Raisins and Almonds

her drinking, he might be moved to bargain. A glass of water, for Simon's life?

There was a flurry of feet on the steps and a woman's voice screamed 'Simon!'

'Stay back, Julia,' warned Chaim. 'Don't come any closer.'

'Simon, you're hurt ...' Julia came to a skidding halt next to Phryne. 'Chaim, what is this?'

'Julia, you are in time to watch your son die,' said the murderer.

'Why, Chaim, why?' she demanded, taking a step towards him. 'Bubelah, are you all right?'

'I'm all right, Mama,' he said valiantly.

'You chose the wrong man,' said Chaim. 'You know it now. When you had to choose, in Paris, between two poor men, me and my brother, you chose wrong, Julia.'

'No,' she said faintly. 'I chose right.'

'Wrong,' he snarled, and Julia jumped back from his contorted face.

'All right, I was wrong, I was wrong, now let Simon go,' said Mrs Abrahams. 'You let him go, Chaim, and I'll go away with you, I'll do anything you want. I'll lie down on this floor for you, let my son go!'

'Too late,' said Chaim. 'Once that would have made me happy, but not now. Come closer if you want him dead,' he added.

'Phryne,' whispered Julia Abrahams, 'do something!'

'I'm thinking,' said Phryne.

The police marksman would be in position by now. If she could get Simon away for only a second he would have a clear target and would fire, and police marksmen seldom missed. But Chaim was strong on his legs, had Simon in what looked like an unbreakable grip, and had more grievances to air. She doubted that he would kill Simon while he had a captive audience and further envy, malice and all uncharitableness to spill. Phryne pushed Mr Abrahams forward.

'You talk to him,' she urged. 'Get him to tell you how much he hates you.'

'Chaim?' asked Mr Abrahams. 'What are you doing, brother?'

'Brother?' snarled Chaim. 'What brother were you to me? You married the woman I loved, you stole my business, and you made me your slave. Find this, Chaim, fix this, Chaim, oh, Chaim will do it! He's got no head for business, Chaim, too visionary, a luftmensch, but good on the day-to-day details, keep the diary, arrange the appointments!' His mockery was merciless and instantly recognizable.

'Chaim,' said Benjamin Abrahams, 'Chaim, please, we're mispocheh! We're family!'

'Bennie, we're not related,' snapped Chaim.

'Then give me a great gift, stranger.' Benjamin Abrahams sank down onto his knees, eye to eye with his son. 'Give me this life.'

'I want you to mourn,' Chaim's voice was inhumanly gleeful and Phryne shivered. ''Oh, Absalom, my son, my son! Would that I had died for thee,' that's what I want for you, Bennie, I want you to mourn.'

'I will mourn,' agreed Benjamin Abrahams. 'I will mourn the loss of my son. I will also mourn the loss of my brother,' he said. 'You want me to beg, Chaim? Here I am, begging. You want my wife to leave me and go to you? She's going right now. You want my business, every penny I own? It's yours. Only give me my son, Chaim. Give me Simon.'

'No,' said Chaim. 'You don't mean it, brother. You mean to fool me. Don't you think I know that as soon as I let go of this boy, the policeman will seize me? They're out of sight but I know they're there. Get up, Bennie. Lead the way. We're going out of the market. Then you will drive me away in your big car.'

He hauled Simon to his feet and Phryne followed a grotesque, horrible procession. Chaim kept his back to the shops and sidled along, using Simon as a shield. Benjamin Abrahams walked ahead, Phryne and Julia behind, and there was still not a thought of what to do in Miss Fisher's mind.

Death under the ground, the Rabbi had said. Beware.

It would be so much easier if it had been her. She would have kicked and fought and could have got away, far enough for a shot to find Chaim's black heart. But Simon was limp prey, going where he was pushed.

They stumbled down the stairs and into the main hall of shops. Phryne heard twittering from the birdshop, and a sleepy voice demanding 'Polly wants ...' before it fell silent in its usual indecision. The stench of rotten oranges, Phryne knew, would forever call up this nightmare suspense, the sight of the boy's blood, and the miasma of hatred which surrounded Uncle Chaim like a rank mist.

They had almost reached the door when it crashed open, and Chaim flung himself back against a wall with Simon in front of him.

The knife was against his throat. Julia bit her knuckle to stop a scream. Benjamin Abrahams swore.

'Don't come no closer,' screamed Chaim.

A figure out of Talmudic story, preternaturally tall, bearded, his gaberdine slick with water so that he looked like he was wrapped in metal, raised one hand and pointed at Chaim.

'Thou shalt do no murder!' he boomed, and the voice echoed in the empty market. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked like artillery behind him, and Chaim slashed wildly with the knife. Simon whispered 'Schma Yisroel.' Chaim faltered and missed. For a split second he was a little off balance, and Phryne saw her chance. She dived forward and tackled Simon, knocking him down and out of Chaim's grasp.

They rolled across the floor and into a corner. Simon buried his head in Phryne's breast and shuddered and she held him tight, unable to look away from the Prophet Ezekiel in the doorway.

Lightning flashes silvered his hair and made a carved stone of his face. He took another step, and cried again, 'Murderer! There is the mark of Cain upon you!'

Chaim Abrahams screamed and stabbed with the knife, and this time he did not miss.

Phryne saw both figures fall. The Rabbi Elijah collapsed into Yossi's arms, but Chaim Abrahams, who had stabbed himself unerringly through the heart, lay where he fell.

Sixteen

'I challenge you,' said the young man, 'to tell me the whole of the Torah while standing on one leg,' 'That which is hateful to you, do not do unto your neighbours,' snapped Rabbi Hillel. 'All the rest is commentary. So and learn!'

Leo Rosten, The Joys of Yiddish

It was a terrible argument.

The Abrahams were forbidden celebration by the requirement to sit shivah for seven days to mourn the death of their brother and uncle Chaim. Equally Chaim had killed himself only after he had tried to kill Simon, and Simon was alive and Chaim was dead. A suicide was denied ordinary burial and mourning; the body was in any case being held by the police for post-mortem and a subsequent inquest. Then again and on the fourth hand, suicides were not condemned as murderers if the balance of their mind was disturbed, and there was no doubt that Chaim's mind had been disturbed, but also there was no doubt that he had murdered poor Shimeon. Confusion was becoming endemic.

Rabbi Elijah was recovering in hospital from his heart attack, and was not available for comment. Phryne finally extracted herself from the argument and went to telephone the gentle and wise Rabbi Cohen, to whom she explained the whole situation in confidence.

'Tell them that the law requires them to mourn a life lost, but it also requires them to rejoice in a life saved,' said the old man's voice, a little shocked and a little amused.

'A party?' suggested Phryne.

'Just a small one,' he agreed.

So it was a small luncheon party. Simon was sitting next to his mother, who would not let him out of her sight. He trusted that this would wear off soon, because Phryne was taking him out to dinner and he had hopes. The only sign of his ordeal was a small cut on his throat which had required only two stitches, some scraped rings around his wrists, and a certain hollowness about the eyes, seen in those who have looked into the face of death and been saved by a miracle. Occasionally he could still feel the cold breath of the blade as it sliced past his face, and the strength of Phryne's body as she bore him across the floor.

He was glad that he had not seen Chaim die. He was still puzzled about Chaim. No one had ever hated Simon