Lanigan stared at the rabbi. “But that’s murder!”
The rabbi nodded…
An hour later, they were still at it.
“It’s crazy, Rabbi.”
“But it fits all the facts. There are obvious objections to suicide, and similar strong arguments against accidental death, but there are no logical arguments against murder. On the contrary, murder explains everything.”
“And I thought I was in the clear,” said Lanigan ruefully.
“Are you going to report it to the district attorney?” asked the rabbi.
“I can’t right now. First I’ve got to check it out.”
“Check it out how?”
“I’ve got to talk to my boys. Maybe they didn’t shoot that picture as soon as they raised the garage door. Maybe they circled the car first, I don’t know, but I’ve got a lot of questions.”
The chief was unhappy. “Hell, I’ll need some kind of legal proof. I can’t go to the D.A. and he can’t go to a jury with this-this chop logic of yours, Rabbi. I’m not even sure I could repeat it. I need something definite. I’ve got to be able to prove beyond a doubt that the barrel wasn’t moved. I’ve got to prove beyond a doubt that Hirsh couldn’t have got by that barrel. I’ve got to have accurate measurements.”
“You said Hirsh was short, five feet three. The chances are the driver was taller,” said the rabbi. “Wouldn’t the position of the car seat-if it were pushed back, that is-indicate that someone else was driving?”
“You would bring that up,” said Lanigan morosely. “Trouble is, the police officer who found the body could have changed the position. If not, we probably would have done so to get the body out. In any case, Sergeant Jeffers, who is close to six feet, would have pushed it back to drive the car to the station, and even if he remembered doing it I couldn’t accept that as evidence. No, we flubbed it all right.” He threw up his hands. “But how could we know it was anything except a straightforward case of suicide or accident?”
“Fingerprints?” suggested Beam.
Lanigan shook his head dolefully. “We didn’t take any. Why should we? The patrolman who found him opened the car door, and later we were all over the car getting him out. Any fingerprints would be on the door handles, the steering wheel, and the gear shift, and they would be obliterated.”
“How about the light control?” asked the rabbi.
“You mean for the headlights?”
“Someone turned them off that night.”
“So?”
“Well, if the car was driven to the police garage by day, there’d be no need to put them on again.”
“By God, you’re right, Rabbi! They would have no reason to touch the button. It’s a chance. The car has been under seal ever since.”
He reached for the phone and dialed. “I’ll get Lieutenant Jennings-he’s our fingerprint expert.” Then into the phone, he said, “Eban, Lanigan. Meet me at the station house in five minutes. No, I’m not there yet but I’ll be there by the time you are. Come along, Rabbi?”
“I think he’d better stay right here,” said Miriam.
“Maybe you’re right. I’ll call you.”
“Mind if I go along, Chief?” asked Beam.
“Come on, if you’re sure you’re all through here.”
Beam’s eyes all but vanished as he smiled. “The rabbi has convinced me it’s murder. But I’ll be staying in town a little while. There are a few points I want to clear up. When I talked to Mrs. Marcus, she said they called home to say they’d be late and there was no answer. They tried again when they arrived at their friends’ house, and the phone rang for the longest time before Mrs. Hirsh answered. She said she’d been napping.”
“So?”
“So maybe the reason she didn’t answer was not because she was asleep but because she wasn’t there.”
“Mrs. Hirsh?” Lanigan exclaimed. “But how could she be involved? She doesn’t know how to drive.”
“She doesn’t have to-only how to pull down the garage door.”
“You mean she might have done it? Mrs. Hirsh?”
“Done it, or helped to do it.”
“Why do you want to pin it on her?”
Beam smiled. “Because the law says a murderer can’t benefit from his crime.”
“Rabbi?” It was Chief Lanigan calling from the station.
“Yes?” He had been pacing the floor impatiently, waiting for the call. The moment the phone rang he snatched it up.
“There were no prints on the light button.”
“No prints? But there had to be. The car was driven at night, so somebody had to turn them off.”
“Wiped clean,” said Lanigan grimly. “You know what that means?”
“I-I think so.”
“No chance of the driver saying he walked away and forgot to turn off the motor. He knew what he was doing, all right, which makes it first-degree murder.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Reverend Peter Dodge stood framed in the door-way, one hand resting on either doorjamb like Samson about to collapse the temple.
“Why, look who’s here, David,” Miriam said. “Come in.”
His handsome head instinctively lowered to enter. “I heard you were a bit under the weather, David, and decided to include you in my pastoral calls.”
“That was thoughtful of you, but it was just a touch of the virus. I’ll be going to services tomorrow.”
“Your trouble, David, is you don’t get enough exercise. I wouldn’t recommend anything strenuous, but you ought at least to arrange time for a nice long walk every day. It will firm up your muscle tone. Now every evening without fail I take a regular walk over a regular route. It’s exactly four and six-tenths miles, and I do it in just over an hour, depending on whether I meet anyone. And most afternoons when I can manage it I get in a couple of sets of tennis.”
“Where do you play?”
“We have a court back of the Parish House. Any time you want, just give me a ring and we can volley for a while. It would do you good.”
The rabbi laughed. “How do you think my congregation would feel if their rabbi went to the Episcopal Church to play tennis?”
“About the same way my people would feel if I came down to your temple.” He hesitated. “I hear you have been having a spot of trouble with them lately.”
The rabbi and his wife both showed their surprise. Dodge chuckled. “You’re from New York, aren’t you? And I’m from South Bend. We’re city folks, so I don’t suppose we’ll ever get used to how fast news travels in a small town like Barnard’s Crossing. I was chaplain in a federal prison for a little while, and the grapevine there is the only thing comparable-”
“What did you hear, Peter?” asked Miriam.
Dodge became vague. “Oh, something to the effect that poor Ike Hirsh had committed suicide and you weren’t supposed to have buried him. It didn’t seem to make much sense to me, because how could David know he was a suicide, especially when the official police finding was death by accident? Surely your congregation can’t expect you to play detective every time someone passes away.”
“You knew Hirsh?” asked the rabbi. “Of course you did-you were at the funeral, weren’t you?”
“Hirsh? Oh, yes. He was in the movement.”
“What movement?”
“The Civil Rights movement. He made a small contribution and I went to see him. I try to make a personal visit to anyone like that-you’d be surprised how often they kick in with more. Besides, I pass by the Hirshes’ street on my regular walk, so I took a chance and just rang the bell. Well, talk about a small world, who should come to the door but Mrs. Hirsh who turns out to be Pat Maguire. We went to school together in South Bend. After that, I made it a habit to pop in from time to time, and had dinner there once.”