They were joined by Al Becker. 'Abe Reich and Meyer Goldfarb are here, but I don't think you'll be getting many more.'
'We'll wait another fifteen minutes,' said Wasserman.
'If they're not here now, they won't be here,' said Casson flatly.
'Maybe we should make a few telephone calls,' Wasserman suggested.
'If they're afraid of a little rain,' said Becker, 'your calling them won't change their minds.'
Casson snorted derisively. 'You think that's what's keeping them away?'
'What else?'
'I think the boys are playing it cozy. Don't you understand, Al? They don't any of them want to get mixed up in this.'
'Mixed up in what?' demanded Becker. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'I'm talking about a girl who was murdered. And about the rabbi's possible connection with her. We were supposed to vote today on the rabbi's new contract, remember? And I imagine some of the boys started to think about the possibilities. Suppose they vote for keeping the rabbi, and then it turns out he's guilty. What would their friends say, especially their Gentile friends? What would be the effect on their business? Now do you get it?'
'It never occurred to me,' Becker began slowly.
'That's because it probably never occurred to you that the rabbi could have done it,' said Casson. He looked at Becker curiously. 'Tell me, Al, didn't you get any phone calls?'
Becker looked blank, but Wasserman's face began to color.
'Ah, I see you got some, Jacob,' Casson went on.
'What kind of calls?' asked Becker.
'Tell him, Jacob.'
Wasserman shrugged his shoulders. 'Who pays attention? Cranks, fools, bigots, am I going to listen to them? I hang up on them.'
'And you've been getting them, too?' Becker demanded of Casson.
'Yeah. I imagine they called Jacob because he's president. And they called me because I'm in politics and so I'm known.'
'And what have you done about it?' demanded Becker.
Casson shrugged his shoulders. 'Same as Jacob- nothing. What can you do about it? When the murderer is found, it'll stop.'
'Well, something ought to be done about it. At least we ought to tell the police or the Selectmen or-'
'And what can they do? Now if I were to recognize a voice, that would be something else again.'
'Yeah.'
'It's new to you, eh? And it's probably new to Jacob. But it's not new to me. I've had this type of call in every political campaign. The world is full of nuts-bitter, disappointed, disturbed men and women. Individually, they're mostly harmless. Collectively, they're kind of unpleasant to think about. They write nasty obscene letters to the newspapers or to people whose names are mentioned in the news, and if it happens to be someone local, they telephone.'
Wasserman looked at his watch. 'Well, gentlemen, a meeting I'm afraid we won't have today.'
'It wouldn't be the first time we didn't get a quorum,' said Becker.
'And what do I tell the rabbi? That he should wait another week? And next week, we are sure we'll get a quorum?' He looked quizzically at Becker.
Becker colored. Then suddenly he was angry. 'So if we don't get a quorum, it'll be next week, or the following week, or the week after that. You've got the votes. Does he need it in writing?'
'There's also the little matter of the opposition votes that you mustered,' Casson reminded him.
'You don't have to worry about them now,' said Becker stiffly. 'I told my friends I was in favor of renewing the rabbi's contract.'
Hugh Lanigan dropped by that evening to see the rabbi.
'I thought I'd congratulate you on your reprieve. According to my source of information, the opposition to you has collapsed.'
The rabbi smiled noncommittally.
'You don't seem very happy about it,' said Lanigan.
'It's a little like getting in through the back door.'
'So that's it. You think you're getting this reappointment or election, or whatever it is, because of what you were able to do for Bronstein. Well, here, I am in a position to teach you, rabbi. You Jews are skeptical, critical, and logical.'
'I always thought we were supposed to be highly emotional,' said the rabbi.
'And so you are, but only about emotional things. You Jews have no political sense whatsoever, and we Irish have a genius for it. When you argue or campaign for office, you fight on the issues. And when you lose, you console yourselves with the thought you fought on the issues and argued reasonably and logically. It must have been a Jew who said he'd rather be right than President. An Irishman knows better; he knows that you can do nothing unless you're elected. So the first principle of politics is to get elected. And the second great principle is that a candidate is not elected because he's the logical choice, but because of the way he has his hair cut, or the hat he wears, or his accent. That's the way we pick even the President of the United States, and for that matter, that's the way a man picks his wife. Now wherever you have a political situation, political principles apply. So don't you worry as to why or how you were chosen. You just be happy that you were chosen.'
'Mr. Lanigan is right, David,' said Miriam. 'We know that if your contract had not been renewed you could have got another position as good or better than this, but you like it here in Barnard's Crossing. Besides, Mr. Wasserman is sure the raise will be granted, and we can find some use for that.'
'That's already spoken for, my dear,' said the rabbi hurriedly.
She made a face. 'More books?'
He shook his head. 'Not this time. When this business is finally over, I'm going to apply the extra money toward a new car. The thought of that poor girl… Every time I get into the car I almost shudder. I find myself thinking up excuses for walking instead of riding.'
'Understandable,' said Lanigan, 'but maybe you'll feel differently once we find the murderer.'
'Oh? How does it look?'
'We're getting new material all the time. We're working around the clock. Right now, we've got some promising leads.'
'Or to put it another way,' said the rabbi, 'you're at a dead end.'
Lanigan's answer was a shrug and a wry grin.
'If you want my advice,' said Miriam, 'you'll put it out of your mind and have a cup of tea.'
'That's sound advice,' said Lanigan.
They sipped their tea and talked about the town, politics, the weather-the aimless, idle conversation of people who had nothing weighing on their minds. Lanigan finally rose with obvious reluctance.
'It's been very pleasant just sitting here and talking, rabbi, Mrs. Small, but I've got to get back now.'
Just as he was leaving, the telephone rang, and although the rabbi was nearest his wife ran to answer. She said hello, and then listened for a moment, the receiver pressed firmly against her ear. 'I'm sorry, you have the wrong number,' she said firmly and hung up.
'We seem to be getting quite a few wrong numbers the last couple of days,' observed the rabbi.
Lanigan, his hand on the doorknob, looked from the rabbi, his face innocent and bland, to his wife, her cheeks pink with embarrassment? with annoyance? with anger? In response to his questioning look he thought he detected an almost imperceptible shake of her head, so with a smile and a wave of his hand he let himself out.
Night after night pretty much the same group sat in the circular booth down front at the Ship's Cabin. Sometimes there were as many as six, most nights only three or four. They called themselves the Knights of the Round Table and were inclined to be noisy and boisterous. Although Alf Cantwell, the proprietor of the tavern, was strict and prided himself on running an orderly establishment, he was likely to be lenient with them because they were regular customers, and if they did occasionally get quarrelsome they kept it within the confines of their own circle. Even then, on the two or three occasions he had had to order his barman to stop serving them and had in
