Thursday The Rabbi Walked Out

41

OUTSIDE OF BOSTON, MCLURE, AS A STATE DETECTIVE. HAD always had things pretty much his own way. In the smaller cities and towns where murder was rare, the police had little experience and welcomed his expertise. When he was assigned to the Jordon case, he had expected no differently, that the Barnard's Crossing police would cooperate—it was his word—with him rather than, as it turned out, he with them, he was annoyed that Chief Lanigan should give him assignments and evaluate his findings in much the way he did with his subordinates. Nor did McLure get much satisfaction when he hinted to the district attorney that this was not the way he was accustomed to work.

"I know. Sergeant. I know exactly how you feel." the district attorney said soothingly. "But Barnard's Crossing is a funny kind of town. It was established back in colonial days by a bunch who left Salem because they weren't having the local authorities tell them what they could do and what they couldn't, they practically had no government at all for a number of years, and because they're kind of off the beaten path, they still don't like outsiders coming in and interfering. You're a foreigner there. Did you know that? If you lived there all your lifa but were born someplace else, you'd still be called a foreigner. Now, this is a local crime, and Hugh Lanigan, who is a Crosser for all that his folks were Irish Catholic, knows the scene better than any outsider could, he knows how to deal with these people."

Typical was his assignment to question Henry Maltzman. "How about if I bring him down here and we really put the boots to him?" he suggested to Lanigan. "After all, he's the guy who said he'd put a bullet through his head."

"Oh no, you can't handle Henry that way," said Lanigan. "He's a funny guy. You've got to handle him with kid gloves. Besides, we know he was at the temple when the murder took place, the rabbi's wife said so, and that's good enough for me. I don't expect we'll get much from Henry, but since he did make the threat, we've got to check it out as part of the routine."

Because it was routine. McLure did not give it high priority, and it was the Thursday after the murder before he finally called on Maltzman at his place of business, he identified himself and Maltzman led him into his private office.

Once he was seated. McLure took out pencil and notebook and asked abruptly, "Now, what time was it you went to see Jordon that Friday?"

Maltzman grinned. "Where did you get the idea I ever went to see him?"

"You phoned him, didn't you?"

Maltzman shrugged. "I make a lot of calls, that's what the real estate business is all about. Sometimes I'm on the phone for a couple of hours and I think the receiver is growing out of my ear."

"We know that you called him." said McLure. "So maybe I called him." said Maltzman with a shrug. "And you said you'd put a bullet through his head." Maltzman's grin broadened. "Who says so?"

"We have information to that effect." McLure said doggedly.

Maltzman cocked a speculative eye at the ceiling. "You know. I don't see how you can,” he said. "It doesn't add up.

You say I called him on the phone and threatened to put a bullet through his head. Now, unless he has a phone with an extension and had someone listening in, you just can't have that information."

"We have it from Jordon himself." said McLure angrily. "He told people who came to see him that you had just called—"

"He's a liar. Or he was. You're telling me that Jordon told someone that I called him, and they told you, that's hearsay, and from someone who is not here to verify it, and how would he have known it was me who called? Cummon. Sergeant."

"All right. Mr. Maltzman, let's try it a different way. Suppose you tell me where you were last Friday night."

"I didn't go to Jordon's house, that's for sure."

"Not good enough, Mr. Maltzman. Where did you go?"

"That's none of your business."

"This is a murder case. Mr. Maltzman, we can make you tell."

"Can you? Maybe in a court of law after I’ve been sworn. But certainly not here in my office just by flashing a badge at me."

"Suppose I take you down to the stationhouse." "You got a warrant. Sergeant?"

It dawned on McLure that Lanigan had been right, and that maybe Maltzman had to be handled with kid gloves, abruptly, he changed his tactics. "Look. Mr. Maltzman, a murder has been committed, and it is your duty as a citizen to help the police any way you can to expose the perpetrator."

"Now, I go along with you there. Sergeant. I'm a strict law and order man myself You ask me anything that has any bearing on this, and I'll answer to the best of my ability."

"Fine. Mr. Maltzman. I'm glad you see it in the proper light now. What we'd like to know is where you were that Friday evening."

Maltzman slowly shook his head. "What's the matter? Don't you remember?"

"I'm just not going to answer that question."

"Why not? You said you'd answer any question I asked you."

"Only if it has bearing on this case."

"You let us be the judge of that, Mr. Maltzman." said McLure confidently.

"Come on. Sergeant, let's not play games. Suppose I told you I was at a basketball game. How would that help you solve your problem?"

"Were you?"

"No, I wasn't." Maltzman rose to indicate that he had nothing more to say.

McLure protested. "Now look here. Mr. Maltzman—"

"If the only help you expect to get out of me is to find out where I was that night, there's no point in our continuing."

"Why, what else can you tell me? You got any other information?"

"I certainly have. Sergeant. I can tell you the kind of man Ellsworth Jordon was, he was a nasty, mean, cantankerous, penny-pinching, anti-Semitic sonofabitch, and if you're planning on questioning all who might have wanted him dead at one time or another, or might have said they'd put a bullet through him, you've got your work cut out for you, because you'd have to question about half the town and just about everybody who ever had dealings with him, and now, if you'll excuse me. I've got work to do."