Despite all this, she had been a good person. She had wronged others, that was true. She had slept with married men. She had taken part in Varda's humiliation. But the first act was beyond her control, stamped on her nature at a young and vulnerable age; and the second was an act she had deeply regretted and ceased doing. Yes, she had been good. But that didn't save her. Which wasn't surprising. Being good never saved anyone.
"What made you kill Ofra and frame her for the murders?" I asked.
"I knew you had made the connection between Anna and the others. I worried that it was only a matter of time before you took a closer look at me. So I decided to provide you with the killer, all wrapped up in a bow."
"How did you discover I knew about the other murders? I didn't talk about them with you."
"Leon Zilberman told me. He said you suspected Ofra. He thought you were crazy."
I closed my eyes and pressed my nails into the soft flesh of my palms, bringing forth a much-deserved pain. I had led Varda to Ofra. She was dead because of me.
Opening my eyes, I said, "Zilberman told me he always had a big mouth."
Varda half smiled. "That he did. But he won't be using it anymore."
"How did you know about the poems Ofra wrote, the ones found on her desk?"
"I didn't. I came to her apartment with a new dress for her. I knocked her out with a wrench, then typed her suicide note. The poems were stacked right there, next to the typewriter, covered by a cloth. I think she was perusing them when I arrived, had covered them up so I wouldn't see. They were perfect. They made her seem guiltier than the suicide note did."
I thought I knew why Ofra had been reading those poems. That was because of me, too. During our last conversation, when I told her about the man with the beard, she had reacted with shock and then swore to me she hadn't sent anyone to kill on her behalf. She had wanted me to believe this, because she thought the man with the beard was Amiram Gadot. That he had murdered because of her or for her, even though she hadn't asked him to. She had died with that thought in her head, with that guilt in her heart.
I had made her think of those deaths, so she had brought out her poems and read them. And there they lay, the perfect evidence of Ofra's hate, and of her guilt. Exactly what Varda needed.
"I figured no one would notice the blow from the wrench," Varda went on. "Not after Ofra dove headfirst from a third-floor window. Just like the police attributed the gash on the back of Nahum's head to him slipping in the tub and smacking his head on the edge."
She was smiling. A smile not of evil, but of unvarnished self-satisfaction. She had thought things through. She had been meticulous in her planning and careful in her execution. She had been patient and smart and determined. And she was brimming with a sense of accomplishment.
She made me shiver. She made my stomach turn. But I couldn't help but admire her just a little. I had met my share of murderers, but none had possessed her unique blend of patience, brains, and acting skills.
"And it would have worked," she continued, "if I hadn't made that slip when we met outside Metzudat Ze'ev. When I saw your reaction, when you said you were wrong about everything, I knew I had to act fast, that I couldn't hope to kill Leon and Isser and get away with it. I had to finish it." She smiled ruefully. "I knew from the day we met that you would be trouble. Remember how I told you that if anyone could solve this case, it was you?"
"I thought you meant only Anna's murder."
"From that moment on, I was busy thinking about how I would deal with you. I dreamed about it every night."
"Why didn't you just kill me?" I asked.
The question appeared to surprise her. "Because you didn't deserve to die, of course. I only punish those who deserve it. How did you figure out it was me?"
"You were with Brigitte Polisar when she died. You were in her apartment when the Egyptian Air Force bombed Tel Aviv. She supposedly died when a piece of her roof came down on her head, yet you emerged with nothing but scratches. Either you were very lucky, or you took the opportunity to kill Brigitte and make it look like she died in that air raid."
"Neither of us was hurt badly when the bombing happened," Varda said. "But part of the roof collapsed. I picked up a piece of stone and caved in Brigitte's skull. I knew no one would examine her body closely. It was perfect."
"Did you also kill her husband?"
"Emil?" Varda shook her head. "I had nothing to do with it. Brigitte was the last one I killed. Until Ofra."
"Why did you stop for so long this time?"
She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. A muscle in her jaw flexed and released. When she spoke, it was so softly, I almost missed it. "Because of the baby."
"You didn't know Brigitte was pregnant?"
Her head shot up. "Of course not. What do you take me for? I told you, I only kill those who deserve it. Do you think I'd knowingly hurt an unborn baby? That I'd deprive it of life? When I found out Brigitte was pregnant, it felt like I'd killed my own son. I had to stop after that. I couldn't go on. It was only when you showed up that I decided to start again. I knew if I didn't, I might never get the chance to complete my mission."
I could barely breathe. Ofra Wexler and Leon Zilberman would still be alive if I hadn't taken this case. Or if I had been quicker to solve it.
"Don't feel bad, Adam," Varda said, seeming to read my mind. "It's not your fault. I would have started again eventually, even if you and I had never met. The play was not yet over, you see. The final act had yet to be written. I would not have allowed this tragedy to remain unfinished."
It was odd, how she could kill with such coldness, yet display warmth toward me. If she hadn't been humiliated that night twelve years ago, Varda would probably never have hurt a fly, let alone killed anyone. Were we all just a single trauma away from becoming savage killers?
"When you killed Anna," I said, "you wore a fake beard, didn't you?"
Varda blinked in surprise. "How do you know that?"
"There was a witness. A drunk who lay just outside Trumpeldor Cemetery that night. He said he saw a man exiting the cemetery. He remembered very little about him. The only two things he was sure of was that the man had a beard and that there was something wrong with his walk."
Varda frowned. "I don't have something wrong with my walk."
"You're right, you don't. You have a perfectly normal walk—for a woman. It was only when an acquaintance of mine told me a little about the part you played in Twelfth Night that I figured it out. You played Viola. In Twelfth Night, Viola disguises herself as a man called Cesario. When I heard this, it occurred to me that a woman dressed like a man, with a man's beard, might still retain a feminine gait, and that this might strike a drunken witness as wrong, though he wouldn't be able to say precisely why." Another thing, I thought, that I should have realized much earlier.
Varda looked disappointed. "That was careless of me. I should have made sure I not only looked the part, but walked it, too. Lucky for me that witness was drunk."
"Why did you take Anna's bag?" I asked.
"To confuse the police. To make them think it was a robbery."
"What did you do with it?"
"I tossed it in the river and watched it drift off to sea."
"You didn't open it?"
"Of course not. I wasn't interested in money. I did it for justice."
Neither of us spoke for a time. It appeared that everything had been said. I now knew everything. Too late for it to do much good, but still.