Considering the reason for the unexpectedly large attendance, the rabbi was none too pleased. He sat on the platform beside the Holy Ark, and grimly made up his mind that he would make no reference whatsoever to the tragedy. Pretending to be studying his prayer book, he glowered under his eyebrows at member after member who had never before attended a Friday evening service, smiling only when one of the few regulars entered, as if to show he knew they had come to worship rather than out of vulgar curiosity.
With Myra the president of Sisterhood, the Schwarzes were one of the regulars, but they usually sat fairly well back, in the sixth or seventh row. Tonight, however, although Ben slid into his regular seat, Myra continued on down front to the second row where the rabbi's wife was sitting. She sat down beside her, and leaning over, patted her hand and murmured in her ear. Miriam stiffened-then managed a smile.
The rabbi caught the little byplay and was touched by this consideration on the part of the Sisterhood president, all the more because it was unexpected. But as he thought about it, its full significance began to dawn on him. It was a gesture of reassurance, the sympathy one extends to the wife of someone who is under suspicion. It gave him another explanation for the large attendance. Although some may have come in hopes he might speak of the crime, others wanted to see if he would show signs of guilt. To remain silent and not mention the affair might give the wrong impression and imply he was afraid to speak.
He made no mention of the subject in the course of his sermon, but later, near the close of the service, he said: 'Before the mourners in the congregation rise to recite the Kaddish, I should like to recall to you the true significance of the prayer.'
The congregation sat up and edged forward in their seats. Now he was coming to it.
'There is a belief,' the rabbi went on, 'that reciting the Kaddish is a duty the mourner owes to the dear departed. If you will read the prayer, or its English translation on the opposite page, you will notice that it contains no mention of death or any suggestion of a plea for the soul of the dead. Rather, it is an affirmation of the belief in God and in His power and glory. What is the significance of the prayer then? Why is it especially reserved for those who mourn? And why, when most of our prayers are whispered, is this one prayer said aloud?
'Perhaps our very manner of delivery will give a clue to its meaning. It is a prayer not for the dead but for the living. It is an open declaration by one who has just suffered the loss of a dear one that he still has faith in God. Nevertheless, our people persist in thinking of the Kaddish as an obligation they owe to the dead, and because in our tradition custom takes on the force of law, I shall recite the Kaddish with the mourners, for one who was not a member of this congregation, nor even of our faith, someone about whom we know little, but whose life happened through tragic accident to touch this congregation.…'
The rabbi and his wife said little as they walked home from the temple. Finally he broke the silence. 'I noticed Mrs. Schwarz went out of her way to extend her sympathy to you.'
She s a good soul, David, and she meant well.' Then, 'Oh, David, this can be a nasty business.'
'I'm beginning to think so,' he said.
As they approached their house, they could hear the telephone ringing inside.
14
The religious revival did not extend to the saturday morning service; no more than the usual twenty or so turned up. When the rabbi got home, he found Chief Lanigan waiting for him.
'I don't like to intrude on your Sabbath,' the chief apologized, 'but neither do we like to interrupt our investigations. We police have no holidays.'
'It's perfectly all right. In our religion, emergencies always supersede ritual.'
'We're about through with your car. I'll have one of the boys drive it up here sometime tomorrow. Or if you're downtown, you can pick it up yourself.'
'Fine.'
'I'd like to check over with you what we found.' From his briefcase he drew several pliofilm bags, each marked in black ink. 'Let's see, this first one is stuff found under the front seat.' He dumped the contents onto the desk. It consisted of some loose change, a receipt for repairs to the car dated several months back, a wrapper from a five-cent candy bar, a small calendar giving Hebrew and English equivalent dates, and a woman's plastic barrette.
The rabbi gave them a cursory glance. 'Those are ours. At least, I recognize the barrette as my wife's. But you can ask her to be sure.'
'We already have,' said Lanigan.
'I can't vouch for the candy wrapper or the money, but I have eaten that candy. It's kosher. That calendar is the kind that various institutions and business houses distribute on the Jewish New Year. I must get dozens of them each year.' He opened his desk drawer. 'Here's another.'
'All right.'' Lanigan replaced the contents of the bag and emptied another on the desk. 'This is the contents of the trash bag under the dashboard.' There were several crumpled tissues with lipstick, a stick from a chocolate- covered Eskimo Pie, and an empty, crumpled cigarette package.
'Those look all right,' said the rabbi.
'Does that look like your wife's lipstick?'
The rabbi smiled. 'Why don't you check with her?'
'We have,' said Lanigan, 'and it is.' He then offered the contents of the next bag, which was from the glove compartment. There was a crushed box of tissues, a lipstick, several road maps, a prayer book, a pencil, a plastic ball-point pen, half a dozen three-by-five cards, a two-cell flashlight, and a rumpled pack of cigarettes.
'That seems right,' said the rabbi. 'I think I can even be sure of the lipstick, because I remember when my wife got it I made some remark about its being worth a king's ransom if all that jewelry were real. I think my wife paid a dollar or a dollar and a half, and yet see with what brilliant gems it is encrusted.'
'They sell thousands of them, so you would have no way of knowing if this particular one is your wife's/'
'No, but surely it would be quite a coincidence if it were not.'
'Coincidences happen, rabbi. The girl used the same lipstick. And it isn't such a terribly remarkable coincidence at that, since I gather it's a very popular make and a very popular shade for blondes.'
'She was blonde then?'
'Yes, she was blonde. The flashlight, rabbi, shows no fingerprints.'
The rabbi thought a moment. 'The last time I recall using it was to check the dipstick, after which I wiped it, of course.'
'All that's left now is the contents of the ashtrays. The one in the rear had one cigarette, lipstick-stained. There were ten butts in the front ashtray, all the same brand and all lipstick-stained. Your wife's, I take it. You don't smoke.'
'If I did, I don't think my cigarette would be lipstick-stained.'
'Then that's about it. We're keeping these things for a while.'
'Take all the time you need. How is the investigation going?'
'Well, we know quite a bit more than we did when I saw you yesterday. The medical examiner found no signs that she had been sexually attacked, but he did come up with one curious finding: the girl was pregnant.'
'Could she have been married?'
'We don't even know that for sure. We found no marriage certificate among her effects at home, but in her purse, the one we found in your car, there was a wedding ring. Mrs. Serafino assumed that she was single, but if the girl had been secretly married, she never would have confided in her employer because it might have meant her job.'
'Then that could account for her having the ring in her handbag instead of on her finger,' suggested the rabbi. 'She would wear it while she was with her husband and then take it off before coming home.'
'That's a possibility.'
'And have you arrived at any theory as to how the girl's handbag got in my car?'
'It could have been put there by the murderer deliberately to cast suspicion on you. Do you know anyone who might want to do that to you, rabbi?'
The rabbi shook his head. 'There are a number of people in my congregation who don't care for me, but none
