Murder Duet: A Musical Case

by Batya Gur

  “Very nice,” agreed Michael, looking at the wall opposite him. “Everything’s very nice.”

  “And Nita says that her father had a key to Herzl’s apartment hanging behind the refrigerator at his place, on a ring that also had keys to her place and to Gabi’s.” Balilty passed the tip of his pink tongue over his lips until they shone wetly, and then he smacked them twice.

  “Very nice, Danny,” said Shorer. “Congratulations!”

  “And that’s not all. We’ve got another bombshell.”

  “Yes?” inquired Shorer.

  “I don’t know what it means, though. Where’s the folder with the photographs?” he asked Dalit.

  “In your office. Should I go and get it?” Dalit rose quickly to her feet.

  “Never mind, there’s no time for that. They’ll believe me. We found Herzl’s passport. And it’s stamped Amsterdam, six months ago.”

  “Herzl Cohen’s passport?” asked Michael. “Amsterdam? What was he doing in Amsterdam?”

  “They were all there, so why not him? Haven’t you noticed? The old man was in Holland, Gabriel was in Holland, Izzy Mashiah was in Holland. The only ones who weren’t there are Theo van Gelden and Nita. Haven’t you asked yourselves why all this interest in Holland?”

  “We’re waiting for you to tell us,” said Eli Bahar coldly. “I’m sure you know.”

  “Not really,” admitted Balilty, “but it might be a lead. The painting is Dutch too, don’t forget.”

  “What’s the position with Herzl now?” asked Michael.

  “They took him to the regular hospital,” said Balilty. “We left Avram there. Herzl’s recovered consciousness.”

  “Well?” prompted Tzilla.

  Balilty sighed. “Everybody in this case has to be handled with kid gloves. So he’s conscious, but up to now,” he looked at his watch, “he’s not been ready to talk. And since he’s a certified mental patient, we can’t arrest him. Avram’s there, if he happens to change his mind. Avram will call if anything happens. He’ll talk in the end,” he said hopefully.

  “Either he will or he won’t,” Eli Bahar said, looking around gloomily.

  “So where are we?” Balilty began to sum up. “We have a painting worth half a million dollars that was stolen and we’ve recovered. A painting that maybe nobody intended to sell. We have surgical tape and a cello string, but we don’t know where the string came from. We have a pair of gloves, whose owner we know, but those doesn’t mean much. We have two bodies, and a lot of trips to Amsterdam. We have a house in Rehavia that’s worth millions, and a shop that’s worth a lot too, maybe even more than the house. Money and things, and two heirs. And also grandchildren and a queer who stands to inherit from his . . . Do you know that Gabi van Gelden increased his life insurance two months ago and that Izzy Mashiah is the beneficiary?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Tzilla.

  “Like what?”

  “What you said about Izzy Mashiah.”

  “What did I say? Queer? I beg your pardon, forgive me.” Balilty put his hands together as if in prayer. “I beg all liberals and progressives to forgive me, but I don’t like queers. That’s the truth. What can I do?”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that!” said Tzilla sharply. “You should keep opinions like that to yourself.”

  “The ones I really can’t stand are the ones who play the woman.” Balilty’s eyes darted around the room until they came to rest on Tzilla’s face. “The ones, you know, that . . .” he said with the suggestion of a wink.

  Tzilla tugged at a lock of graying hair at her temple, opened her mouth, and shut it again without saying anything.

  “What you want to say,” said Shorer, cutting through the oppressive silence, “and we don’t have much time,” he added, looking ostentatiously at his watch, “is that you’re exonerating Herzl? Is that what you want to say? You’re concentrating on Izzy Mashiah and Theo and Nita van Gelden?”

  “More or less,” agreed Balilty. “I spoke to her yesterday, in the early evening. For hours. Two hours at least. During the search of her apartment,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Spoke to Nita?” asked Michael.

  “Uh-huh,” said Balilty, and suddenly he looked embarrassed. “It was before Ruth Mashiah, umm, arrived with her team to . . .” he said softly to Michael. “I left before they . . . believe me, I didn’t know anything about—”

  “Never mind that now,” Michael interrupted him impatiently. “What did you find out in your conversation with Nita?”

  “I explained to her again that she doesn’t know that she knows something, and maybe if she spoke to us, that something could come out, whatever it is. But she really doesn’t know, to put it mildly. It’s as if she isn’t with us at all. She really doesn’t know a thing. We gave her a polygraph test,” he added quickly.

  “When?” asked Michael, trying to keep his voice under control. “Last night?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t find any inconsistencies. Even when I asked her who was with Gabriel behind the pillar. I tried all the names, and the needle didn’t move. Not when I said: Theo was standing there with him,’ and not when I said: ‘It was Herzl.’ Nothing. The only new thing I learned from her was that she’s been afraid of Herzl ever since she was little girl. Because of the way he looks,” he said. “She told me, before the polygraph test, that when she was maybe three years old—it’s one of her first childhood memories—she came out from under the big desk in the music shop where they did the accounts. She was playing there, and her father called her to come and say hello to Uncle Herzl. She came out from under the desk and she remembers—you can hear it all on the tape—that she looked at him and his shoes alone frightened her, even though she saw his face and it wasn’t really frightening. His hair sticking up frightened her, and now she knows that he, too, was frightened. Not of her, but because he had just arrived in the country, and he was frightened of everything.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Michael. “She’s only thirty-eight. He arrived in Israel in fifty-one. She wasn’t even born when he got here, and she’s known him since the day she was born. When you’ve seen someone from the beginning, you don’t suddenly become frightened of him at the age of three, unless he’s done something.”

  Balilty was confused. He did the calculation, and then he said: “Okay, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. Anyway, that’s what she said.”

  “Actually it does matter,” said Shorer. “We’re talking about Herzl Cohen, her father’s employee, in whose kitchen you found the stolen painting. I understand,” he said nodding at Michael, “that there are all kinds of mysteries connected with him, and the fact that he frightened her is one of them.”

  “Okay, so maybe she didn’t notice him before. Maybe this was the first time she really saw him. You can listen to the tape yourselves,” said Balilty dejectedly. “In any event, what’s important is that he frightened her. But she says that she knew very well that he was harmless. That he’s a good person. But he frightened her. She’s sure that he didn’t harm anyone, especially not her father.”

  “And what about the person who did harm her father? The person who suffocated him? Could he, Herzl, in her opinion, have harmed him? In other words, punished old van Gelden’s killer?” asked Eli Bahar. “Did you ask her that?”

  “You’ll be surprised,” said Balilty. “I did ask her that. And she said that she really didn’t know, but that it was hard for her to imagine him being capable of violence. But we know, and she said so too, that he’s had a number of outbursts.”

  Dalit touched his arm, and he leaned over toward her. She whispered something in his ear, and again Michael was filled with rage at the familiarity permitted to her, at Balilty’s dependence on her. “Yes,” said Balilty with nearly smug solemnity. “Dalit correctly reminds me about Meyuhas, the lawyer. We haven’t managed to get in touch with him yet. He’s on vacation. Nobody else knows what that’s about. We’re trying to find out what old man van Gelden and H
erzl quarreled about,” he explained to Shorer. “He’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll be wiser then. But we did find the Canadian woman. Our representative in New York has interrogated her. Dalit spoke to him.”

  “What Canadian woman?” asked Shorer.

  “The one who was with Theo van Gelden the day the picture was stolen and his father was murdered. Theo was with two women,” said Balilty, sighing, “on the same afternoon, before a concert in the evening. Some people are made of steel. What can I tell you, all on the same day! And now he has a solid alibi.”

  “We should keep the guard on Miss van Gelden,” said Shorer. “Is someone with her now?”

  “Only the babysitter, the policeman outside the building, and her brother,” said Tzilla.

  “They’re getting ready to drive to Zichron Yaakov,” Eli Bahar reminded him.

  “Okay, so from the minute they leave, if not before. I don’t like this knowing not knowing business. It’s dangerous. We don’t want another corpse today,” said Shorer.

  “Will do,” said Balilty, pursing his mouth. “Within the hour.”

  “What about that musical score Herzl was talking about? Anything new on that? We should get an expert to listen to the melody,” Michael said suddenly.

  “To the what?” asked Balilty with surprise.

  “To the tune Herzl sang to Theo in the psychiatric hospital,” said Michael. “We have to play the tape to a musician.”

  “Right,” said Balilty. “Take that down, Dalit. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “The important part of that conversation was about the score, and we don’t even know what score. We have to bring a musicologist into the picture. Ask Nita or Theo, without telling them what it’s about.”

  “What do you think I am?” demanded Balilty, offended. He looked quickly at Zippo, who was covering his face with his hands. “I already asked them, indirectly. Both Nita and Theo. And while we’re on the subject,” he said suddenly, “you’re going to a place that’ll be filled with musicians. Why don’t you take the cassette with you? Dalit will make a copy for you now.”

  “I already have,” said Dalit.

  “Excellent,” said Balilty. “Give him the copy, and he’ll play it to the geniuses who’ll be able to identify it after listening to a couple of notes. Maybe this is another case where you can tell the whole story from part of one sentence.”

  “I have to go,” said Michael, picking up the tape Dalit set before him without looking at her. “You don’t keep an eighty-six-year-old lady waiting.”

  “Once a gentleman, always a gentleman,” remarked Zippo.

  “And I’ll need a cassette recorder,” said Michael, “with fresh batteries.”

  “Zippo’s taking Theo and Nita to Zichron Yaakov,” said Balilty. “I meant to send Tzilla, but she’s too tired after last night.”

  “Zippo was up all night, too. Send Eli,” said Michael authoritatively, just before remembering that he wasn’t heading the team. “All we really need is a driver,” he said apologetically. He saw that Eli’s face, which had suddenly brightened, again darkened.

  “I can drive them,” declared Zippo, insulted.

  “There are a million other things to do here,” Michael said, trying to smooth things over. “Why should you have to go all the way to Zichron Yaakov?”

  “I’ve got no problem about driving to Zichron Yaakov. When my grandmother was alive I used to do the trip in two hours. Not actually to Zichron Yaakov, a little before, just after Hadera. I used to do it every two days. Under much worse conditions.”

  “As you like,” said Michael, and he saw Eli’s head sink. “I thought that on the way back Eli could stop in at the pathologist’s again and pick up the papers,” he explained. “Think about it,” he said to Balilty. “I have to go.”

  At that moment Shorer’s secretary appeared in the doorway. “Izzy Mashiah wants to talk to Chief Superintendent Ohayon,” she said to Balilty. “He tried to reach you,” she said to Michael, “but he can’t get through. He has something urgent to say”

  “You should use your cell phone, too,” Balilty rebuked Michael. “How can I get in touch with you when I need to? Don’t tell me you’re allergic to them. We can’t indulge your allergies when they interfere with your work.”

  Michael left the conference room and followed Shorer’s secretary. His eyes were fixed on her tiny steps. Like a Chinese woman with bound feet, she wobbled in her tight skirt on slender high heels.

  At the office door she stopped and looked at him with maternal affection. “You don’t look so good,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “As far as I know.” He produced a smile with effort. “It’ll pass,” he promised. When he realized that she was waiting for details, and that she would be hurt by his silence, he added: “It hasn’t been easy lately.” He picked up the phone.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked before leaving the room with ostentatious discretion.

  Holding on to the phone, he tried to look grateful as he said: “Thanks, I can’t think of anything at the moment.” She nodded gravely, completely innocent of the irony of his words. He felt as if they were reciting dialogue from a romance novel.

  “Tell me if there’s anything, anything at all. I’d be happy to help,” she concluded, leaving the room.

  “I have to talk to you about a couple of things,” said Izzy Mashiah, his breath making a gasping, whistling sound, as if he were fighting for air. “There are a few things that are bothering me. You said I should get in touch with you if I needed to.”

  “Of course, certainly,” said Michael. He wondered if Izzy could possibly have noticed the surveillance, the disguised police car parked outside his house, or that his phone was bugged. “Now? On the phone?”

  “No, no!” cried Izzy Mashiah, horrified. “It’s a delicate matter.”

  “Is it urgent?” asked Michael, looking at his watch.

  “I don’t know how important it is to you,” said Izzy unhappily. “It seems pretty urgent to me.”

  “Is it about the key?” guessed Michael.

  “What key?”

  “The key to Herzl Cohen’s apartment, the one that was in Felix van Gelden’s house.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Izzy fell silent, and his breathing grew even heavier, the whistling shriller.

  “The key Sergeant Dalit found in your place,” said Michael.

  “What Sergeant Dalit?” said Izzy, alarmed. “I don’t know any Sergeant Dalit.”

  “The policewoman who spoke to you last night,” said Michael impatiently. “Didn’t you talk to a woman named Dalit about the key to Herzl’s apartment?”

  “I don’t know any Dalit,” pleaded Izzy Mashiah. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t Dalit. But what about the key?”

  “What key? I don’t know anything about a key.” Izzy coughed up phlegm and gasped for air.

  “Take it easy,” said Michael, forcing himself to sound calm. “Did you have a visit from the police last night?”

  “There was no one here last night,” said Izzy Mashiah.

  “Are you sure?””

  “Of course I’m sure!” he shouted. “I may be going crazy, but not to such an extent,” he added bitterly.

  “Okay. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  The wheezing in Izzy’s voice subsided somewhat as he said: “About all kinds of things, but not on the phone.”

  “Can it wait until this evening?”

  “I suppose so,” sighed Izzy Mashiah. “It would be better right now.”

  “I can’t now, it’s impossible,” Michael explained as if to a child. “Can someone else talk to you instead?”

  “I’d prefer to talk to you, if you don’t mind. Gabi admired you and I’d be more comfortable with you. If I have to wait till this evening, then I’ll wait.”

  “Late this evening,” Michael warned him.

  “I’m n
ot going anywhere,” said Izzy sadly. “I’ll be waiting for you here.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” said Michael at the door of the conference room. “Give me just a moment, please.”

  “Haven’t you left yet?” asked Tzilla, surprised.

  “Just a moment,” he repeated. “I’d like your attention, please!” They all stopped talking and looked at him expectantly.

  He made a point of looking at Balilty, and only at Balilty. From the corner of his eye he caught the movement of Shorer’s hand scribbling with a burned match on a sheet of white paper that he carefully flattened with his other hand, as if his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. But Michael knew that he was concentrating intently.

  “I’ve just talked to Izzy Mashiah,” he said quietly, his eyes still on Balilty.

  “So?” said Balilty impatiently. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up,” Michael said deliberately, “is that nobody spoke to him about any key to Herzl’s apartment. He doesn’t know any policewoman called Dalit.”

  Balilty’s mouth fell open and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what he said?” he asked, astonished. He turned sharply toward Dalit, who looked blank, shrugged her shoulders, spread her arms in a helpless gesture, and said nothing.

  “What’s this about?” Balilty asked her sharply. “Were you there yesterday or not?”

  “Of course I was,” said Dalit and opened wide her light blue eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered and seemed to cast shadows over her pale skin.

  “And you talked about the key?”

  “Of course we did,” she said with determined calm. She smoothed a slender eyebrow with her finger, and then clasped her hands together.

  “And the key?”

  “The key . . .” For a moment something appeared to crack in her self-confidence. “It’s with the file we handed over to Forensics along with the other evidence. I bagged the things last night and handed them over myself.”

  “You drove to Forensics last night?”

  “Early this morning, before I came here,” said Dalit defensively, looking right at him with a wounded expression. “I left it there, in an envelope,” she added.