"Yes."
"I can't see Alon harming a child. Or maybe I just don't want to believe I was intimate with such a man."
"Davidson said you were with him the night of August 26, 1939."
"He might have been, but I can't swear to a specific night. Not after ten years. I'm sorry, Mr. Lapid."
"That's all right. Tell me, on nights he was with you, when would he arrive and when would he leave?"
"He'd be at my door anywhere between ten to midnight and leave around four or five in the morning. Does that help?"
According to the police report, the murders took place between 23:00 and 04:00. Would Davidson have been able to commit the murders and still make it to Shulamit's apartment at the usual time? I did some rapid calculations and decided that he would. Davidson could have killed Esther and Willie at eleven p.m. and arrived at Shulamit's apartment by midnight or slightly later. He wouldn't even need to have run from Lunz Street to Ussishkin Street—a brisk walk would have sufficed. It was unlikely that Shulamit would have remembered it if he'd been fifteen or even thirty minutes late. Not after ten years.
Of course, it was possible that Davidson had not seen Shulamit that night at all. He could have killed Esther and Willie and spent the rest of the night elsewhere. But if Dr. Hendleman was working that night, if Shulamit was home alone, she could have provided Davidson with a backup alibi, in case his first one fell apart under scrutiny. Which was exactly what had happened last night at Greta's.
But Davidson's affair with Shulamit raised another question.
"In the time you had the affair," I said, "could Davidson have been involved with another woman?"
Shulamit mulled it over. "If you had asked me this question then, I would have said no, but now? Yes, I suppose it's possible."
"But you saw no sign of it?"
"No. Nothing. Why do you ask?"
I didn't answer her. My mind was churning, swirling with questions.
Davidson could have denied having an affair with Esther, because he figured it would cast him as a suspect. But why had he insisted on it even after I told him a colleague of Esther had confirmed the affair? At that point, Davidson believed his initial alibi was strong, that he was beyond suspicion. He should have felt safe enough to come clean about the affair. It was only later that I revealed to him what I knew about Saul Mercer and got him to admit he had not been on his boat the night of the murders.
What Davidson had said about the night he forced a kiss on Esther by the docks could explain what Elena Warshavski had claimed she saw. What it couldn't explain was what Leah Goldin had told me. She'd said that Esther had told her she was having an affair with Alon Davidson. So either Esther had lied to Leah at the time, or Davidson had lied to me yesterday, or…I rubbed my face. Someone was lying, and I desperately needed to find out who.
Regardless of whether Davidson and Esther were having an affair, he could have killed her. He had motive. He had opportunity. He knew the layout of the building and the habits of the neighbors. He knew that he would be able to get in and out of the building without being seen. Davidson was vicious and violent and capable of harming women. He had lied about his alibi. He was the best suspect I had.
But if he had been truthful about not having an affair with Esther, it would cast doubt on his guilt. Just as his giving me Shulamit's name and address, despite knowing she was unlikely to speak of him fondly, did not seem like something a guilty man would do. On the other hand, I'd threatened to go to the police if he didn't cooperate.
Shulamit was looking at me, and I recalled that I hadn't answered her last question.
"It's not important," I said, getting to my feet. "Thank you for seeing me."
At the door I turned to her. "I apologize for making you relive painful memories."
"No apology is necessary," she said. "Actually, I want to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"Yes. I feel better now for having talked about those bad times, like a weight's been lifted off me. Do you know what I mean?"
I said that I did, though in truth I did not. How could talking about your awful experiences make you feel anything but lousy?
28
An hour later, back in Tel Aviv, I found a deserted café with a stooped, hatchet-faced barwoman and a telephone in the rear. It took a while, and a good number of calls, but eventually I managed to find the former manager of Moshe Klinger, back when he'd worked for Tnuva in Haifa.
He had a gruff, well-fed voice, and I could picture him in my mind: tanned skin lined by sun exposure; thick mustache; heavy frame with a bit of a gut, but not soft; thick arms dotted with sunspots; Shorts and sandals and strong legs sporting brown or black curls; and a face that was showing its forty-something years, but might stay that way for the next twenty. His name was Menashe Harel.
"I understand Moshe Klinger worked for you," I said into the mouthpiece.
"Who wants to know?" he demanded. A busy man in the middle of a busy day.
"Sergeant Dov Remez," I said, taking the first name of one government minister and stitching it to the last name of another. "Tel Aviv police."
A long pause. Breathing on the other end. In the background were sounds of men shouting instructions to each other and truck or tractor engines growling. The sounds were muffled, like Harel was in an office in a loading area with the door closed.
"Police? What's this about? Has Moshe done anything?"
"No, Mr. Harel, he's done nothing wrong," I said, aiming for a tone that signaled both assurance and weary impatience. I was committing a crime by impersonating a police officer, but I doubted I would ever be punished for it. Besides, I wanted to get answers quickly, without begging or wheedling, and couldn't think of a better way of getting them. People like Harel have respect for authority. "But his name has come up in connection with an investigation we're running, so I'm doing a little background check on him. Your full cooperation would be appreciated. Now, did Moshe Klinger work for you?"
"Yes, he did," Harel said, eager to help. "But not for, oh, ten years now."
"Yes. That fits in with what we already know," I said. As an interrogator you learn that it's always good to look like you already know a great deal. It makes people less likely to lie or hide things from you. "What exactly were his duties?"
"Driving. He also did some work on vehicles; he was pretty handy with a wrench. But his job was to drive a truck, delivering produce."
"What was his route?"
"He didn't have just one. He'd drive wherever I'd tell him."
"Including Tel Aviv?"
"Sure." A pause. "Listen, Sergeant, Moshe still works for Tnuva. If he's suspected of something, we should—"
"We're interested in Klinger as a potential witness, not a suspect. Tnuva has nothing to worry about. Now tell me, did Klinger's work ever require him to stay the night away from home?"
"On long trips, yes."
"Where would he sleep? Hotels?"
Harel snorted. "Hardly. In the back of his truck, most likely. It's what most drivers do if they don't have family who can put them up for the night. It's not as bad as one might think; I've done it a few times myself over the years."
He sounded right proud of it, as if it proved that he was a down-to-earth sort, one who could do with little and not complain about it. Not that I believed he knew the first thing about how little people could get by on. After all, he had been in Israel since at least 1939, not in Europe.
Not that it mattered. What did matter was that Moshe Klinger was often away from home at night. Could he have been away the night of the murders? Moshe had no motive that I could see, but he had evaded telling me that he and his family had moved from Haifa to Netanya shortly after the murders. And I suspected his wife had not told me the whole truth about the reason they had stopped housing immigrants after Esther and Willie.