw him again. Let me explain. I am an accountant by profession, and I work in the accounting office at the hotel. But because I am seventy-five years old—”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thank you, but it means that I can’t afford to stand on my dignity. I fill in for others when it’s necessary, on the front desk, or checking of guests for breakfast against a list. Well, the first thing I did when I took my place at the little table at the door of the dining room was to go over my list.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have many foreign visitors from places all over the world—Scandinavians, South Americans, French, Italians. So when they give me their room numbers and their names, I don’t have to ask them to repeat them or spell them out. The guest comes in and says, “Smith, six forty-four. I look it up on my list, check it off, smile, and say, “B’tayavon, or bon appétit, Mr. Smith.”

  Luria glanced at Adoumi and said, “He hasn’t absorbed the Israeli attitude yet, has he?”

  “Well,” said Perlmutter defensively, “so many, especially those who come on tours, are so used to being herded about and ordered around by the tour guides and hotel clerks that they appreciate being treated as guests and feeling that they are welcome.”

  “Okay, sure, but—well, go on.”

  “Well, when I saw the name Grenish, Professor Abraham Grenish, I took note of it. I even made a little note of the name and the room number—”

  “Why?”

  “I come from Poland. Our town was overrun by the Nazis, and my entire family was wiped out. I escaped the slaughter because I was in Switzerland on business at the time. My wife’s family was also wiped out. Their name was Grenitz. It means ‘border.’ So when I saw the name Grenish on my list, it occurred to me that it might originally have been Grenitz. The itz ending suggests Russia or Poland, so I could understand someone coming to America changing it to ish or ich. There is no point in tracing Perlmutters. It’s meaningless, thought to be a pretty name—mother-of-pearl—like Goldberg, mountain of gold, or Rosenzweig, rose branch, and adopted when Jews were required to take surnames for official records and for a census. But a name meaning ‘border’ would be likely to be taken only by someone living on a border. You’ll find Perlmutter all over Eastern Europe, but Grenitz is comparatively rare.

  “So I thought when the professor checked through, I would engage him in conversation, and ask him perhaps if his name had originally been Grenitz and if his folks had come from our town or near there.”

  “And?”

  “I rehearsed what I would say and just how I would say it. I thought I might pretend to have a little difficulty in finding it so as to give me a chance to study his face and see if I could see any family resemblance. And then I would find it and remark that my wife’s name had been Grenitz. And that’s what happened, except that before I could say anything about my wife’s name, the hotel manager came hurrying over to ask me to go to the front desk, where there was a guest who was Polish or Russian, and they needed an interpreter. He took my place, and I went to the front desk. But I lingered at the door for a moment and watched the professor go to the buffet table and begin loading his tray. Yes, I got a good look at him, and he was not the man whose photograph you showed me.”

  Curiously, the first question came from Al Bergson. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

  “In Canada, where I lived until I came here.”

  “That accounts for it. Your English is very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Luria glared in annoyance at Bergson and then turned to Perlmutter and asked, “You saw him only that one time?”

  “That’s right. One of the Arab employees checks out on the Sabbath.”

  Luria turned to Adoumi. “Did you show the photo to the Arab checker?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you go back to see if he was still in the dining room—after you got through at the front desk, I mean?” Luria continued to Perlmutter.

  “I did, but he’d already gone. I wasn’t too concerned, because I had asked how long he’d be staying and was told he had registered for a week. But that was the last I saw of him.”

  “But look here,” said Luria. “Ish-Tov identified him, both the photo and later the man. And the photo was a good likeness.”

  “And people make mistakes on identification all the time, especially if they’ve seen the person once,” Adoumi added.

  “I did not make a mistake,” said Perlmutter.

  “Then that means—” the rabbi began.

  “Yes, Rabbi,” Adoumi challenged. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if the man in the trench was Professor Grenish, then the man who slept in his bed at the hotel Saturday night and gave his name and room number Sunday morning was someone else, an imposter. So the question is, how would he have gotten his hotel key? Grenish could have given it to him, or more likely it could have been taken from him.”

  “Why is it more likely to have been taken from him?” Luria challenged.

  “I can imagine that Grenish might be indisposed and, needing something from his hotel room, he might give his key to someone and ask him to get it for him. But then, would his messenger spend the night there and have breakfast at the hotel the next morning? Much more likely, the key was taken from him.”

  “It still wouldn’t explain why he’d want to spend the night there,” said Luria.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” the rabbi admitted, “unless he might have thought there would be a message, a phone call.…”

  Gittel sensed that the rabbi was uncertain and was floundering. She sought to give him respite to gather his thoughts. “Let us have some coffee,” she said briskly.

  “No, Gittel,” said Luria. “I want to get this over with.”

  “When you talk to your mother, I’m sure you will mention that you came to see me. And if I know Tzippe Luria, she will ask you what I served. And you will say that you had nothing in my house? Miriam, bring in some fruit, and put on the water for the coffee.”

  Luria glanced at Adoumi and then, with a shrug, he said, “Maybe we could all use a cup of coffee.”

  As he sipped at his coffee, Luria said, “All right, let’s assume that Mr. Perlmutter is right and that it was some imposter who slept in Grenish’s bed Saturday night and had breakfast at the hotel the next morning. So that means that after breakfast Saturday morning, Grenish, the real one, went to Abu Tor. How did he get there? Did he take a
cab at the hotel? We can check that easily enough. Or did he decide to walk? In which case, did he ask one of the hotel clerks how to get there? Or did he just start walking aimlessly and—”

  “How do you know it was Saturday?” asked the rabbi.

  “Because we know it wasn’t Friday. He spent Friday in the Old City.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We-el, since he didn’t have dinner at the hotel, he had to have eaten in the Old City, or at least in East Jerusalem, since all restaurants in the Jewish section are closed on the Sabbath. Then one of our men thought he recognized the photo of Grenish. Someone asked him why one of the stores was shut down, and he tried to explain to him. And—oh, yes, what’s his name, the fellow on whose land he was found, Skinner—he was shown the photo, and he made a positive identification.”

  “Skinner knew him?” asked the rabbi in surprise.

  “No, but he came along as the policeman who speaks no English was trying to explain in French, and Skinner translated. So he was definitely in the Old City Friday, which means he couldn’t have been in Abu Tor. It’s quite a distance from the Old City, and there’s no place in Abu Tor where he could have had dinner.”

  “No place in Jerusalem is very far from any other place in Jerusalem,” observed Bergson, “unless Gilo, perhaps.”

  “All right,” Luria conceded. “So it could have been on Friday.” He turned to Adoumi. “Is there anything to show that he wasn’t at the hotel Saturday?”

  Adoumi shook his head. “As I told you, I questioned the Arab clerk who checked breakfasts Saturday morning. He didn’t recognize the person in the photo.”

  “Did you mention his name? Did you mention Grenish by name?”

  “Of course not,” said Adoumi. “When you hold an identification lineup, do you give the names and professions of the people in it?” He thumbed through his notebook. “Here it is. This is the Arab clerk: ‘I may have seen him, but I do not remember. I see so many.… I go by the room number. They give me the number and I check it off.’ The only one who knew the name was the manager and—oh, yes, the security guard, but then he was part of the investigating team, you might say. As a matter of fact, he almost saw him. Here it is: ‘So I’m behind the desk … and somebody says, “I think there’s something for me, Room seven-thirteen.” So I look up, and sure enough, there’s a letter in the seven-thirteen pigeonhole. I glance at it and I say, “Grenish?” and he says, “That’s right.” So I give it to him. I didn’t look at him—maybe his back as he turned away.’”