Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (26 page)

“So you give the police an obvious clue like a shattered headlight,” said Lanigan. “Yes, that would make it worthwhile going to the trouble of turning around and—”

“Precisely. You've opened your trunk perhaps, to get your flashlight—no, that you'd be apt to keep in your glove compartment—”

“It could be one of those big lanterns like the electrician had who came the other day,” Miriam suggested.

“Right, an electric lantern,” said her husband. “And there's sure to be a wrench or the handle of the jack—”

“And you get a newspaper or a magazine to catch the pieces of glass,” suggested Lanigan.

“Or if he kept an old sweater in the trunk the way you do, David—” Miriam offered.

“Or an old rag or piece of Turkish towel for grease or dirt,” said the rabbi. “It would also serve to muffle the sound. He'd wrap it around the headlight, then whack it with the wrench, and just gather it up and put it on the passenger seat. Then he'd turn around and drive back to the body. He'd shake out the towel and drive on to High Street, and circle back to Barnard's Crossing that way. Then when the police arrive on the scene, they have all this lovely glass as a clue.”

“But he was still taking a chance, wasn't he, David?” said Miriam. “What if Paul Kramer had gone off to a movie with a bunch of friends? Then the police would know it was a false clue.”

“Not right away,” said the rabbi with a glance at the police chief. “They would first check on his alibi with his friends. ‘Where were you sitting with respect to Paul? Did he get up at any time during the course of the movie? To buy popcorn? He's a close friend of yours and you'd do anything to help him out of a jam, wouldn't you?' Then if the alibi held, they'd start checking Paul's enemies, those who might conceivably want to do him a mischief. Suppose it had been the car of that Samuel Perkins, you know the one who writes all those critical letters that appear in the
Courier.”

“Sam'l Perkins? Gosh, we'd have to check out half the town,” said Lanigan, chuckling.

“Jonathon's hand!” exclaimed Miriam.

Both men looked at her in puzzlement. “What about Jonathon's hand?” asked Lanigan. “What's it got to do—”

“He cut it. He cut it helping Scofield change a tire this evening,” she said, obviously excited. “What would Scofield do with the towel? Why would he throw it away? I'll bet he just dropped it back in the trunk. And when Jonathon was trying to find the wrench, he cut himself.”

“I'm going back to the station house,” said Lanigan, rising abruptly. “I've got a lot of work to do. I want to get a look at Scofield's car.”

“But how will you—”

“He parks it on the street. I'm going to have it towed in. Starting in November, it's illegal to park on the streets overnight during the winter months.”

He started for the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he said, “It was seeing that pink car that gave you the idea?”

“Well, I had been thinking about it from the time I saw Paul Kramer. You see,
I
believed him. And for a while I thought it might be Morris Halperin.”

“Morris Halperin? Why him?”

“Because he was the one who reported it to the police. But when I learned that Scofield had undertaken Kramer's defense, and that without a retainer, I began to think of
him.”

Lanigan grinned. “Maybe that's the difference between a policeman and a rabbi. I tend to think well of my fellowmen. I put it down to his being a good guy.”

45

The rabbi had just finished his breakfast when the call came from Lanigan. He sounded jubilant. “I thought you deserved to know. We took Scofield into custody this morning. That was a lucky guess on your part.”

“It wasn't just a guess. You see, I started at the other end.”

“What do you mean, the other end? Never mind. Not over the phone. I'm coming down to see you. Things will be breaking loose here pretty soon, and I'd rather not be around answering a million questions.”

Very well pleased with himself, Lanigan began talking as soon as he entered the house. “I picked up the car at one o'clock in the morning. I opened the trunk—”

“You forced it?”

“No, didn't have to. There's a release lever that you can operate from the inside. Well, the towel was there and I could see right away it had some specks of glass in it. I had a patrolman take it in to Boston. I had already got hold of the Forensic people and asked them to stand by. My man waited for the results. They found fourteen bits of glass, one of them a sliver almost an inch long and an eighth of an inch wide—” He stopped abruptly to ask “What blood type is Jonathon?”

“Same as mine. AB.”

“It figures. There was type AB blood on the sliver, which fit the neck of that broken sealed beam that we picked up at the garage but perfectly.” He chuckled. “In the morning Scofield called up to report his car had been stolen. I got on the line and explained that a rookie officer had had it towed because of the ordinance on winter parking. I asked him to wait around for a few minutes.” He cocked an eye at the ceiling. “I suppose he thought we were going to tow it back and apologize for inconveniencing him. But instead I sent Eban Jennings down to take him in. Now, what did you mean that you started at the other end?”

“Well, the police started with the accident—”

“Naturally.”

“But that was the end, the culmination. I was interested in what the man, D'Angelo, was doing there in the first place. What was he doing walking along in the middle of the road late at night?”

“Well, he drove there. His car was in the little clearing just beyond High Street.”

“All right, then why did he drive there? Why did he turn into Glen Lane? It's barely noticeable from the highway.”

“We assumed he had to take a”—a glance at Miriam, and he cleared his throat—“that he had to relieve himself.”

“So why would he be in the middle of the road a hundred yards beyond where he had parked his car? I made a point of pacing it out last Sunday. It's a good hundred yards. If he wanted to relieve himself, he could have gone anywhere. The road is lined with bushes and trees on either side all the way from High Street to Maple.”

“Well …”

“I assumed he went there to meet someone,” the rabbi said.

“He could have gone there to nap for a few minutes. Say, he'd been driving and was falling asleep—”

“Then what would he be doing on foot a hundred yards beyond?” the rabbi challenged.

“All right, say he was going to meet someone,” Lanigan conceded.

“Then obviously it was a secret meeting, one in which it was dangerous, or at least impolitic, for the two to be seen together. So I asked myself who the other man could be.”

“It could be almost anyone, couldn't it?”

“We can narrow it down quite a bit,” said the rabbi. “First of all, what was the purpose of the meeting? It couldn't have been just to talk because that could be done just as well and more secretly by telephone, by public telephone if there was any fear that a line might be tapped. My guess was that something had to be passed from one to the other. The most likely thing was money, a packet of hard cash.”

“A payoff?”

“That's right. Something that could not be entrusted to the mails or to a messenger. So then I began to wonder what kind of man would have to pay off in hard cash in secret.”

“I suppose you mean it was some sort of blackmail. Well, that could happen to anyone, I suppose.”

“I'm not thinking of who might be blackmailed, but rather who might have to make his payment in secret.” He got up and began to pace the floor. His voice took on the Talmudic singsong into which he lapsed occasionally. “It couldn't be a doctor. Anyone can come to see a doctor and it would be no problem for him to pass the money in the privacy of his office. And it couldn't be a lawyer because he sees all kinds of people in the way of his normal practice, either as clients or as possible witnesses to some suit he's engaged in. And the same would be true of the businessman in his office or in his store. The only one who might have to be careful about whom he's seen with is a politician, someone holding or running for office. Even if the politician is a lawyer, he would have to be careful about who might be seen coming into his office. And when I read in the newspaper account that the victim, whatsisname?”

“D'Angelo. Tony D'Angelo.”

“That's right. When I read in the newspaper account that he had been active in Boston political circles, I was sure I was right. He held no office, either elective or appointive, or they would have mentioned it. Even if he had been a lowly clerk in a government office, it would have been mentioned. But ‘active in political circles' suggests someone who has no official position and acts as a go-between, or is a hanger-on of a political boss, someone with no regular job, who would be paid for bits of information or little services rendered.”

“Yeah, I guess that would fit D'Angelo,” said Lanigan.

“From here on, I've got to use my imagination,” said the rabbi.

“My God, what have you been using up till now?”

“Up till now, I've been using inferential logic,” said the rabbi severely. “I see D'Angelo waiting in his car, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Then perhaps it occurs to him that he was expected to wait at the other end of Glen Lane. That's why I think he walked to the top of the rise. If it was only to stretch his legs, I don't think he would have gone that far. But if he wanted to see if the other car was parked at the other end of Glen Lane, he would have had to go to the top of the hill. I see Scofield, with a packet of bills in an envelope, turning into Glen Lane from High Street. Maybe he doesn't see the car parked in the clearing. Or maybe he does, and he slows down or stops and, seeing it's empty, drives on. He probably had his high beams on. It would be only natural. I assume he was driving slowly so as not to miss seeing his man. Then he spies him at the top of the hill, and he speeds up to reach him, give him the money, and drive off as quickly as possible.”

“But wouldn't it have involved a swap of some kind, an incriminating letter, or a photo. And then he would have had to stop.”

“Obviously not, since nothing of the sort was found on the dead man, and it's most unlikely that Scofield would have stopped to search him. No, this must have been what you called a payoff, in which he pays and hopes that's the end of it.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“He notices that his headlights had blinded D'Angelo. Maybe he threw his hand up against the glare, and it suddenly occurred to Scofield that if he rammed him, he would be free of him and not have to pay. So he pressed down on the accelerator.”

“But, still, it could have been an accident.”

“Of course, but he'd have a hard time proving it when he had made an appointment with him. My guess is that he didn't even stop to see how badly he had hurt him. It would be dangerous because if the man was conscious, he would recognize him—”

“But in any case, he'd know it was Scofield who had hit him.” Lanigan objected.

“How would he know? How could he see the car with those headlights glaring at him out of the darkness?”

“Yeah, I suppose not.”

“But—but if Scofield knew who it was, and was there to meet him, isn't that murder?” Miriam ventured timidly.

“Second degree, anyway,” said Lanigan. “I don't know if we can prove it. And I'm sure the defense attorneys will try to get some of our evidence thrown out on the basis of the Miranda ruling, but I expect the D.A. will consider it a strong case.” He rose to go and said, “You know, David, I'll be sorry when the new man comes to replace you and you leave town.”

“Thanks. It's good of you to say so, but I think I might be staying on for a while.”

“You mean because of this?”

“That's right.”

“This man, Magnuson, was somehow involved with Scofield?”

“He wanted me to officiate at his daughter's marriage to him. That was what all the fuss was about.”

“And you people don't sanction marriage outside your faith any more than we do. Although we've loosened up a bit in recent years.”

“Well, we haven't.”

“And that's what it's all about, eh?” He shook his head admiringly and said, “All I can say is you're a lucky guy.”

The rabbi smiled. “Well, we believe in luck.”

“I guess everybody does, don't they?”

“No, it's different with us. We believe in luck, good and bad, as a matter of practical philosophy. You might even say, it's a matter of religion with us.”

“Is that so? How do you mean?”

“Well, when a person is sick or poor, or miserable, we don't assume that he is wicked and a sinner. We just consider him unlucky.”

“Well, of course, but—”

“I can turn on the TV any Sunday morning, and other times as well, and hear a preacher say that if you repent of your sins and give your heart to Jesus, you will be relieved of your sickness and your misery. And usually there are testimonials to that effect, people telling of terrible ailments that they were cured of through prayer, or how giving their hearts to Jesus made them prosperous. The implication is, of course, that disease and misery in general are the result of sin or lack of faith.”

“Ah, those are the evangelical sects,” said Lanigan with a wave of the hand, dismissing them.

“Yes, but the Catholic Church has ventured into that area lately, too. How about the various saints to whom you can pray to intercede for you. Presumably, the act of prayer, with the repentance that's implied, removes the sin which is the cause of the condition. The basic difference between the Catholic Church and the Protestant evangelical churches in that respect would seem to be that in the Catholic Church, the work is largely delegated to the saints. I suppose it's logical in the light of the elaborate bookkeeping system involved in balancing sin and grace to determine one's eventual destination—heaven, hell, or purgatory. We don't believe in any of that, so we can be realistic.”