Which was good news. The less Birnbaum knew about my investigation, the better. The shock of him knowing about my talk with Rotner began to dissipate.
But then he had to ruin it by saying, "But I plan to read the police report later today, and I may look into the matter further on my own."
My blood began to boil. I planted one elbow on the table and pointed a rigid finger between his eyes. "You stay out of this, Shmuel. You understand?"
He flinched and went a shade whiter, which made his freckles stand out like a scattering of seeds on a tablecloth. His right hand jerked toward his face, fingers gingerly touching the spot on his jaw where I'd punched him two and a half years ago, after I'd seen the picture he took of me in my hospital bed.
He cleared his throat twice and took a nervous slurp from his cup. After dabbing his lips, he said, "I have no desire to interfere with a murder investigation, Adam, but I want this story."
"There is no story. Not yet, at least."
"How close are you to catching this killer?"
"Impossible to know. It's a five-year-old cold case. I may never solve it."
"But if you do," he said, "it will be a hell of a story. And I want to be the one who writes it. I want your word that you will tell me, and only me, everything when the case is done."
I shook my head. "I can't promise that."
"Why not?"
Because I may have to do things that I would not want to appear in print, I thought.
"I just can't," I said. "But I swear that I won't talk to any reporter but yourself, and that I'll tell you everything I can as soon as I can."
Birnbaum considered my proposal and then let out a breath. "I suppose that will have to do. But tell me one thing: Why do you suspect Isser Rotner?"
"I have my reasons."
"From what I heard, he has an alibi for the night of the murder."
"That's what he claims."
"You think he's lying, and his wife, too?"
"Let's just say I don't consider his alibi to be solid."
"The police did, didn't they?"
"I think they were wrong."
"Think, or know?" said Birnbaum, and didn't wait for an answer he must have known would be vague. "What reason did he have to kill Anna Hartman?"
I was about to evade his question, but then I remembered how, on the night I'd run into him after King Lear, I had thought Birnbaum might prove to be a rich vein of information on the theater, in the event that my own efforts fell short. I was not yet ready to admit defeat, but since Birnbaum already knew of my investigation, there was no reason not to make use of his knowledge.
But for him to open up to me, I knew I had to give him something. A tidbit of information. A gesture of good faith.
I downed what remained of my coffee. "I have reason to believe he and Anna Hartman were lovers."
Birnbaum narrowed his eyes. "But you don't know for sure?"
"I'm pretty sure. And I know he's having an affair with another actress. Pnina Zelensky, the one who played Cordelia the other night."
"I know who she is. How do you know they're having an affair?"
"I saw them kissing in his car on Dizengoff Street after the play."
"I thought you said you were tired and going home."
"You're right, that's what I said."
"But you went to Dizengoff instead? Why?"
"Because I wanted to see Rotner up close and out of costume, and I was told he frequented one of the cafés on Dizengoff."
"I see. But there's still the question of motive. Even if he and Hartman were indeed lovers, that doesn't explain why he would kill her."
"I don't have all the answers, Shmuel, but I'm working on it."
He sat still for a moment, fingers steepled, his eyes boring into mine, and it occurred to me he might have made a pretty good interrogator.
He said, "There's something you're not telling me, Adam," and his voice was thick with unfulfilled desire. He wanted this story so bad that I almost pitied him. But then again, I did not know the full story myself.
"I don't have to tell you everything right now, Shmuel. That's not the deal we made."
"No," he agreed with evident reluctance. "Indeed it's not."
"But maybe you can help me get to the bottom of all this."
"How?"
"You told me you used to write about the theater. You know more about Shoresh Theater than I do. You can give me some background."
"I'll do you one better," he said, reached down, and pulled a battered leather briefcase onto his lap. He unclasped it and produced a folded issue of Davar, which he slid across the table toward me. "I thought you might wish to see this. The first newspaper report of the murder, May 29, 1946, the day after the body was discovered."
I expected the murder to be on the front page, but that space was largely taken up by reports of an attack by Jewish militants on a British ammunition dump two nights earlier, and the retaliatory steps taken by the British army against various Jewish settlements. Another front-page story related the efforts to convince Britain to allow the immediate immigration of one hundred thousand Jewish refugees to Palestine. A third announced the victory of the Communist Party in the national election in Czechoslovakia.
"It's on page two," Birnbaum said.
I turned over the page, and there, at the bottom, was a short report about the discovery of a dead woman in Trumpeldor Cemetery. The report gave her name, the cause of her death, and said the police were pursuing several leads.
Birnbaum's briefcase contained several following issues, and in them I read further reports on the police investigation.
“Anything new?" Birnbaum asked after I handed him back the final issue.
“Afraid not." Then I asked him to tell me about Shoresh Theater.
"It was founded by Dahlia and Isser Rotner and Eliezer Dattner in 1933," he said. "A smaller company than it is now. From what I gather, the bulk of the initial investment came from Dahlia."
"Where did her money come from?"
"Her father was a successful businessman and contractor. He died when she was twenty and left her a sizable inheritance, though I imagine much of it is gone."
"Gone?"
"Poured into the financial drain that is the theater. It's a tough business, with more downs than ups. Especially when you suffer the sort of tsuris that have afflicted Shoresh Theater over the years."
"Like Dahlia Rotner's accident?"
"That was particularly calamitous. The theater hasn't been the same since."
"You saw her on stage?"
"Many times. She's a rarity. One of those people who are born to act. Over the course of your life, if you visit the theater often and are very lucky, you might get to see one or two such people."
"How did Anna Hartman compare?"
Birnbaum gave a rueful smile. "She didn't come close. Which isn't speaking ill of the dead, because hardly anyone would compare favorably to Dahlia. Hartman was a skillful actress, and she was nice to look at, but she didn't have Dahlia's raw talent. I must admit that I was not overly impressed with her."
"And Isser Rotner?"
"You saw him act. What did you think?"
"The audience certainly approved."
"Yes, but much of it was due to the sheer power of the play itself. King Lear is one of the greatest tragedies ever written. It would take a bad actor to ruin it, and Rotner is not a bad actor. In fact, he's a rather good one, but he doesn't possess greatness, not the sort needed to carry a theater on one's shoulders. If Dahlia was a blazing light, her husband is but a mere candle flame." He grinned. "It's like Ben-Gurion and everyone else."
Disregarding his last observation, I said, "What about Eliezer Dattner? How did he enter the picture?"
"He was Isser Rotner’s cousin. A few years older and a very good actor."
"Better than Rotner?”
"Oh, yes. In the beginning, Dahlia played the leading female roles; Dattner the male ones."