The Day the Rabbi Resigned

by Harry Kemelman

  The guy had been smooth over the phone, but hell, why wouldn’t he be? He was an English professor, wasn’t he? And an interrogation on the telephone was hardly ideal. If there had been a sudden flick of the eyes or a blush at an embarrassing question, he could not see it. And the car, why was it being left in Higginstown? If it was an old jalopy, why had he undertaken to drive it to Higginstown? Was the reason for leaving it there as he had stated it, or was there perhaps a bloodstain on the upholstery that he had been unable to get out? Perhaps he could have the Higginstown police check it out for him. He admitted to himself that he had uncovered nothing startling as a result of his day’s activity, but there were some possible leads. Maybe Dunstable would be able to get something out of Aherne when he questioned him again. Or perhaps he might see the young man himself; he had to make the trip to Breverton that evening for Amy’s rehearsal. He reached for the phone and dialed the country club.

  He asked for the manager, and when he was connected, he said, “That young fellow, Aherne, the one who ran the checkroom the night of the Windermere dinner, is he around, or will he be around tonight?”

  “No, he’s got another job for the summer. He said he was available Sundays if we needed him.”

  “I see. Are you going to be around this evening?”

  “Oh, I’ll be around. Why?”

  “You wouldn’t have a list of those who attended the doctor’s dinner that same night, would you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You mean you do?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you.”

  When they arrived at the rehearsal hall, and Lanigan parked his car, Amy said, “Oh, you’re going to stay for the rehearsal, aren’t you? You’ll like it. We’re doing Strauss waltzes tonight.”

  “No, I’m going to walk over to the country club and—”

  “For a couple of beers, I suppose,” she said.

  “No, Amy, it’s business, but I won’t be gone long.”

  It was a short walk to the club, about five minutes, and he was able to see the manager immediately.

  “I made a list for you, Chief. It’s a list of the members. The ones with a star against their names didn’t show up that night. Maybe they were involved with patients, or maybe they just decided not to come because of the weather. It was a misty night, if you remember.”

  “Do you know where each one lives—the town, I mean?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s see, Johnson lives in Eastham, Silsby comes all the way from Andover. Look, let me have that back and I’ll write in the towns.”

  “Maybe that won’t be necessary,” said Lanigan. “Just tell me, which of them was apt to use Pine Grove Road to go home.”

  “Nobody,” said the manager promptly.

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody in his right mind, when you consider the weather conditions. And none of them live south of here, except Doc Leamis, who lives in Lynn. And oh yes, Doc Gorfinkle. He lives in Barnard’s Crossing. He might use it if it was a clear night.”

  “He did use it,” said Lanigan.

  The manager laughed. “Oh yes, I heard them talking about it. Seems he spilled some beer on his waistcoat. It was his wife’s idea that they go by way of Pine Grove because there was some talk of a trap on the state road by the State Troopers, and if they were to stop him, they’d judge him to be driving under the influence just by the way he smelled.”

  “Okay. You’ve been very helpful,” said Lanigan.

  “Can I offer you something, Chief?”

  “No, I’ve got to go and listen to some Strauss waltzes.”

  35

  Early afternoon on Sunday, the rabbi called Lanigan at home, only to learn that he had gone to the station house. He did not call the station house since it was a public building and so he felt he did not need permission to go there. And also because he thought Lanigan might put him off.

  However, when the rabbi arrived at the station house shortly after noon, Lanigan appeared curiously happy to see him. “Come in, David. Sit down.”

  “I’m not interfering with something important?”

  “Not at all. I’m free. I’ve got nothing to do except routine reports that I can do anytime. To tell the truth, I came here in order to get out of the house. Amy was playing the flute, practicing for the next meeting of her group, and I can’t stand very much of it. And of course I can’t use the TV because that would interfere with her. Now, I know you just didn’t happen to be passing.”

  “No, that’s your ploy,” said the rabbi with a smile. “No, I had a definite purpose in coming to see you,” and he recounted his conversation with Lerner.

  Lanigan nodded. “Yeah, I can see where Lerner might be concerned. But you opened that can of worms yourself, if you remember. It was you who pointed out that the watch might have been taken off Joyce’s wrist not for the sake of the watch, but in order to expose the artery in the wrist to the jagged glass.”

  “I was only making the point that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But in either case it’s murder. In one case it’s premeditated murder, and in the other it’s a felony murder. So what do we have? The weapon, the jagged glass, is there for anyone to use.”

  “Or for no one to use,” said the rabbi.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Even though Joyce was unconscious, he might have moved his hand spasmodically, perhaps, and cut his wrist that way.”

  Lanigan nodded. “It’s possible, but we know someone was there after Gorfinkle examined him, because the watch is gone. So now we consider opportunity. This took place not in a house where only a few people might have access, but on an open road. But the road was one that few people would use at night, especially on a rainy, misty night, and then only to go to Barnard’s Crossing from Breverton.”

  “Or to go from Breverton to Barnard’s Crossing.”

  “All right.”

  “And it might be used by a couple …” the rabbi added.

  “You mean a lover’s lane. Possible, but not likely. It’s a narrow road, and there aren’t many places where the shoulder is wide enough to turn and park. You’d be apt to go into the ditch that runs alongside. No, I think we can rule out a couple going there to park. So we think of opportunity. Who could have been on that road at the time? We know Joyce left the faculty dinner at quarter to ten, because the young man in charge of the checkroom asked him if he were leaving early when he came to claim his coat, which he then remembered having left in his car. He held his hand up—remember, he wore his watch on the inside of his wrist—and said it was almost ten, which the coatroom guy, a fellow named Aherne, confirmed by glancing at the clock on the wall. Now we don’t have the exact time when Gorfinkle left, but it must have been around ten because the doctor’s party breaks up at that time. It’s a sort of rule or a tradition with them. Some of them have early rounds at their hospitals the next day. It was even more important when they first started to meet and most of them were interns or residents. They start at half past six and go till half past nine, never later than ten. Three hours—it’s enough. So figure another ten or fifteen minutes for them to get their things to say good-bye, to finish up what they happened to be saying when they adjourned. Let’s say Gorfinkle started out at quarter to ten, and he was the only one who was apt to use Pine Grove Road because he was the only one who lived in Barnard’s Crossing. Which brings us back to the faculty dinner. They finished serving around ten, and then there was going to be a lot of speechifying. One person, and only one other than Joyce, left even before dessert and coffee. It was this Jacobs that Lerner is concerned with. He left at ten. How do we know that? Because Aherne leaves at ten, and one of the regular waitresses takes over his station in the checkroom. See, he gets paid by the hour; the waitresses get a flat sum for the evening and they pool and share the tips. Aherne leaves at ten and goes out to his car. Jacobs was at the head of the stairs leading to the parking lot, and Aherne spoke to him. This Aherne knew him becaus
e he’s a student at Windermere and had taken a course with him.”

  Lanigan leaned back in his chair and smiled. “All right. We have weapon and opportunity. So now let’s consider motive. You yourself pointed out that in a murder of this kind, where all that is required is pushing an unconscious man’s hand a couple of inches, no planning, no special arrangements, no violence, no great physical effort is required. His wife could have done it. She was out, or at least she didn’t answer the phone when our desk sergeant called to give her the news, and the rumor is that the marriage was on the rocks. This Aherne fellow might have done it because of some fancied grievance against Joyce. Had Joyce given him a bad grade in some course? As far as motive goes, all possible. But—” He held up an admonishing forefinger. “Jacobs had a very good motive. He and Joyce were rivals for tenure, which I gather is hot stuff. But it was even more important for Jacobs because it would mean that he’d be able to marry the Lerner girl. Now that’s a real motive.”

  “And why would he take the watch?” asked the rabbi.

  “To make it look like a robbery,” Lanigan replied promptly.

  The rabbi was silent, and Lanigan went on. “There are a couple of other points that should be considered. First, he starts out for the Lerner celebration, and please note that in giving him directions on how to get there, Clara Lerner told him to take Pine Grove Road to get there quicker. And he never showed. Was it, perhaps, because he noticed that he had blood on his shirt or on his jacket? Second, Dunstable called him in order to set up a meeting so he could ask him a few questions. His answering machine said he couldn’t speak at the time, but that he would get back to him. That was around five o’clock in the afternoon just as the sergeant was going off duty. Although he identified himself as from the Barnard’s Crossing police, he gave his home phone number. Jacobs did not return the call, and when Dunstable called again later in the evening, all he got was the same message from the answering machine. So the next morning, Dunstable goes calling on him. He has a flat on Beacon Street, near Coolidge Corner in Brookline. There a neighbor tells him that Jacobs left around seven the evening before—two hours after Dunstable’s phone call, mind you—and that he was carrying a suitcase. Not going out for a bite, or to go to a movie, but going away, leaving town.”

  “Is that all of it?” asked the rabbi.

  “Isn’t it enough to justify our making further inquiries about him?”

  The telephone rang, and Lanigan scooped up the instrument and said, “Lanigan here.” He listened for a few moments and said, “Hold it.” To the rabbi he said, “Look, David, something’s come up and I’m going to be pretty busy for the next couple of hours.”

  “I was just going.”

  36

  Ben Clayman was the first to arrive. Miriam, who opened the door in response to his ring, said, “Come in, Mr. Clayman. Oh, will you excuse me, the coffee is perking.”

  On the coffee table there was a tray with cups and saucers and a plate of cookies. He shook hands with the rabbi, and when they sat down, the rabbi asked, “What’s this all about?”

  “Didn’t Al Bergson tell you?”

  “Only that a committee of three, I think he said, wanted to see me.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, there are three of us.” The doorbell rang and he said, “That’s either Levitt or Bergson. I’ll get it.”

  It was Levitt, and almost immediately afterward Bergson. Miriam came in with the coffeepot. Clayman and Levitt both shook their heads as she was about to pour, but Bergson said, “Yes, I’ll have a cup, Miriam.”

  She poured a cup for him and the rabbi. “I’ll leave the pot here in case you gentlemen change your mind.”

  As she turned to go back to the kitchen, Levitt said, “No, Mrs. Small, I think you ought to remain. This concerns you, too.”

  She glanced uncertainly at the men, and then poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down.

  Ben Clayman expected Al Bergson, as president of the congregation, to act as their spokesman, but it was Levitt who took the lead. “I understand we vote on your contract next week, Rabbi. Now I’m kind of new in town. When you work for a big corporation like General Electric, you get moved around a lot. I’ve lived in a number of places, and I’ve been a member of a lot of temples and synagogues as a result. First thing I do when I move to a new town is join one of the local synagogues.”

  “Very commendable,” the rabbi murmured.

  “Eh? Yeah, well I don’t just join. I get involved, so I’m apt to become a member of the Board of Directors. So I guess I know more than most of the other members of our board here what the general practice is as far as their dealing with rabbis goes. And I tell you I was pretty shook up when I heard your contract was for only one year, especially when you’ve been here twenty-five years.”

  “It’s the way I wanted it,” said the rabbi.

  Levitt looked his surprised belief, and Clayman stepped into the breach. “It’s like this, Rabbi, when we realized you’d been here twenty-five years, we thought we ought to do something to, you know, sort of celebrate the occasion.”

  “You mean a party for the whole congregation?” asked the rabbi.

  “Oh, we’d have a big party for sure, but we’d also want to give you a gift. Al Bergson was supposed to sound you out on what you and Mrs. Small might like. We had in mind something big, like a new car—”

  “I have a car,” said the rabbi.

  Clayman sniffed contemptuously. “You mean that jalopy you come to the temple in?”

  “It’s only four years old and it’s gone less than twenty thousand miles.”

  “Four years, twenty thousand miles. You don’t do much driving, do you?” said Levitt. “Maybe with a big, comfortable car you’d ride more.”

  “But then I’d have two cars. What would I do with two cars?”

  “Mrs. Small could use the other,” said Clayman.

  “I don’t drive,” said Miriam.

  “So you could trade it in and we’d get an even bigger one than the one we thought of.”

  “I have enough trouble driving this one. Parking, you know. A bigger one would be even more trouble.”

  “All right. How about something else, then? How about a complete service of sterling silver?”

  “When would we use it?” asked Miriam.

  “And wouldn’t it be a temptation for someone to break in?” suggested the rabbi.

  “Well, do you have any suggestions of your own? How about a fine watch, a solid gold Rolex?”

  The rabbi smiled and held up his wrist. “I paid fifteen dollars, I think, for this one. There was a warranty that came with it which said it was accurate to within one minute a month. Would the Rolex be any more accurate?”

  A painting or a sculpture was suggested, or a trip around the world. As the rabbi turned down each of their suggestions in turn, it became apparent, at least to Clayman and Levitt that, for whatever reason, the rabbi did not care to discuss the matter. Finally, Clayman said, “Look, Rabbi, will you think about it? Talk it over with Mrs. Small, and then you can let us know what you decide. Whatever it is, within reason, I’m sure the board will go along.”

  “All right,” said the rabbi good-naturedly.

  “Well, I’ve got to be running along,” Clayman went on. “I promised the wife I’d be home early.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Levitt. He looked questioningly at Bergson. “You coming, Al?”

  “I’ll just finish my coffee,” said Bergson.

  So the two left him, and as they made their way to their cars, Clayman confided, “Al will work something out with him. You’ll see. The Smalls and the Bergsons are very close. They dine at each other’s houses.”

  “Doesn’t the rabbi dine at other members’ houses?”

  “Very few. See, the Bergsons keep kosher. They wouldn’t dine at my house, for example, because although we don’t use pork or anything trefe, we don’t keep two sets of dishes.”

  “I guess that’s the same with us,”
said Levitt, “although once in a while we have lobsters.”

  When they were gone, Bergson said, “All right, David, now what’s it all about? Why don’t you want to accept a gift from the congregation?”

  “Because then I’d feel obligated. Could I accept a fine car, or some other valuable gift, and then resign?”

  “But why would you want to resign?”

  “Because I’m fifty-three. If I don’t quit now, I’ll be too old to get another job.”

  “Were you thinking of getting another job? Have you had an offer from a bigger congregation, perhaps?”

  “No, I want to get out of the rabbinate altogether. Maybe a teaching job, or editing, or just going to Israel without having to think about getting back by a particular date.”

  “And when were you planning to resign?”

  The rabbi smiled. “I rather thought next week would be a good time. I complete my twenty-fifth year then, and I could go on pension.”

  “But if you go on pension, you lose twenty-five percent of your income.”

  “Well, I don’t need as much now. Hepsibah is getting married in September, and Jonathon is getting a job with a good law firm. There’ll be just the two of us.”

  “You agree with David on all this, Miriam?”

  “David is in charge of grand strategy; I take charge of logistics,” she answered.

  “Well, David, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If you submit your resignation, I’ll refuse to accept it.”

  “I don’t see how you can stop it, Al.”

  “I’ll have the board vote an indefinite leave of absence for you, and anyone we hire to replace you will be told the job is temporary.”

  The rabbi shrugged. “You do whatever you think you have to do, Al.”

  37

  As soon as the door closed behind the rabbi, Lanigan said into the phone, “Rabbi gone, Eban?”

  “Just went out the door.”

  “Good. Now what’s this about Tim Phelps having something on the Joyce case?”