"Did she seem at all upset when Anna died?"
"Very," Zilberman said. "I remember it clearly, crying in the theater. Loud, wrenching sobs."
A nervous reaction to the presence of police? Or genuine grief over the loss of the friend she'd once had? Or maybe she'd been acting.
I took a few seconds to consider how to inject Emil Polisar into the conversation without being obvious about it.
"Were any of the other actresses upset that Anna was chosen to take over for Dahlia?" I asked. "Brigitte Polisar, for example?"
"Brigitte? I doubt it. I think she knew she wasn't made for the main roles and was happy with her lot in life."
"I understand she and her husband are also dead."
He nodded. "Brigitte died in an air attack by the wretched Egyptians, and Emil shot himself soon after." A small pause. "I think about that a lot, whether I could have stopped him."
"He showed no sign of suicidal intentions?"
"None. He was grief-stricken, of course, but what man in his position wouldn't be? But Emil was a strong person, as solid as a rock. I was shocked to the core when I heard what he did."
"Did you ever think it might not have been suicide?"
He gave me a stunned look. "No. Why would I?"
"Did he have any enemies? Anyone who benefited from his death?"
It took him a few seconds to answer, and when he did, he spoke slowly and with a touch of animosity in his voice. "No, Mr. Lapid. Emil was well-liked. No one had reason to kill him. No one got a bigger part when he died. Certainly not Ofra."
"I didn't mean to imply that, Mr. Zilberman," I lied. "It was you who said you thought Polisar wasn't the type to kill himself."
"That's what I thought, but obviously, I was wrong."
A dead end. I was hoping to find some reason for Ofra to have wanted Emil Polisar dead, but I wasn't going to get it from Zilberman. I doubted shifting my focus to Rotner would produce a better outcome.
"You know, you should be careful with such questions, Mr. Lapid," Zilberman said, his tone advisory rather than threatening. "You might upset people."
"Which people?"
He hesitated and decided to be vague. "You're casting a shadow over the entire theater when you're suggesting one of us is a murderer."
I sat without speaking, heart beating faster, as an idea began taking root in my mind.
Zilberman said, "None of us is, Mr. Lapid. You won't find Anna's killer if you think so."
He was wrong. Because one of them was a killer. Isser Rotner or Ofra Wexler. And I now knew how I was going to find out which.
27
There was a closet in my apartment on Hamaccabi Street. A two-door closet in which I'd installed a false bottom. And under the false bottom I'd stashed a box, and in the box lay a cache of currency, Israeli and foreign, and a handful of souvenirs I had collected while hunting Nazis after the Second World War.
One of these souvenirs was a folding knife. A sturdy, elegant knife with a sharp blade and a quiet spring mechanism. And near the bottom of its handle, a swastika was stamped.
I'd taken the knife from a Nazi I'd hunted down and killed. And I kept it for reasons I was not entirely sure of. Perhaps to remind myself that I had done my part to avenge my family and all the other Jews the Nazis had murdered.
Once, I'd had a Luger pistol as well, a weapon that had previously been the property of another Nazi I'd executed, but I'd been forced to give it up a few months ago.
So now all I had was the knife.
I knew a man who would be able to get me a handgun, a driver for hire for whatever criminal venture came his way. But last I heard, he was somewhere in the Negev desert, engaged in some sort of illicit activity. I had no way of reaching him.
I swore, angry with myself that I had not taken the trouble to obtain a replacement firearm. Now I would have to make do with the knife.
Pressing the small button, I watched the blade leap from its niche in the handle and lock into place. The only illumination in my room came from the naked bulb at the center of the ceiling; I'd closed all the shutters to keep out prying eyes. The blade glinted, a cold smile of deadly metal. I ran my thumb along the sharp edge, watched the skin indent, knowing that a smidgen more pressure and the skin would break and blood would well out.
It was a good weapon. A testament to German craftsmanship. It had served me well. But I still wished I had a gun.
Why had I allowed myself to remain without one? Perhaps, as with the two paintings I had hung on my walls, it was due to a subconscious desire for normalcy, an unspoken wish to return to a more ordinary life after so many years. I reprimanded myself for my foolishness.
As I sat there with the knife in my grip, I thought about the case and how it had suddenly morphed into a beast of a different nature. It had never been simple, but at least it had been clear. A regular case, with all the usual elements.
There was a crime, a victim, and a killer at large. The only unknown was the identity of the latter. Now, I was dealing with multiple possible murders and had narrowed the pool of suspects to two. But I did not know which of them was guilty, and, more important, had no discernible way to find evidence of their guilt.
Except one.
It was dangerous, some would say foolhardy, but I had taken greater chances before, and I was determined to catch this killer.
Looking back, Greta had planted the seed of the idea by saying the killer might decide to come after me, but it was Zilberman who had made it bloom with his warning that my digging around might upset people.
He had meant it innocently, but I had seen it in a different light.
I was going to flush the killer out, and there was just one way to do it. I had to make myself a target.
I could have waited until I got myself a gun. If I put my mind to it, I'd likely be able to procure one. But that might take me a few days, maybe a week, and I did not wish to wait that long. Because Greta was right. The killer might already be plotting to take me out. And one thing I knew: this killer was resourceful and smart. The more I waited, the more time the killer would have to plan my death. I wanted the killer to feel pressured, to act prematurely. I figured I had a better chance of surviving a hasty attack than a carefully planned one, even with just a knife.
When the decision was finally made, there was no hesitation. I felt confident that what I was doing was right. There was fear, yes, but the sort that comes hand in hand with determination. The sort that drives one to action instead of paralysis.
I folded the blade, tucked the knife into a pocket, returned my box of souvenirs to its hideout, and repositioned the false bottom with its covering of bedclothes and a winter blanket.
Then I drank a glass of water and went out to invite death upon myself.
28
Outside my building, I stopped to consider my destination. A choice of two, and I did not see any benefit to either one before the other. I settled on the gentlemanly course of action and went to see the lady first.
It was two o'clock when I knocked on her door. This time I had my gaze pointed in the right direction: acutely downward. When she opened her door, our eyes met instantly. She did not make an effort to hide her displeasure.
"I don't think we have anything further to discuss, Mr. Lapid," Ofra Wexler said.
"I think you're wrong about that."
"That's your opinion. Mine is the opposite, and mine is what counts."
She began closing the door, but I put a hand out to stop her.
"I have some questions, Miss Wexler, and I am going to ask them. If you close this door, I'll shout them so you'll be able to hear. You and all your neighbors. It might prove embarrassing. Or you can ask me inside, and we'll talk privately. It's your choice. Either way is fine with me."