“Yes? And how would I go about that?”

“Well, if you found a note, that would prove that it was a suicide, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but not finding it proves nothing. It’s negative evidence.”

“It seems to me that if you can prove something took place, you ought to be able to prove it didn’t.”

He realized that her fine scorn for logic was because she was hurt he had not confided in her. “But don’t you see,” he said patiently, “that simply because you can prove one thing doesn’t mean-”

“All I know is that if someone has done something, someone else ought to be able to find out what it was. Besides, there’s the widow to think of. There’s been a man around town, an investigator for the insurance company, and Mrs. Marcus-you remember she called-was saying that her friend Mrs. Hirsh was worried about losing the insurance money if he proves it’s suicide.”

“He can’t prove it’s suicide any more than we can prove it was an accident.”

“Yes, but he could make her a lot of trouble-hold up the money indefinitely. David, you’ve got to do something.”

“But how, woman, how?”

“I don’t know. You’re the rabbi. That’s your department. At least, you could try.”

He looked at her for a moment. Her face was intense. “All right, Miriam, I’ll try. I’ll call Lanigan and see if he’ll go over the facts with me. It’s just possible we can come up with something.”

“I’ll do better than that,” said the police chief when the rabbi got him on the phone. “I hear you’ve been under the weather, so instead of your coming down to my office tomorrow, I’ll get the files on the case and bring them over to your house tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you to that bother.”

“Look, Rabbi, you’ll be doing me a favor. Gladys is having some friends over, and I don’t want to be caught in a hen party.”

“Well, if you put it that way-”

“I do. Say, I’ve got another idea: has Charlie Beam got around to talking to you yet?”

“Beam?”

“He’s the man who’s been investigating for the insurance company. How about if I bring him along?”

“Fine.”

“Beauty,” said Lanigan. He chuckled. “You know, I’m really going to enjoy this little get-together.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’re hoping to prove that it’s a case of death by accident, and Beam naturally would like to prove that its suicide so his company won’t have to pay. And here I am, in the middle, and for once in the clear. I’ll just let you boys fight it out and I’ll sit back and enjoy it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Out of respect for his guests, the rabbi had shed his bathrobe and was dressed in slacks and a sport shirt. After the introductions, Miriam, feeling this was not part of her husband’s official function and that she had a stake in the proceedings, remained in the room.

“Maybe I’d better run through the facts as we know them,” said Lanigan, “and then we can talk about it afterward.” He opened a Manila folder. “All right. Isaac Hirsh, 4 Bradford Lane, married, white, fifty-one years old. He was five foot three or four and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. Did you know him, Rabbi? Had you ever met him?”

The rabbi shook his head.

“He was built along the lines of Charlie here. Maybe a little shorter-”

“I’m five feet five,” said Beam.

“I would have said so. I make a point of this because it’s important, as you’ll see. All right, it’s Friday evening, September 18, the eve of your Yom Kippur. Hirsh gets home from the Goddard Lab where he works, his regular time-a little after six. In this case, that’s unusual because all other Jewish employees left a bit early. But although Hirsh was Jewish he did not attend services, so he worked a full day. He got home and left his car in front of the house instead of putting it in the garage-”

“He didn’t want to trouble himself getting out to open the garage door, is that it?” remarked Beam.

“No, the garage door was up. It’s common around here; we don’t have much pilfering. A man will leave the door up all day and close it only when he locks up for the night.”

“You know this in the Hirsh case?” asked Beam.

“Yeah. It also figures in the story, as you’ll see. Now there are a number of Jewish families in this section of Colonial Village; in fact, all his immediate neighbors are Jewish. I understand it’s sometimes called the Ghetto.” He smiled apologetically at the rabbi. “That’s a little joke among them.”

“I understand.”

“Patricia Hirsh, that’s Isaac Hirsh’s wife, was going to baby-sit for the Marcuses who live across the street. She agreed to be there early, so she served Hirsh his dinner and left at six-thirty. Hirsh finished and left around seven.”

“You’re sure of the time?” asked the rabbi.

“Pretty sure. We got that from the deliveryman I told you about. Anyway, after the deliveryman left, Hirsh headed for the laboratory. He was next sighted by the State Police at a siding on Route 128 about four hundred yards from the lab. You remember, they went back and found the wrapper from the bottle.”

“Did they indicate when they saw him?”

The chief shook his head. “They had no reason to note the time. They just remembered having seen the car during the evening; they didn’t even remember the exact place. They had to check each of the sidings along the section they patrol until they found the right one. All we know is that Hirsh was there sometime during the evening. And that was the last time he was seen alive.”

“But you yourself said they didn’t really see him. They just saw the car. Isn’t that right?” asked the rabbi.

“Well, they saw a figure in the car. We assume it was Hirsh. Is it important?”

“Probably not. Go on.”

“Mrs. Hirsh came home around eleven or a little after.”

“As late as that?” asked the rabbi. “Our services ended at a quarter past ten.”

“The Marcuses didn’t return directly. They stopped off to visit some friends,” explained Beam. “I got that from Mrs. Marcus.”

“And I suppose they talked with Mrs. Hirsh for a few minutes when they did get back,” said Lanigan. “Around midnight, she called the lab to find out when her husband was coming home.”

“How did she know he was there?” asked the rabbi.

“He frequently returns at night, and at supper he mentioned he was going. But the janitor-night watchman reported he never signed in that evening, which is when she called us.” He went on to explain how they put out an alert, and how when the cruising car stopped by to get more information, the patrolman noticed the garage door was down and remembered it had been up when he passed earlier.

“So he investigated and found the car inside, right close to the side of the garage, about a foot and a half. He squeezed by, opened the front door on the driver’s side, and found Hirsh dead on the passenger side. About half the bottle was gone. The ignition was on but the motor was not running-out of gas. He radioed in to the station and we sent down the doctor and a photographer-the usual.”

He opened the folder and took out a large glossy photograph. “This picture shows the situation best. It was taken from the driveway when the garage door was first raised. You’ll notice how close the car is to the side of the garage on the driver’s side, about a foot and a half. And on the other side, you’ll notice this trash barrel about a foot from the car. That’s important to Charlie’s case. The picture doesn’t show it, of course, but the bumper of the car was just touching the rear wall of the garage. Since the car had no gas, we took out the body and left the car where it was. The following morning, we poured some gas into the tank and drove it down to the station where we’ve had it ever since. Mrs. Hirsh doesn’t drive, at least she doesn’t have a license, so we haven’t got around to bringing it back yet. And that’s about all.”