hallway, and Beckman opened the door for Masuto. It was a pleasant room, walls lined with books, a desk, and behind the desk a round-faced man with glasses. He rose as they entered. “Seymour,” he said to Beckman, “this is a nice surprise.”
“Seymour?” Masuto whispered.
“This is Detective Sergeant Masuto,” Beckman said hastily. “Rabbi Schineberg.”
“Sit down,” the rabbi said, indicating two chairs on either side of his desk. “Masuto. Nisei, yes?”
Masuto nodded.
“Beverly Hills police. Interesting. We’re becoming civilized. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“He wants an expert opinion about Jews,” Beckman said sourly.
“Then you shouldn’t come to me. I’m totally biased. I like Jews. That’s how I earn my living.”
“The fact is,” Masuto said, “that I want to talk to you about the Jewish Defense League.”
“I understand them but I don’t approve of them,” the rabbi said unhappily. “They’re the result of history, and in my opinion, they’re most often misguided.”
“You can take the rabbi’s word for that,” Beckman said.
“You know members of the organization personally?”
“Some of them.”
“What do they stand for, Rabbi? What is their purpose?”
“You know that they believe in militant action-for the most part in favor of easing Soviet emigration standards for the Jews who wish to leave. They hold on to the memory of the holocaust of World War Two, the slaughter of six million Jews, as their central focus, and they believe that only by their militant and sometimes, unfortunately, irresponsible protests can they be effective.”
“How militant?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve read reports in the newspapers.”
“Tell me this-do you believe that members of this organization could take part in a cold-blooded, premeditated murder?”
“No! Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
“It’s unthinkable. I know so many of them. They’re hotheaded, excitable, but premeditated murder-no.”
“What about you, Sy?” he asked Beckman.
“You wanted an expert opinion.”
“I got it. Give me your nonexpert opinion.”
“I agree with the rabbi.”
“Rabbi,” said Masuto, “do you have a colleague in Las Vegas who is a personal friend of yours?”
“That’s an odd question. It happens that I do. Rabbi Bealson at the Conservative Temple in Las Vegas is an old friend.”
“Well, I have a request as odd as the question, and I would not make it except that I am very tired and trying to prevent something from happening that could be very terrible, and without knowing what I am trying to prevent or what will happen.”
The rabbi thought about it for a long moment, and then asked, “How do you know it will be very terrible?”
“Because I have been a policeman for many years, and because I learned to sense things. That’s not a very good answer, is it?”
“Tell me something, Sergeant Masuto, are you a Christian or a Buddhist, or perhaps simply a person without any particular faith, as so many are these days?”
“I am a Zen Buddhist.”
“Interesting. What is your request?”
“I would like you to call your friend in Las Vegas and ask him whether he knows a man, a booking agent, named Jack Stillman.”
“Why should he know him?”
“Stillman lives in Las Vegas. I think he’s Jewish.”
“Still, Las Vegas is a large place. It seems a most peculiar request.”
“If you feel it’s out of line-” Masuto spread his hands.
Both Beckman and the rabbi stared at Masuto for a few moments. Then the rabbi consulted his desk directory, found the number he wanted, and dialed it.
“Rabbi Bealson, please,” he said. And a moment later, “Larry, this is Hy Schineberg in Los Angeles.” Pause. “Yes, too long. But you’ll have to make it here. My congregation watches me too carefully for me to get away to Vegas.” Pause. “No, I’m calling at the request of an interesting policeman. Do you happen to know a Jack Stillman? He lives in Vegas and he’s a booking agent.” Now the rabbi listened. “Now that is odd, very odd indeed. Thank you, Larry.” Pause. “Soon, I trust.”
He put down the telephone and stared at Masuto, smiling slightly. “Well, Sergeant Masuto, the world is full of interesting coincidences.”
“I don’t think that what you are going to tell me is a coincidence.”
“Do you know what I am going to tell you?”
“I can guess. I would probably be wrong.”
“All right, let’s see. First of all, Jack Stillman is Jewish. He is not a member of Rabbi Bealson’s congregation, although he was, very briefly, when he married his first wife, whom he recently divorced. Shall I continue, or would you like to guess?”
“Would one of you please tell me what this is all about?” Beckman demanded.
Masuto liked the rabbi. A part of Masuto’s life was a game, and he had the feeling that the rabbi understood this particular game.
“Let me guess. Stillman was connected with the Jewish Defense League.”
“A theatrical booking agent? Wouldn’t that be a strange connection?”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re an interesting man, yes indeed. The fact is that about a year ago, some J.D.L. youngsters came to Stillman, and he gave them five hundred dollars. It was not a secret. I mean, it was nothing that Stillman attempted to hide, so I violate no confidence. Rabbi Bealson happened to hear about it. He also told me that recently Stillman married an exotic dancer-I think that’s the term-whose name is Binnie Vance. She was one of his clients, and she was apparently well known in certain circles.”
Beckman was staring at Masuto, his mouth open.
“Is something wrong, Seymour?” the rabbi asked.
“I’ll be damned,” Beckman said slowly.
“Did he say anything in particular about this Binnie Vance?” Masuto asked.
“No, except that she is an exotic dancer. He did say that Stillman was the last man you would expect to support the J.D.L., but you can never tell about Jews. Could I ask you why you are so interested in Jack Stillman, Sergeant, or is it none of my business?”
Beckman looked at Masuto, who nodded slightly. “He was shot to death this morning,” Beckman said. “In his room at the Beverly Glen Hotel.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. What an awful thing-and how terrible for his new wife.”
“I should have told you before,” Masuto said. “I didn’t mean to make light of it.”
6
It was a quarter after eight when they reached the station house in Beverly Hills. Beckman checked in and then went home to sleep. Wainwright had left for the night. Masuto telephoned his wife.
“How’s Ana?” he asked.
