Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"Well, I don't know," the fellow said. "One doesn't usually leave during the shiva."

"I understand those who cannot get out of work return when they can," I said.

"That is true."

"Is a man's murder not more important than work?"

"Of course! But, stillЕ"

"Have you eaten?"

"No," he said. "Mrs. Silverman will be setting a cold table in an hour or so."

"Let me stand you lunch at the Bucharest Cafй," I said, figuring that Barker would not mind the expense. "They make a fine moussaka. And their goulash is excellent."

"I've only ever had their coffee and bialies," he admitted. He was not a teacher like Pokrzywa and Zangwill. A glance at his side of the room had told me that not only was he messy, he was also less affluent. Perhaps he attended the school on some sort of scholarship.

"I've also heard good things about their almond torte and strudel," I went on.

"Strudel!" he repeated dreamily.

"Of course, if you can't come, you can't come," I said, twisting the knife. "Some other time, perhaps."

"No, wait!" He laid a hand on my arm. "I'm sure I can get out of it. At least, I hope I can."

He went back into the room while I carefully put on and laced my new leather pumps. My outfit today included a pair of gray kid leather gaiters with mother-of-pearl buttons. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the road dust from the mirrorlike patent leather, feeling like the Prince of Wales himself.

Ira Moskowitz dashed around the corner. "I can go for an hour," he said, thrusting his feet into a pair of disgraceful sprung elastic boots. I seized my stick, a thin wand of black wood with a maple ball on top which I had liberated from the hall stand that morning, and used it to usher the scholar out the door.

I set a brisk pace as we headed down Wilkes Road. Moskowitz clapped his hands and threw them in the air in total freedom.

"I'm so glad to be out of there!" he cried. He was a funny fellow, an inch or two taller than I, with a doughy body, and kinky, wild hair that defied any comb. He wore spectacles atop a large nose, and his jovial face grew only a scanty beard. If Pokrzywa set the pace for scholarship in the chevra, I had a good idea who brought up the rear.

When we had each ordered the goulash and coffee, I immediately set into him with questions. "So," I asked, "what was Louis Pokrzywa really like?"

"Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was impossible!" Ira Moskowitz said between bites of goulash. "Everything came so easily to him. He could sit down and write an essay in half an hour that would have the rabbis enraptured for months, while the rest of us would cudgel our brains for days and barely make a passing grade. We used all our free time to study our textbooks. He glanced through the text once, read extra books on philosophy and literature for fun, and still had hours in the evenings for good works in the community, or to eat with pretty girls and their families. There's another teacher here, named Zangwill; I've seen him work for hours on his teaching plans, carefully using his skills to bring out the best in his students. But Louis walked into the classroom every morning cold, without notes, and was brilliant. I suspect that there were plans afoot among the Board of Deputies. Certain doors would be opened to him. He could 'write his own ticket.' It just wasn't fair."

"So, you boys used to chaff him a bit," I said, sipping a passable cup of coffee.

"Oh, we did. Who says we didn't?" he conceded, downing his coffee before taking a large bite out of a bialy. "Did you know, he had no sense of humor? None whatsoever! You could tell him the best joke you've ever heard, and he would just stare at you. Either he wouldn't get the joke, in which case you would have to explain it step by step and just why it was funny, or he would say, 'Oh, I see, that was a joke. Very humorous.' We had arguments about him at the chevra. Some of us thought he was really otherworldly, and others believed he was just putting on an act. He could be that way, you know. It wasn't just an accident that he looked like Jesus. He cultivated it."

"He was vain, then," I prompted.

"No, no. Not really. A little, I suppose. Not overtly. He didn't stand at the mirror curling his beard or anything. But he knew what effect he had on people. He dressed very carefully. Not as well as you, of course."

For a moment, I was self-conscious of my new suit. Poor Mr. Moskowitz was in the sort of cheap clothing I had been wearing a week before. I told myself never to forget that there were thousands of fellows in London in "reduced circumstances," as I had been.

"How was he around women?" I asked.

"Women!" he exclaimed. "That's a good question. Let's talk about women, by all means. You know how they are. The rabbis' wives had their ears to the door. They had Louis's dance card full very quickly. He gave some of the girls the vapors. One of them even fainted in his presence. I think half the girls in Aldgate set their cap at him. But you know how he was? Indifferent. Completely indifferent! My mouth watered when I heard some of the girls that were trotted out for his inspection. Yet he turned his nose up at all of them."

"Was he the cold, analytical type?"

"No. Actually, I think he was a romantic at heart. I thought to myself, 'Ira, when he falls, he will fall hard.' Do you know what I believe? You'll think me fanciful. I think he was looking for a princess. I think he saw himself as a knight in armor, in search of a damsel to save. Not that I could read his mind, of course. He didn't confide in me. So far as I know, he didn't confide in anyone."

His words put me in mind of my late wife. I had to admit that the desire to play knight-errant was a very powerful motive, indeed.

Moskowitz's fork had reached the bottom of his bowl of goulash. I ordered another cup of coffee and a strudel for him, and more coffee for myself. Then I sent the waiter along with a few shillings, to get us two cigars from a tobacconist down the street. The longer we dawdled, I thought, the more he might reveal. But instead, the conversation reversed itself.

"So, you're a detective," he said. "That must be an exciting sort of life."

"More than you know," I responded, thinking of the last few days.

"Do you have a gun?"

"I do own one, but I'm not armed at the moment."

"Have you ever been shot at?"

"No," I said, "but the last fellow to have this position was killed in the line of duty."

"How terrible!" Moskowitz cried. "Your employer looks most mysterious. What happened to his eyes?"

"An old injury he sustained in the South China Sea," I answered. For all I knew, it was correct.

"The South China Sea! And he sits there, so completely still, staring at you. I felt like a mouse in front of a cobra. I thought he was reading our minds."

"He does have that effect on people."

The strudel arrived, and the poor scholar tucked in. It felt good to buy him lunch. I supposed he ate well only on feast days. I sipped my coffee and lit up the cigar.

"Cyrus Barker. I've seen his advertisements in The Times. He must be doing well for himself."

"Quite well. He has a big office hard by Scotland Yard, and a home in Newington with an oriental garden. And a Jewish butler."

"A Jewish butler!" Moskowitz thumped the table and laughed. "I love it! Leave it to Sir Moses to hire the best!"

I handed him the cigar. He held it in his hands like a holy relic. I watched as he drew it slowly under his nose, then brought it to his lips and lit it with a vesta. The Jewish scholar closed his eyes and drew in the smoke.

"Paradise," he said.

"Let's get back to Louis Pokrzywa, if you don't mind. He certainly had a lot of charities."

"He did that. He often tried to talk us into helping with this or that one. Not to give money, of course, but time. He was very free with our time. Much of the responsibility fell on my shoulders or Israel'sЧ that is, the Mr. Zangwill I was telling you about. But we explained to him that we didn't have his gifts. We needed time to study or to prepare lessons. Oh, the face he made! He looked like Jesus after he'd just been kissed byЕ John? Jude? I forget the fellow's name. I'm not up on Christianity."