Picking up the photo of Henrietta Ackerland and her baby boy, I gazed from one picture to the other. The German matron and her two children were dead. Of that I had no doubt. There had been no trace of them in the house of the man I had killed. I did not know how they died. In an air raid, probably. I hoped their deaths were swift and painless.
And Henrietta's boy, Willie?
He was dead, too, I was certain. I did not know how or where or when, but he was dead all the same. I was chasing a ghost.
I cursed under my breath at the thought of this case. Where should I begin? What would be my first step? I simply did not know.
I glanced at my watch. 21:21. I returned the billfold to the box and the box to its hiding place in the closet. I laid Henrietta's picture on the nightstand. There would be time for it later.
It was time to head over to Rachel Weiss. It was time to shed some blood.
Rachel Weiss owned and operated a small restaurant on Hayarkon Street. The street ran parallel to the shoreline, close enough so I could hear waves breaking on the beach and smell the salty scent of the sea.
It was a little after ten when I arrived, finding the door to the restaurant locked. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. The main room was deserted and dark, apart from a wedge of light that spilled from somewhere near the rear wall. By the scant illumination I could make out outlines of tables topped with overturned chairs, looking like deformed trees. I rapped on the glass and saw a woman's shadow emerge from the lighted area and pause where the light inked away into darkness.
With hurried steps, the shadow moved toward me, and as she neared, I could make out Rachel Weiss's face. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Thank God," she said as I stepped inside. She hastily relocked the door. "I was scared you wouldn't come."
I had told her I'd be there at ten. I apologized for being late, but offered no excuse. What could I have told her, that I'd lost track of time thinking about the Nazis I'd killed, and half-fantasized about returning to Germany to kill some more?
"It's all right," she said. "Now that you're here, I can stop worrying."
Her face belied her words. Even bathed in shadows, I could see anxiety written all over it, from her pinched mouth to her restless eyes. They kept shifting from the door to me and back again.
"Yes, you can. I'll take care of everything. After tonight you'll have no more problems." To my surprise, an echo of Greta's voice rang in my head, warning me against being arrogant. Irritated at the vagaries of my mind, I added, "Let's step away from the door."
We walked side by side toward the source of light. It came from the kitchen, which opened to the left near the back wall off the dining room. From its entrance I could see the street door, which meant that anyone standing there would also be able to see me. But that was easy to fix.
"Turn on the lights in the restaurant," I told her, and when she did, I flicked off the lights in the kitchen. This way, I would be shrouded by darkness, in prime position to surprise the man when he arrived.
"This is where I'll stand," I told Rachel Weiss. "When he comes, you open the door for him and lead him back toward me. Here." I pointed to a place toward the end of the serving counter, close to the kitchen. "All right?"
Rachel nodded shakily. She was on the short side, curvy and soft-looking, with straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders. The sort of hair that would easily part if you ran your fingers through it. Her eyes were a deep and warm brown, and her mouth, though on the small side, boasted finely shaped lips. Though not beautiful, she was pleasant to look at, even when, as now, her face was tight with tension and fear. She wore a brown dress that covered her from neck to ankle and was too warm for the season. But maybe she felt it afforded her some protection. I could understand why she would want to believe that.
I had first met her a week earlier at Greta's Café. We sat over coffee and she told me of her problem. Three weeks before, a man had appeared one evening at her restaurant. It was near closing time, and he had been the last customer. When he'd finished his beer, he took the empty glass with him and came toward where she stood behind the serving counter, tidying up. The man—he told her his name was Yuri—informed Rachel that instead of him paying for the beer, she would be giving money to him.
"Or bad things will happen," he had warned her, "to your place and to you. Understand?"
"But I didn't understand," Rachel Weiss had told me at Greta's. "I don't know why, but his words didn't register with me. It was like he had just told a very bad joke, and I didn't know how to react to it."
