I gave him a long look, thinking that he might possess information that would aid in my investigation. Birnbaum had lived his whole life in Tel Aviv, he knew a lot of people, and inside that bald head of his was a veritable reservoir of facts and details. And since he had actually written about the theater, he would likely know something about the crime I was investigating.
The problem was that were I to ask him about it, even circuitously, his curiosity would be piqued. Birnbaum was no fool. He would know my interest was professional, and while he might be persuaded to share information, he would want something in return. A story. He would want to know why I was investigating this crime and who had hired me to do so. I couldn't tell him. Certainly not now.
I decided not to risk it. There was no need to involve him at this time. I had barely begun working on this case, which I had been hired to undertake just a few hours ago. I might be able to learn all I needed without his assistance.
I said, "If you're so fed up, why don't you stay home and let your wife and sister-in-law go by themselves?"
"My wife wouldn't like that, Adam. I have to be a good host, you see. Give her sister all the respect and attention a visiting dignitary might expect. So I schlep myself along to whatever show they choose. And pay for it, of course."
At that moment, a pair of women appeared at Birnbaum's side. You didn't need to be a detective to know who they were. His lips, which had been pulled down in dejection, reversed direction abruptly, tilting upward into a wide, warm smile. He made the introductions. I shook hands with both women. Birnbaum's wife said they were going to have a late dinner at a nearby restaurant and asked me to come along. I knew the place by reputation only. It was on the expensive side. I saw Birnbaum wince at the prospect of even more expenditure and barely managed to refrain from smiling.
I begged off, saying I was tired and would be heading home. Outside, they went one way and I the other.
But I did not go home. My work for the night was not yet done.
3
I needed to be at one of two places, and I did not know which. Luckily, both were located on the same street, a handful of buildings apart.
The street was Dizengoff, and the two establishments were Café Kassit and Café Roval. The first was at number 117, the latter at 111. Both were known as regular haunts of the city's artists and Bohemian crowd, a fact that contributed to them becoming among the most popular cafés in Tel Aviv. If you wanted to rub shoulders with actors, poets, and authors, you went to Kassit or Roval.
If what I'd been told a few hours ago was true, Isser Rotner would be coming to one of these two cafés to celebrate his performance.
I took my time getting there, ambling north from the Ohel Shem building on Balfour Street where the play had been performed, thinking about King Lear and the man who had portrayed him.
Isser Rotner.
I wanted to see him again, this time without the makeup and beard. I wanted to see him in regular clothes. I wanted to see him off stage, in a normal environment.
What I hoped to accomplish by this was unclear to me. It wouldn't provide me with any evidence of his guilt or innocence. But the urge to see him was there all the same, and I did not resist it.
Once on Dizengoff, I headed first to Café Roval. Scores of patrons sat at square tables scattered around the outdoor seating area, enjoying the cool evening breeze. Inside were at least two hundred people more. Waiters in pressed white shirts and black trousers meandered between tables—pouring drinks, taking orders, igniting cigarettes with swiftly drawn lighters.
The place was busy but far from full. It could easily have seated a hundred more inside and even more outside. Those who were there all looked to be having a splendid time.
Isser Rotner was not among them.
I went out to the street and walked the short distance to Café Kassit. On the sidewalk in front, a man and a woman were dancing awkwardly, in rhythm to some melody that only they could hear. They laughed, both clearly tipsy, their bodies breaking contact to allow the man to twirl the woman about. She giggled, almost tripped, but he kept her on her feet, pulling her back to him. Both their faces were flushed with excitement and alcohol. A small band of onlookers stood watching, laughing and goading the couple to more extravagant dance moves. Someone shouted for the man to kiss his partner, which he did, rather sloppily, to the cheers of the crowd. I skirted the happy assemblage and entered the café.
Kassit was smaller than Roval and far less pretentious, with tables placed close together, giving it a somewhat cramped feel. Pictures thronged the walls, and if anyone had given any thought to their order or grouping, they had done a poor job. Smoke from numerous cigarettes, each with its own unique scent, swirled a foot and a half below the ceiling—a grayish, winding cloud cover that would never bestow rain.
Below that were dozens of people, some at tables and others at the bar. I recognized a few of the patrons. Over by the window, Nathan Alterman, poet and playwright, confabbed with a pair of women, one of whom looked vaguely familiar. At another table, Ezriel Carlebach, founder and editor of Ma'ariv and probably the most powerful newspaperman in Israel, was having drinks with a trio of young men who appeared to be hanging on his every word. Seated at the bar was General Moshe Dayan, in his crisp uniform, an eye patch covering what remained of his left eye, his right fixed on the curvy brunette on the stool next to his. She looked much too young to be his wife.
And off to the side, seated in the middle of four tables that had been pushed together, was the man I was seeking. Isser Rotner.
He wore a dark-blue jacket over a white, open-necked shirt. His hair was black and full and combed back from a widow's peak over a high forehead. His face was clean-shaven. A straight sharp nose, a tapering chin, and prominent cheekbones gave his features a vulpine cast. His eyes, dark and large and deep set, added to the effect. The mouth contributed too. It was thin-lipped, straight when closed, but capable of stretching very wide in a grin that would be charming if you didn't suspect the man who was giving it of murder. It showed a lot of teeth, that grin, all straight and white. All in all, it was a handsome face, in a lean, untamed sort of way.
Seated with him were ten men and women, mostly in their twenties. It took me a minute, but I recognized most of them. They were the actors and actresses from the play I had seen. There was the man who had played Edgar, and to his right sat the actress who had been Goneril, one of King Lear's disloyal daughters. Across the table from her was the actor who had portrayed Kent, a glass of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
It seemed like a good combination to me, so I found an empty stool at the bar, ordered a beer from the thick-bellied bartender, and lit a cigarette of my own. It was good beer, unwatered and cold, neither of which could be taken for granted in Israel's troubled economy. It went well with the smoky warmth of each drag I took off my cigarette.
I sat at an angle that allowed me to watch Rotner and his party without being too obvious about it. They were having a grand time, he especially. No trace remained of King Lear, but he still maintained an air of royalty. Part of it was how he was clearly the big man in the group. Another was how people kept coming up to the table, and the manner in which he received them, like he was holding court. From my position at the bar, I couldn't hear the conversations, but by the way the actors reacted, I guessed they were receiving praise for their performance, or perhaps just the usual ingratiating adulation some people have for those in the arts.