"My husband."
5
I stared at her. "Your husband?"
"Yes," said Dahlia Rotner.
Anger flared like a lit fuse. "You think this is funny? You enjoy dragging strangers into your home for this sort of nonsense?"
"Mr. Lapid, I—"
"Because I don't enjoy being played with. Not even by an obvious master of the trade such as you." I got to my feet, not caring one bit if looking up at me made her neck hurt. "And I don't appreciate having my time wasted."
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
"Mr. Lapid! Wait!"
It was the same voice, but she had made it deeper and thicker and impossible to ignore. Some ingrained part of me—maybe the soldier I'd once been, or perhaps it was the Auschwitz inmate—responded to that voice instinctively. My back went ramrod straight and a prickle of fear scratched at the nape of my neck. Still, her command would have held me for no more than a second or two if she hadn't reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out a triplet of ten-lira bills.
"For you," she said, holding them up. Her voice had returned to normal. "Just to sit back down in that chair and listen."
I switched my gaze from the money to her. All trace of the amusement I had spied on her face a moment ago was gone. She looked dead serious.
"Please," she said, extending the money toward me, her tone free of the beseeching that single word implied. "This is no game, I promise you."
I took the money and made a home for it in my pocket. It was a tidy sum. More than enough just to listen for a while. Even if all I ended up hearing were lies.
I sat down. I didn't say anything, just waited for her to proceed.
She let out a low breath and attempted a smile. It didn't go very far or last very long. She plucked at some invisible wrinkle on her dress and brushed it smooth over her knees. I realized that I was witnessing something she had not planned on showing me—her in a perturbed state of mind. My reaction had surprised her. She was not used to people walking out on her, or even threatening to do so.
Finally, she ceased her tinkering, locked her eyes on mine, and said, "I feel I owe you an apology, Mr. Lapid. It's just that old habits die hard. Especially the ones you loved. I couldn't help being just a touch theatrical. But I assure you that what I'm about to tell you is the truth. Some of it, you'll be able to verify easily enough. The rest—well, you are a detective, after all. You'll need to do that part yourself."
"All right," I said. "You're forgiven. Now what's this about a murder?"
Folding her hands in her lap, she said, "It happened five years ago. May 28, 1946. I was already back here from the hospital. Here in my home, my jail cell. I was still growing accustomed to the new reality of my life. And the pain...well, it had sharper fangs back then.
"It was a Tuesday, and the street outside my window was lively with people out and about—being industrious, or just strolling aimlessly, making the most of the spring sun. I remember envying them quite powerfully.
"My husband, Isser, had gone out earlier, before I finally pulled myself out of bed. I slept fitfully in those days. The pain kept jolting me awake. The medication failed to suppress it for very long. And pain, I discovered, never ever sleeps.
"When Isser returned, a little before one in the afternoon, I could tell immediately that something was wrong. There was an odd look in his eyes, and it was only much later that I interpreted it as fear. I asked him what was the matter, and he told me that Anna Hartman was dead. And not just dead, but murdered.
"I asked him how he knew, and he told me the police had come by the theater earlier. They had asked him some questions. In particular, they wanted to know where he'd been the night before. I don't know if they suspected him or merely wished to rule him out. He told them he had been here, at home with me, the entire night."
"And this wasn't the case?"
"No, it wasn't. While I slept very poorly back then, I did spend a good deal of time in bed. The night before, I turned in at approximately eight o'clock. I was alone when I did so. Isser was out. I awoke at ten and again at a quarter to midnight. Isser was not here. When I awoke again at one thirty, I could hear the shower running. I fell back asleep, and the next time the pain hit, Isser was sleeping beside me."
"And this was when?"
"Four twenty-five. I could tell because I have a small table clock on my nightstand."
I nodded, still wary. But in spite of myself, I found that I was sitting forward in my chair, listening intently as she told her tale.
She said, "It's strange what one notices and remembers, even things that seemed unimportant at the time. I remember his face was all scrunched up, his eyebrows knitted, his jaw clenched. And it wasn't merely his face; his entire body was wound up tight. He lay on his side, facing me, and I could tell he was dreaming. Whatever the dream was, it must have been bad, because he kept muttering to himself, and his breath would catch, his mouth open, as some picture playing in his head put an intense fear into him. I had never seen him like that. Not once in all the thousands of nights I had shared a bed with him."
"What was he saying?"
"I couldn't tell. As I said, he was muttering. His voice was so low it was impossible to make out his words. And I was so exhausted that I didn't stay awake for long. I closed my eyes and this time slept for a few hours straight. And, like I said, he was gone in the morning. The next time I saw him was when he came home and told me about the murder."
"Of Anna Hartman."
"Yes."
"Who was she?"
"An actress in our theater."
I waited, but she didn't elaborate. Those five words were it.
"How did she die? And where?"
"She was stabbed. Her body was found in Trumpeldor Cemetery."
"Really? Inside the cemetery itself?"
"That's what I was told. But I don't know the details of the case."
I frowned. "Surely you know more than what you told me, her being your friend."
Her eyes blazed with a sudden flame. "What makes you think she was my friend? When did I say that?"
Her tone was sharp and snappish. It sliced the air like an artillery shell. I leaned back, looking at her. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.
Dahlia pointed her eyes at her knees, looking abashed. It was not a natural look for her. Laying a hand on the top of her walking stick, she caressed the galloping horse as though seeking comfort or reassurance from it. For the second time, she had shown me a part of herself she preferred remain hidden. It was plain to see how much she disliked having done so.
It took her less than five seconds to compose herself. Then she said, "Anna Hartman was a colleague. We worked together. Nothing more."
But there was something more. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. I decided to put the matter aside for the moment and changed the subject.
"So your husband came home and asked you to lie for him."
"That's right."
"Which you did."
"Yes. When the police came to see me later that day, I told them that Isser had been here the whole night."
"They believed you?"
This time her smile was unconstrained. Unconstrained and proud. The smile of the actress who had played a part and had done so with perfect authenticity.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt," she said.
"The police are usually skeptical of alibis provided by spouses."
Her smile widened. "This time they weren't. If they ever suspected Isser, they no longer did once they stepped out of this apartment."
"If you're that good an actress, how do I know you're not lying to me right now?"