He didn't, but I had a pretty solid suspicion.
"Do you remember the address of the apartment on Gordon Street?"
"Not the number, but it was right on the corner of Gordon and Ben Yehuda, north side. Why are you asking all this?"
"Just trying to tie up loose ends," I said, "that's all."
He accepted my answer with a nod. Thought lines creased his forehead. "I never understood what Ofra saw in that lowlife Amiram Gadot. Even in high school he was a menace."
My mouth fell open. "Amiram Gadot went to Gymnasia Herzliya?"
"Two years ahead of us. That's where he and Ofra met."
That icy finger had now been joined by a handful of siblings, which had all climbed a few inches to grab tight hold of my scalp, making it prickle and sting.
"Was Menashe Klausner his teacher?" I asked.
"I'd say that's very likely," Geller said.
42
Music emanated from behind the door. Something dramatic, plenty of violins and cellos, ascending toward a climax. I banged on the door to be heard over the crescendo. Or maybe it was just an excuse to vent some of the fury burning inside me. But not all of it. Not even close.
The music cut off, the door opened, and I caught it when he saw me. The fleeting look of surprise and panic he tried in vain to keep out of his eyes. The look of the guilty man who thought he'd gotten away with it and now dreads being exposed.
He tried to hide it behind a smile. I could tell why he had never been hired by a theater. He wasn't much of an actor.
"Mr. Lapid," Menashe Klausner said, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I got a few more questions," I said. "About Anna. Why don't we go inside?"
"I'm in the middle of something, I'm afraid."
"This won't take long. Then you can go back to your music."
He hesitated. He didn't want me in his home. He didn't want to exchange a single word with me. But there was still that sliver of hope that his fear was baseless and I knew nothing. Better, perhaps, to give me a little time and find out what I did or did not know.
"I can only spare you a few minutes."
"That's fine," I said. "After you."
He turned and walked the few steps to his living room. That was enough. In our previous meeting, I hadn't been watching his legs and hadn't seen him walk. This time I did both and noticed it straight away. His legs were bowed, and he waddled to compensate for it. An unusual gait.
"Ever wore a beard, Mr. Klausner?" I asked as he stopped in the center of his living room and turned to face me.
"What? No, just a mustache. Why?" He looked genuinely bewildered. I decided it didn't prove anything one way or the other, even if he was telling me the truth. Both a drunken Eliyahu Toledano, sighting a man across the street in the dead of night, and Dahlia Rotner, getting a split-second glimpse of the driver of the car bearing down on her, could have easily misremembered a mustache as a beard. Klausner's strange walk was a more powerful piece of evidence.
"Have you read the newspapers?" I asked.
"About Ofra, you mean?" He draped his face in an expression of sadness. "What a terrible tragedy. What a loss to the world of theater."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that, given your feelings toward Shoresh Theater."
"My feelings? What feelings?"
"Don't pretend, Mr. Klausner. You're not a good enough actor to pull it off. I know you auditioned for the theater several times and have always walked away empty-handed. I also know that during one of your auditions, you were mocked by Dahlia Rotner and Eliezer Dattner. That must have hurt, given your aspirations."
A flush pervaded his cheeks. "Where did you hear that?"
"From two former students of yours—Ofra Wexler and Haggai Geller."
"Ofra and Haggai," he pronounced their names as though they were traitors. "The first was a deranged murderess, the second an untalented little runt. Without me, both would never have amounted to anything, and this is the thanks I get—having them spread nasty rumors about me."
"I doubt very much you had anything to do with their accomplishments. Ofra was, by all accounts, a talented and skillful actress. Haggai Geller fought bravely against Germany, and, while even he would admit to being a so-so actor, he was better than you."
His large jaw clenched. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"You don't hold negative feelings toward Shoresh Theater?"
"Not in the slightest."
"That's not what you told Anna the day she came to tell you she was going to be working there. You lost control. You shouted and raved. You told her it was the crummiest theater in Tel Aviv. You remember that?"
He didn't answer straight away. He began smoothing his mustache with thumb and forefinger over and over again, a movement designed to calm his nerves.
When he stopped, he spoke in a voice thick with emotion, driving his point home with repeated stabs of a rigid forefinger. "You know why they didn't hire me? Because they knew I was better than them, because they didn't want the competition. They knew if I stepped on that stage, their mediocrity would be laid bare."
"Then why did they hire Nahum Ornstein, who was destined for greatness? Why did they hire Anna, who due to her beauty alone might steal the spotlight? They didn't hire you because you've never been any good."
"I'm too good," he growled, his eyes flaring with a hot light. "Better than anyone they've ever seen. And they knew it. I have a special talent, a gift from God. I was meant to be on stage, but they were determined to keep me off it." Spittle dotted his lips, and he wiped it off with an angry swipe of his hand. "All those lies they told me to my face, Dahlia and Dattner, they were all meant to bring me down so that I would slink off with my tail between my legs and give up my dreams."
"Sounds like you hate them."
"Yes, all right, I admit it. I hate them—them and their lousy, stinking theater."
"So you decided to get even, to pay them back."
He frowned, eyebrows knitting close together. "What are you talking about?"
"You know," I said.
"Know what?"
I didn't answer immediately. I just stared at him, at this evil, selfish man haunted by his frustrated ambitions and depraved appetites. I wanted to hit him. Right in his arrogant face. But I needed him to confess. Because I wanted to clear Ofra's name. I owed her that much, at least.
"Mr. Klausner," I said, "Ofra didn't kill anyone, nor ordered them to be killed. You did."
He froze, his mouth falling open like a trapdoor.
I went on, "Come on, admit it. You initiated a vendetta against the people of Shoresh Theater. You killed Eliezer Dattner and Nahum Ornstein, and you ran over Dahlia Rotner in a stolen car. And you also killed Anna, though I suspect that was motivated by something other than her work for the theater."
"You're accusing me of murder? That's why you're here?"
"Your actions brought Shoresh Theater to the brink of ruin. Just a little more time, and maybe another murder or two, and the theater would have folded. Then your mission would have been complete. But then I came along and threatened to spoil your plans. So you decided to eliminate me by getting your former student Amiram Gadot to kill me."
"Amiram Gadot? I haven't seen him in years."
"When that failed, you decided to cover your tracks by framing Ofra. You pushed her out that window and typed a suicide note in which she claimed responsibility for the murders you committed. You did this because you knew she had motive for killing Eliezer Dattner, Nahum Ornstein, and Anna. But she didn't have a particular reason to kill Dahlia Rotner, so you left that out."
For a second or two, he said nothing. Then he smiled a huge smile, reminding me of those carved pumpkin heads some Hungarians put in their windows each year on St. Lucy's Day. The Devil himself could have smiled that smile.