The Literary Murder

by Batya Gur

  “What’s not clear?” said Arieyh Levy with contempt. “You said yourself that Dudai had something on Tirosh.”

  “Yes, but what was that something?” said Balilty.

  “So how do you see it?” asked Eli Bahar, his face tense. “You think he really went into the basement and fixed the tanks? And if he hadn’t been murdered, how was he going to get away with it? What was he thinking of? What was so clever about it?”

  “There are some things it’s impossible to explain,” said Michael. “I can’t tell you what he was thinking, but he must have been sure his plan was the height of cleverness. Every murderer thinks so.”

  “No,” insisted Eli, “I mean something else: If he’d asked them to send the cylinders to the main post office, not to the university, and given some fictitious name, there would have been less chance of getting caught. Why did he need all that business with the university post office and Klein’s mailbox—that’s what I don’t understand. It’s as if he wanted us to find out.”

  Nobody said anything for a minute. “Maybe he was trying to incriminate Klein,” remarked Avidan at last, turning his eyes to Ariyeh Levy.

  Levy sighed and looked at Michael, who paused for a few seconds before remarking: “I don’t know what he would have said if he had lived, but Columbia University in New York says that Klein was teaching there until the last minute and he never missed a day’s work, so at least we can be confident that he didn’t kill Dudai.”

  “Not by himself, at any rate. Maybe he had a partner, maybe Klein and Tirosh together . . . ,” began Balilty, but nobody took any notice of him.

  “There’s no chance of finding the empty cylinders, I suppose?” asked Tzilla.

  Alfandari shook his head. “After three weeks? Have a heart,” he said in a gloomy voice, and Michael looked at him. “Not that we didn’t check the garbage bins, and the municipal dump too, but it was hopeless from the start,” continued Alfandari. “We looked everywhere—inside his house, in the toolshed in the yard, at the university, everywhere. Zero.”

  “Maybe Klein and Tirosh did do it together,” repeated Balilty, and laughed. “Maybe Dudai had something on both of them.”

  “That’s enough speculation,” said Ariyeh Levy sullenly. “Let’s hope we’ll have more to go on after Ohayon comes back. There are a lot of unanswered questions. We still don’t know who killed Tirosh—that’s something else the head of the SIT hasn’t explained yet—but everyone works at his own pace. . . .”

  “We have to talk to the Cinematheque people again, to double check Tuvia Shai’s alibi,” said Eli Bahar. “I’ll go there again today; I want to talk to the projectionist. He’s been on army reserve duty all week, and I still haven’t managed to get hold of him. I don’t know any of the types who go there—and on Friday afternoon too.”

  “All kinds of culture freaks go there; it’s a left-wing hangout,” muttered Ariyeh Levy.

  “We can’t very well advertise in the paper that we want to talk to people who were there,” said Tzilla, giving Eli an encouraging look.

  Very hesitantly, Michael said: “From what Klein said, it seems that the poems are connected to the murder.”

  “The poems!” shouted Ariyeh Levy, and stood up abruptly. “Maybe it really is time you took a break and got your head sorted out. I ask you—the poems!”

  Nobody reacted, but a rare expression of concentrated thought appeared on Balilty’s face.

  When Michael returned to his office after the team meeting, Eli Bahar was waiting. He had with him a thick brown envelope and a green plastic wallet. “The flight leaves at eight in the morning, and they’re seven hours behind us. So you’ll get there in the morning and save a day. Here’s the ticket”—he handed him the plastic wallet—“and your passport’s ready. Shatz will be waiting for you at Kennedy Airport. Don’t forget your passport,” and he removed it from the brown envelope. “There’s money here too, and they told me to remind you to bring back receipts for all your expenses and not to forget to confirm your return flight, in exactly one week. Why are you laughing?”

  “Maybe it’s the heat and the exhaustion, but you’re talking to me like a mother hen. You’ve become just like your wife, in no time at all.” Eli Bahar protested in embarrassment: “I lived in New York for two years and you’ve never been there, and believe me, you’re in for a shock, landing at JFK. But I didn’t mean to . . . ”

  “No, actually I think it’s nice,” Michael reassured him, “but I suppose I haven’t really taken it in yet, the fact that I’m taking off tomorrow and Yuval’s still on that hike. He’s coming back tomorrow. If you don’t mind, maybe you could get in touch with him and tell him about the trip, and also that I’ll call him from there.”

  “No problem,” Eli replied. “We’ll look after him. Anything else?”

  “Keep at them while I’m away; keep at Klein too. And don’t get sloppy about the SIT meetings, and see that Tzilla types up the surveillance reports at the end of every day, so I can see them when I get back. And if anything comes up, call me. And tell Tzilla to get Racheli, the secretary, to sign a statement. And ask Klein again, just to be on the safe side, if he ordered the gas, if he knows anything about it. Try to rattle him a bit.”

  “No problem,” said Eli Bahar when he had finished writing everything down with the childlike seriousness so familiar to Michael, in the handwriting that always touched his heart.

  “You should try to get some sleep before the flight. It’s already ten o’clock, and you have to be at the airport at six in the morning; you haven’t got too many hours left. And if you wait for an answer from Forensics about the signature at the post office, you won’t have time to sleep,” said Eli in embarrassment, and he blinked his eyes as if in anticipation of a rebuke.

  In fact, Michael wouldn’t sleep that night. The handwriting expert had explained in detail that the vague scribble before them could have been forged by Tirosh. He had pointed to the letter K and said: “I don’t think Klein would have written it like that, even to disguise his handwriting. It’s impossible. He’s left-handed in the first place, and his handwriting possesses certain special features. On the other hand, though I wouldn’t be prepared to swear to it in court, it could very well be Tirosh’s writing.”

  Eli Bahar drove Michael home and, despite his protests, insisted on returning to take him to the airport in the morning.

  At 2:00 A.M., after packing a small suitcase and realizing that sleep was out of the question, Michael spread out minutes of all the Literature Department meetings of the past year on the kitchen table. At five in the morning, Eli Bahar found him shaved and ready. His eyes were red, but he had a new understanding of the relations among the department faculty members. He had noted nuances and undercurrents that hitherto escaped him, and reflectively, he summed up his conclusions to Eli Bahar on the way from Jerusalem to Ben-Gurion Airport. Eli listened in silence.

  “Very interesting things, minutes. And it’s interesting, too, how after you know the people and understand what they’re talking about, you can imagine the whole situation, picture the individual attitudes. You can learn a tremendous amount from them. For instance, you read a discussion that’s ostensibly about whether the students should be examined at the end of the year in a course called Basic Concepts or whether the exercises they’ve handed in during the year are enough to evaluate them. I read the minutes of an entire meeting devoted to this subject. And what I learned from them, for example, was Tirosh’s dominance, his habit of insulting the other speakers. Or the tension between Zellermaier and Dita Fuchs. Dita Fuchs says something, and Zellermaier always contradicts her sharply. And Kalitzky invariably chimes in to defend Fuchs with grotesque chivalry. The weirdest things.” Eli concentrated on driving. Michael looked at him and reflected on the delicacy of his profile, the slight, classical curve of his nose, the long lashes, things he had scarcely noticed before.

  “You understand,” said Michael as they got out of the car near the glass doors of the a
irport, “Tuvia Shai supported every proposal Tirosh made this year, even the provocative ones. But at the last meeting he didn’t say a word, according to the minutes, not one single word, and on the vote they took about changing the structure of the department and holding some workshop, he abstained.”

  Eli Bahar did not react.

  “You don’t understand,” said Michael, taking hold of his arm. “What I’m trying to say is that Tuvia Shai’s behaving as if the world doesn’t exist, has nothing to do with mourning for Tirosh. There isn’t a single department meeting where he doesn’t appear in the meeting’s minutes at least once, and always in support of Tirosh. In the last meeting’s minutes he’s mentioned as being present, but not as saying anything, not one word. And that meeting took place before anyone was murdered. Tsippi Lev-Ari took the minutes, and I checked with the other minutes she recorded, and although she looks sloppy, her minutes seem to be full and accurate.”

  A twinkle appeared in Eli Bahar’s green eyes, and finally he said: “Maybe he had a headache at the last meeting?”

  Michael fell silent. He had the feeling that they had exchanged roles during the last few hours, that Eli Bahar had stepped into his shoes and the pattern of their relationship had been turned upside down. Eli noticed Michael’s reflective gaze and apologized: “It’s just that I’m astonished at your indifference. A guy’s flying to New York for the first time in his life, and he’s got nothing to say about it?”

  “Who’s going to be in New York?” muttered Michael. “I’m in the middle of a case—have I got time for sightseeing in New York?”

  “But still,” said Eli, “but still.”

  The board showed a change in the departure time, the flight to New York having been advanced fifteen minutes. The terminal was hot and humid despite the air-conditioning. For the first time, Michael looked around him and took in the typical sights: three young girls with their parents, who were checking their passports every minute. An ultra-Orthodox family with a large brood of children, all of them holding on to the hem of their father’s black coat, the father’s face hidden by his broad-brimmed black hat; his tired-looking wife, her belly sticking out and a baby in her arms, endlessly fiddling with the luggage—the stereotype of a Mea Shearim family. Students with heavy backpacks beside them; the queue in front of the luggage check; the nervous murmurs of the people surrounding him, the shouts of the porters, and the silence on the upper floor; the smell of the fresh coffee he and Eli sat drinking silently in a corner of the big entrance hall as they watched people, carrying plastic bags from the duty-free shops, go through the security check. The repeated blare of the loudspeaker, announcing departures and arrivals.

  “Actually, like a lot of people, I really like airports,” declared Michael. “The smell and the noise and the feeling that you’re already in another country. Every airport has a different smell, just as every country has a different smell.”

  “I envy you, getting out of here for a while, especially to New York. I’d give a lot to spend a week in New York now,” said Eli wistfully.

  “Even on a case?” asked Michael.

  “Even on a case. I wouldn’t care. You know how many years it’s going to be before I’ll be able to afford a trip abroad?”

  “Nira’s father, my ex-father-in-law, had an old Polish saying: ‘A horse crosses the ocean and remains a horse.’”

  Eli smiled. “I know you claim that all the people in the world are basically the same, but we’ll see what you say after New York.”

  18

  He woke up when the pilot announced in Hebrew and English that they were circling Kennedy Airport, awaiting permission to land.

  It was impossible to see anything because of the heavy smog. Michael touched his cheek and felt the stubble, then saw the long line in front of the toilets and decided that it was too late to shave.

  He thought of the bloated face and cold gray eyes of Shatz, who had been head of the Investigations and Crime Fighting Division during Michael’s first years on the force. His ambition and his greed had been legendary. Even Balilty, Michael remembered, used to complain about his crudeness, his brutal attitude toward his colleagues. Shorer had called him “the corpse climber.” Michael thought of Balilty’s remark at the end of the last team meeting: “Don’t give Shatz my regards. And take my advice, don’t buy anything from him. He’s got a whole sideline in electrical appliances. Anyone who meets him in New York comes back with all the latest gadgets. And be careful not to go to a nightclub with him,” he said with a sardonic smile. “He might corrupt you. . . .”

  The thought of Shatz pushed the dream of Maya aside. He couldn’t remember the details of the dream, but the sense of oppression did not leave him for a long time after they landed. Before falling asleep in the plane, he had glanced at the young woman sitting next to him. She had fair hair, and he could smell the faint scent of Nina Ricci’s L’air du Temps, a perfume Tzilla often used. No, she didn’t look at all like Maya.

  He thought about the period after his divorce. Every flight had been a romantic adventure then. Leaving the country was always connected in his mind with being with a woman, any woman, without making any fateful commitments. But ever since his last meeting with Maya, he couldn’t even think of a woman without feeling oppressed. During the day, when he was working, thoughts of her nagged him like a headache, a dull, constant pain. At night, in bed, he let the thoughts overwhelm him. Then he would surrender himself to the images and return in his memory to her touch and her voice and the smell of her skin, the sound of her laugh. Again he would hear things she had said, funny things or infuriating things or words of love. He had never taken a vacation with her, he had never traveled to another country with her. In fact, he thought, when he sensed the interest of the woman sitting next to him, he had never spent more than twenty-four hours at a time with her. And she had hardly ever spent the whole night with him either. She almost always had to rush home after a few hours.

  It was this trip that had brought up the missed opportunities, he explained to himself. But he was not consoled by the explanation. It did not banish the feeling of loss.

  At the airport, they did not spare him the formalities. They checked his papers as if he were some illegal immigrant, although they did not bother to search his luggage. “The Americans don’t cut any corners; you can’t fix anything with anyone. I may know everyone in the airport, but with these bastards it doesn’t mean a thing, even with my connections I can’t get you through without an examination,” said Shatz, sweating in his cream-colored safari suit as he led him outside. Michael did not react; he was tired and dazed.

  The car was a large one, like in the movies. “An old Pontiac,” said Shatz, as he gripped the handle and opened the door for Michael. “Normally I’d take you directly to La Guardia Airport, but I want to give you at least a look at Manhattan before you disappear into the boondocks.”

  As they drove off, Shatz launched into an enthusiastic speech about the advantages of his fantastic job. “There’s only one representative here of the whole Israeli police force, and that’s yours truly. It was hard work to get here, pal, very hard work, I can tell you. Not everyone could do it. Boy oh boy, what a town!” His monologue, a startling combination of Hebrew, English, and Arabic, included remarks about their surroundings. From time to time he pointed out sights, mentioned names, indicated directions. The farther they got from the airport, the greater was the shock.

  “Ninety-four percent humidity and ninety degrees in the shade—a real stinker,” reported Shatz, “but believe me, pal, it’s not as bad as Tel Aviv. Here everything’s air-conditioned, but everything! Look at this car—isn’t it something?”

  As far as Michael was concerned, he was in hell. The hot, humid air that hit him in the face before they got into the car, the broad, multilane roads, the greenish-gray light, the distant skyscrapers, familiar to him from movies and photographs, the huge cars sliding past. He looked at the dozens of limousines racing by. There were people
sitting behind those opaque windows, he thought, and marveled at Shatz’s skillful maneuvering among the hundreds of speeding yellow cabs passing everything in their way.

  They drove for a long time, and Michael lost his orientation. On the way, Shatz said to him: “We’ll make it back to La Guardia in time. Your flight to North Carolina leaves from there, and you’ll have to return to Kennedy from there too.” Michael looked at the man’s profile. If his face hadn’t been so fat, you could have called it handsome. But the fat, and the greedy, cunning expression, and the sweat pouring off him despite the car’s air-conditioning, made him repulsive.

  “Not that I understand why you don’t want to stay in New York for a day or two. I could have taken you to a club. You know what goes on here?” he asked in a salacious tone, and stole a look at Michael, who was gazing out the window. “Okay, if you can’t you can’t. But believe me, I wouldn’t tell anyone if you happened to change your mind, hey?”

  “I won’t,” said Michael without turning his head.

  “And when are you going to do your shopping? Don’t buy anything at the airport; all those duty-free shops rob you blind, believe me. On Lexington there are some shops I could show you where you wouldn’t know what to pick—they’ve got everything there. I could get you something, if you want, and save you the hassle, what do you say?”

  Michael muttered something about discussing it: when he came back.

  “You’re nervous, hey? Listen, your guy, the lawyer, he’s expecting you, but the other one, the Russian, he’s still touch and go, and the lawyer’s at the hospital with him all the time. It wasn’t easy getting hold of him, believe me.”