"You met Ofra?" he asked.
"I talked to her."
"What was your impression of her?"
I considered lying, but then decided not to. "A little bitter, a little resentful."
He nodded. "That started after Eliezer died and she found out about the cheating. Before that she was a funny, sweet, cheerful girl."
It was hard to imagine Ofra Wexler ever being cheerful.
"What do you mean by started?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"You said she started being bitter and resentful after Eliezer Dattner died. Like it was something that happened in stages."
He drank the rest of his tea and set the empty glass on the floor. He pulled at his ear. "I guess you are a pretty good detective, aren't you?"
I waited, knowing he would spill it.
"After Eliezer was shot, Nahum and Ofra had a thing going on. It was serious, at least for her."
"But not him?"
He hesitated, probably not wanting to speak ill of the dead. "Nahum was tall, broad, handsome, had a great baritone, and he was a damn fine actor. Women liked him, and he liked them right back. Always had someone on his arm, but never for too long. Got bored easily, didn't want to settle down. He broke the hearts of a lot of women."
"Ofra's too?"
"I told him not to get involved with her. That it could harm the theater if, or when, it ended in tears. He wouldn't listen. He had a selfish streak. I was his friend, but that was something I didn't like about him. About a month before he drowned, he broke it off with her. I was there when he did it, saw Ofra run outside the theater, covering her face, crying. It was the only time I ever got angry with him."
"What happened then?"
"Nothing. I thought Ofra might quit on us, but she came to work as usual that night and acted as well as ever. But all her cheerfulness was gone. Poor Ofra, she always had terrible luck with men."
"How did she react when Nahum died?"
His expression turned grave. "I was the one who told her. She was in the women's dressing room. She just took it in, no tears, just nodded with her lips pressed tight together."
"You didn't ask her how she felt?"
"Maybe I did, I don't remember. Everything was hectic that day. We had a show that night, and I had to perform Nahum's part. I had to study all his lines, and Varda, our costume designer, had to sew me up a new suit of clothes from scratch. And poor Ofra, God only knows how she kept herself from falling apart. But the show must go on, and we performed that night, heavy heart and all."
We were both silent for a while. He looked like he was replaying that day in his head, while I was trying to corral my galloping thoughts. All my assumptions had been upended. Ofra had been jilted by Nahum Ornstein. She now had a motive to kill both him and Dattner. Isser Rotner was no longer the sole main suspect. He shared that position with Ofra. And now I had an even more difficult task ahead of me.
"She used to write poetry, you know," Zilberman said.
"Who?"
"Ofra. Some of it was pretty good, about nature and love. She even got a couple of poems published back in the day."
"But not recently?"
"Not that I know of. Come to think of it, it's been years since she showed me any of her work."
I remembered the typewriter in Ofra's apartment. Maybe she still dabbled, but I could hardly see why it mattered.
"Let's talk about Anna," I said. “Do you remember when you heard that she was dead?"
He nodded, crossing his feet at the ankles. "The morning she was found. At the theater. I remember the detective had hard, suspicious eyes. The way he looked at me made me feel uneasy, as though I had something to hide even though I didn't." He looked at me. "You have suspicious eyes as well, but not nearly as hard as that detective's. Perhaps because yours are green."
"I'm not here because I suspect you of anything, Mr. Zilberman."
He smiled faintly. "It wouldn't offend me if you did. I suppose everyone who knew Anna is considered a suspect."
"Have you ever suspected anyone?"
"Me? No, no one."
"No one among your colleagues who bore ill feelings toward Anna, exchanged harsh words with her? Hated her?"
"There's always friction in a theater. It's the nature of the work. A lot of emotion goes into portraying a different person, into becoming that person. Some actors become too invested, too involved, in their work."
"You don't?"
"I'm serious about my work, but I don't take it too much to heart. There are actors who define themselves by what they do. They are actors first and foremost. Everything else comes after. I'm not that way. I like acting, but it's not the most important thing in my life. They are." He pointed at a framed photograph on the wall to my left. Zilberman was sitting on a wingback chair with a wide smile on his face and a girl of five on his knees. In an identical chair was a pretty plump woman holding a grinning boy of three. A beautiful family. A happy family.
"That was taken just a month ago," he said, his eyes brimming with affection.
"You have a lovely family, Mr. Zilberman."
"Thank you," he said, showing no sign of having picked up on the envy in my voice. "Acting is how I make my living, Mr. Lapid. It's not my life."
"Was it for Anna?"
"Yes, I believe it was, though we never spoke about such things. She was hardworking and ambitious, that was plain to see."
"How long did you work together?"
"Let's see, I started with the theater in 1937, and Anna came aboard the year after that, in '38. She died in '46, so eight years in total."
"Were you on good terms?"
"Not good and not bad. We hardly spoke about anything that wasn't work related. Anna wasn't an open person."
"You remember where you were the night she died?"
"Right here." He tapped the sofa. "Well, not this apartment—we lived on Rashi Street back then—but it was the same sofa bed. I was sleeping beside my very exhausted wife. She gave birth a month before Anna died."
I nodded. It was what he'd told Meltzer.
"You did not answer my earlier question," I said. "Was there anyone in the theater who argued or fought with Anna?"
"That's what I was trying to explain to you. There's an inherent competition in a theater. Actors usually want bigger roles, with more lines and a chance for acclamation. But kill for it? That's too much, even for ambitious actresses."
"Actresses, not actors?"
"In this case, it would be actresses. There are male roles and female roles. The two don't mix. But I really don't think—"
"Other actresses had to have been jealous when Anna got the main roles after Dahlia Rotner was injured."
"You know about that too? It was a scary time. For a while, I feared that the theater would close and I'd be out of work. Yes, there was talk, people whispering, wondering why Anna was chosen and not someone else."
"Like Ofra Wexler?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"You think Ofra was the better choice?"
"I do."
"So why did Isser pick Anna?"
"Her looks probably. Anna was a real beauty and much taller than Ofra. That's important on stage. Both the height and the beauty." He let out a laugh. "Maybe if I were taller and more handsome, I'd be more ambitious as well."
Or you might be dead right now, I thought, if Isser Rotner was the killer.
I said, "Sounds like Ofra had reason to be upset, angry even."
"It wouldn't surprise me if she was, but she didn't show any sign of it. She's a consummate professional." He paused, giving me a look of soft admonishment. "Mr. Lapid, I've known Ofra for some years now. I doubt very much that she's a murderess."
Perhaps. But someone had to be guilty, and jealousy is a potent motive. And, as of right now, I knew of only one person with a clear motive to kill Eliezer Dattner, Nahum Ornstein, and Anna Hartman. That person was Ofra Wexler.