"But you never saw him meet a woman?"
Grossman drained his coffee. He set the glass on the counter, and I motioned for Mizrahi to refill it. Grossman nodded thanks and said, "I never saw him do anything. All I did was drop him at the same spot, the corner of Dizengoff and Gordon, every single time. I live on Gordon Street, close to the beach. Anyway, I would drop Meir off, and he would just stand there on the corner, not moving, waiting until I drove off. Strange, huh?"
I said nothing. It wasn't strange. It was how a man with something to hide would behave.
I turned to Mizrahi. "Was there anyone else that he might have confided in?"
Mizrahi said that he didn't think so.
"Do you think it was another woman?" I asked.
He turned the question over in his mind. "No," he said finally. "What I got from Meir was the sense that he was a devoted family man. A guy who loved his wife."
"But you don't think she knew about his trips to Tel Aviv?" I asked.
He lowered his eyes, tugging gently on his left earlobe. "No. He seemed pretty secretive about it. I guess she didn't know."
"And she shouldn't know about it now," Grossman said. "What's the point, right? The guy is dead and buried. What good would it do for her to know?"
I walked north to Mr. Shitrit's store. The old man had not mentioned anything about Meir leaving work early every two or three weeks, always on a Wednesday. The question was why? Did he know what Meir Abramo was doing in Tel Aviv?
I entered the store, ready to fire off my questions, but had to wait because Mr. Shitrit was serving a customer. The old proprietor was without a cigarette as he fitted his customer with a dark-blue suit jacket. He motioned me to a chair with a finger, but I stepped out onto Jaffa Road, watching people go by on foot or in cars or in wagons, until the customer left, two suits draped on his arm.
By the time I stepped back inside the store, Shitrit had already lit a cigarette and was puffing away.
"Changed your mind about a new suit?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I came back because I have another question for you. Specifically, do you know why Meir Abramo went to Tel Aviv every two weeks or so?"
Shitrit slowly withdrew his cigarette and let out a thick plume of smoke. "I don't know the reason for his trips."
"But you do know he went to Tel Aviv?"
He nodded. "Yes. That's what he said when he told me he had to leave work early. I didn't mind. He was a good man and Wednesday is not a busy day."
"And you didn't ask him what he was doing in Tel Aviv?"
"I did. Meir said he'd rather I didn't know. He also asked me not to tell his wife if I ran into her or if she came over to the store."
"And that's why you didn't tell me about this before?"
"Yes. What difference would it make? Meir killed himself, and all Magda has left of him are the good memories. Should I ruin that by casting doubt on his character?"
I could have been angry, I supposed, but what good would it do? Given what he thought about Meir Abramo's death, it certainly seemed like he did the right thing by withholding the information.
"What do you think he was doing in Tel Aviv?"
"I know what you're thinking—that he had another woman. I asked him about it directly and he told me that wasn't it. He actually looked offended, told me he loved his wife, would never do anything to hurt her. I believed him. Some men can love their wife and still go behind her back. I don't believe Meir was like that."
So what the hell was he going to Tel Aviv for? I thought. And why was he keeping it secret?
I left Shitrit's store and made my way to the bus terminal. I was tempted to go back to Magda, to share with her what I had discovered. But what would be the point? She didn't know what her husband did in Tel Aviv, I was certain of that. Only one thing would happen if she knew of his regular trips: she would suspect that he was having an affair with another woman. It was the immediate assumption. And even if I told her that Mr. Shitrit was certain this was not the case, that would not erase her suspicion.
Telling her would be selfish. It would augment her pain. It might tarnish her memories of her husband. It might shorten her mourning, make her readier for a new lover. But it would not be right.
I boarded the bus to Tel Aviv. As it exited Jerusalem and began its descent toward the coast, I watched the craggy mountainside roll by and let random thoughts flow through my mind. I thought about Yosef Kaplon and Meir Abramo. I thought about the mysterious man who had stalked and killed them. He had patience. He planned things carefully. He had staked out Abramo's apartment. He might have staked out Kaplon's in a similar way. He'd arranged the murder scenes like a theater set. And he had missed very little.
Nearly thirty minutes into the ride, something Magda had said earlier that day came to me. She'd talked about how the killer might strike again and how he had so meticulously carried out his murders. She was half-right, I realized. The killer might indeed claim more victims in the future, but he might have also killed before. It was quite possible that he had faked other suicides, murdered other former camp musicians.
Upon arriving at the central bus terminal in the south of Tel Aviv, I hurried to the first phone I could find. It was close to four o'clock and Reuben Tzanani answered after the third ring.
I told him I wanted him to ask other policemen in Tel Aviv and neighboring cities whether there had been any suicides involving musicians, hobbyists or professionals, since the beginning of the year.
"This may take a while, Adam," he said.
"I know. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
"What's this about? Does this have anything to do with that suicide you were looking into?"
"It might have. I can't explain it right now. It would take too long, and I'm not sure I'd do a good job of it. Could you do me this favor?"
He sighed. "Don't I always?"
"Thanks, I owe you one."
"Call me tomorrow afternoon. I doubt I'll have anything by then, but maybe I'll get lucky."
I thanked him again and hung up. I headed north and wound up in Greta's Café. I had some coffee and played some chess against myself. When night fell, I went home, closed all the windows, got into bed, and closed my eyes.
I dreamed of Auschwitz that night, and in my dream I could hear the music of the camp orchestra. I could see the musicians with their instruments—violins, flutes, trumpets, clarinets—but I could not make out their faces. The music was loud and strident and inharmonious. A discordant blend of screeches and whines.
Then, one by one, the musicians began to fall dead. One had his chest blown open by a bullet, another was suddenly hoisted by a noose around his neck, a third began bleeding profusely from his wrists and fell dead still clutching his instrument, a fourth choked and died trying to push air into his horn.
I yelled inarticulate warnings, and when the last musician dropped, I woke up screaming, a film of sweat covering my face and torso. My room was stifling. I nearly always slept with all my windows closed so the neighbors wouldn't hear me when I screamed in my sleep. I got out of bed, opened all the windows, and went to take a shower. This case was getting to me. I had to finish it soon. I hoped that Reuben would be able to find something that would help me. Because if he didn't, I had no idea how to proceed.
I stayed awake till morning, finishing a Clarence Mulford Western, when I heard the clopping of a horse and the creaking of wagon wheels. It was the ice salesman, and by the time I went downstairs, a queue had formed. I was armed with a scissors-like device with a handle on top and two sharp metal tongs at the bottom. The tongs were widely spaced at their middle before meeting at their tips. I bought a half block of ice—the most my icebox would carry—clamped the tongs on either end of the block and hefted the heavy ice upstairs. Other people carried the ice in burlap sacks strapped over backs or by hand. Either way was messy. I left a trail of dripping water all the way to my kitchen.