One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (25 page)

And the rabbi, who had seen Gittel in action before, said, “It's worth a try.”

“Oh, David, do you think there's a chance? Do you have some idea—”

“Nothing very much, I'm afraid. But maybe I can delay things a little. As near as I can judge, the way the matter stands now, they're all set to bring the boy before the court and get him sentenced one, two, three. They won't put him on the stand. It probably will be a deal of some sort between the prosecutor and the defense. Maybe a shorter sentence. Something like that.”

“Then how can you stop it?”

“Well, there's Perlmutter's testimony. They've got to explain that. If Gittel manages to get Adoumi down, I'll call Perlmutter and have him come, too. His testimony will be more effective if he's here to tell it than if I just recount it.”

“Will you call Bergson and tell him not to come?”

“Yeah. Maybe I should. On the other hand, I don't see any harm in his being here. It might even help.”

36

On the telephone, Gittel was formidable, when Adoumi explained patiently that he was no longer involved in the case, that he had given it over to Yaacov Luria of the Police Department, she said, “So bring him along with you. Maybe it would be better if both of you were here.”

“But Gittel, I can't get Luria to come to your house to discuss a police matter. There are lines of authority, and we don't cross them.”

“Look, Uri, he's Tzippe Luria's boy. I was in the Haganah with her. We were close, like sisters. So, do I have to call her in Tel Aviv and ask her to call her boy here in Jerusalem, he should do his old mother a favor and go and see her friend Gittel?”

“All right, Gittel,” said Adoumi wearily, “I'll call him.”

She replaced the receiver and said, “Believe me, they'll be here.”

Sure enough, shortly after the women had cleared the dishes of the evening meal, the two men appeared. Adoumi began to make the introductions, when Gittel stopped him. “No, me you don't have to introduce. I knew Yaacov when—when—I attended his Bar Mitzvah.”

“Hello, Gittel. You're looking well. I heard you were in Jerusalem, and I was planning to drop around someday and—”

“But you were busy. I forgive you. This is my niece, Miriam, and this is her husband, Rabbi Small. From America.”

“Rabbi Small was very helpful to me some years ago,” said Adoumi.

Bergson arrived shortly after, followed a few minutes later by Perlmutter. As introductions were being made, Adoumi said, “You look familiar. I've seen you somewhere before.”

“I work at the Excelsior Hotel. You interviewed me there. At least, you showed me a photograph and asked if it was anyone I recognized.”

“Oh, yes, Grenish's photo. You said you didn't recognize him.”

“It wasn't Professor Grenish,” said Perlmutter firmly.

“What's that?”

“You knew him?” asked Luria.

“I had never met him before, but when I saw him at breakfast that Sunday morning, I got a good look at him, and I'd know him if I saw him again. Let me explain. I am an accountant by profession, and I work in the accounting office at the hotel. But because I am seventy-five years old—”

“Really?”

“You don't look it.”

“Thank you, but it means that I can't afford to stand on my dignity. I fill in for others when it's necessary, on the front desk, or checking of guests for breakfast against a list. Well, the first thing I did when I took my place at the little table at the door of the dining room was to go over my list.”

“Why?”

“Because we have many foreign visitors from places all over the world—Scandinavians, South Americans, French, Italians. So when they give me their room numbers and their names, I don't have to ask them to repeat them or spell them out. The guest comes in and says, “Smith, six forty-four. I look it up on my list, check it off, smile, and say, “
B'tayavon
, or
bon appétit
, Mr. Smith.”

Luria glanced at Adoumi and said, “He hasn't absorbed the Israeli attitude yet, has he?”

“Well,” said Perlmutter defensively, “so many, especially those who come on tours, are so used to being herded about and ordered around by the tour guides and hotel clerks that they appreciate being treated as guests and feeling that they are welcome.”

“Okay, sure, but—well, go on.”

“Well, when I saw the name Grenish, Professor Abraham Grenish, I took note of it. I even made a little note of the name and the room number—”

“Why?”

“I come from Poland. Our town was overrun by the Nazis, and my entire family was wiped out. I escaped the slaughter because I was in Switzerland on business at the time. My wife's family was also wiped out. Their name was Grenitz. It means ‘border.' So when I saw the name Grenish on my list, it occurred to me that it might originally have been Grenitz. The
itz
ending suggests Russia or Poland, so I could understand someone coming to America changing it to
ish
or
ich
. There is no point in tracing Perlmutters. It's meaningless, thought to be a pretty name—mother-of-pearl—like Goldberg, mountain of gold, or Rosenzweig, rose branch, and adopted when Jews were required to take surnames for official records and for a census. But a name meaning ‘border' would be likely to be taken only by someone living on a border. You'll find Perlmutter all over Eastern Europe, but Grenitz is comparatively rare.

“So I thought when the professor checked through, I would engage him in conversation, and ask him perhaps if his name had originally been Grenitz and if his folks had come from our town or near there.”

“And?”

“I rehearsed what I would say and just how I would say it. I thought I might pretend to have a little difficulty in finding it so as to give me a chance to study his face and see if I could see any family resemblance. And then I would find it and remark that my wife's name had been Grenitz. And that's what happened, except that before I could say anything about my wife's name, the hotel manager came hurrying over to ask me to go to the front desk, where there was a guest who was Polish or Russian, and they needed an interpreter. He took my place, and I went to the front desk. But I lingered at the door for a moment and watched the professor go to the buffet table and begin loading his tray. Yes, I got a good look at him, and he was not the man whose photograph you showed me.”

Curiously, the first question came from Al Bergson. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

“In Canada, where I lived until I came here.”

“That accounts for it. Your English is very good.”

“Thank you.”

Luria glared in annoyance at Bergson and then turned to Perlmutter and asked, “You saw him only that one time?”

“That's right. One of the Arab employees checks out on the Sabbath.”

Luria turned to Adoumi. “Did you show the photo to the Arab checker?”

“Of course.”

“Did you go back to see if he was still in the dining room—after you got through at the front desk, I mean?” Luria continued to Perlmutter.

“I did, but he'd already gone. I wasn't too concerned, because I had asked how long he'd be staying and was told he had registered for a week. But that was the last I saw of him.”

“But look here,” said Luria. “Ish-Tov identified him, both the photo and later the man. And the photo was a good likeness.”

“And people make mistakes on identification all the time, especially if they've seen the person once,” Adoumi added.

“I did not make a mistake,” said Perlmutter.

“Then that means—” the rabbi began.

“Yes, Rabbi,” Adoumi challenged. “What does that mean?”

“It means that if the man in the trench was Professor Grenish, then the man who slept in his bed at the hotel Saturday night and gave his name and room number Sunday morning was someone else, an imposter. So the question is, how would he have gotten his hotel key? Grenish could have given it to him, or more likely it could have been taken from him.”

“Why is it more likely to have been taken from him?” Luria challenged.

“I can imagine that Grenish might be indisposed and, needing something from his hotel room, he might give his key to someone and ask him to get it for him. But then, would his messenger spend the night there and have breakfast at the hotel the next morning? Much more likely, the key was taken from him.”

“It still wouldn't explain why he'd want to spend the night there,” said Luria.

“No, it wouldn't,” the rabbi admitted, “unless he might have thought there would be a message, a phone call.…”

Gittel sensed that the rabbi was uncertain and was floundering. She sought to give him respite to gather his thoughts. “Let us have some coffee,” she said briskly.

“No, Gittel,” said Luria. “I want to get this over with.”

“When you talk to your mother, I'm sure you will mention that you came to see me. And if I know Tzippe Luria, she will ask you what I served. And you will say that you had nothing in my house? Miriam, bring in some fruit, and put on the water for the coffee.”

Luria glanced at Adoumi and then, with a shrug, he said, “Maybe we could all use a cup of coffee.”

As he sipped at his coffee, Luria said, “All right, let's assume that Mr. Perlmutter is right and that it was some imposter who slept in Grenish's bed Saturday night and had breakfast at the hotel the next morning. So that means that after breakfast Saturday morning, Grenish, the real one, went to Abu Tor. How did he get there? Did he take a cab at the hotel? We can check that easily enough. Or did he decide to walk? In which case, did he ask one of the hotel clerks how to get there? Or did he just start walking aimlessly and—”

“How do you know it was Saturday?” asked the rabbi.

“Because we know it wasn't Friday. He spent Friday in the Old City.”

“How do you know?”

“We-el, since he didn't have dinner at the hotel, he had to have eaten in the Old City, or at least in East Jerusalem, since all restaurants in the Jewish section are closed on the Sabbath. Then one of our men thought he recognized the photo of Grenish. Someone asked him why one of the stores was shut down, and he tried to explain to him. And—oh, yes, what's his name, the fellow on whose land he was found, Skinner—he was shown the photo, and he made a positive identification.”

“Skinner knew him?” asked the rabbi in surprise.

“No, but he came along as the policeman who speaks no English was trying to explain in French, and Skinner translated. So he was definitely in the Old City Friday, which means he couldn't have been in Abu Tor. It's quite a distance from the Old City, and there's no place in Abu Tor where he could have had dinner.”

“No place in Jerusalem is very far from any other place in Jerusalem,” observed Bergson, “unless Gilo, perhaps.”

“All right,” Luria conceded. “So it could have been on Friday.” He turned to Adoumi. “Is there anything to show that he wasn't at the hotel Saturday?”

Adoumi shook his head. “As I told you, I questioned the Arab clerk who checked breakfasts Saturday morning. He didn't recognize the person in the photo.”

“Did you mention his name? Did you mention Grenish by name?”

“Of course not,” said Adoumi. “When you hold an identification lineup, do you give the names and professions of the people in it?” He thumbed through his notebook. “Here it is. This is the Arab clerk: ‘I may have seen him, but I do not remember. I see so many.… I go by the room number. They give me the number and I check it off.' The only one who knew the name was the manager and—oh, yes, the security guard, but then
he
was part of the investigating team, you might say. As a matter of fact, he almost saw him. Here it is: ‘So I'm behind the desk … and somebody says, “I think there's something for me, Room seven-thirteen.” So I look up, and sure enough, there's a letter in the seven-thirteen pigeonhole. I glance at it and I say, “Grenish?” and he says, “That's right.” So I give it to him. I didn't look at him—maybe his back as he turned away.'”

“The letter. That must be it!” exclaimed the rabbi.

“What about the letter?”

“That could be why he took Grenish's room, to get the letter. And it would explain why, if he came Friday night and found nothing, he stayed on through Saturday. There is no mail on Saturday, so he stayed until Sunday. Did your policeman say he asked about a particular store?” he asked Luria.

Luria knit his brows as he tried to remember. “I don't think he was too clear about what Grenish was saying. But that's the only store in the area that's apt to be closed on Friday. The owner is a Druse. The other stores are Christian and would be closed on Sunday rather than on Friday.”

“And is that particular store suspect in any way? I mean, has it ever come under official scrutiny? Was your policeman stationed there for any special reason?”

Luria shook his head and looked at Adoumi, who said, “Well, when our army was in the Bekaa Valley, where the Lebanese Druse live, we thought—well, we kept an eye on it every now and then. Our Druse, who live mostly up in the Golan, are loyal. They serve in our army. But of course some of them might feel that their ties to the Lebanese Druse outweigh their loyalty to us. So we kind of watched that store from time to time. Why do you ask?”

The rabbi laughed shortly. “Of course, it could be pure coincidence, Grenish being there and Skinner being there. But it's also possible that Grenish went there because he expected to deliver a message, or a letter, or that it was why Skinner thought he was there and was so concerned when he found it closed.”

“Skinner, that nice man who helped with your bags?' Gittel was shocked. But Miriam only smiled, sensing that her husband was trying only to suggest possibilities, so that the investigation that had narrowed down to Ish-Tov might be broadened.