"You have experience with homicide?" I asked, and regretted it when Regev stiffened.
"I've been on the force for two years," he said, avoiding my question. Then he looked straight at me. "I'm rather busy tonight. Reuben told you that I'm a busy man, right?"
"Yes, he did. I know how it works."
"I hope you do."
"Count on it. I told you I was a policeman too."
"Yes. I know. In Hungary." He looked around, making sure no one was close enough to hear. He lowered his head closer to me and said, "So, what's it worth to you?"
I gestured at his nearly empty glass. "Let's start by me ordering another beer for you. The rest depends on the information you give me."
He wasn't satisfied with my answer and thought about getting up and leaving. I put a reassuring smile on my face and gave him a wink. "It will be all right, Benny. Let's have some beer, maybe some food if you feel like it. I'll make it worth your while if you make it worth mine."
We got our beers, and Regev ordered himself an omelet. It came with bread on the side, and he got into the food pretty quickly. I wasn't very hungry and didn't feel like eating with him, so I stuck to my beer. He didn't remark about my not ordering anything. Some people didn't mind eating alone when they had company.
"The day you saw the body, how did that come about?"
"The old hag, she called us. She has a neighbor with a phone. I don't know where she called from, but it wasn't from her building. I was at the station at the time and my sergeant told me to check it out."
"You alone?"
"Yeah," he said, his mouth half full. "The old hag was pretty adamant about it being a suicide. We're low on manpower as it is, so I was told to take a quick peek inside, determine whether she was right. If I saw anything suspicious, I was to call for more people, detectives and such."
"And you didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Call for detectives."
"I didn't see anything suspicious, because there wasn't anything suspicious to see. I got the key from the old lady—she was wringing her hands together, white as bleach, shaking her wrinkled head so much I thought it would fall off her scrawny neck—and went upstairs. I entered the apartment, and there he was. Clearly suicide."
Regev got up, hitched his belt, and said he had to go to the bathroom. "Get me another beer, okay?"
I nodded and waited for him to come back.
When he sat back down, he said, "And that was that. Pretty clear to me. Anything more? I need to get going soon."
"Just a few more questions," I said. "Won't take long. You wrote that the razor was right beside the body."
"Yes, it was right next to his hand."
"Left hand or right hand?" I asked.
"What difference does it make?" Regev said. Either I or the alcohol was making him irritated. Probably both.
"In a criminal investigation such a thing might matter."
"Well, this isn't a criminal investigation, is it? So who gives a damn what hand it was?"
"Humor me," I said. "Which was it?"
He sighed and closed his eyes, scrunching up his face.
"Right. It was by his right hand."
"Sure?"
"Yes, dammit. Positive. He was dead, lying on a thin rug, blood all around him, razor by his right hand. Happy?" He drained his beer and signaled for another.
"I wonder why he didn't use the bed," I said, more to myself than to Regev. "Seems a more comfortable place to die."
"Who the hell can tell?" Regev said. "Guy was obviously nuts, wouldn't kill himself if he weren't."
Mrs. Greenberg would probably agree with you, I thought, but said nothing.
He glanced at my arm through bleary eyes. I was sitting to his left, so he was looking at my right forearm.
He said, "You know how it is with those guys. They're nuts, loons. They got cause to be, sure. They went through some hard times. It screwed up their heads. They never get whole again. Some scream in their sleep, I hear. Some talk to themselves. Some end up in hospitals for cuckoos." His new beer got there and he took a slurp. "And they're cowards. They're not like us. Sure, we're all Jews, but we're still not the same. I heard you were in the war. Got wounded and all. They're not like that. Most of them never put up a struggle. Just went to their deaths like sheep. Any wonder some of them end up killing themselves? They're not used to fighting when things get rough. They give up." He shrugged. "Cowards."
If he hadn't been so drunk, or so stupid, or both, he would have remembered to check my left forearm instead of my right. That was where we got stamped with the number. Had he done so, maybe he wouldn't have said what he did. At some point, I had lowered my hands from the bar to my lap. I found them there, bunched into fists so hard that my knuckles shone white like lamplight. If we hadn't been in a public place with people all around us, I would have punched him. Being a policeman wouldn't have helped him. I would have put him in a hospital, and some lucky dentist would have made a good deal of money on reconstruction work for Benny Regev's shattered teeth.
Twice that day we'd been called crazy. Not just Yosef Kaplon, but all of us who had been in the camps, all of us who had made it out alive. Called crazy by people who had no idea what we'd gone through, who would have crumpled down into nothing if, just for one day, they'd been there, where we spent months or years. It was insulting and enraging, but I could handle it. Maybe there was even something to it. I'd have to think about it. But being called a coward by Benny Regev, this disgusting pig in a uniform, that couldn't go unanswered. I ground my teeth, struggling to get my rage under control, and tried to make my voice calm.
It came out innocent, like I was making conversation.
"Want another beer?" I said.
He belched. "No. I'm done. Let's wrap this up, okay. You said you'd make it worth my while. Give me the money and let's go home."
"About the money, I have one more question."
"What?"
"You noted in the report that money was found in Yosef Kaplon's pocket and on his nightstand. It helped to eliminate the possibility of robbery. But the amount of money you found was very small. I remember noting it down when I read the report. It seemed strange to me then. How little there was."
He just looked at me, frowning.
"You see," I said, "I saw Yosef Kaplon on the night of the twenty-third. He performed at a café with his violin, and he played so well people lined up after the show and gave him money. Slipped bills into his hand when they shook it. I couldn't tell you how much he got, but it was a good enough sum. Later, he and I sat and drank for a while. Telling stories, stories about what it was like in Auschwitz." I raised my left forearm, held it out so it was clearly lit, and pointed a finger at the number tattooed on it. "Because you see, Benny, I was there. I was there. And I got to tell you something: There was a lot of fear in that camp, but not a trace of cowardice. Not among those who died and certainly not among those who lived."
I paused for a moment, looking at him with as much contempt as I could muster. I went on, "But I digress. I was talking about the money. You see, since Yosef Kaplon died the same night I sat drinking with him, or early the next morning, he wouldn't have had the time to spend the money he got after his show. It would have been in his pocket or in his apartment. If someone had killed him for it, none of it would have been left. But someone was trying to be smart. Someone saw the body, went through his pockets, and took most of the money, but not all of it. It could have been old Mrs. Greenberg, but she's not the type. She's closed-minded and cheap as hell, and she would have taken his money had someone handed it to her, but she wouldn't have reached into his pocket and taken the money herself. She wouldn't have wanted to get her hands bloody. Besides, she wouldn't have thought of the robbery angle. It had to be someone else. Someone like you."