Rotner reveled in all the attention. He shook each hand that was offered to him, exchanged words with every admirer, and flashed each of them a gracious smile. But he did so with a certain aloofness, like a benevolent monarch accepting flattery from his subjects and deigning to confer on them a morsel of his rarefied wisdom.
And he did not treat his admirers equally. He appeared to be warmest toward young and attractive females, and his smile, when he held their hands and spoke to them, had a distinct predatory edge.
Twenty minutes or so after I'd settled at the bar, another member of the theater troupe entered Kassit. It was Cordelia, only now she wore a simple white dress cinched at the waist by a black belt, and her hair flowed unbraided and free. A delicate necklace twinkled at her throat, and a small handbag hung from her arm. She threaded her way between the tables with a straight back and a dancer's gait, snaring the eye of more than a few men.
I watched her too, appreciating her lithe body, lustrous hair, and beautiful face. A mischievous smile played across her red lips. She was aware of the stares aimed at her, but she acknowledged none of them. She kept her eyes forward and made straight for the quartet of tables at which the rest of her party sat.
Her arrival instigated one instant development. Rotner broke off the conversation he was having, shot to his feet, circled the table, and grabbed both of her hands in his, giving her his most wolfish smile yet. He led her to the chair he had vacated and got another for himself from a nearby table. He sat next to her and ordered her a drink from the waiter who hovered nearby. He lit her cigarette. For the first time that evening, his eyes did not roam about; his focus was solely on her.
"Gorgeous, isn't she?" came a deep voice from behind me.
Swiveling my head, I found the bartender, a good-natured smile on his face.
"She is quite beautiful," I agreed. "What's her name?"
"Pnina Zelensky. An actress like the rest of them."
Pnina. Not as exotic or alluring as Cordelia, but the familiarity of the name did not detract one iota from the effect of her beauty.
I turned back to gaze at my quarry and the lovely Pnina. For a few minutes, the two of them talked, heads close together, in a bubble of their own. A couple of times he must have said something funny, because she threw her head back and laughed, the firm skin under her chin quivering. She was young, early twenties, and he was in his forties, yet they appeared to be completely comfortable with one another.
But apart from that initial contact when she'd arrived, they did not touch, at least not with their hands. What their legs did under the table, I could not see.
Gradually, their isolation faded and they joined the larger conversation. There was plenty of talk and laughter, lots of drinks and food. I watched it all from the bar, nursing one beer and then another, taking my time with them, burning through four or five cigarettes. I began to wonder how long they would stay there. I asked myself why I was wasting my time. Why did I continue to sit there? Why did I not go home and call it a night? Perhaps if the new Western I had started that morning had been more captivating, or if I had more to look forward to in my apartment than another lonely night with only bad dreams for company, I would have done so.
But then again, perhaps I wouldn't.
Truth was, I was intrigued by this new case. I'd never had one like it, at least not one that began like this case did. And since I was already there, and so was Rotner, I decided to stick around for a while longer. Maybe I would learn something after all.
Another hour passed. Ezriel Carlebach left. So did Moshe Dayan and the curvy brunette. I switched from beers to coffee. My head had begun to throb. My stomach rumbled. I'd had nothing to eat in the past five hours. I was about to order a sandwich when something happened.
It was Rotner. He had risen from his chair and was counting out money from his wallet. He slipped on the jacket he had taken off a while back and was shaking hands with some of his party, waving goodbye to others. He was leaving. It was time for me to go. I fished a few coins from my pocket and put them on the bar. Nodding goodnight to the bartender, I slid off my stool and hurried for the door.
Out on the street, I took a lungful of clean night air, rubbing my eyes. I crossed the street, paused at a bus stop, and pretended to tie my shoe. I was there less than a minute before Rotner came out. He walked north. I followed, giving him plenty of space, keeping my eye on him from the opposite sidewalk.
When he stopped beside a black Ford and started fumbling in his pocket for the keys, I figured my night was coming to an end. Soon he would drive off and I would go home.
But he got in the car and did not start the engine. He just sat there, a black blob in the darkened automobile. I kept on walking for another block before coming across a narrow gap between two buildings. I squeezed myself into it and waited to see what he was up to.
He didn't do anything for ten minutes, not until a svelte figure in white approached the car from the south. It was Pnina Zelensky, her heels clicking a jaunty rhythm on the sidewalk. Rotner must have seen her coming, because he leaned over and opened the passenger's door from the inside. She coiled herself into the car, pulling her long legs after her, and shut the door. The dark interior of the vehicle did not prevent me from seeing what they did next. The way their shadows melded together could not be mistaken for anything but a kiss.
And not just one, but a whole slew of them, seamlessly flowing from one to the next. When they finally came up for air, Rotner turned the ignition and flicked on the headlights. The Ford rolled forward, engine purring. The vehicle picked up speed, sweeping by my position, and I caught a final fleeting glimpse of them through the side window.
And then they were gone, the Ford vanishing around the next corner.
I did not know where they were going, but it wasn't to a spacious second-floor apartment on Chen Boulevard.
Because that was where Isser Rotner's wife lived.
4
I'd first met Mrs. Rotner earlier that afternoon. She'd telephoned Greta's Café, where I was alternating between playing solitary chess games and reading a Western I had picked up that morning.
I was in the middle of a game when the phone rang. I heard it ringing as though from far away, so focused was I on the board before me. I moved a white rook three squares forward, and the next instant responded by taking a white pawn with a black bishop. A score of pieces lay scattered around the board like battle casualties. Approximately three-fifths of them were white. Black had the advantage. But in the sort of game I played—lightning fast, with me playing both colors—I could never know how things would develop. Not having time to think between moves often led to stupid mistakes, which kept things interesting.
I'd closed my fingers around the white queen when I heard my name being called. It was Greta, and she was holding the receiver up, gesturing me toward her with her other hand.
"Hello? This is Adam Lapid."
The voice on the other end was female, rich, and resonant. The sort of voice that fills your ears to the brim, commanding your fullest attention. The sort of voice that leaves an indelible impression on your mind.
"Adam Lapid the private investigator?"
"That's right. Who's this?"
"My name is Dahlia Rotner." And after a brief pause, "You may have heard of me."
"No, I don't think so. Have we ever met?"
There was another pause, a longer one, and then came an almost inaudible exhalation of air, and in it I sensed—what was it? Disappointment? Resignation? Or perhaps it was nothing at all, just my imagination playing tricks on me. Then Dahlia Rotner spoke again, her intonation crisp and dry. "No, we haven't. I would like to hire you to do a job for me. Can you come over to my apartment? I live on Chen Boulevard."