"Dis who?" It was Jack Pollock, who had a reputation as a clown and felt he had to live up to it.

Mrs. Melnick, who had been a schoolteacher and knew how to cope with naughty boys, fixed him with a stare and said, "Disgruntlement, Mr. Pollock. Is the word unfamiliar to you?"

"Oh no. Let's not have any disgruntlement. I'm a strong gruntlement man myself."

They argued about it, of course, because they argued about every point that was raised, but in the end Mrs. Melnick had her way and they voted on the total figure.

Since the cantor's salary was fixed by contract, it would seem that there was no room for discussion on that item. Nevertheless, the question was raised as to whether the cantor ought not turn in the honoraria he got for his services at funerals and weddings, and more particularly for preparing boys for the chanting portion of the Bar Mitzvah ceremony, since these were normal duties of the job. It was a point that was raised every year, and with the same arguments on both sides.

"Say he's got a dopey kid that he has to spend a lot of extra time teaching him his Bar Mitzvah, and the kid's old man is appreciative and wants to give him an extra few bucks for his trouble-"

"If I were a cantor, frankly I'd resent it. After all, what's an honorarium? It's just a tip, ain't it?"

"Yeah, but what's a tip? It's a token of appreciation. Right? You get a good waiter, you give him a good tip. You get a bum waiter, and either you don't give him anything, or you give him just exactly the minimum. At least that's the way I do."

"In lots of restaurants they pool their tips."

"What I'd like to know is how you plan to work it. You going to announce that honoraria are forbidden to the cantor? Or are you going to let him collect them and then turn them in to the treasury? And how are you going to be sure he turns in everything he gets? Are you going to ask the donor to report how much he gives?"

In the end, they left matters as they were, just as they had done every year previously. Stanley Doble's salary involved little discussion. But there was some talk, largely anecdotal, about the man himself.

"Remember when he came in stinko one Friday night?"

"How about his not coming in at all, like a week ago Friday night when the Brotherhood sponsored the service?"

"I'd rather have him stay away altogether than come in drunk."

The suggestion, by one of the women, that maybe they ought to look around for a replacement, one more reliable, was immediately overridden by the chairman himself. "Forget it. We could get plenty of janitors who'd be more reliable, but where are we going to get one who can do what Stanley does? Anything goes wrong, and this building is now getting to the point where things do go wrong pretty regular, Stanley can usually fix it, whether it's with the plumbing or the wiring or with the heating system. He's a pretty good carpenter, and he spends most of the summer painting, repointing the brickwork, and just getting everything shipshape for the winter. Of course, sometimes he goofs off and gets drunk, and you can't always depend on him. But look at it this way. If he were one hundred percent reliable and always sober, he wouldn't be working for us as a janitor. So I see it as a trade-off, and as long as it doesn't get worse, I think we've got the best of the bargain. Now, if there's no further discussion on Stanley, I suggest that we go on to the last item, the rabbi."

This was Herb Mandell's cue. He raised his hand and, when recognized, said, "It seems to me, Mr. Chairman, that this item is a little different from the others."

"Oh yeah? How is it different?"

"Well, in the others we were concerned primarily with the question of salary. Now, in the case of the rabbi, it's not so much salary, since he has like an ongoing contract subject to annual renewal. I mean, the salary is fixed except for a cost-of-living increase, so we can't discuss that. The real question is on renewal."

"You got a point there, Herb," said Cy Morgenstern. "So what do you suggest?"

"Well, it seems to me that on this one we ought to vote by secret ballot. I mean, if somebody wants to vote against the rabbi, he ought to feel free to do so without being worried that it would get back to the rabbi and he'd maybe get sore at him."

The chairman stroked his chin reflectively. "That seems reasonable enough," he said. "All right, we'll do it that way." To the secretary, he said, "Gladys, why don't you pass out some paper. We'll vote Aye and Nay. If you want to vote for renewal of the rabbi's contract, you vote Aye. If you're opposed, you vote Nay. Everybody got it?"

The secretary tore several pages out of her notebook and then proceeded to fold and tear these in quarters, which she passed down the table.

"Can you spare it?" asked Pollock, ever the comedian.

"It's big enough for a three-letter word," said Mrs. Melnick, always the schoolteacher. Then with twitching lips, "Do you know how to spell it?"

"Keep me after school if I can't?" He leered at her.

A few marked their ballots openly and boldly, but most cupped one hand over the paper while they scribbled furtively with the other. The former folded their ballots once and negligently tossed them onto the table to be passed on. The more cautious folded them at least twice and personally handed the resultant little cushions of paper to the secretary, in some cases even leaving their seats to do so.

As he waited for his neighbor to finish so that he could borrow his pencil, Herb began to have doubts. He had nothing against the rabbi. He was doing it because Molly and Maltzman wanted him to. Molly and Maltzman. Molly sneaking out when she was supposed to be with his mother and Maltzman coming to the service late. Molly and Maltzman, their heads together as they pored over their lists. Molly off to help a girl with her bridge party-"Oh, no one you know"-and Maltzman calling to say he couldn't come to the meeting. His neighbor passed him a pencil. Herb hesitated a moment and then wrote Aye.

The secretary had waited until all ballots were in. Now she proceeded to unfold them and separate them into two piles. She counted first one and then the other. Then she announced, "Thirteen votes in all. Seven vote Aye, six Nay. The Ayes have it."

47.

"What are we going to do now?" Miriam asked tragically after Lanigan left.

The rabbi shook his head. "I don't know that there's anything we can do. It's up to Maltzman, and if he-"

"Oh, I don't care anything about Maltzman. I was thinking of the congregation and the community, and how the town will react."

"You mean how the town will react to the congregation? Believe me, Miriam, there'll be no reaction at all. People don't think that way anymore. They no longer feel that the actions of an individual are a reflection on the group he comes from. If there is an announcement in the press, there may be some editorializing on the fact that he's a prominent member of the community, and by that I mean Barnard's Crossing rather than the Jewish community. They'll mention that he's president of the temple, along with mention that he's president of the chamber of commerce and a big shot in the veterans' organization. The point they'll be making is that he's a community leader. That's all."

"Well, even for his own sake, don't you think you ought to try to help him?"

"What can I do?"

"I don't know what's got into you lately, David," she flared at him. "You don't seem to care anymore. When it looks as though the board might not renew your contract, instead of making a fight for it, you say you'll leave it to God to take care of. And now, when the president of the congregation is arrested for murder, you say 'What can I do?' Do you think he actually did it?"

"No, I don't."

"Because he's not the type?"

"Every type is capable of murder, or anything else," he replied gravely. "Who can know the depths of another person? No, I don't think he's guilty for the very reason that Lanigan arrested him, because he won't talk. It seems to me, if he had actually done it, he would have tried to arrange for an alibi, or offered some plausible explanation, even if it were only that he had taken a nap and overslept. But to tell the police that it is none of their business, that suggests that he has an alibi, an ironclad alibi, that he can produce if it becomes absolutely necessary."

"You think he's shielding someone?"

"Possibly. But I don't think so. Maybe if he had come late to the Friday service that one time, then it could have been because he happened to see something, perhaps some good friend of his whom he had seen going into or coming out of Jordon's house at about the time the murder was committed. But Maltzman came to the service late the Friday before that, and since then. Come to think of it, he hasn't sat beside me for the last three or four Fridays. No, there's something he's involved in that takes place every week at the same time. And he won't tell what it is because he's ashamed of it, or finds it embarrassing."

"You think he may be seeing a woman?" asked Miriam eagerly.

"Possibly, considering his reputation. But I doubt it. Because each time I've seen Laura Maltzman in her regular seat in the front row, and she was there from the beginning of the service. Then afterward she joined him for the collation, and everything seemed to be normal between them."

"But if she didn't know-"

"That could happen once. He might pretend an important business engagement and tell her to go on ahead and he'd meet her afterward. But not Friday after Friday. Anything he's doing, I'm sure she knows about."

"I suppose-yes, she'd have to. Then maybe he's taking some kind of course."

"Then there would be no reason for not telling the police. No, it's something that takes place every Friday night at the same time, that she knows about and seems to approve of, and yet is embarrassing to the point that ..." He snapped his fingers. "You hit it right on the head, Miriam."

"I did?"

"He is taking a course-a course of treatment-from a psychiatrist."

"Oh, David, I think that's it. Henry Maltzman strikes me as just the kind of man who would be ashamed to have it known that he was getting psychiatric treatment. He'd be afraid that people would think he was crazy. But that gives us something to go on. If you talked to him and hinted-"

"He wouldn't talk to me," said the rabbi flatly. "Even if I could get to him, he'd shut up as soon as he sensed what I was hinting at. But, you know, it might be worthwhile talking to Laura."

"Why Laura?"

"Because I could tell her point-blank what I thought. If I'm right, then there's a good chance that I could induce her to give me the name of the doctor. Then-look here, I'm going over to see her right now."

For a few minutes after her husband left, Miriam was buoyed up by his certainty. Then doubts began to set in. Laura Maltzman might be just as obdurate as Henry. She might have the same view of psychiatric treatment. Or even if not, she might feel it was disloyal to reveal what her husband was so anxious to keep secret. Perhaps there was another way, and a plan began to form in her mind. She reached for the phone and called the local hospital.

"You have lists of local doctors, haven't you?" she asked the switchboard operator, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Can you-"

"Hold on. I'll connect you."

She took several deep breaths, and to the person who answered this time, she was able to say crisply, "I would like a list of the local psychiatrists whom you recommend."

"Who is this calling, please?"

"Mrs. Small."

"Mrs. David Small? The rabbi's wife?"

"That's right. Can you help me?"

"I'm Mrs. Clausen, Mrs. Small. The rabbi checks in with me when he comes on his regular visits. He's all right, isn't he?"

"Oh yes. This involves a case he's working on. He asked me-"

"I understand. Well, there aren't too many. You're thinking of those who practice in the area, I suppose. Because there are a number who live here, but their offices are in Boston. Let's see-"

"Do you happen to know which of them will see patients in the evening?"

"Well, if it's an emergency-"

"No, I mean who will schedule patients for regular treatment."

"Well, that limits it even more, doesn't it? Let's see, Dr. Boles used to, but I know for a fact that he doesn't anymore. He's quite old. Abner Gordon doesn't as a rule, but he just might if the rabbi spoke to him, especially if he were interested in the case. I mean if it involved something he was doing a paper on."

She finally came up with a list of four names, two of which Miriam discarded because they were obviously Jewish. She reasoned that Maltzman might feel that if the doctor were Jewish, there was a greater chance of someone in the Jewish community finding out. Of the remaining two, one was a woman. For a couple of minutes Miriam agonized over the choice and then decided that Maltzman would be more inclined to tell his personal troubles to a woman than to a man.

"Dr. Sayre? I wonder if I could have an appointment-"

A firm contralto voice asked, "Whom am I talking to, please?"

"My name is-Myra, Myra Little."

"Miss or Mrs.?"

"It's Ms."

"Very well. And what is it you want to see me about?"

"It's-I don't like to say over the phone-I wouldn't want-I mean if someone were listening-"

"Who referred you to me, Ms. Little?"

"Well, it wasn't a doctor. It was one of your patients, Henry Maltzman."

"Oh yes." It was merely polite agreement, which might mean nothing, but it gave Miriam the courage to continue.

"He said you sometimes took patients in the evening, which is the only time I could come."

"I do take some patients in the evening."

"Well, could I have an appointment for Friday evening, around half past seven?"

"Friday evening? Let me see. Why that's Mr. Maltzman's time."

"Are you sure, Doctor. Because he said-"

"Quite sure. He-"

But Miriam had hung up, leaving the doctor looking puzzled at her telephone which had inexplicably gone dead.

When the rabbi returned shortly after, he showed his disappointment. "I should have called first," he said. "There was no one home when I got there."

"It doesn't matter, David," she said. "It doesn't matter." She was excited at her success and yet fearful of his disapproval.

The rabbi listened in silence as she told him what she had done and repeated her conversation with Dr. Sayre.

He shook his head in wonder and then smiled. "As I remarked earlier, who can know the depths of another person?"

"Are you angry? Was it wicked of me?"

"The Talmud forbids pricing a merchant's wares if you have no intention of buying. It raises his hopes of making a sale and then causes him needless distress when you disappoint him. I suppose the same would apply to a doctor." He threw his head back and laughed joyously. "But it was awfully clever of you. And now, I'd better see Lanigan." He hesitated. "You don't have any other bright ideas you might try while I'm gone, do you, Miriam?"

"Oh, David!"

"Now, Chief, I've given you my personal assurance that I was nowhere near the Jordon house that night, or during the day for that matter. And I'm willing to say that under oath. I know damn well you don't suspect me of having anything to do with it, and I consider it a serious infringement on my rights."

Lanigan listened with growing impatience. Finally, he exploded. "Goddammit, this isn't a parking offense. This is murder and-"

The voice of the desk sergeant came over the intercom. "Rabbi Small is here, Chief, and he'd like to see you."