Friday the Rabbi Slept Late (16 page)

The sun was hot and they were beginning to grow tired. There was no one about to ask the way back to the main street. The front porches they passed usually were set back from the street and sealed off by the inevitable white picket fence. To push back the gate and walk up fifty feet of flagstone path and knock on the door of the screened-in porch seemed an invasion of privacy. The entire atmosphere seemed designed to keep one’s neighbor at arm’s length, not from unfriendliness but rather as though each householder were content to cultivate his own garden.

Then, quite suddenly, they found themselves on a street that skirted the waterfront, and a block ahead they saw the main street with its many shops. They quickened their pace to make sure they wouldn’t lose sight of it again, but just as they were about to turn in, they were hailed by Hugh Lanigan, relaxing on his front porch.

“Come on up and sit for a while,” he called. They needed no second invitation.

“I thought you’d be working,” said the rabbi with a grin. “Or is the case solved?”

Lanigan smiled back. “Just taking a breather, rabbi-just like you. But I’m no further away from my work than the telephone.”

It was a large, comfortable porch with wicker armchairs. No sooner were they seated than Mrs. Lanigan, a slim gray-haired woman in sweater and slacks, came out to join them.

“You can have a drink, can’t you, rabbi?” asked Lanigan anxiously. “I mean, it’s not against your religion?”

“No, we’re not Prohibitionists. I take it you’re offering me one like yours.”

“Right, and no one makes a Tom Collins like Amy here.”

“How is the investigation going?” the rabbi asked when Mrs. Lanigan had returned with a tray.

“We’re making progress,” said the chief cheerfully. “How is your congregation?”

“Making progress,” said the rabbi with a smile.

“I understand you’re having your troubles with them.”

The rabbi looked at him questioningly, but said nothing.

Lanigan laughed. “Look, rabbi, let me teach you something about police work. In a big city there’s what might be called a stable criminal population that accounts for most of the crime the police have to contend with. And how do they control it? Largely through informers. In a town like this, we don’t have a criminal population. We do have a few chronic troublemakers, but the way we control the situation is the same way, through informers. Only they’re not regular informers. It’s just a lot of gossip that we hear, that we listen to carefully. I know what’s happening in your temple almost as well as you. At the meeting today there were about forty people present. And when they got home, they all told their wives. Now do you think that eighty people can keep a secret in a town like this, especially when it’s not supposed to be a secret in the first place? Ah, rabbi, we do these things so much better in our church. With us, what the priest says, goes.”

“Is he so much a better man than the rest of you?” asked the rabbi.

“He’s a good man usually,” said Lanigan, “because the process of selection screens out most of the incompetents. Of course, we have some damn fools in the clergy, but that’s not the point. The point is that if you’re going to have discipline, you have to have someone whose authority is not subject to question.”

“I suppose that’s the difference between the two systems,” said the rabbi. “We encourage the questioning of everything.”

“Even matters of faith?”

“There is very little in the way of faith that is demanded of us. And that little, such as the existence of a single All-Powerful, All-Knowing, Ever-Present God, we do not forbid to be questioned. We merely recognize that it leads nowhere. But we have no articles of faith which must be subscribed to. For example, when I got my S’michah – you call it ordination – I was not questioned on my beliefs and I took no oath of any sort.”

“You mean you are not dedicated in any way?”

“Only as I feel myself dedicated.”

“Then what makes you different from the members of your flock?”

The rabbi laughed. “They are not my flock in the first place, at least not in the sense that they are in my care and that I am responsible to God for their safety and their behavior. Actually, I have no responsibility, or for that matter no privilege, that every male member of my congregation over the age of thirteen does not have. I presumably differ from the average member of my congregation only in that I am supposed to have a greater knowledge of the Law and of our tradition. That is all.”

“But you lead them in prayer –” He stopped when he saw his guest shaking his head.

“Any adult male can do that. At our daily service it is customary to offer the honor of leading the prayers to any stranger who happens to come in, or to anyone who is not usually there.”

“But you bless them and you visit the sick and you marry them and you bury them –”

“I marry them because the civil authorities have empowered me to; I visit the sick because it is a blessing that is enjoined on everyone; I do it as a matter of routine, largely because of the example set by your priests and ministers. Even the blessing of the congregation is officially the function of those members of the congregation who happen to be descendants of Aaron, which is the custom in Orthodox congregations. In Conservative temples like ours, it is really a usurpation on the part of the rabbi.”

“I see now what you mean when you say you are not a man of the cloth,” said Lanigan slowly. Then a thought occurred to him. “But how do you keep your congregation in line?”

The rabbi smiled ruefully. “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it, do I?”

“That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t thinking of your present difficulties. I mean, how do you keep them from sinning?”

“You mean how does the system work? I suppose by making everyone feel responsible for his own acts.”

“Free will? We have that.”

“Of course, but ours is a little different. You give your people free will, but you also give them a helping hand if their foot slips. You have a priest who can hear confession and forgive. You have a hierarchy of saints who can intercede for the sinner, and finally you have a Purgatory, which is in the nature of a second chance. I might add that you have a Heaven and a Hell that help to right any wrongs in life on this earth. Our people have only the one chance. Our good deeds must be done on this earth in this life. And since there is no one to share the burden with them or to intercede for them they must do it on their own.”

“Don’t you people believe in Heaven, or in life after death?”

“Not really,” said the rabbi. “Our beliefs have been influenced by those around us, of course, as have yours. At times in our history concepts of a life after death have cropped up, but even then we saw them our own way. Life after death means for us that part of our life that lives on in our children, in the influence that survives us after death, and the memories people have of us.”

“Then if someone is evil in this life, and yet is prosperous and happy and healthy, he gets away with it?” It was Mrs. Lanigan who asked the question.

The rabbi turned to face her. He wondered if her question had perhaps been prompted by some personal experience. “It’s questionable,” he said slowly, “whether a thinking organism like man can ever ‘get away with’ something he’s done. Nevertheless, it is a problem, and all the religions have wrestled with it: how does the good man who suffers get recompense and the evil man who prospers get punished? The Eastern religions explain it by reincarnation. The wicked man who is prosperous merited his prosperity by his virtue in a previous reincarnation and his wickedness will be punished in his next reincarnation. The Christian church answers the question by offering Heaven and Hell.” He appeared to consider, and then he nodded his head briskly. “They’re both good solutions, if you can believe them. We can’t. Our view is given in the Book of Job, which is why it is included in the Bible. Job is made to suffer undeservedly, but there is no suggestion that he will be recompensed in the next life. The suffering of the virtuous is one of the penalties of living. The fire burns the good man just as severely and painfully as it does the wicked.”

“Then why bother to be good?” asked Mrs. Lanigan.

“Because virtue really does carry its own reward and evil its own punishment. Because evil is always essentially small and petty and mean and depraved, and in a limited life it represents a portion wasted, misused, and that can never be regained.”

His tone while he was talking to Hugh Lanigan had been conversational and matter-of-fact, but as he spoke to Mrs. Lanigan it grew solemn and portentous, almost as though he were delivering a sermon. Miriam coughed warningly to him. “We should be getting back, David,” she said.

The rabbi looked at his watch. “Why, it is getting late. I didn’t mean to run on this way. I suspect it was the Tom Collins.”

“I’m glad you did, rabbi,” said Lanigan. “You might not think it, but I’m very interested in religion. I read bodes on the subject whenever I can. I don’t get a chance to discuss it very often though. People are reluctant to talk about religion.”

“Maybe it’s no longer very important to them,” he suggested.

“Well, now, that might very well be, rabbi. But I enjoyed this afternoon, and I’d like to repeat it sometime.”

The telephone rang. Mrs. Lanigan went inside to answer it and returned almost immediately. “It’s Eban on the phone, Hugh.”

Her husband, in the midst of explaining the shortest way to the police garage, said, “Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“He’s not at home,” she said. “He’s calling from a pay station.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll talk to him.”

“We’ll find our way,” said the rabbi. Lanigan nodded absently and hurried inside. As he walked down the porch steps, the rabbi was vaguely disturbed.

The next morning Melvin Bronstein was arrested.

Shortly after seven, while the Bronsteins were still at breakfast, Eban Jennings and a sergeant, both in plain clothes, appeared at the Bronstein home.

“Melvin Bronstein?” asked Jennings when a man answered the door.

“That’s right.”

The policeman showed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Jennings of the Barnard’s Crossing police department. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“What for?”

“You’re wanted for questioning in the matter of the murder of Elspeth Bleech.”

“Are you charging me with murder?”

“My instructions are to bring you in for questioning,” said Jennings.

Mrs. Bronstein called from the dining room, “Who is it, Mel?”

“Just a minute, dear,” he called back.

“You’re going to have to tell her,” said Jennings, not unkindly.

“Will you come with me?” Bronstein asked in a low voice, and led the way to the dining room.

Mrs. Bronstein looked up, startled.

“These gentlemen are from the police department, dear,” he said. “They want me to come to the police station to give them some information and to answer some questions.” He swallowed hard. “It’s about that poor girl who was found in the temple yard.”

A spot of color appeared in Mrs. Bronstein’s naturally pale face, but she did not lose her composure. “Do you know anything about the girl’s death, Mel?” she asked.

“Nothing about her death,” said Bronstein with great earnestness, “but I know something about the girl and these gentlemen think it might help them in their investigation.”

“Will you be home for lunch?” asked his wife.

Bronstein looked at the policemen for an answer.

Jennings cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’d count on it, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bronstein placed her hands against the edge of the table and gave a slight push. She rolled back a few inches, and the policemen realized for the first time that she was in a wheelchair.

“If you can be of any help to the police in their investigation of this terrible business, Mel, then of course you must do everything you can.”

He nodded. “You better call Al and ask him to get in touch with Nate Greenspan.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want me to help you back to bed,” he asked “or will you sit up?”

“I think I’d better go back to bed.”

He bent down and scooped her up in his arms. For a moment he just stood there, holding her. She looked deep into his eyes.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Of course,” she murmured.

He carried her out of the room.

The news spread like wildfire. The rabbi had just returned from a busy morning at the temple and was about to sit down to lunch when Ben Schwarz called to tell him.

“Are you sure?” asked the rabbi.

“Oh, it’s on the level, rabbi. It will probably be on the next radio news broadcast.”

“Do you have any details?”

“No, just that he was taken into custody for questioning.” He hesitated and then said, “Er – rabbi, I don’t know how it will affect anything you might be planning to do, but I think you ought to know that he’s not a member of our temple.”

“I see. Well, thank you.”

He reported the conversation to Miriam. “Mr. Schwarz seemed to think I could ignore the matter if I liked. At least, I assume that’s what he meant by telling me Mr. Bronstein was not a member of the temple.”

“Are you planning to?”

“Miriam!”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll see him in any case. I suppose that will involve getting clearance from the authorities and probably from his lawyer as well. Perhaps it’s even more important that I see Mrs. Bronstein.”

“How about talking to Chief Lanigan?”

The rabbi shook his head. “What can I say to him? I know nothing about the case they have; I hardly know the Bronsteins. No, I’ll call Mrs. Bronstein right now.”

A woman answered and said that Mrs. Bronstein could not come to the telephone.

“This is Rabbi Small speaking. Would you ask her if it would be convenient for her to see me sometime today?”

“Will you hold the line a minute, please?” A moment later she returned to say that Mrs. Bronstein appreciated his calling, and would he make it sometime early in the afternoon?

“Tell her I’ll be there at three o’clock.”