"You can't be serious," he said.
I glared at him. "Don't push me."
After he left, I went over to the telephone and placed a call to the police station in Netanya. Maybe Meltzer, unlike Birnbaum, would not find my hunch so crazy.
"You're crazy," he said after I'd told him everything. "You're talking, what, three deaths in twelve years?"
"Four, if you count Emil Polisar's alleged suicide."
"Why would you? He had every reason to kill himself."
"Yes, but—"
"God, if my pregnant wife was killed, I'm not too sure I wouldn't consider it myself."
I said nothing, because suddenly I recalled bleak days in which the desire for self-destruction had gripped me as well. Which made me feel very foolish for doubting that Emil Polisar's death was anything but what it seemed.
"And Dattner died because he was an idiot," Meltzer said. "What was he thinking, going into Jaffa at night in the summer of '39? He was begging for trouble. And Ornstein? Sure, drowning in your own bathtub doesn't happen every day, but once in twelve years? And you think, what, that they're all victims of the same killer?"
He sounded as though he doubted more than my theory. As though he was questioning my sanity. Judging by his tone, it was quite likely he was beginning to regret ever taking the time to speak with me.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," I said, and forced out a chuckle that sounded as hollow as a lonely heart. "It was just a silly hunch, nothing more."
"Well, we all get those every once in a while." He paused, then his gruff voice came again. "You got anything new about the Hartman murder?"
I shared what Eliyahu Toledano told me, that the killer had a strange walk.
Meltzer grunted. "More useless drunken nonsense."
"Toledano's no longer a drunk. He cleaned up his life, got married, and has a baby daughter."
"Oh yeah? That's nice. Got anything else, Adam? Anything you can actually use to find this killer?"
"No. Not yet."
"Don't feel bad, Adam. Like I told you, it was a random killing. Even the best detectives would have a hard time solving such a crime."
And I was not considered among the "best detectives." Not after I told him my hunch.
"I know," I said, wishing I hadn't telephoned him in the first place. "You're right."
"Just don't lose your head, looking for links that don't exist."
I assured him I wouldn't and ended the call.
Back at my table, I lit a cigarette and sat with it burning between my fingers, staring at some indefinite spot on the front window, not registering what went on beyond it. A Sherman tank could have rolled down Allenby Street and I would not have noticed.
I was at war with myself. My logical side trying to beat my gut instinct into submission. Facts, logic, common sense, all said that Birnbaum and Meltzer were right. I was getting worked up over nothing. People die. Sometimes a lot of them die in a short time. In Europe, entire villages and towns had been erased in less than six years. Whole families—three, four generations—had been snuffed out. When you looked at it that way, seven dead actors over a twelve-year period did not seem like all that much. Especially when you discounted those who died in war.
But still...
I did not see Greta until she was standing at my table.
"Is everything all right, Adam?"
I looked up at her, saw her worried frown, and just then my cigarette finished burning itself all the way down to my skin.
I cursed, dropped the hot remnant on the table, and stuck my scorched finger between my lips. My tongue tasted ash, tobacco, and seared skin.
Greta plucked up what remained of the cigarette and laid it to rest in a glass ashtray.
"Want some ice for that?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She sat in the same chair Birnbaum had used, laid a pair of meaty forearms on the table, and clasped her solid, veiny hands.
"What's going on, Adam? The way you looked a minute ago, sitting all still, it was as though your mind was on the other side of the world."
I pulled my finger out of my mouth and examined it. A red circle marked my wet skin, like a tiny bloodshot eye.
I raked a hand through my hair and gritted my teeth in exasperation.
"It's this case," I said. "I can't seem to get a grip on it. For all the work I've done, the people I've talked to, it's like I've moved backward instead of forward. And now it's getting all complicated. Or maybe I'm the one who's making it so. I'm not sure whether I'm the right man for this job. I don't know how to proceed. Because my mind is telling me one thing and my gut another."
My hands were balled into fists. Greta reached over, laid her hands atop mine, and pushed on them gently until I unclenched my fingers and laid my palms flat on the tabletop. The heat of her palms flowed through the back of my hands and moved up my arms and shoulders before reaching my face. Some of the tension faded. Her warm wise eyes peered at me from beneath her heavy eyelids.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" she said. "Maybe another perspective is what you need."
So I did. I told her everything. Starting with the mission Dahlia had given me. Then I described the various interviews I'd conducted. My negative impression of Isser Rotner. Ofra Wexler's obvious dislike of Anna. Mrs. Chernick's unkind assessment of her former lodger. My talk with Inspector Meltzer. And Eliyahu Toledano's testimony regarding the killer's walk.
I concluded with a rundown of my talk with Birnbaum. The tingle of excitement I'd felt when I learned of the multiple fatalities among Shoresh Theater personnel. My instinctive belief that I'd uncovered a hidden connection. Followed by Birnbaum's systematic demolition of said belief.
"The phone call I just made," I said, "was to Inspector Meltzer in Netanya. I was hoping he'd have a different reaction than Birnbaum, but he shot me down even faster." I glanced at Greta. "What do you think? Am I crazy? Seeing things that aren't there?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. But you could be onto something, Adam. And if you're right, there's a killer out there who must be stopped."
"There's no logical reason to suppose there is."
"So what? Logic isn't everything. Sometimes, your intuition knows best. Women know that better than men."
"The question is, where do I go from here? Do I ignore the other deaths and focus exclusively on Anna Hartman? Or do I start investigating multiple cases simultaneously? Because that's a tall order for a single detective."
She thought a moment, pressing her hands together, the tips of her fingers brushing her lips. "Why not combine the two? Work primarily on finding Anna Hartman's killer, but learn what you can about the other deaths without putting in too much effort, just to be on the safe side. Who knows? Maybe some detail you'll uncover will suddenly connect one case to another, leading you to the killer."
She was right. In fact, she was so right, I felt like smacking myself for not realizing it myself.
I yanked out my notebook and with excited fingers flipped to where I'd summarized Meltzer's interview with Emil Polisar five years ago. I'd remembered correctly.
The four people whose deaths were, or could possibly have been, murders, had all been with the theater when Eliezer Dattner was shot. There was Dattner himself, of course, but also Nahum Ornstein, Anna Hartman, and Emil Polisar.
If what I was dealing with was indeed a series of murders all committed by one person, then I could eliminate as suspects all the people who'd begun working for Shoresh Theater after the shooting of Eliezer Dattner in the summer of 1939. These included Edith Bachner and Nitza Weinraub and nearly all the people I had yet to interview.
Among the few that were left, two names stood out like a pair of burning trees. Isser Rotner and Ofra Wexler. Rotner had ample motive to get rid of Eliezer Dattner and Nahum Ornstein. Perhaps he had reason to kill Anna Hartman and Emil Polisar as well.