I kept on reading.
Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin was the detective in charge of the case. His notes were written in a black pen, and his handwriting was cramped and slightly crooked. But it was legible, and his notes seemed thorough enough.
His first interview was with Abraham Sassoon. The landlord identified both woman and child as his tenants. Sergeant Rivlin went on to interview the rest of the neighbors, workers in various nearby stores where Esther had shopped and at a dance club she often frequented, and her colleagues at the law firm where she'd worked as a secretary. All expressed shock at the murders. All had nothing but good things to say about the victims. None could point the finger at anyone who might wish to see either Esther or the boy they knew as her child dead. At no point did Rivlin interview any Irgun member or any of the other passengers who were on board the Salonika. He never discovered nor suspected that the two victims were living under assumed names.
Rivlin had reached out to police informers to see if they'd heard any chatter regarding the murders. He had also pursued the jewelry angle by visiting pawnshops and bringing known fences in for questioning. Neither effort yielded any results.
Rivlin worked the case hard for two weeks and made increasingly infrequent entries over the next four. But it was soon clear that he had hit a dead end. No leads emerged. No suspects appeared. The case quickly grew stale, then cold. Finally, it was abandoned and set aside.
14
I read the file through twice, scribbling names and dates and places in my notebook, adding my impressions as I went along. Nothing jumped to grab my attention. There was no eureka moment.
I had a look at the English version of the file, but it appeared to be nothing more than a translated copy of the Hebrew report, most of it typed. One thing the English report contained that the Hebrew one did not was a document, dated four weeks after the murders, in which Rivlin detailed his actions during the investigation and explained his lack of progress.
"Where can I find Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin?" I asked Reuben in his office, handing him the investigation file.
Reuben set the folder aside on his desk. He picked up the phone, dialed an internal extension, and asked if Rivlin was around. A moment later he hung up. "There's a café near the corner of Lillenblum and Rishonim. You should be able to find him there. You can't miss him. He's bald and got a big mustache."
"All right. I'll find him."
I thanked Reuben and made my way to Lillenblum Street. I found the café easily enough and spotted Shabtai Rivlin within two seconds of stepping inside. Reuben's description was dead-on. Rivlin had a brush mustache the color of mud and a bald scalp that glistened like the belly of a fish. He wore a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, pants that were also blue, but a shade darker, and black loafers that had not been shined since the reign of King David. He was the only person at the bar, the other three patrons split between two tables. He sat stooped over a quarter-full glass of red wine, almost like he was praying to it.
I walked up to him. "Sergeant Rivlin?"
His weary face turned to me, and it took less than the blink of the eye for me to peg him as a drunk. It didn't make me a master of observation or deduction. The burst of red capillaries on his bulbous nose and the alcoholic flush in his cheeks were a dead giveaway. Add to that the fact that his bleary eyes were equal parts brown, white, and red, and that the stink of alcohol hung around him like a shroud, and the dismal, depressing picture was clear. Sergeant Shabtai Rivlin was a drunk and had been one for quite some time. It was affecting his health. There were purple bags under his eyes, and the skin on his face had a grayish tint. He was paunchy and jowly. His bent posture made it difficult to determine his height. He looked like he had poison running through his veins, which, I supposed, was more true than not.
"Who are you?" he asked me in a gruff voice, though I noticed his speech was not slurred. He was drunk, but not out of it. What remained to be seen was what sort of drunk he was.
"My name is Adam Lapid. I'd like to ask you some questions if you have a moment."
"I don't. I'm busy." He gave a chuckle that sounded like a raven's squawk. "Can't you tell?"
So not a gregarious drunk. A nasty one.
A lanky, balding bartender was watching the two of us with obvious interest from across the bar. I said to him, "One more glass of wine for him. And bring me one as well."
I eased myself onto the stool beside Rivlin's. He said nothing. The only way I could tell he had heard me make the order was that he emptied his glass and pushed it aside.
The bartender placed two glasses before us. I left mine untouched. Rivlin lifted his. He didn't bother with a toast or a thank you, just took a long slurp. Only after he had swallowed and dried his mouth with the back of his hand did he deign to look at me.
"Who did you say you were?"
"Don't give me that," I said. "You heard my name just fine."
Rivlin nodded, possibly in grudging respect, though I couldn't say for sure. "Well, what do you want?"
"To talk to you about a case you worked on."
"A case? Why do you want to talk about a case?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"Oh, one of those." He chuckled again, favoring me with a derisive grin. His breath was awful. "You think I have time for jokers? I'm a police detective, not some amateur. Go bother someone else." With that he turned back to his glass and took another swallow.
I thought of telling him I'd learned his whereabouts from a fellow policeman, but decided not to. I doubted it would make him more receptive to my questions, and it might get Reuben into trouble. Besides, I had another way to win him over.
"Put the bottle on the bar," I told the bartender, "and step away so we can talk in private."
The bartender didn't appear to be thrilled about the second part, but the look I gave him convinced him it was a good idea. He brought the bottle over and moved away to the far end of the bar. I refilled Rivlin's glass. He considered it for a long moment, his hairy forearms forming a triangle on the bar top, fingers laced. "All right," he finally said. "You bought yourself a minute. What case are you interested in?"
"A murder you worked ten years ago."
He stiffened. By no more than an inch, but I still caught it.
"You expect me to remember a case from ten years ago. Are you crazy?"
"It's not the sort of murder you're likely to forget."
When Rivlin faced me this time, his eyes were no longer bleary. He was looking at me—really looking—for the first time since I approached him. I wondered what he was searching for. I wondered what he ended up seeing.
"Maybe I'm a forgetful guy."
I shook my head. "You know the case I'm talking about. August 1939. Lunz Street. Two victims. A woman and a baby. Do I need to remind you what he did to their faces? Their eyes?"
He sat perfectly still for a few heartbeats, did not even blink. Then he drew a loud breath through his nose, held it in for a long moment, and blew it out of his mouth with a whoosh. He picked up his glass and gulped down half of it with one big mouthful. I didn't need to remind him. He remembered all right.
"Your minute is up," he said, not looking at me.
"I don't think so."
"Well, I do. Beat it."
"Fine. I'll go," I said. I reached for the bottle. He grabbed my wrist, fingers digging into my flesh.
"Leave it here."
I yanked my hand out of his grip. "Only if you talk." Rivlin worked his mouth around for a second or two, and I added, "I'll spring for a second bottle. And here's something extra for your time." I fished a lira note from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. His hand moved fast to cover the bill. He didn't even look around to check if anyone saw anything. He had experience in taking money.