I nodded, thinking how the death of one woman had saved the life of a good man, and how that good man had then brought a beautiful baby girl into this world. And I wondered how many people would never have been born if another person hadn't died. If we went back enough time, perhaps the answer is everyone.
Then I considered how, like a new shoot that grows from scorched earth, so new life can spring from tragedy, if only one decides not to mire oneself in grief. I thought about my own daughters and felt that familiar pain that is eternal as the sun and moon.
And then my mind veered in an entirely different direction, and before my eyes I saw Isser Rotner. First as King Lear, and later walking to his car on Dizengoff Street to await his lover.
His walk had been perfect. Not a single thing wrong with it.
But there was another person whose walk was definitely impaired. A person who, until now, I hadn't considered a suspect at all.
I thanked Toledano for his time and departed. My earlier desire for food had been supplanted by a more urgent need. I had one more place to be, one more person to see, before I went to Greta's Café.
And as long as she remained in character, I was certain she'd be home.
19
I could have rung her from somewhere along the way, but I chose not to. I wanted my visit to be a total surprise. I figured she'd be alone. Her husband was working.
Her door was locked, so I knocked, waited a bit, and knocked again, this time harder. Then came her voice, loud and resonant, telling me to go away. I leaned my face close to the door and called out my name, told her I had to see her. There was quiet for a while, then her voice again, saying it would be a minute.
It ended up close to two. I spent them in silence, staring at her closed door, wondering if this was all an elaborate setup, if I was simply an unwitting extra in a play written and directed by her. Then came the click of the door being unlocked, and a second later I stood face-to-face with her.
She looked like a grounded ship, proud and majestic, but listing to one side. Her cane was keeping her up. She was leaning hard on it; I could tell that by the tension in her forearm and hand. She gripped the handle like a gun, her forefinger curled underneath, as though resting on a trigger, ready for firing.
Her face was tight with effort, or with the simulation of it. Who could tell with her? What was definitely real were the sweat beads on her forehead and the flush tinting her cheeks. Could she do that on command? Make herself sweat and flush? Were her powers as wide-ranging as that?
"This had better be good, Mr. Lapid," she said, eying me coolly. But I could tell she was also curious.
"Good or bad," I said, "that depends on your perspective. Either way, it's important that we talk."
I entered her apartment and waited while she shut the door. She said, "Could I borrow your arm?"
I held it out to her, and she gripped it tightly just under the elbow. And so, with slow, small steps we made our way together to the living room, like a couple entering a formal ball.
Only no one seeing us would have thought there would be any dancing in our future.
Even with the double support of my arm on one side and her cane on the other, her walk was unsteady. Her bad leg barely rose off the floor, and each time it came down again, it was like a threat that had narrowly failed to materialize—as though she had, at the very last instant, managed to keep from collapsing. And with each misshapen step, her grip on my arm intensified, fingers digging into my flesh, as though trying to transmit her pain to me, the person who had caused her to walk to the door and back again.
If this was playacting, it was the greatest performance I had ever witnessed.
Neither of us spoke on the way to the living room. I walked her to the sofa and she lowered herself to the cushion with elegant relief. Then she smoothed her well-fitting pearl-gray dress over her knees and propped her cane by her side. Only after everything was arranged did she raise her eyes to me. I remained standing and was looking intently at her face, trying to read the lie that I suspected was lurking there. But all I saw was a vain woman striving to mask the excruciating effort the simple task of walking had required of her, and doing a damn fine job of it. Or it was merely another layer of subterfuge.
"You might have called in advance, Mr. Lapid," she said. "If you had, I'd have put the kettle on."
"I wouldn't dream of putting you to the trouble."
"It's no trouble."
It would have to be, given her condition. She couldn't just load everything on a tray and carry it over from the kitchen. She would have to bring each item by itself. The pot, the cups, the saucers. Everything. A Herculean effort. If her injuries were authentic.
"I'm not here for coffee," I said.
"Then why are you here? Do share."
I stepped over to the chair I'd used on my previous visit and sat in it. I said nothing for a minute, just looked at her.
She said, "A lengthy silence at the beginning of a scene is a major faux pas, Mr. Lapid. The audience is bound to get bored and restless."
"You don't seem to be either of those things."
"Because there's something in your face that assures me you're not wasting my time. And though there's always the possibility that you've suddenly gone mad, I wager that's not it. You have something to tell me. Something related to the matter for which I hired you."
"Not tell you. Ask you."
"Ask away, then." She folded her hands in her lap.
I said, "Did you kill Anna Hartman?"
Her eyebrows jumped up, and then she burst out laughing. Her laughter was as rich as her voice, rolling and full-bodied. It was a short laugh, and when it died, she wiped her eyes with a forefinger. "Thank you, Mr. Lapid. That was quite invigorating."
"I wasn't joking," I said.
She looked at me. "No, I can tell that you weren't. So maybe you have gone mad after all."
"Answer the question."
"If I must. I did not kill that wretched woman. What on earth possessed you to think that I had?"
I hesitated, but saw no reason to keep the information to myself. "There was a witness that night who saw the killer leave Trumpeldor Cemetery, and he said there was something wrong with the killer's walk. Like a limp."
"Ah, I see. So naturally you thought of me."
"Naturally."
"You've seen me walk, Mr. Lapid. Do you really believe I'm in any shape to commit murder?"
"I've seen people do all sorts of things to avoid being suspected of murder. They lie, make up alibis; some even fake illnesses or injuries."
"You think I'm pretending to be an invalid?"
"People tell me you're a brilliant actress, Mrs. Rotner. If anyone could pull off such a ruse, it's you."
"But why would I hire you to investigate a murder that I myself committed?"
"Not for any logical reason. But people do illogical, crazy things all the time. If they didn't, the murder rate would plummet."
She squinted her eyes and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Today is Tuesday, isn't it?"
The question was unexpected, but the answer was easy enough. "It is."
"Good. Then Dr. Lipowsky should be in the hospital. He usually works nights on Tuesdays. Luckily for me, you've chosen today to make your outlandish accusations."
"Who's Dr. Lipowsky?"
"My personal physician. He's been treating me ever since the accident. He'll confirm that I can barely walk, let alone have the strength to commit violent murder. The telephone is over there. Call the hospital and ask to speak with him."
She recited the number, but I chose to ask the operator to connect me, just in case the number was fake as well. It wasn't. A minute later I was talking to a nurse. I identified myself, said I was calling on Mrs. Rotner's behalf, and asked to speak with Dr. Lipowsky. The nurse told me to wait on the line while she saw if he was free to take my call.