He was faster that I'd expected. He twisted away, and my fist passed a few inches from his ear. He slashed at me and I felt a tearing pain across my left forearm. He slashed at me again, but I lurched backward and the blade swept clear of my abdomen.
He came at me again, and this time I took the initiative. I feigned a move to the left. He fell for it. He tried to correct himself and jabbed at me, but I easily sidestepped his thrust. He was utterly exposed, and I landed an uppercut right under his jaw, where his throat connected with his head. His head snapped back, his eyes rolled up in their sockets, and his knees buckled. I caught him before he hit the floor and dragged him behind his desk. He wasn't heavy, and I hardly broke a sweat plunking him into his chair.
He was out, head lolling, chin to chest. I moved back in front of the desk and picked up the letter opener from where it had dropped on the floor. There was some of my blood on the blade. I wiped it off and slid the letter opener back into its sheath on the desk. I examined the sleeve of my jacket. The tear in my arm was painful, and it had stained the jacket, but it didn't drip. I searched the carpet for traces of my blood. I saw none.
I picked up his gun and loaded all five chambers. I wiped the gun clean of any fingerprints and went over any surface I might have touched. I picked up the money envelope and put it in my jacket pocket. I went to his file cabinet and riffled through the files until I found a slim one bearing my name. I took out the file but didn't open it. I set it on the desk. Feinstein was still out in his chair. I went to him, took his good hand, curled his forefinger round the trigger, and placed the muzzle directly under his jaw. Then I pressed his finger to the trigger. The bullet erased any mark my fist might have left on his jaw and took the back of his head off with it.
The gunshot was very loud and left an echo in my ears. The smell of gunpowder clogged my nostrils. It was quickly replaced by the scent of freshly spilled blood. I released my grip on his hand and the gun tumbled to the floor at his feet. I ran my eyes quickly over the office. Blood had spattered the wall behind the desk. More of it was dripping down his neck, soaking his shirt. I picked up my file and, with hurried steps, left the office, closing the door behind me. I exited the building through the back door, the one that led to a narrow backyard. It was dark, the moon thin and feeble. A few dogs were barking, excited by the gunfire. I climbed a short fence to another yard, circled another building, and then I was strolling down Dizengoff Street as if nothing had happened.
Back in my apartment, I dumped the unopened file in the kitchen sink and put it to flame. I watched the paper curl and blacken. When it was finally consumed, I turned on the faucet and washed the charred remains into the drain. Then I went to bed and slept the night through.
17
We sat in her living room the next day and I told her part of the story. Outside, the hesitant first rain of autumn spattered the roof and balcony. The rain had kicked up the dirt from the street, and the air smelled musty.
I told Magda Abramo about her husband's trips to Tel Aviv, that he'd been seeing a psychiatrist, trying to better deal with his demons. She cried a bit, shaking her head in sadness and futile denial.
"That was where he ran into Kaplon," I said, "during one of his trips to Tel Aviv."
The psychiatrist, I explained, had been driven mad by his experience in Auschwitz. He viewed those who played in camp orchestras as collaborators. That was why he targeted them. I told her about Kalman Zinger, explained how Feinstein had staked out their apartment from the hotel across the street, and described how he had baited Yosef Kaplon in Tel Aviv.
I told her a bit about how I had worked the case, from the initial examination of Kaplon's apparent suicide through meeting her to finally deducing Feinstein's guilt. There were holes in my narrative, but Magda was too consumed with grief to notice them. I was glad. I didn't want her to know everything. Especially not about my meeting with Feinstein regarding an assassination mission to Germany. I recalled how, in our previous meeting, Magda had told me that she was tired of death. I could imagine what her reaction would be if she knew how much of it I had dispensed over the years and that I longed to do so again.
"I confronted him in his office," I said, "and threatened to go to the police. He had a gun in a desk drawer and he shot himself."
She looked at me, horrified.
"Perhaps it is for the best," I said. "A trial might have become an ordeal for you."
She went to the bathroom to wash her face. I sat, knowing that the lies I told meant that any future I might have imagined for her and me was now impossible.
She returned and asked me whether I had told the police about what happened.
I shook my head. "I'd prefer to let it be deemed a suicide. This way his wife and son are spared the humiliation of having a murderer in their family."
Magda agreed that it would be for the best.
I asked her what she planned to do next.
"I'm leaving here in two days," she said. "My cousin has arranged for David and me to stay at her kibbutz for the time being. It would be good to get away from this apartment. It feels empty and hollow without Meir."
I said I understood how she felt.
She thanked me for the work I'd done.
I said it was nothing. It was what I do.
She said she was happy that the killer had been stopped. Maybe it would make it easier for her to move on.
I could have told her that she was wrong about that, that what would make it easier for her was David, her son.
Who at that moment began crying. We both rose.
"I should get going," I said.
"Oh." She seemed a bit surprised. "Here, let me write my new address for you. Perhaps you will write."
I took the paper with the address. She went to attend to David. Before I left, I went to the baby stroller. A bag with baby stuff—diapers, clothes, a wooden toy—hung from its handlebar. I removed an envelope from my pocket and placed it in the bag, between two diapers. The envelope contained two thousand dollars. Then I left the apartment and made my way to the bus terminal.
The two thousand dollars had come from the money I had taken from Feinstein's office the day I shot him. There had been five thousand dollars in total. Two thousand I had left for Magda. Another two thousand I stuck in the mailbox of Mrs. Zinger in Ramat Gan. A thousand I kept for myself.
Two days later, shortly before noon, an agitated Yitzhak appeared at Greta's, interrupting my solitary game of chess. He tossed a copy of that day's Ma'ariv on the table.
"Have you seen this?"
For once there wasn't a hint of a smile on his youthful face. He was practically scowling.
I made a show of scanning the paper. "What am I looking for?"
He yanked the paper from my hands, flipped it over, and jabbed at a small report on the bottom of an inner page. I took the paper from him and read the headline: Prominent Medical Doctor Commits Suicide in His Office.
The report went on to state that Dr. Felix Feinstein was found dead in his Tel Aviv office yesterday morning. According to the police, Dr. Feinstein had shot himself to death with a revolver. The revolver was found next to his dead body. There was no sign of forced entry, and nothing had been taken. Feinstein left behind a wife and small son. Details of the funeral were not included in the report, at the request of the family.
I made my eyes go wide and lowered the paper, blowing out air from my lips.
"My God," I said.
"Yes. Can you believe it?" Yitzhak said. "Here we are, days before we're supposed to head back to Germany, and our sponsor kills himself. Does this make sense to you?"