"If it's him, I'll make sure he pays," I said.
I was comforted to see no doubt in her eyes. She simply nodded as far as her neck brace allowed. "Good. I'm counting on you, Mr. Lapid. What is your next move?"
"I'm going to read the police files of the deaths of Nahum Ornstein and Emil Polisar. Hopefully, I'll find something there." I prayed Reuben hadn't sent the files back yet. "We have one advantage: your husband doesn't know I'm still on the case. Far as he's concerned, everyone is convinced Ofra was responsible for the murders—myself and the police included. I may be able to catch him off guard."
"Does this mean you're not going to tell the police what you discovered?"
I couldn't. Not just yet. The police were on record stating Ofra's guilt. They had an interest in maintaining that guilt, and their reputation. They wouldn't reopen the case based on nothing but my gut feeling regarding Dahlia's accident. I had no proof that the person who ran her over and the murderer were one and the same. The accident could have been nothing but what it seemed.
And there was another problem. If Amiram hadn't come to kill me at Ofra's request, why had he been in my apartment? I knew why, but the police did not.
When Inspector Bartov had been in my apartment, he had remarked upon its tidiness. I said I must have interrupted an intended burglary before it had a chance to commence. It had satisfied him at the time, but if he were invited to reconsider Amiram's presence in my apartment, he might decide to take a closer look at me—and I didn't want that.
But if I obtained incontrovertible evidence that pointed to the real murderer, Bartov and his superiors would likely wish to have as little to do with me as possible. All their efforts would be focused on presenting themselves in the best possible light in the media, as the story would likely be as big as the Ofra Wexler story had been.
I did not explain all this to Dahlia. "Not right now," I said. "Not until I have proof. As for your husband, he mustn't know I'm still on the case. You'll need to act as though nothing has changed."
She smiled a wicked smile. "You're asking me to fool Isser? It will be my pleasure."
41
Reuben had sent the files back to storage. He informed me of this when I called him a few minutes after leaving Dahlia's apartment. The unfortunate news ignited a headache.
"How come you need them again?" he asked.
"It's difficult to explain," I said, rubbing my temples. "Let's just say I have a hunch about something. Can you get the files again?"
"Sure. They wouldn't have had time to misplace them, so I'll probably have them here by tomorrow morning. I'll call storage right now. By the way, my captain had a chat with me earlier today. He said he was very impressed with how I connected Amiram Gadot to Ofra Wexler. He even hinted at a possible promotion."
Reuben sounded very proud. My headache intensified. When I had proof of who the real killer was, the prospect of Reuben's promotion would likely crumble to dust. Another thing to feel guilty about.
"You deserve it," I said. "I hope you get it."
After I hung up, I checked my watch. It was four thirty-eight. He should still be at work.
I hailed a taxi at the corner of Hanevi'im and Shmaryahu Levin. An uncommon extravagance, but I needed to get to city hall as fast as possible.
I found Haggai Geller in his office, standing behind his desk, slipping papers into a briefcase in preparation for leaving for the day.
His look of irritation at my arrival at this unfortunate hour dissolved when I told him my name.
"Finally," he said. "You're a hard man to reach, Mr. Lapid."
I apologized for not having returned his calls and told him I was happy to meet him at last.
He put his briefcase aside, sat down in his chair, and gestured for me to sit as well. His office was small and very tidy. On his desk I saw a picture of him alongside a pretty young woman holding a pair of babies in her arms.
He did not match his wife's beauty. Haggai Geller had a plain face with unremarkable features. Short brown hair, receding a little at the temples, and brown eyes of mediocre depth and size behind a pair of round glasses. He was five nine and had the average build of a man who did not exert himself in sports nor indulge himself at the dinner table. He was beardless, both currently and in his picture. So far, I had not seen him walk.
He wore a light jacket over a white button-down shirt and dark-gray trousers. Neither the clothes nor the briefcase looked expensive. The impression he gave fitted his position perfectly—a mid-level bureaucrat with a steady, unexciting job. A far cry from his work in the theater.
He said, "I have to tell you, I was very intrigued when my secretary gave me your message. My days as an actor are long behind me."
"You quit the theater in 1940, I understand."
"Yes, that's right."
"To join the British Army and fight the Nazis."
"You're very well informed. Who told you all this?"
"Ofra Wexler."
The name of the dead often invokes silence, and this was no exception. Geller clasped his hands on his desk and his expression turned solemn. I was watching his face when I said Ofra's name because I could not eliminate him as a suspect yet, but his reaction seemed perfectly normal.
After a time, he said, "Reading the newspaper reports, what Ofra did, was the greatest shock of my life."
"You found it hard to believe?"
"Almost impossible, but I guess I didn't know her all that well."
"You were with her in high school, weren't you?"
"In Gymnasia Herzliya."
"Were you friends?"
"No, hardly that. But we were in the same class, so we saw each other nearly every day."
"And Anna Hartman, too?"
"Yes, Anna too. She and Ofra were friends. The best of friends. That's the thing I struggle with most, the idea that Ofra would have Anna killed."
"When did you last see her?"
"Ofra? Not since I went off to the war."
"I meant Anna."
"I met Anna for the final time in 1945, when I was on leave." He paused, adjusted his glasses, and clasped his hands again. "Mr. Lapid, after my secretary gave me your message, I asked around and learned you're a private investigator."
"You're not too badly informed yourself," I said.
"I assume you were involved with what happened with Ofra?"
"To a certain degree."
"Your name wasn't mentioned in any of the articles I read."
"Let's just say I prefer privacy to fame."
"Ah," he said with a wry smile. "Then you wouldn't have been right for the theater. Then again, neither was I."
"Is that why you decided to go fight with the British? By the way, when exactly did you enlist?"
"Twelfth of February, 1940. And a week later, I was in Egypt for training. You ever been there?"
I shook my head, relaxing a little in my seat. If what Geller said was true, he wasn't anywhere near Tel Aviv when Nahum Ornstein was killed, in April 1940. I would need to check it, of course, but I sensed it was the truth.
"The answer to your other question," he continued, "is a bit more complicated. I did quit the theater because I wasn't right for it—truth is, I hated it—but I chose to enlist with the British because I wanted to appear brave and heroic."
I recalled Ofra's story of how Geller had announced his enlistment. "In Anna's eyes, you mean?"
His face registered surprise and a dose of embarrassment. "Did Ofra tell you that, too?"
"Yeah, she did."
"She probably ridiculed me, didn't she?"
I shrugged.
"I deserve it. It was sort of silly." He smiled at his own youthful foolishness. "Truth is, I was in love with Anna. Had been since I met her in high school. I only became interested in the theater as a way to be close to her."