"Yeah?"

"Well, when she said she believed so, doesn't that mean she wasn't sure?"

"Oh, I don't know. That's just a manner of speaking."

"But that was something she should have been sure about. Hugh. You ever been to one of their services?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

Jennings smirked his satisfaction. "That's because you Catholics wouldn't join this Visit a Church program we had a couple of years ago. Your Father Regan was all for people coming to visit his church, but he wouldn't encourage his people to go and visit other churches. You see, Hugh, you Catholics tend to be kind of narrow-minded about certain things, whereas we Methodists-"

"Get the point, Eban, get to the point."

Jennings turned pale blue eyes on his chief and said, in tones that were both hurt and forgiving, "That's what I was doing, Hugh. You see, they have this kind of platform, and in the middle of it, they have this Ark where they keep their holy writings. Now on either side of this here Ark, they got these fancy chairs, two on a side. The rabbi and the president of the congregation sit on one side, and the vice-president and the cantor sit on the other side, except when he's singing, the cantor, I mean, which is most of the time, and then he stands up front-"

"Get on with it, Eban."

"Right, Hugh. So what I'm saying is that Maltzman is the president, so he'd be sitting right next to Rabbi Small if he was there, and the rabbi's wife wouldn't have any doubt about it, because he'd be up there on the platform in plain sight."

"So maybe that night he didn't sit up there, but sat down with the rest of the congregation."

"That's what I think, Hugh. Like if I ask you if Father Regan was in church Sunday, you'd say, 'Of course he was.' But if I ask you was Mrs. Murphy in church Sunday, you might say, you think so, and then maybe you'd remember and you'd say, 'Yeah, I'm sure she was.'"

"Who is Mrs. Murphy?"

"Oh, you know. I just took her like an example."

"All right, what's your point?"

"My point is-well, why wouldn't Henry Maltzman be sitting in his regular place? Maybe that night he was kind of nervous and uncomfortable and did't want to be sitting up there, right in front of everyone."

"More likely, I'd say, he may have come in late, after things got started and-yea-ah, maybe he came in late." Lanigan drummed the table with his fingers. "If he came in late, he wouldn't want to walk all the way down to the front and then go up to the platform-"

"Especially, if he was kind of nervous and uncomfortable."

"All right. We didn't ask Miriam what time he got there, so she didn't say, not knowing why we were asking in the first place. Okay, Eban, there must have been at least a hundred people there that night, so someone must have noticed when Henry arrived."

"We have a man on duty directing traffic into the parking lot Friday nights. Maybe he noticed."

"Right. Check around, and when you find out, then I'll go to see Henry."

43.

"That's the start of the run," said Sergeant Holcombe, "so there's no chance of the driver being mistaken. He says that only two people got on, and neither was Martha Peterson. He knows the two well because they take the eight o'clock to Lynn every night."

Chief Lanigan interlaced his fingers behind his desk and stretched back in his chair. "She could have taken a cab."

"I checked both the local cab companies," said the sergeant. "And the ones in the nearby towns. I went as far as Lynn. Beyond that, Revere or Chelsea, they wouldn't be able to make it in time."

"Unless they happened to have a car in the area and two-way radio," observed Jennings.

"Yeah, but I didn't think she'd be likely to have called them in the first place," said the sergeant. "Would you like me to check them?"

"No, don't bother," said Lanigan. "If she thought of going back, she would have planned on taking the bus. And if she realized it was too late for the eight o'clock, she would have waited for the half past. And if for some reason she felt she wanted to get there right then and there, she would have called one of the local cabs."

"Maybe she didn't want anyone to know," suggested Jennings. "Then she might have called a cab from another town."

"Why wouldn't she want anyone to know?" demanded Lanigan. "She wasn't going out there to kill him. She didn't know about a gun lying on the table. She would have gone there just to demand her pay, or to argue with him a little. Or to let him argue with her so they could make up and she could get her job back. All right, Sergeant, what about the time before eight? Could she have gone out earlier, and maybe got a ride-"

"No, Sir. That's pretty tight. That neighbor of hers who is something of a snoop, I guess, heard her come in and was pretty sure she didn't go out. Besides, she heard her arguing with Stanley through the door around eight-"

"How'd she know it was around eight?" asked Jennings.

"The TV program was just changing," he said.

"Everything gets timed by the TV programs these days," said Jennings.

"All right, Sergeant," said Lanigan. "Anything more on Stanley Doble?"

"No, sir. I'm still working on the Salem end."

"Okay, keep on with it," said Lanigan in dismissal. To Jennings, he said, "I guess that lets Martha out. Too bad."

"Why? Did you want to pin it on her? What have you got against Martha Peterson?"

"Nothing. It's just the pattern of the shooting seems to fit a woman, a woman with her eyes shut firing away. That's the way the medical examiner saw it, and that's the way I see it. But Martha is the only woman we know about, and now she appears to be out of it."

"That car that Stanley says he saw turn into the driveway," suggested Jennings, "that could have been driven by a woman."

"Possible, but I think that Stanley dreamed it. Or he might be a lot smarter than we give him credit for. Remember, he offered that as the reason he didn't go up to see Jordon."

"Yeah, but I can't see Stanley shooting Jordon."

"Why not?"

"Because of that same pattern of the shooting," said Jennings. "He goes hunting every season and he always comes back with something."

"Yeah, but he was drunk that night."

"So what? You think on a hunting trip he's likely to be sober?"

"Hm. It doesn't leave us much, does it?"

"There's Billy."

"Yeah, we keep coming back to Billy," said Lanigan moodily.

"You don't like the idea of it being Billy? Do you?"

"Do you?"

"Well, if he did it-"

"Yeah, but what if he didn't? We don't have a single particle of evidence against him any more than we have against the others. But what happens when I lay it all out in front of Clegg. He sees right away that he has the best case against Billy-his bringing the gun in the first place, Jordon shaming him in front of his boss, his running off. But more than that, the boy is alone here and has no friends which makes him an easy mark."

"But Clegg is a pretty decent guy and-"

"He's the district attorney, which means he's first of all a pol. And that means he's interested in publicity. So here's a suspect whose ma is a TV personality. Have you any idea what Clegg could do with that? And do you know what it could do to Billy, and his mother?"

"Okay. So all that's left is Maltzman."

"Did you check on him?"

"When could I check?" Jennings was aggrieved. "You've had me here with you all the time. But I did leave word that Patrolman MacIsaac was to stop by as soon as he came on duty. He was on duty at the temple that night. Maybe he-"

"You put MacIsaac on duty at the temple?"

Jennings grinned. "Well, it seemed kind of fitting." He glanced at his watch. "He should be here about now." He pressed the button on the intercom and spoke to the desk sergeant. "Has MacIsaac come in yet?"

"Just coming in the door now, Lieutenant," came the metallic squawk in reply.

"Fine. Send him in."

MacIsaac was a tall young man with a bony, freckled face and red hair. He was relatively new on the force and still in awe of the chief. He stood at attention in front of the desk.

"You were on duty at the temple a week ago Friday night?" asked Lanigan.

"Yes, sir, every Friday night. The cruiser drops me off a little after eight and picks me up around nine."

"Nine? The service starts at half past eight, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Sir, but folks keep coming in after that for a little while. Some of them, just as I'm leaving. They have some refreshments after the service, I understand, and I guess some of the folks come for that, and to stand around and visit. That's what Stanley Doble says. He comes out to talk to me sometimes. Now, take that Friday night, the cruiser didn't come by until a quarter past and somebody came in right about then. It was the president himself, Mr. Maltzman."

"How do you know it was Mr. Maltzman?" asked Jennings. "You know him?"

"Oh, sure. We bought our house from him. He stopped his car when he saw me, and we talked for a minute. He asked me if there was a crowd. And I said I thought there was."

"You sure it was a quarter past nine?"

"Well, after nine I began wondering what was keeping the cruiser. And then Mr. Maltzman came along, and like I said, I talked to him, and then I noticed the cruiser had come along and was parked at the curb waiting for me. I asked Sergeant Lindquist, who was on the wheel, how come he was so late. That was just after Mr. Maltzman went on to park, you understand. And the sergeant looked at his watch and said it was only a quarter past."

"So what time did Maltzman get there? This is important."

"Well, I'd say between ten past and quarter past."

When he had gone, Lanigan said, "I think I ought to have a little talk with Henry Maltzman. And I want it down here at the stationhouse. Now I really want to know where he was."

"What if he won't come and tells you it's none of your business like he told McLure?"

"I'll make sure he comes. I'm getting a warrant from Judge Turner and I'm going to have you bring him in."

"A warrant charging him with murder?"

"That's right."

"You think he did it?"

"No, I don't. But he's going to talk, or he'll stay here-"

"You think he knows something that could help us?" persisted Jennings.

"I doubt it."

"Look here, Hugh," said Jennings earnestly, "you're kind of frustrated about this case and you're letting it get the better of your judgment. If you don't really think he knows anything that will help us and-"

"I've got a conference with the district attorney first thing Monday morning. I'm going to have to tell him that I don't have a shred of evidence against any one person. We'll go over every one involved in the case, and when we come to Maltzman, am I going to say I don't know where he was at the time of the shooting because he said it was none of my business? This from the guy who threatened to kill him? In the very way we found him killed?"

"Yeah, I see your point. I just wonder how the Jews in town will react, especially your friend, Rabbi Small."

Lanigan nodded. "Maybe I ought to tell him about it first."

44.

Before the change in the bylaws, there had been three vice-presidents. The intention was that the first vice-president would succeed when the president's term expired, the other two would then move up and only a new third vice-president would be elected by the congregation at large. Envisioned, had been a kind of self-perpetuating board about whose composition the general membership would have little to say. It never worked. They continued to elect three vice-presidents, but the positions were purely honorary.

Under the new order, there was only one vice-president, and his sole function was to chair the meeting in the absence of the president. Barry Fisher had not wanted to run for vice-president but had agreed to only because Henry Maltzman had asked him. He had been a friend of Maltzman's and devoted to him ever since they had been in high school together. Now, in middle age, they were even closer, in part because his insurance agency nicely complemented Maltzman's real estate business, and they were in a position to do each other favors. While it was regrettable that "the girls," their wives, didn't hit it off together, it did not seriously interfere with their friendship. They saw each other several nights a week to go to the hockey or baseball games in Boston or to work out at the local Y. They lunched together or conferred on the phone almost daily.

It was Saturday afternoon and they had just finished a game of squash, which Barry Fisher, who was thin and wiry, had won quite easily. He was good at racket games, his long legs easily covering the court and his long arms reaching seemingly impossible shots. As usual, he explained apologetically, "I guess I was lucky."

To which Maltzman gave his usual magnanimous answer, "No, Barry, you're good." And then added complainingly, "Jesus, you don't even sweat."

"Maybe I got nothing to sweat."