We sat for a while, chatting about the way the rationing regimen was turning thousands of law-abiding citizens into criminals; the thousands of Jews pouring into Israel and the many still stranded in European ports or camps, waiting to make
After Greta went to serve another customer, I played a few quick games and smoked a series of cigarettes until my throat felt raw. I half-wished I could take the rest of the day off and go home and read. But more than I wanted a break from the case, I wanted to solve it. Or at least see it come to a dead end, at which point I could say to myself that I had given it a proper try and could let it go.
I placed the chessboard and pieces in their box, which I returned to its spot behind the bar. I said goodbye to Greta, hiked up Allenby, and swung a right to Ben Yehuda Street, following it north until, three doors before the corner of Ben Yehuda and Bograshov, I arrived at the address I'd copied from Natalie Davidson's letter to Mr. Sassoon.
I was in luck: the Davidsons still resided there. My luck held when my knock on their door was answered by a fair-haired boy of eleven who, after I asked if his mother was home, hollered, "Mom," over his shoulder.
A woman in late pregnancy appeared at the other end of the hall. Early thirties. Five foot four. Straight dark brown hair framing an open, good-natured plain face. Soft brown eyes that were slightly too close together, a low forehead, a nose that drew too much attention to itself. Her best feature was her skin—it shone with that radiance common to pregnant women. She wore a green-white striped dress with large pockets that ballooned over her distended belly, a thin gold necklace, and no shoes. Even from a distance of a few meters, I could tell her feet were swollen. Both her hands were pressed to her lower abdomen, as if fearful that without their support her belly would burst open under the weight of the child within.
I was struck by a sudden urge to laugh. At myself. This woman, with her bloated feet and swollen belly, did not seem capable of harming a kitten, let alone brutally killing a woman and a baby. The very idea was preposterous. But, I reminded myself, killers came in all shapes and forms, and Natalie Davidson had not been pregnant at the time of the murders.
"What did I tell you about shouting, Danny?" she said, not unkindly, to the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Not to do it," he intoned, rolling his eyes.
"That's right." The hint of a smile on her lips told me she was well aware of her son's expression, even though his back was turned. My mother had had the same uncanny ability to read my sisters and me. The similarity made me uneasy. If Natalie Davidson turned out to be a killer, I wanted her to be nothing like my mother. If she were innocent, I was liable to cause her some pain today, because I had hard questions to ask and unpleasant truths to share with her.
She shifted her eyes to me. "Can I help you?"
I gave her my name and told her I was a private investigator and that I got her address from Abraham Sassoon. "I want to talk to you about Esther and Erich Kantor," I said, using the names she would have known Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland by.
Her hand spasmed on her son's shoulder, squeezing it so tightly that he yelped in pain. She let go without a word, heaved a deep breath, and told me to come in.
I followed her to the living room, with the boy—Danny—close on my heels. His mother noticed his presence.
"Go to your room, Danny."
"But I want to hear," the boy protested.
Her lips bunched up, but then her face softened. From her purse she withdrew a banknote. She held it in front of the boy like a carrot before a donkey. "Take this and go buy yourself some ice cream." Danny reached for the money with eager fingers, a smile plastered on his face. "And take your brothers with you."
The smile vanished from the boy's face, replaced by a pout. "But, Mom, they're too little."
"Either take them with you or go to your room." She made as if to put the money back in her purse, but Danny plucked it from between her fingers and went yelling for his brothers. Two boys, ages six and eight, emerged from an interior room and followed their elder brother out of the apartment, chattering loudly.
After they had gone, Natalie sighed. "May God bless me with a daughter this time." She smiled self-consciously. "That sounded awful, I know, but three boys are a handful. Do you have children, Mr. Lapid?"
"No," I said, a familiar ache squeezing my heart. Whenever I was asked this question, I considered telling about my daughters, but I never did.
