Finally, we ran out of mundane things to talk about, and he asked what brought me to his office.
"A murder case."
Reuben's eyebrows shot up. "A murder case? Who's the victim?"
"A young woman. The name is Maryam Jamalka."
"I don't think I ever heard the name," Reuben said. "Was she killed in Tel Aviv?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Her body was discovered on the nineteenth of September. She was stabbed. I understand it was quite brutal."
Reuben's brow furrowed. "That's odd," he said softly. He looked perplexed. I could see why. Tel Aviv did not have many murders, especially brutal ones. A desk policeman like Reuben, one who spent most of his workday in the station, in the hub of police operations, should have heard something about it.
"Are you sure about this, Adam?"
"Unless my client was lying to me, which I don't think he was. Or unless he's a lunatic, which I don't think he is, either. Yes, I'm sure."
"Okay. I can ask around." He wrote down Maryam Jamalka's name and the date on which her body was discovered on a scrap of paper. "What do you need to know?"
"Everything," I said. "The best thing would be to see the investigation report or talk to the detective in charge. His name is Yossi Talmon. Do you know him?"
Reuben nodded. "Not closely. He has a solid reputation, though. Long years of experience, a good investigator. I'll talk to him and see if he's willing to share any information. But if this is an open case, he may not be willing to share much. Especially if your client is a possible suspect. Is he?"
I shook my head slowly. "I doubt it. Guilty men generally don't hire private detectives to investigate the murders they committed."
"Good point. Well, I'll give it a try, Adam, and hope for the best. I should have an answer by tomorrow. Call me at noon or so?"
"I will. Thank you," I said.
We talked for a few minutes more, and he invited me over for the Sabbath meal that Friday evening. I begged off, and he nodded as if expecting it. Which he was justified in doing, as he often invited me, and I nearly always declined.
I exited the police station shortly before five thirty and headed north on Allenby. A faint easterly breeze was blowing, and the air held a pleasant chill. I bought an orange-flavored soda from a street vendor and continued walking till I got to Magen David Square. I had a few hours to burn, so I purchased a bunch of newspapers, sat at a bench, and read them through.
In the United Nations Security Council, Egypt was promoting a proposal for the demilitarization of Jerusalem. In Haifa, during a brawl in a café, an Arab pulled out a gun and shot a soldier in the leg. The Arab was still at large. The Kingdom of Transjordan was said to look favorably on the possibility of cooperating with Israel on various development projects in the Jordan Valley. Two hundred and forty Romanian Jews were stuck in the port of Constanta, awaiting approval from the Romanian government to board a ship that would take them to Israel. The Jews were said to be without food and shelter. Following the USSR, Poland had recognized the German Democratic Republic. In Guatemala, over a thousand people died due to heavy rains and flooding.
I left the newspapers on the bench and went home to get ready for what I had to do later that night.
5
I lived on Hamaccabi Street, in a third-floor, one-bedroom apartment. It was simply and functionally furnished. I had a bed, a nightstand topped by a lamp, a dining table, a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs, and a closet. The walls were blank, no pictures, paintings, or ornamentation of any kind. The kitchen was small and the bathroom even smaller. There was a balcony that could fit two people, if they were trim.
Upon entering my apartment, I removed my jacket, threw it on the dining table, and left my shoes by the door. I flicked on the light and drew all the shutters closed across the window and sliding door to the balcony.
In the closet, beneath a false bottom I had constructed for the purpose, I had hidden a box. It was a simple box made of oak, with a clasp at its center. I scratched the number tattooed on my forearm, then took out the box, carried it with me to my bed, and lifted the lid.
Inside the box I had stashed several souvenirs of the time I had spent in Germany between the day I was liberated by American soldiers at Buchenwald and September 1947, when I came to Tel Aviv. During that time, I had hunted down and executed a number of Nazi officers and officials, men who were part of the murder machine that had claimed the lives of my mother and sisters, of my wife and daughters, and of so many others.
Among the mementos I kept in the box was a Luger pistol. I had taken it from an SS officer I'd killed in Hamburg. I also had two magazines for the pistol and a number of loose shells. I kept the pistol clean and loaded at all times, ready for use. Also in the box was a pearl-handled switchblade hunting knife. The knife had been taken from another officer I'd killed, this one in Munich, and had a swastika stamped near the bottom of its handle.
I couldn't say why I kept this particular knife or the Luger pistol. It wasn't merely for protection. I could have found replacements for either of them. In fact, having the knife, marked as it was by the symbol of the Third Reich, might have exposed me to some inconvenient questions. But I liked having these two items, along with my other souvenirs. I liked having them near. I liked looking at them. I liked touching them. And, if the occasion merited it, I liked using them as well.
I removed the knife and set it on the bed beside me. I left the other items where they lay and returned the box to its hiding place in the closet. I made myself some dinner—vegetables, bread, a little sausage, two cups of coffee. I rinsed the dishes, dried them, and returned them to the cupboard above the sink where I kept the three plates and four glasses I owned. I spent the next two hours reading a Western with a rough-faced cowboy on the cover. Then I put my jacket back on, slipped the knife in the right-hand pocket, and left the apartment.
On the street, I paused to get a cigarette going. I saw people standing on their balconies, leaning on railings, talking or smoking or just enjoying the cool night air. A few waved to me or nodded a silent greeting. I nodded back as I made my way to the corner and from there to the bus station on King George Street. I waited for ten minutes then got on a half-full bus with a racketing engine. At the front of the bus, an old woman sat with a red ball of wool, knitting at a furious pace. I wondered how she could make out what she was doing with the scant light offered by the streetlights and the passing illumination from cafés and apartments. The bus trundled its way south, disgorging people as it went. I got off near the eastern tip of Shalma Road a little before ten and started west.
I walked along Shalma Road all the way to Hashaon Square, about one hundred meters east of the coastline. In the middle of the square stood a clock tower that had been built to celebrate the reign of an Ottoman sultan. Now the sultans were gone, along with the empire they once ruled, but the clock at the tower's tip still marked the time.
I took a left to Yefet Street and followed it south. Yefet Street, and some of the narrow streets that branched from it, changed character at nightfall. During the day, they were home to small shops and assorted merchants. At night, after the shopkeepers had locked their storefronts and gone home, a variety of less savory institutions opened for business. Among them were nightclubs in which one could dance and drink till the early hours, gambling joints, and whorehouses. It was a poor neighborhood, filled with people who did not have much and some that had close to nothing. And it was rife with crime, which was why I had brought the knife along.
I stepped into a nightclub from which soft undulating music emanated. The inside was dark and hazy, filled with pungent cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume. The ceiling was high, and pipes ran along it every which way. A bar stretched along the left wall, and two dozen or so one-legged tables were scattered about the rest of the space. At the far end stood a small stage for musicians. It was a weeknight, but half the tables were occupied, and a band was playing. The band consisted of a mandolin player, a violinist, a darbuka percussionist, and a singer. The musicians looked Moroccan, or perhaps Egyptian Jews, and each was highly proficient in his instrument. The singer had dark skin like bitter chocolate and the tall, scrawny build of a lamppost.