Someday the Rabbi Will Leave

by Harry Kemelman

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Look, all I know is what the sergeant told me, that there was a hit-and-run on Glen Lane Wednesday night. I was home that night. I didn’t go out at all.”

  “How did your headlight get broken?”

  “I don’t know. I go in to Boston every day and I park on Huntington Avenue, or the Fenway, or wherever I can find a place. Sometimes when you come back, you find your fender has been dented or scratched. You think they leave a note telling you to get in touch with them so they can make it good? They just ride off. So, somebody may have smashed my headlight Thursday, or even Wednesday, for all I know. Or while driving, I might have kicked up a stone. I don’t know.”

  “If it happened Wednesday, wouldn’t you have noticed it when you got in to drive to Boston Thursday?”

  “I don’t go inspecting the car every time I drive it. I just get in and drive off. I don’t see the front of the car. If it was at night and I had to put on my lights, then I would have noticed it. But not in the morning.”

  Lanigan nodded. “That seems reasonable.” He teetered for a while, his face thoughtful. “Where are your folks?” be asked.

  “They’re away.”

  “Yeah, but where?”

  “I don’t know right now. They’re driving across the country.”

  “So if you want to get in touch with them, you can’t?”

  “Well, they said they’d call me every few days. They were supposed to tonight.”

  “I see. All right, let me tell you what we’re up against. The victim in that hit-and-run died, which makes it vehicular homicide. That’s serious. State detectives, Registry detectives, even the D.A.’s office all get involved. Now, there was glass found near the body, glass from a headlight that was broken by the impact. You know what we do with that glass?”

  “Well, I saw a detective film on TV where the cops—I mean, the police match it up like—like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “That’s right. That’s just exactly what we do. We match up the pieces and cement them together if they fit. You had your headlight replaced at Glossop’s. It was the first one they’d done in days. The remains of your old light, they tossed in the trash barrel. Our man got those pieces and we put them together and cemented them the same way we did the others.” Lanigan held up an admonishing forefinger. “Now, here’s the situation: Those two cemented elements, with all the jagged edges, fit.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Just about, unless they were both parts of the same lamp.”

  “But I was home all that night.”

  Lanigan shrugged his shoulders, and then reached for the Miranda card stuck in the corner of his desk blotter.

  “I want a lawyer,” said Paul.

  Lanigan nodded. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea.” He slid his phone across the desk. “Go ahead. Call. I’ll step out of the room if you like.”

  “I—I don’t know any lawyers,” said Paul sheepishly. “We’re like new around here. I thought—er—I thought—”

  “That we supply them? Well, when you’re arraigned before a judge Monday, he will assign a lawyer to you if you don’t have one. But—”

  “Oh, I know one. That guy that just won the primary for senator.”

  “Scofield? You know Jack Scofield?”

  “Well, I don’t know him. But I was with my folks at a party one night and he came and talked for a few minutes. He said not to hesitate to call him if we needed help. My old man, I mean, my father, said afterwards that he seemed to be as much interested in getting customers, you know, like clients, as he was in getting votes. Maybe if I call him … I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “Call him, but don’t be disappointed if he refuses.”

  “Why should he refuse? It’s law business.”

  “Yes, but it’s a criminal charge, so he might want to talk to your folks first. Because in criminal cases lawyers usually expect to be paid in advance.”

  27

  It was after ten when the rabbi and Miriam returned home from the Friday evening service. Even as the rabbi fiddled with the lock, they could hear the telephone ringing inside.

  “It’s probably a wrong number,” said Miriam.

  “Or it could be important,” said the rabbi, “if they’re calling on the Sabbath.”

  Still wearing his topcoat, the rabbi lifted the receiver. From the other end came the voice of a woman, hurried, breathless. “Rabbi Small? Oh, thank God, I got you. Forgive me for calling so late, but I’m—we’re terribly worried. We didn’t know whom to call, and then we thought of you. I’m Sally Kramer. We’re neighbors. We moved into the house at the end of the street, Maple Street, right at the corner of Glen Lane. I would have called my next-door neighbor, but I don’t know them. I mean, I don’t even know their name. Of course, I don’t really know you, either. I mean, you don’t know me, but we’re planning to join the temple first chance we get and—”

  “What is it you want of me, Mrs. Kramer?”

  The rabbi heard a male voice say, “Here, let me talk to him.” A moment later over the phone, “Ben Kramer speaking. My wife is kind of nervous, Rabbi. You see, we’re taking a trip across country. I told my son, Paul, who’s staying at home since he has to go to school, that we’d call him every Friday night around seven. Well, we called and there’s no answer. Chances are he didn’t think I’d start this Friday—we only left Wednesday morning—and he probably went out for the evening, but my wife is worried.”

  “What would you like me to do, Mr. Kramer?”

  “Well, if you could walk down there and just look around. See if his car is there. It’s a kind of beat-up black Chevy, a seventy-three, I think, and oh yes, with a Northeastern University sticker on the rear window, then it would mean he’s home, and you could ask him to call us. If his car isn’t there, and oh, it probably won’t be in the garage or in the driveway, but right on the corner of Glen Lane, well then, it will mean he’s gone away for the evening, and there’s no need for my wife to worry.”

  “I see. And you’d like me to call you back and tell you?”

  “Right. Now here’s the phone number. You got a pencil and paper handy?”

  “I don’t write on the Sabbath, Mr. Kramer. But you give me the number and I’ll repeat it, and my wife will remember it if I don’t.”

  “That’s swell, Rabbi. Believe me, we appreciate it. Now if you’ll give me some idea of when you can go down there—”

  “I’ll leave immediately.”

  “Wonderful. Here’s the phone number.” He announced it and the rabbi repeated it aloud for Miriam to hear.

  “So I’ll expect to hear from you in half an hour? Three quarters?”

  “Less than that, I imagine.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll reverse the charges, of course.”

  The rabbi walked to the end of Maple Street, looked around, and was back in twenty minutes. He dialed the operator and gave her the number. There was no need for him to consult Miriam about it since he had repeated it to himself over and over as he walked down and as he walked back.

  It was Mrs. Kramer who answered.

  “There was no car parked on the corner of Glen Lane, Mrs. Kramer. And there was no car in your driveway. I peered through the window of your garage and there was a car there, a small gray—”

  “Oh, that’s mine. Then he’s probably gone off for the evening.”

  “There was a light in the hallway and one on the second floor,” he went on. “So I rang the bell—I could hear it ringing inside—and I knocked, quite loudly, but there was no answer. Would you like me to notify—”

  “No, that’s fine,” she said. “I told him to leave a light in the hallway and in the bedroom whenever he went out in the evening. Everything is all right, I guess. We’ll call next Friday night. If—” she hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, if it’s not too much trou
ble, and if you happen to think of it, we’d appreciate it if you dropped a note in the mail slot—oh, in the next day or two—telling Paul to be sure to be home for our call.”

  “I think I can manage that, Mrs. Kramer.”

  The Saturday edition of the local paper was not delivered until late in the afternoon, but the Smalls made a point of not reading it until after the Sabbath. But they went out that Saturday night, and it was not until Sunday morning before Miriam got around to leafing through it. In Police Notes, there was a short paragraph to the effect that Paul Kramer, Maple Street, had been arrested for the hit-and-run death on Glen Lane the previous Wednesday. She showed it to her husband.

  “According to this he was picked up Friday afternoon. That means he was down at the station house while you were knocking at his door.”

  “M-hm.”

  “You’ve got to notify his folks, David.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t you remember the number they gave you?”

  He shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good if I did. They’re probably not there any longer.”

  “But the people they were staying with—”

  “It was a hotel or an inn of some sort. There was a switchboard operator at their end when I called back.”

  “Oh, David, isn’t there something we can do?”

  “I suppose I could call Chief Lanigan. Since it was a hit-and-run, it may have been the Registry people who made the arrest, but he’d certainly know something about it. He’s probably at home. I’ll call him there.”

  When he got Lanigan on the phone, he asked, “Was it your people who arrested Paul Kramer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Could you tell me about it?”

  “What’s your interest in the matter, David, apart from his being one of your people?”

  “That in itself would be sufficient, I think, but in addition, his folks called me.” He reported what had happened Friday night on their return from the temple.

  “I see. Tell you what. I was on my way down to the station house. Matter of fact, you caught me just as I was leaving. Why don’t I meet you there?”

  28

  As a member of the Executive Committee of the Police Chiefs Association, Cesare Orlando was in frequent touch with his fellow police chiefs throughout the state. He was currently engaged in promoting interest in, and more particularly attendance at, the conference scheduled to take place in Boston over Thanksgiving. Because response was usually lukewarm at best, he tended to broach the matter circuitously. So when he called Lanigan, he began by congratulating him on his success in solving the hit-and-run case so quickly.

  “How’d you manage, Hugh?”

  “Oh, by the good detective work that the Barnard’s Crossing Police Department is noted for, Chezzie.”

  “Uh-huh. You might write up the case and read it at the conference in Boston.”

  “Yeah, I might do that if I can get hold of a pencil.”

  Orlando laughed. “If you’re nice, maybe I’ll give you one. Hey, I’ve got a bit of news connected with that case.”

  “Yeah?”

  “M-hm. You remember the leaflet that some Good Government or Concerned Citizens group circulated just before the primary? Well, you know Tommy Baggio claimed it was a frame; that he was never at that dinner; and that it lost him the election. He yelled foul to the Election Commission, and they put a couple of detectives on it.”

  “You mean they do actually investigate these things?”

  “Well, you know how it is. Usually it takes a little time before they get around to it, but Tommy has a brother-in-law on the commission, so he was able to get some pretty quick action. And do you know what they came up with? That the Concerned Citizens was none other than Tony D’Angelo, the victim of your little hit-and-run.”

  “Very convenient,” said Lanigan.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Hugh. And I won’t deny that occasionally a dead man is saddled with every unsolved crime on the blotter. We did the same thing during the war when I was in the Quartermaster’s. Every time one of our cargo ships was sunk, we loaded it with every piece of lost or mislaid property we were accountable for. I remember one Liberty ship, ten thousand tons, mind you, that went down with about a hundred thousand tons of desks, typewriters, cranes, you name it. But this business on Tony D’Angelo is on the up-and-up. They got the printer and he named him.”

  “And Tommy Baggio bought it?” asked Lanigan skeptically.

  “Well, he couldn’t go in the face of the evidence. But he says he never even met Tony D’Angelo, wouldn’t know him if he tripped over him. So he must have been working for someone else. He thinks it was the Fiore brothers on account of he managed to push through an ordinance putting a curfew of one A.M. on nightclubs. But they say why should they interfere with his election which would get him out of town, rather than staying on as a city councillor where he was a bone in their throat?”

  “Seems reasonable. What about the woman? What does she have to say?”

  “The woman? Oh, you mean Mildred Hanson, the broad he was living with? She took off. Doesn’t mean anything. That kind moves around a lot.”

  “So the Election Commission is closing the case? Well, it’s nice to know. Thanks for calling and telling me, Chezzie.” Smiling, he hung up.

  In less than half a minute, the phone rang. It was Orlando again. “Hey, you hung up on me.”

  All innocence, Lanigan said, “Why, I thought we had finished our conversation, Chezzie.”

  “Wise guy. Look, Hugh, you’re coming to the meeting day after Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”

  “Why does it always have to be in Boston?”

  “Where else? In Barnard’s Crossing, maybe? Shall I put you and the missus down for a room?”

  “What do I want a room for, Chezzie? I can get there in thirty or forty minutes’ driving.”

  “Look, Hugh, we had to guarantee the Statler people a certain number of rooms.”

  “No, Chezzie. I’ll try to make it, but I’ll drive in.”

  “Well, I can put you down for the dinner, can’t I?”

  Lanigan relented. “All right, dinner.”

  29

  “Kids!” Lanigan spat it out as though it were an obscenity. “You can’t tell them anything. They think they know it all. We’ve got him dead to rights. Shattered headlight glass found at the scene matches up exactly with the broken glass taken from his car when he had his sealed beam replaced. I don’t mean that it’s merely the same type of glass. I mean that the pieces, the shards, match like in a jigsaw puzzle. Good enough? But he says he was home all evening and all night.”

  “Somebody else might have used his car,” the rabbi suggested.

  Lanigan shook his head. “He says no.”

  “I mean, without his permission.”

  Again Lanigan shook his head, this time smiling broadly. “He locks his car when he leaves it. And not only locks it, but attaches one of those patented gadgets that lock onto the wheel. I gather that where he usually parks during the daytime, in Boston on Huntington Avenue where the school is, there’s a lot of car theft.”

  The rabbi nodded. “It does rather limit the possibilities, doesn’t it? The victim, he was on foot, I presume. Who was he and what was he doing walking along Glen Lane at night? Was it some tramp, or—”

  “That’s a funny one,” said Lanigan. “I just finished talking to the Revere police chief before you came. The victim was a small-time pol from Revere. According to the chief, he was the one who put out that leaflet which showed Baggio, the candidate for state senator, at some dinner with a bunch of gangsters. Did you see it? As to what he was doing in Glen Lane, our theory is that he was on his way to Salem and felt an urgent call of nature. So he swung into Glen Lane and then left his car to take a walk to relieve himself.”

  “I see.” The rabbi thought for a moment. “I can also see that someone driving along a dark unused road like Glen Lane might not expect a pedestria
n on the road—”

  “That’s it exactly,” said Lanigan. “The guy might have even come out of the woods at that moment. Maybe, he was suddenly frightened by some animal like a—a raccoon—we have them, you know—or a skunk, and came dashing out of the woods and ran right into the car. See, in a hit-and-run there are two elements, the hit and the run. Now the hit is always an accident, of course. Nevertheless, we always start by assuming negligence on the part of the driver, and if he’s had anything to drink, it becomes something more than a mere assumption. But common sense tells you that sometimes it’s the victim’s fault, and the most careful driver in the world couldn’t have avoided an accident. But as a normal legal procedure we start on the assumption that the fault was the driver’s. The Registry will suspend his license automatically, and it is the accused, the driver, who assumes the burden of proving he’s innocent to get it back.

  “Okay, so even where the victim dies and it’s vehicular homicide, the penalty is not too severe. Usually, it’s nothing more than suspension of the license for a period. But the second element—running off—now that’s a conscious decision on the part of the driver, and it’s criminal and reprehensible. He leaves his victim on the road, maybe in pain, and almost certainly in danger of having his condition get worse for lack of medical attention.”

  Lanigan leaned back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap, and stared at his visitor for some seconds. Then he sat up. “All right. We picked him up, and I told him what we’ve got on him. He’s sitting right in that chair where you’re sitting. I’m not bearing down on him, not bullying him, but telling him what we’ve got. And he denies it! Claims he never left his house, and says he wants a lawyer.”

  “It’s his right,” said the rabbi reasonably.

  “Sure it is,” Lanigan agreed. “And believe me, with all this Miranda business, I wouldn’t take evidence from him without a lawyer present. But he sat there as cool as could be. When I was his age, if I found myself in a police station for any reason, I’d be in a panic no matter how innocent I was, if only about what my folks would say. But being arrested doesn’t mean anything to these kids anymore. They go looking for it. You get pinched and you’re a hero. It proves that you care about ecology or civil rights, or police brutality, or anything else that’s high and noble. Just getting arrested implies that it’s for some noble cause.”