I worked at it for half an hour, trying one angle and then another, often asking the same question a half-dozen different ways, but Haim kept drawing a blank. He remembered the scene—the place, the weather, the mood of the participants—and he remembered Esther, of course, but he did not recall a single thing about the appearance of the woman who had been angry with her. Not her build, not her age, not her complexion, not even her clothes. Finally, in desperation, I described the women I had encountered on my investigation—a tactic I knew held the risk of corrupting his memory. Nothing.
Throughout all this, Haim's face bore an expression of intense concentration. I had to give him credit—he gave it his all. It was I who finally decided to stop.
"Stop?" Haim said. "No. Let's try some more." He looked exhausted. I had worked him hard mentally. He seemed so crestfallen by his failure at recollection that I was prompted to offer a comforting lie.
"Not today. We'll try again another time." When I saw that didn't improve his mood, I added, "You did good. You helped a lot."
He brightened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I said.
After my talk with Haim Sassoon, I spent another hour on Lunz Street, knocking on doors and talking to neighbors who were not home the previous time I'd canvassed the street. I learned nothing new.
Before leaving Lunz Street, I gazed up at Elena Warshavski's balcony, thinking I could use another drink of lemonade. She wasn't there. I thought about climbing the stairs and seeing if she was home, but decided against it. It is one thing to be invited; it is another to try to invite yourself.
Around the corner on Rothschild Boulevard stood the grocery store where Esther had done her shopping. I showed her picture to the manager. He remembered her, but had no information regarding the murders. A canvass of nearby stores proved equally fruitless.
I grabbed a quick lunch at home, changed my shirt, and went out again into the searing heat of early afternoon. It was one thirty when I stepped into the reception room of Becker & Strauss for the second time.
The secretary smiled when she saw me.
"Mr. Strauss is in," she said, "but he's in the middle of a meeting and it might take a while."
"How long do you think?" I said.
"Half an hour, give or take."
I told her I'd wait, and she asked me if I wanted anything to drink. When I said that I didn't, she pointed to a corner with a gray couch, a couple of chairs, and a hat stand bearing a fedora and a homburg. Then she proceeded to ignore my presence, fixing her attention on her typewriter.
I sat on the couch and smoked while she clacked away on her keys with impressive speed. A number of newspapers lay on a low table, and I riffled through them, catching up on the news. Shmuel Birnbaum had a column on the condition of Jewish refugees still stuck in various ports and camps in Europe, desperate to be allowed to come to Israel. He had a good writing style—factual, direct, without the proclivity to flowery language that some of his colleagues suffered from.
While I waited, four men in button-down shirts and ties wandered singly or in pairs in and out from adjacent offices, handing papers to the secretary or grabbing a cup of coffee from the small kitchen. None spoke to me. Maybe they were used to having people waiting.
After twenty-five minutes, the door to Mr. Strauss's office opened and out stepped two men. One was tall and slim, with a full head of metallic gray hair; the other shorter, fatter, with thinning hair combed desperately over his bald pate. They shook hands and exchanged a few parting pleasantries before the fat man walked to the hat stand, retrieved his homburg, and left.
The tall, slim man—Mr. Strauss, I presumed—was turning to go back into his office when his secretary called to him, informing him that he had a visitor. I crushed out the cigarette I'd been smoking, got up, and strode over to him. He watched me approach with an inscrutable expression on his face.
He wore a navy blue shirt tucked into belted gray slacks and black shoes polished to a high gloss. A masculine Adam's apple bulged above the knot of his red tie. His clothes were new and expensive and had either been ironed recently or he didn't make any sudden moves while he was in them. The watch on his left wrist gleamed money. He had a narrow face with sharp features—a long, straight nose, pointed chin without a trace of stubble, pronounced cheekbones, a slash of a mouth, and piercing blue eyes under widely spaced eyebrows. He was between fifty and fifty-five, fit and preserved, with an erect bearing that hinted at vanity. He was five inches shorter than I was, but still gave the impression of looking down at me. He didn't ask who I was or what he could do for me, but waited for me to speak.
"Mr. Strauss, my name is Adam Lapid. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time."
His eyes went over my hair, face, and clothes. He didn't seem to find much he approved of.
