The righteous men

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Monday, 12.28 am, Manhattan

Should he try to break into one or both of these places, to find the man he had followed? A true man of action would do just that. But as he was sizing up the first building, a police car sped past, lights flashing. He stepped back. That was all he needed: to be arrested for breaking into a synagogue in the small hours of Monday morning. And on Yom Kippur of all days. What believable grounds for following this man did he even have? He had seen him come out of an apartment building on the Lower East Side. Oh, and he had seen him out of TO's window yesterday. He had seen him commit no crime. As Harden would say, 'You've got a notebook full of nothing.' Nothing except a grim suspicion that was becoming firmer every minute.

He retraced his steps towards the building on Montgomery Street. He and Rabbi Freilich had discussed what he should do in only the sketchiest terms. 'Just call me,' the rabbi had said. 'Even if you're not sure it's him, call.'

'And then what?'

'We'll come and we'll help.'

Will was not quite sure what that meant.

He crossed the street and took a few furtive steps towards the entrance of the tenement. A gleam of light drew his eye to the door-lock: it was not fully shut! The stalker must have left it ajar, perhaps to avoid making even that small noise.

Will creaked it open and slipped inside.

Perez, La Pinez, Abdulla, Bitensky, Wilkins, Gonzales, Yoelson, Alberto. The mailboxes offered no clues.

There was a rickety elevator, but that was no use. He needed to check each floor, every apartment. He ran quietly up the stairs, stopping at each landing: but all he could see were shut doors, shabby doormats, the odd sodden umbrella left outside. Will realized the futility of this expedition. What was he looking for? A plaque announcing, 'Mr Righteous Tzaddik lives here. Available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs'?

By the third landing, he was poised to call Freilich and press him for more information. Anything else they had which might narrow it down. But the last apartment on the third floor stopped him dead.

The door was open.

Will crept towards it, lightly tapping it with his knuckles as he moved past and inside. 'Hello,' he called out, almost in a whisper. No lights were on, just the silver shadow of the moon, coming through the window that faced the street.

He looked to his left. A galley kitchen, small and made up of 1950s units. Not as some retro fashion statement, but the real thing: a bulky, curved fridge; a stove with oversized knobs.

This was the home, Will concluded, of an old person.

Then he looked to his right. He could see a big radio on a table; a couple of wooden chairs, whose seats were cushioned in thin, fake leather; one was spilling out its stuffing. Then a couch- Will gasped, jumping back. There was a man lying on it, flat on his back. Silhouetted in the light were the bristles on his chin. He had a small, squirrel-like face framed by clunky, chunky spectacles. The rest of him looked shrunken with age, in a too-big cardigan. He seemed to be sleeping.

Will took a step forward, then another one, until he was crouched over him. He placed his hand in front of the man's mouth and waited to feel a breath.

Nothing.

Then Will touched him, placing a hand on his forehead.

Cold. He put a finger on his neck, searching for a pulse. He knew there would be none.

Will moved backwards, as if to take in the enormity of what he could see. As he did, he felt a crunch of glass. He looked down to see that he had just stepped on a syringe.

He was bending down to get a closer look when the room flooded with light.

'Put your hands in the air and turn around. NOW!'

Will did as he was told. He could barely see; he was dazzled by the three or four torches aimed directly at his eyes.

'Step away from the body. That's good. Now walk towards me. SLOWLY!'

His eyes were not yet adjusted but he could make out the small circle dancing before him, right next to the ring of torch light. It was the barrel of a gun — and it was aimed at him.