Murder Duet: A Musical Case

by Batya Gur

  Michael nodded and was about to speak when the wooden doors opened and two men and a woman came in. Yaffa waved and beckoned to them. The only one Michael really knew was the short, bald man, but he recognized them as people from Forensics.

  “You sent for us,” said the bald man to Shimshon, “and here we are.”

  “Start with all the string players,” Michael said to Tzilla, and then he explained to the forensics investigators, who were standing in a group behind Shimshon: “Why should we look for fishing tackle backstage in a concert hall? Does anyone come here to fish? We can assume that we’re looking for a string from a fiddle of one size or another.”

  “Do you really think,” said Shimshon sourly, “that things are so neat? That if we’re next to a river it’s a fishing line and if we’re in an orchestra hall it has to be a fiddle string?”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s as simple as that. Solomon says it’s a thin wire or plastic cord, and here we have a very thin cord.”

  “Strings tear,” protested Shimshon.

  “I don’t know,” interrupted the bald man. “They used to make violin strings from twisted lambs’ intestines, but now they’re plastic with metal cores.”

  “They don’t tear, they snap, from material fatigue,” said Michael, thinking once more of the string snapping in the living room, remembering his surprise at the absolute suddenness of the sound of the snap and the broken string dangling over the cello’s bridge. He had wondered at the practiced, efficient movements with which Nita had quickly and calmly replaced the string with a spare. He was holding the baby in his arms, and he came closer to see her loosen the wooden peg with her right hand, pull out the end of the broken string, and observe the care with which she held the end of the new string and threaded it through the bottom end and brought it over the bridge and along the fingerboard to the neck of the instrument. He had watched her hand as she wrapped the string around the peg and tightened it, as she plucked the string and listened attentively, plucked the other strings, and suddenly, catching him staring intently at her hands, she had raised her eyes and smiled in amusement, as if he were a child gazing in wonder at the hands of a magician.

  “What is it?” she had asked, laughing.

  He had shrugged his shoulders and said: “Nothing, I’ve just never seen anyone doing that before. What I’d like to know is why. . . . How does it snap?”

  “It just does,” she had said, amused. “Like the kitchen shelf that suddenly fell down the other day. I asked you why it fell without anyone touching it, without anyone even being in the kitchen, and I hadn’t put anything new or heavy on it either, and you said ‘material fatigue!’ Which apparently also applies to cello strings.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the way you played?” he had cautiously asked. “You pulled the string very hard with your finger.”

  Her face had clouded. “It’s a difficult passage,” she defended herself. “You try to play a loud pizzicato. Look, it says fortissimo there,” she said, nodding at the music stand. “Try it and see for yourself.

  “Nita,” he had said then. “Stop it, I know you’re working, I just want to understand. Why are you acting as if I’m some kind of music critic? You know I’m a total ignoramus in these matters.”

  “It’s been such a long time since I’ve played . . . And even before, I never thought I was so great . . . It’s natural for me to lack self-confidence . . .” she had said, embarrassed. Then she had taken a deep breath and continued in a clear, reasonable tone: “It’s got nothing to do with the way you play. If you ask me why a string snaps, then there’s only one real answer. They say that differences in temperature can sometimes cause it, but in my opinion the only answer is material fatigue.”

  “Does everybody know how to thread it in like that?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Of course, and fast, the way they change a racing car’s tires. Do you think it doesn’t sometimes happen in the middle of a concert?”

  “Paganini . . .” Michael said, remembering, and he almost mentioned Becky Pomeranz by name, but at the last moment he only said: “Someone once told me, when I was a boy, about how all of Paganini’s strings during a concert . . .”

  “Not all of them,” Nita corrected him, “just three. According to the legend, he had one string left, on which he played the rest of the concert, and the legend also says that he made them snap on purpose in order to demonstrate his virtuosity . . .” She had inclined her head, put it very close to the cello, plucked the strings one after the other, and said: “Okay, is that a fifth? What do you say? Not quite, eh?” Again she had loosened the peg and then tightened the new string, plucked, listened, nodded, and, finally satisfied, said: “Now it is.”

  “Begin in the lobby, and go through the cases of all the string players,” said Michael to the forensics investigators. “You don’t have to say what you’re looking for, just ask about everything, find out if they’re missing any of their spare strings. Soon more forensics people will be here, and they’ll join you, but at this stage you’re the only ones who know what we’re looking for. Later on, if we don’t come up with anything there, come back here and turn the place upside down until we find an unattached string lying around somewhere. Meanwhile, Shimshon, you can stay here backstage and start searching. The killer wouldn’t have put it in his pocket with all that blood on it,” Michael muttered. And then he added, firmly: “It has to be lying around here somewhere.”

  “Sure,” said Shimshon, “together with the gloves.”

  “Quite possibly,” said Michael briskly, ignoring the sarcastic tone.

  “You wish,” Shimshon whispered, and Michael wondered whether to pretend he hadn’t heard.

  But then he heard himself saying in a puzzled tone: “What’s your problem? What’s annoying you?”

  “I don’t believe in such neat, symmetrical solutions,” mumbled Shimshon. “There’s a ton of electric wiring here, why shouldn’t it be an electrical wire?”

  “A cable would have strangled him, a single strand would have snapped,” said Solomon, sticking a slender brown cigar into the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to light it,” he reassured them. “I only want to hold it in my mouth. There’s no doubt that the best thing for the job is a thin string from a string instrument.”

  “What difference does it make what you’re looking for?” said Michael. “Call it a wire or a plastic cord, if you like, as long as you find it, and quickly. Believe me, if you show me a fishing line with blood on it I’ll be delighted. But meanwhile let’s start looking through their instrument cases. We won’t have another opportunity to search the musicians before they have a chance to . . .”

  “If one of them did it,” said Shimshon, “do you think he’s going to tell you that one of his spare strings is missing? And besides, can you identify a certain string as belonging to a certain instrument? Is there a difference between the A of one cello and the A of another cello?” He looked at Solomon, who shrugged his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth to express his inability to answer the question.

  “We’ve got nothing to lose,” Michael summed up, and he turned to the newcomers. “Shimshon will explain to you what we’re looking for and why, and then you’ll go talk to the people sitting in the lobby,” he said as the heavy wooden doors opened with Tzilla standing there holding them apart with her arms.

  “Do you want them in here?” she asked loudly, against a background of murmurs. “Eli’s arrived, he’s here with Sergeant Zippo,” she said, making a face.

  “Zippo?” said Michael, astonished. “I didn’t know he was still with us. I thought he’d retired.”

  “Where do you want them?”

  “Here first of all, all the string players, one by one, in the corner of the hall,” said Michael impatiently. “And come here. Divide them into groups, and over there, in that corner, take one group yourself and find out how many spare strings each one of them had. And check to see if any are m
issing.”

  “There are eighteen string players here.”

  “Then go and get the rest of them,” he said impatiently. “All of them, now.”

  Tzilla looked at him. “How am I supposed to do all that at once?”

  “Zippo can help you,” said Michael. “And I also want . . . Does this orchestra have a manager?”

  “It does, and he’s already outside in the lobby. I told him to wait a minute, and Eli also brought . . .” She hesitated and looked at him uncertainly.

  “Well?” demanded Michael.

  “That girl, Dalit, the one you asked me last week if they’re sending us recruits straight from kindergarten now. . . . The thin, blonde one, with short hair, you know, Dalit.”

  “I want to talk to him, to the manager, now, after I talk to Eli,” said Michael, trying to suppress the thought that too many fronts had been opened at once, that he was acting nervously and chaotically instead of systematically, and that he should go back to the room behind the bend in the corridor instead of obeying impulses that didn’t even calm him. His agitation was different from what it usually was, but then it was different every time, he tried to tell himself. Anything but to think about the significance of Tzilla’s sudden seriousness.

  For Tzilla had now turned to him with a grave expression on her face: “Eli wants to talk to you outside,” she said, before we begin. “I’ve already filled him in on the main points.” His heart sank even before she said: “And I have something to say to you, too.” She frowned as she gave him a stern, rebuking look and followed him out of the hall.

  Eli wasted no time on preliminaries. “Look,” he said after making sure that there was nobody within hearing distance, “you know that Shorer put you on the case because of your knowledge of music, because it’s . . . well, your kind of case. . . . You know what I mean,” he said, squirming with embarrassment. “Who should he have put on the case if not you? But if he knew, it should be clear to you that you wouldn’t be here even as an adviser!”

  Michael said nothing. He stood there quietly, but the thought that Nita might suddenly wake up and not find him there made him clench his teeth and tighten his muscles.

  Eli Bahar cracked his knuckles. “I’ve worked with you on so many cases,” he said in a soft, pleading tone, “it’s the ABC that you taught me yourself, always talking about our blind spots,” his tone grew heated and embittered, “and all of a sudden, all of a sudden you’re closing your eyes. I’m thinking of you, believe me,” he urged. “Of you, too,” he added, and he waited. When Michael didn’t react he went on: “You yourself would never agree to such a thing with anyone else. You’re too personally involved, it could ruin everything. You yourself taught me that! You would never have allowed it with anyone else!”

  “I think I can keep things separate,” said Michael. He hesitated and silenced the chorus of contradictory thoughts clamoring inside his head. “And since it’s already happened, maybe it’s better that it’s me and not—”

  “Thank God I’m not the one who has to decide,” said Eli. “But you know yourself that it’s not right, and Tzilla, too . . . Tzilla, why don’t you say something? We can talk to him, we’re friends, no? We’ve been together long enough. . . .”

  Michael wiped his forehead with the folded handkerchief he took out of his jeans pocket. His hands were cold, and he rubbed them against his burning cheeks. He should have stayed sitting at Nita’s side until she woke up. If she hadn’t awakened already. She mustn’t wake up and not find him there. If only he could be having this conversation while holding the baby in his arms, or warming the bottle, his hands would not be trembling so idiotically that he had to rest them on the wooden railing next to them.

  “He’s a grown man and responsible for his actions,” said Tzilla. It was impossible not to hear the note of criticism in her voice. “If he says he can keep things separate, then maybe he can. I,” she stressed, “wouldn’t be able to, but maybe he can. How long can you hide something like this?”

  “Hide what?” said Michael in a panic, tightening his grip on the railing, which felt sticky under his palms.

  “Your connections with them, hide them from Shorer, hide them from everybody. It’s impossible to work like that! If Shorer’s daughter weren’t about to give birth any minute, he would have found out long ago.”

  “I don’t have any connections with ‘them.’ What ‘them’ are you talking about? There’s no ‘them’ here, only Nita.”

  Tzilla shrugged. “I don’t want to tell you what you yourself would have said to me if I’d given you an answer like that,” she said, averting her green eyes from his face. Her long silver earrings swayed gently. “And what about the baby? What’s going to happen with the baby? Are you just going to go on as if nothing’s happened?”

  “I haven’t thought about it yet,” he admitted, suppressing a twinge of regret for having told her about the baby in the first place.

  “I don’t believe it!” said Tzilla in despair. “How can you not think about it? That’s the first thing you should think about. She needs you now to help her with her baby, too—and not as a detective! Are you going to just leave her on her own now? Are you capable of interrogating her? What are you going to do? What are you going to do with the baby?”

  Michael said nothing. He should never have involved Tzilla in the business with the baby—that was a big mistake. Facing the couple’s disapproval and condemnation, the thought suddenly crossed his mind that they had almost turned into his enemies, into one of the forces trying to take something away from him, either the baby or the case. Like a big stain the knowledge began to spread through his consciousness that the baby would be taken from him anyway, even if he were now to give up the case.

  “There’s no need to decide everything at this moment,” said Eli, sighing. “Let’s leave it alone for now. It’s between you and Shorer,” he added. “Why do you have to get so emotional about it? It’s his business, after all,” he said to Tzilla and then looked at Michael, waiting.

  “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do,” Michael admitted, “not at this stage anyway. If it doesn’t work out I’ll give up the case. . . . I’ll talk to Shorer.” Suddenly a calm indifference came over him, with one part of him saying it’ll be all right and another saying whatever happens happens. His hands felt warmer.

  “But what do you intend to do right now? You’re both still sharing the same babysitters! You’re over there at her place all day long!” cried Tzilla. “And how can you take a case like this and take care of a baby? When will you see her?”

  “When indeed,” murmured Michael. He glanced at his watch, dismissing thoughts of a warm, smooth cheek and a toothless smile. “But first I have to see how Nita is, and then I’ll speak to Shorer, and maybe I’ll phone my sister and—”

  “Phone your sister? What for? To ask her to come?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Your sister Yvette?”

  “My sister Yvette. Why not? I’ve never asked her before, not when Yuval was small. . . . Why not?”

  “Actually, it’s a good idea,” said Tzilla, and the expression of tension and distress on her face began to fade. “She’ll talk some sense into you. There are moments in life . . . I can hardly believe that I have to say this to you now, it’s only what you’ve always said yourself. There are moments in life when you have to choose. Either you want a baby or—”

  “Yes? Or what? If you’ve got a baby you can’t work?” He looked at her intently, and she blushed.

  “It’s not the same thing!” she protested indignantly. “First of all, I didn’t work for six months when Eyal was born, and with Yosefa I didn’t work for three months. But here it isn’t just a matter of a baby! It’s a matter of a woman that you . . .” She blushed. “That you’re kind of living with.”

  “That’s not true!” protested Michael. “It’s a practical arrangement, friendship, there’s no . . . There’s no reason why I shouldn’t . . . I’ll decide for myself!�
�� he said finally in a tone which made it clear to all three of them that the discussion was over. “And now please get hold of Balilty for me and another two people from Forensics. And what’s this about Zippo? What made you bring Zippo, of all people? And what’s that girl doing here, the thin one with the hungry eyes, with her tight jeans, what’s her name—Dalit?” Eli opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again at the sight of Solomon approaching them.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Solomon complained. “I’ve already gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Here I am,” said Michael calmly, amazed at the feeling of relief that overcame him at this justified, legitimate interruption of his conversation with Eli and Tzilla. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll be off in a minute,” hummed Solomon. “They’re taking the body away, it’s packed and ready. And tomorrow I’ll give you a final answer. We’ll begin work on the body tonight, but in the meantime you can forget about the violinists. Shimshon agrees with me,” he said, waving the three strings he held in his hand. “Too short for our purposes, hardly half a meter long, and the viola strings aren’t long enough either.”

  “What’s left?” asked Michael, and he finally lit the cigarette he had been holding for the last few minutes.

  “Cello and double bass, but the bass strings are too thick for cutting. The only suitable ones in length and thickness are cello strings, if at all.”

  “If at all what?”

  “If it was really an instrument string. We won’t know until we find it.”

  “A cello string?” asked Tzilla meaningfully.

  “If a string instrument string at all—then a cello,” said Solomon. He hummed.

  “There you are,” said Tzilla grimly. “What have I been trying to tell you? Did you hear that?” she said, confronting Michael with her arms outspread. “A cello! What do you intend to do about that?”