Editor's note: When a stranger comes to Kosnov and accuses Mendel the butcher of stealing his money, the whole town joins in to show the police who is really guilty.

For many weeks, the sign sat in the window. Then one day, late in the afternoon, a gentleman came into town and stopped in front of the butcher shop window. He was wearing a wide-brimmed black felt hat trimmed with fur and a fine cloth coat. Mendel went to the door.

"Mr. Butcher," said the stranger, tipping his hat, "you are looking at a very lucky man. After traveling so far, I was worried indeed that upon arriving I would find your shop already rented."

Not often, thought Mendel, did such an eloquent and prosperous-looking gentleman come to Kosnov. Mendel was impressed. "And who is to say which of us is the luckier, Mr. ...?"

"Tinker. Tinker is my name."

"Come in, Mr. Tinker. Put down your bag and rest your feet."

Tinker entered and sat down on a wooden stool. Stroking his thick, black beard, he spoke. "I heard by word of mouth from an old acquaintance of a distant cousin's uncle in the city -- may he rest in peace -- that in this charming town there was a place for rent, a quiet room just right for my kind of work."

"Which is?" asked Mendel.

"I'm a thinker, Mr. Butcher. Tinker the thinker, a simple man with simple needs. For a humble meal and a place where I can think, I will gladly pay a week's rent in advance."

What a busy week it was for Molly and Mendel in the shop. And with so many neighbors coming to welcome him, Tinker had little time in the day to do his work. But not once did he complain.

"A better tenant we couldn't have asked for," said Molly that Friday.

Late that day, as every Friday before the Sabbath began, Mendel was in his shop doing the books. It was his habit to count his weekly earnings aloud, dropping the coins one by one into a small wooden box that he kept on the shelf. So as not to disturb Tinker, he began in a whisper: "Five groszy, ten groszy, fifty groszy, one zloty, one zloty twenty, one zloty forty, two zloty--"

"Mendel, my friend," called Tinker, "you don't have to whisper. I enjoy the sound of your voice."

So Mendel counted louder: "Forty zloty seventy-one, forty zloty seventy-two, forty zloty and seventy-three groszy. That does it!"

"Your voice is like music to my ears," said Tinker. "Just once more!"

Flattered, Mendel counted again, this time chanting in his finest tenor voice. Still humming, he closed the box and put it on the shelf.

"I am thinking," called Tinker, "that I will go to the city for the weekend. May I borrow your horse?"

"Go in good health," said Mendel. "I will see you on Monday."

Just after sunrise on Monday morning, as Mendel was taking a few deep knee-bends in front of the window, he saw that his horse was back from the city, tied to the front post. But what were two other horses doing beside it?

Mendel dressed and went downstairs to his shop. Waiting for him there were not only Tinker but two uniformed policemen from the city, as well.

"Arrest that man!" shouted Tinker. "He is the man who stole my money, and the proof lies in that wooden box on the shelf. And in that wooden box are exactly forty zloty and seventy-three groszy. Count it, gentlemen. If it be so, then without a doubt the money is mine."

Molly, awakened by all the commotion, rushed downstairs still in her nightgown. "Am I dreaming a nightmare?" she cried out. "What are you up to?"

"Forty zloty and seventy-three groszy," answered a policeman as he counted the last coin. "This proves without a doubt that your husband is a thief."

Molly laughed. "Mendel a thief? My Mendel is so honest that he wouldn't steal another man's joke. Mendel, darling, what happened?"

Mendel told her. "It hurts in my heart to know that I was fooled by fancy manners."

Just then, Simka's face appeared at the window. Molly rushed to open the door.

"I was worried that Mendel should go barefoot," said Simka, peering inside, "so I brought him his shoes as good as new."

"In jail it doesn't matter," cried Molly. "Come in, Simka, and say good-bye."

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Not me, Simka. Him!"

Poor Mendel. A pair of handcuffs had been slapped on his wrists. "Mr. Policeman," cried Simka, "I am a senior citizen of Kosnov, and I demand to know what is going on!"

As the story unfolded, Simka nodded. "I'm a little deaf in my left ear," he said, "but from what I just heard it is perfectly clear that Tinker is the scoundrel."

"And where is your proof?" shouted Tinker.

Simka smiled. He whispered to the policemen, and one of them quickly left the shop.

It felt like an hour, but it was only a matter of minutes before the policeman returned with his report. "How you knew about the money is a mystery," he said to Simka. "And, just as you said, everyone I questioned up and down the street also knew, exactly to the groszy, how much was in the wooden box. How is this possible?"

"Simple," said Simka. "Only a stranger like you wouldn't know that when our Mendel sings in his finest tenor voice, not only can everyone hear him, but we all stop to listen."

Tinker shrugged, and with a deep sigh he said, "I think I made a few mistakes. The biggest was coming to a little town like Kosnov."

Excerpted from the book THE SIGN IN MENDEL'S WINDOW, text by Mildred Phillips and illustrated by Margot Zemach. Text copyright (c) 1985, by Mildred Phillips; illustrations copyright (c) 1985, by Margot Zemach. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc., Children's Publishing Division. All rights reserved.

Pub Date: 03/31/99