“The other day, what she done, this movie actress, she marched into the living room wearing only this towel, you see? She wanted to know what —”

  “I’ll call Grossman,” Carella said.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to call Grossman, because a lab report arrived late that afternoon, together with Cabot’s ladder and the rest of his working equipment, including his brushes, his putty knife, several cans of linseed oil and turpentine, a pair of paint-stained gloves and two dropcloths. At about the same time the report arrived, Grossman called from downtown, saving Carella a dime.

  “Did you get my report?” Grossman asked.

  “I was just reading it.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know,” Carella said.

  “Want my guess?”

  “Sure. I’m always interested in what the layman thinks,” Carella answered him.

  “Layman, I’ll give you a hit in the head!” Grossman answered, laughing. “You notice the rabbi’s prints were on those paint-can lids, and also on the ladder?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The ones on the lids were thumb prints, so I imagine the rabbi put those lids back onto the paint cans or, if they were already on the cans, pushed down on them to make sure they were secure.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Maybe he was moving the stuff. There’s a tool shed behind the synagogue. Had you noticed that?”

  “No, I hadn’t.”

  “Tch-tch, big detective. Yeah, there’s one there, all right, about fifty yards behind the building. So I figure the painter rushed off, leaving his junk all over the back yard, and the rabbi was moving it to the tool shed when he was surprised by the killer.”

  “Well, the painter did leave his stuff there, that’s true. He expected to come back Monday morning.”

  “Today, yeah,” Grossman said. “But maybe the rabbi figured he didn’t want his back yard looking like a pigsty, especially since this is Passover. So he took it into his head to move the stuff over to the tool shed. This is just speculation, you understand.”

  “No kidding?” Carella said. “I thought it was sound, scientific deduction.”

  “Go to hell. Those are thumb prints on the lids, so it’s logical to conclude he pressed down on them. And the prints on the ladder seem to indicate he was carrying it.”

  “This report said you didn’t find any prints but the rabbi’s,” Carella said. “Isn’t that just a little unusual?”

  “You didn’t read it right,” Grossman said. “We found a portion of a print on one of the paintbrushes. And we also —”

  “Oh, yeah,” Carella said, “here it is. This doesn’t say much, Sam.”

  “What do you want me to do? It seems to be a tented-arch pattern, like the rabbi’s, but there’s too little to tell. The print could have been left on that brush by someone else.”

  “Like the painter?”

  “No. We’ve pretty much decided the painter used gloves while he worked. Otherwise, we’d have found a flock of similar prints on all the tools.”

  “Then who left that print on the brush? The killer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But the portion isn’t enough to get anything positive on?”

  “Sorry, Steve.”

  “So your guess on what happened is that the rabbi went outside after services to clean up the mess. The killer surprised him, knifed him, made a mess of the alley, and then painted that J on the wall. Is that it?”

  “I guess so, though —”

  “What?”

  “Well, there was a lot of blood leading right over to that wall, Steve. As if the rabbi had crawled there after he’d been stabbed.”

  “Probably trying to get to the back door of the synagogue.”

  “Maybe,” Grossman said. “One thing I can tell you. Whoever killed him must have been pretty much of a mess when he got home. No doubt about that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That spattered paint all over the alley,” Grossman said. “It’s my guess that the rabbi threw those paint cans at his attacker.”

  “You’re a pretty good guesser, Sam,’ Carella told him, grinning.

  “Thanks,” Grossman said.

  “Tell me something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever solve any murders?”

  “Go to hell,” Grossman said, and he hung up.

  * * * *

  9

  Alone with his wife that night in the living room of their apartment, Meyer tried to keep his attention off a television series about cops and on the various documents he had collected from Rabbi Solomon’s study in the synagogue. The cops on television were shooting up a storm, blank bullets flying all over the place and killing hoodlums by the score. It almost made a working man like Meyer Meyer wish for an exciting life of romantic adventure.

  The romantic adventure of his life, Sarah Lipkin Meyer, sat in an easy chair opposite the television screen, her legs crossed, absorbed in the fictional derring-do of the policemen.

  “Ooooh, get him!” Sarah screamed at one point, and Meyer turned to look at her curiously, and then went back to the rabbi’s books.

  The rabbi kept a ledger of expenses, all of which had to do with the synagogue and his duties there. The ledger did not make interesting reading, and told Meyer nothing he wanted to know. The rabbi also kept a calendar of synagogue events and Meyer glanced through them reminiscently, remembering his own youth and the busy Jewish life centering around the synagogue in the neighborhood adjacent to his own. March twelfth, the calendar read, regular Sunday breakfast of the Men’}s Club, Speaker, Harry Pine, director of Commission on International Affairs of American Jewish Congress, Topic: The Eichmann Case.

  Meyer’s eye ran down the list of events itemized in Rabbi Solomon’s book:

  March 12, 7:15p.m.

  Youth Group meeting.

  March 18, 9:30 a.m.

  Bar Mitzvah services for Nathan Rothman. Kiddush after services. Open invitation to Center membership.

  March 22, 8:45p.m.

  Clinton Samuels. Assistant Professor of Philosophy in Education, Brandeis University, will lead discussion in “The Matter of Identity for the Jews in Modern America.”

  March 26

  Eternal Light Radio. “The Search” by Virginia Mazer, biographical script on Lillian Wald, founder of Henry Street Settlement in New York.

  Meyer looked up from the calendar. “Sarah?” he said.

  “Shhh, shhh, just a minute,” Sarah answered. She was nibbling furiously at her thumb, her eyes glued to the silent television screen. An ear-shattering volley of shots suddenly erupted, all but smashing the picture tube. The theme music came up, and Sarah let out a deep sigh and turned to her husband.

  Meyer looked at her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time, remembering the Sarah Lipkin of long, long ago and wondering if the Sarah Meyer of today was very much different from that initial exciting image. “Nobody’s lips kin like Sarah’s lips kin,” the fraternity boys had chanted, and Meyer had memorized the chant, and investigated the possibilities, learning for the first time in his life that every cliché bears a kernel of folklore. He looked at her mouth now, pursed in puzzlement as she studied his face. Her eyes were blue, and her hair was brown, and she had a damn good figure and splendid legs, and he nodded in agreement with his youthful judgment.

  “Sarah., do you feel any identity as a Jew in modern America?” he asked.

  “What?” Sarah said.

  “I said —”

  “Oh, boy,” Sarah said. “What brought that on?”

  “The rabbi, I guess.” Meyer scratched his bald pate. “I guess I haven’t felt so much like a Jew since — since I was confirmed, I guess. It’s a funny thing.”

  “Don’t let it trouble you,” Sarah said gently. “You are a Jew.”

  “Am I?” he asked, and he looked straight into her eyes.

  She returned the gaze. “You have to answer that one for yourself,” she said.

  “I know I — well, I get mad as hell thinking about this guy Finch. Which isn’t good, you know. After all, maybe he’s innocent.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “No. I think he did it. But is it me who thinks that, Meyer Meyer, Detective Second Grade? Or is it Meyer Meyer who got beat up by the goyim when he was a kid, and Meyer Meyer who heard his grandfather tell stories about pogroms, or who listened to the radio and heard what Hitler was doing in Germany, or who nearly strangled a German colonel with his bare hands just outside —”

  “You can’t separate the two, darling,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe you can’t. I’m only trying to say I never much felt like a Jew until this case came along. Now, all of a sudden . . .” He shrugged.

  “Shall I get your prayer shawl?” Sarah said.

  “Wise guy,” Meyer said. He closed the rabbi’s calendar, and opened the next book on the desk. The book was a personal diary. He unlocked it, and began leafing through it.

  Friday, January 6

  Shabbat, Parshat Shemot. I lighted the candles at 4:24. Evening services were at 6:15. It has been a hundred years since the Civil Wars. We discussed the Jewish Community of the South, then and now.

  It seems odd to me that I should have to familiarize the membership about the proper blessings over the Sabbath candles. Have we come so far toward forgetfulness?

  Baruch ata adonai elohenu melech haolam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu Vhadlick ner shel shabbat.

  Blessed are Thou O Lord our God., King of the universe who hast sanctified us by Thy laws and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath Light.

  Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the Jews are doomed.

  January 20

  I had hoped that the Maccabean festival would make us realize the hardships borne by the Jews 2,000 years ago in comparison to our good and easy lives today in a democracy. Today, we have the freedom to worship as we desire, but this should impose upon us the responsibility of enjoying that freedom. And yet, Hanukkah has come and gone, and it seems to me The Feast of Lights taught us nothing, gave us nothing more than a joyous holiday to celebrate. The Jews will die, he says.

  February 2

  I believe I am beginning to fear him. He shouted threats at me today, said that I, of all the Jews, would lead the way to destruction. I was tempted to call the police, but I understand he has done this before. There are those in the membership who have suffered his harangues and who seemed to feel he is harmless. But he rants with the fervor of a fanatic, and his eyes frighten me.

  February 12

  A member called today to ask me something about the dietary laws. I was forced to call the local butcher because I did not know the prescribed length of the hallaf, the slaughtering knife. Even the butcher, in jest, said to me that a real rabbi would know these things. I am a real rabbi. I believe in the Lord, my God, I teach His will and His law to His people. What need a rabbi know about shehitah, the art of slaughtering animals? Is it important to know that the slaughtering knife must be twice the width of the throat of the slaughtered animal, and no more than fourteen fingerbreadths in length? The butcher told me that the knife must be sharp and smooth, with no perceptible notches. It is examined by passing finger and fingernail over both edges of the blade before and after slaughtering. If a notch is found,, the animal is then unfit. Now I know. But is it necessary to know this? Is it not enough to love God, and to teach His ways? His anger continues to frighten me.

  February 14

  I found a knife in the ark today, at the rear of the cabinet behind the Torah.

  March 8

  We had no further use of the Bibles we replaced, and since they were old and tattered, but nonetheless ritual articles containing the name of God, we buried them in the back yard, near the tool shed.

  March 22

  I must see about contacting a painter to do the outside of the synagogue. Someone suggested a Mr. Frank Cabot who lives in the neighborhood. I will call him tomorrow, perhaps. Passover will be coming soon, and I would like the temple to look nice.

  The mystery is solved. It is kept for trimming the wick in the oil lamp over the ark.

  The telephone rang. Meyer, absorbed in the diary, didn’t even hear it. Sarah went to the phone and lifted it from the cradle.

  “Hello?” she said. “Oh, hello, Steve. How are you?” She laughed and said, “No, I was watching television. That’s right.” She laughed again. “Yes, just a minute, I’ll get him.” She put the phone down and walked to where Meyer was working. “It’s Steve,” she said. “He wants to speak to you.”

  “Huh?”

  “The phone, Steve.”

  “Oh,” Meyer nodded. “Thanks.” He walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver. “Hello, Steve,” he said.

  “Hi. Can you get down here right away?”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Finch,” Carella said. “He’s broken jail.”

  * * * *

  10

  Finch had been kept in the detention cells of the precinct house all day Sunday where, it being Easter, he had been served turkey for his midday meal. On Monday morning, he’d been transported by van to Headquarters downtown on High Street where, as a felony offender, he participated in that quaint police custom known simply as “the line-up.” He had been mugged and printed afterward in the basement of the building, and then led across the street to the Criminal Courts Building where he had been arraigned for first-degree murder and, over his lawyer’s protest, ordered to be held without bail until trial. The police van had then transported him crosstown to the house of detention on Canopy Avenue where he’d remained all day Monday, until after the evening meal. At that time, those offenders who had committed, or who were alleged to have committed, the most serious crimes, were once more shackled and put into the van, which carried them uptown and south to the edge of the River Dix for transportation by ferry to the prison on Walker Island.

  He’d made his break, Carella reported, while he was being moved from the van to the ferry. According to what the harbor police said, Finch was still handcuffed and wearing prison garb. The break had taken place at about ten p.m. It was assumed that it had been witnessed by several dozen hospital attendants waiting for the ferry which would take them to Dix Sanitarium, a city-owned-and-operated hospital for drug addicts, situated in the middle of the river about a mile and a half from the prison. It was also assumed that the break had been witnessed by a dozen or more water rats who leaped among the dock pilings and who, because of their size, were sometimes mistaken for pussy cats by neighborhood kids who played near the river’s edge. Considering the fact that Finch was dressed in drab gray uniform and handcuffs — a dazzling display of sartorial elegance, to be sure, but not likely to be seen on any other male walking the city streets — it was amazing that he hadn’t yet been picked up. They had, of course, checked his apartment first, finding nothing there but the four walls and the furniture. One of the unmarried detectives on the squad, probably hoping for an invitation to go along, suggested that they look up Eleanor Fay, Finch’s girl. Wasn’t it likely he’d head for her pad? Carella and Meyer agreed that it was entirely likely, clipped their holsters on, neglected to offer the invitation to their colleague, and went out into the night.

  It was a nice night, and Eleanor Fay lived in a nice neighborhood of old brownstones wedged in between new, all-glass apartment houses with garages below the sidewalk. April had danced across the city and left her subtle warmth in the air. The two men drove in one of the squad’s sedans, the windows rolled down. They did not say much to each other, April had robbed them of speech. The police radio droned its calls endlessly; radio motor patrolmen all over the city acknowledged violence and mayhem.

  “There it is,” Meyer said. “Just up ahead.”

  “Now try to find a parking spot,” Carella complained.

  They circled the block twice before finding an opening in front of a drugstore on the avenue. They got out of the car, left it unlocked, and walked briskly in the balmy night. The brownstone was in the middle of the block. They climbed the twelve steps to the vestibule, and studied the name plates alongside the buzzers. Eleanor Fay was in apartment 2B. Without hesitation, Carella pressed the buzzer for apartment 5A. Meyer took the doorknob in his hand and waited. When the answering click came, he twisted the knob, and silently they headed for the steps to the second floor.

  Kicking in a door is an essentially rude practice. Neither Carella nor Meyer were particularly lacking in good manners, but they were looking for a man accused of murder, and a man who had successfully broken jail. It was not unnatural to assume this was a desperate man, and so they didn’t even discuss whether or not they would kick in the door. They aligned themselves in the corridor outside apartment 2B. The wall opposite the door was too far away to serve as a springboard. Meyer, the heavier of the two men, backed away from the door, then hit it with his shoulder. He hit it hard and close to the lock. He wasn’t attempting to shatter the door itself, an all but impossible feat. All he wanted to do was spring the lock. All the weight of his body concentrated in the padded spot of arm and shoulder which collided with the door just above the lock. The lock itself remained locked, but the screws holding it to the jamb could not resist the force of Meyer’s fleshy battering ram. The wood around the screws splintered, the threads lost their friction grip, the door shot inward and Meyer followed it into the room. Carella, like a quarterback carrying the ball behind powerful interference, followed Meyer.

 

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