"Will he do it?"
"I hope not, but I don't know. He won't if he uses his brain, which he usually does."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because if you outlaw Herut, you turn it into an underground organization with Begin as its leader. Like I told you before, Begin is perfect for such a role. He'll be far more dangerous to Ben-Gurion and the country than if he remains a regular politician with a modicum of public support."
I nodded. Birnbaum's logic made sense, though I still worried. "I hope you're right about Ben-Gurion, Shmuel. I really do."
"I think he'll do the smart thing. Why don't you try to follow his example from now on, eh?"
I got out and closed the door without replying and waited as Birnbaum started the car and drove off. I searched my pockets for my cigarettes before remembering that they'd been pilfered by a cop with sticky fingers and a foot made of steel. I looked around for a kiosk or a store, but there was none. I considered going around the corner but decided it would be best to meet my savior and see what he wanted of me as quickly as possible.
The building had a large metal door. Heaving it open, I was hit by the ear-thumping rumble of machinery. I stepped over the threshold and into the smell of leather, oil, and cloth. Past a short vestibule was a vast hall with two rows of support columns dividing the space into roughly equal thirds. About thirty people worked there. Some were seated at sewing machines, others toiled with needle and thread, and others still were affixing buckles and zippers and testing their handiwork. They were making handbags, suitcases, valises, wallets, and other items in that vein. Along one wall were samples of finished products, all neatly arranged on tables or hanging on pegs. I was no expert, but they looked like quality products.
A thickset woman was walking among the employees, looking very much in charge. I told her Mr. Gafni was expecting me. She pointed to a staircase. "Second door on the left."
I followed her instructions, the aches and pains of yesterday's battle flaring with each step I ascended, and soon found myself before a small desk occupied by an attractive blonde secretary, somewhere in her mid-thirties. I gave her my name and purpose, and she told me to wait while she inquired whether Mr. Gafni wished to see me now or at all.
She went through a door into what I presumed was Gafni's office and returned less than a minute later with the good news: Mr. Gafni had decided to grant me an audience. I was to go right in. She did not offer me coffee or anything else. Perhaps she was busy.
I entered an office with large windows overlooking the production floor below. The windowpanes must have been thick because the noise of machinery was but a murmur. Behind a desk stood a man wearing a well-fitting gray suit and a conservative dark tie. A white handkerchief peeked neatly from his breast pocket. Mr. Gafni, I presumed.
He was on the short side and carried some extra weight. It showed in his face, which was as round as a ball, and on the underside of his chin, which drooped like a sagging floor. A small rectangular mustache did little to offset the overall softness of his features, but based on what Birnbaum had told me about him, I imagined that softness belied a sturdier core. His hair had deserted the front half of his scalp. The bare skin gleamed pink. The hair that remained was taupe and short. Deep lines gouged his forehead, lending him an air of distinguished thoughtfulness. I pegged his age at fifty, but I might have been off by three or four years either way.
He surveyed me with a pair of small eyes the color of bitter chocolate. I could tell I was making a lousy impression. Not that this was any surprise. My clothes were streaked with dirt. The collar of my shirt was torn. I hadn't shaved since yesterday morning. And based on how poorly I'd slept in recent weeks, and last night in particular, I must have looked haggard. Most likely, he was regretting his call to the deputy commissioner and wondering whether Birnbaum had lost his mind. Could the slovenly creature before him really be the resourceful detective Birnbaum had assured him I was? The role of the deranged beater of policemen suited me better.
It occurred to me that it might be worthwhile to say something to improve my negative image. Perhaps thank him for talking to the deputy commissioner? But I feared that would only make things worse.
Instead, I said, "I'm sorry about your daughter, Mr. Gafni."
His expression changed abruptly. Before, it had been critical and judgmental. Now, he looked as though he'd been gut punched. It lasted but an instant, though. Then he was eying me with undisguised suspicion.
"How do you know about my daughter?" He had a faint Eastern European accent. Russian or Lithuanian, but he'd left there a good while ago, maybe in childhood.
"I asked Shmuel Birnbaum why you wanted to see me. He speculated that it might have something to do with your daughter. He said she had passed away but wouldn't give me any details."
Gafni nodded and ran a hand over his mouth. He appeared to be trying to hold his emotions in check. Though whether it was sadness over his daughter or irritation at Birnbaum for informing me of her death, I couldn't say. He gestured to one of two chairs that stood before his desk. "Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Lapid."
It appeared that I had passed the audition, or at least the initial part.
"Would you care for something to drink?"
I said coffee would be nice, and he called to the secretary and told her to fetch some. While we waited, both of us seated, he continued to appraise me, and it was clear he didn't know what to make of me. He didn't say one word until the secretary arrived with my coffee and left, shutting the door behind her at Gafni's request.
Gafni did not have coffee himself. I took a few sips from my cup, enjoying the warmth that spread around my midsection. The coffee wasn't real; real coffee was hard to come by in Israel and cost a pretty penny. This was the chicory variety the government rationed out. It was a poor substitute for the real thing, even when you laced it with sugar, which was also rationed, and this particular cup was no exception. If Gafni was as wealthy as Birnbaum had said, he likely possessed the real thing, unless he was one of the virtuous few who abstained from shopping on the black market. Maybe he didn't wish to waste any of the good stuff on me.
I set my cup on the desk and leaned back in my chair. "Is there anything you'd like to ask me, Mr. Gafni?"
His eyebrows twitched. "Ask you?"
"You're wondering if you can trust me. I don't blame you. Having to get a man out of jail before you even met him does not inspire confidence."
A small smile spread across his mouth. "Are you always this direct, Mr. Lapid?"
"It gets me where I'm going faster. Here's the situation as I see it: You have a certain problem, and you wish to employ a private detective to solve it for you. You don't know any detectives yourself, so you asked Birnbaum for a referral. He's written extensively about crime, so you figured he would know someone. He recommended me. So far, so good, but then you learned that I'd been arrested for beating a cop so hard he had to go to the hospital. Birnbaum persuaded you to pull some strings to get me out, and you did, which tells me your problem is painful, personal, and urgent. Otherwise, you would have searched for another detective, one who wasn't facing serious charges. How am I doing so far?"
"Go on," Gafni said, which I took to mean I was right on the money.
"Still, you can't help but worry that I'm not the right man for the job. Like I said, I don't blame you. So I thought maybe you'd like to ask me some questions that might ease your mind. But before you do, I'd like to tell you a few things: I did not put that cop in the hospital. Another demonstrator did that. But I did take part in the demonstration yesterday in Jerusalem, and I did fight with cops outside the Knesset. I'm not proud of the latter, but I am of the former. I think it's wrong for Israel to negotiate with Germany. I think it would be wrong to take money from it. I suppose you feel differently."