by Batya Gur
Izzy said nothing.
“And you weren’t home. On the day Gabriel was murdered. Do you know that there is something very unclear in the polygraph at this point?”
“I didn’t kill Gabi. I loved Gabi, believe me,” said Izzy Mashiah in a flat voice. “But if you suspect me anyway, I don’t care anymore. I’ve got nothing more to lose. As far as I’m concerned, you can arrest me right now.”
“I’m talking about whether you left the house,” Michael reminded him. “You said that you didn’t leave the house all day. So did you or didn’t you?”
“I was near the building,” said Izzy Mashiah in a whisper.
“Near what building?” asked Michael for the sake of the tape recorder.
“In front of the concert hall.”
Michael lit a cigarette.
“I didn’t go in. I swear to you that I wasn’t inside.”
“But you were outside.”
“I wanted to know if he was really . . . I . . . I was following him.” Izzy Mashiah spoke with downcast eyes. “I wanted to see if the car was there.”
“And was the car there?”
“No,” said Izzy Mashiah miserably. “It wasn’t there. I’d completely forgotten that Ruth was supposed to take it. And I thought, He’s lying to me. He says he’s in one place when he’s somewhere else. My imagination started working overtime, there was a movie playing in my head until . . . until you came and told me he was dead,” he said in a broken voice.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” asked Michael in a kindly, paternal tone. “Because you were afraid? Were you afraid we’d suspect you of the murder? Is that why you didn’t tell us that you were outside the scene of the crime?”
“No,” whispered Izzy Mashiah. “It had nothing to do with that. I’m not afraid of being a suspect. I feel now as if I’ve got nothing more to lose. It wasn’t out of fear.”
“What then?” asked Michael.
In a choked voice, from behind the hands that were covering his face again, he blurted out: “Out of shame.” Now he was crying aloud. “Only out of shame. I was so ashamed,” he said, and he sobbed and uncovered his face, which now was bathed in tears.
For a long moment Michael waited for his weeping to subside. He had plenty of time in which to formulate his next question, which he posed in an authoritative tone: “Could you identify an old manuscript of a musical composition? Of the Baroque period?”
“What do you mean, identify? Say who wrote it?” he asked, confused.
“If you saw the original score of a work by Vivaldi, for example, could you identify it as a manuscript from about that period?”
“Of course I could,” said Izzy Mashiah confidently. “There’s no way of mistaking such things. In Salzburg, for instance, you can see autograph scores by Mozart. I’ve seen a lot of such scores in museums and photographs of them in books.”
“So you could do it?” Michael interrupted him. “Even if the identity of the composer isn’t certain?”
“I can tell if it looks like an old manuscript,” said Izzy carefully. “But there are a lot of forgeries around. You really need an expert. But I could certainly tell if it looks old. And so could you, believe me. It’s not hard. For one thing, the paper is very different from ours.”
“And do you know Vivaldi’s music?”
“I certainly do.”
“Everything he wrote?”
“Everything?” Izzy Mashiah laughed. “‘Everything’ is going a bit too far. He wrote hundreds of pieces. But I’m very familiar with Vivaldi. Like any serious musician.”
“In that case,” said Michael, “come with me now.”
Submissively Izzy Mashiah picked up his shoulder bag and car keys and, without asking where or why, followed Michael out of the room.
At the entrance to the psychiatric hospital Michael asked him to wait in the car. After a short battle with a nurse (“There’s already one policeman here,” she argued. “We have to think of the welfare of all our patients, not only of your interests.”), and after Zippo came out of the room to remain in the corridor, Michael was allowed to go in to talk to Herzl.
Once again he found himself sitting close to someone under the influence of powerful medication, someone whose eyes were closed and who refused to cooperate. After a number of failed attempts at beating around the bush, he decided to change tactics and go straight to the point. He touched the skinny arm, and Herzl quickly opened his eyes. Before he had time to snatch his arm away, Michael asked: “Who brought that score to Israel?” Herzl opened his toothless mouth, fingered the white hairs sprouting from his scalp, and something very lucid, lucid and terrified, showed in his eyes. He looked around, made sure there was nobody else in the room, sat up in bed, and looked at Michael. Suddenly he asked for a cigarette. Michael made haste to offer him one, bent over to light it, lit one for himself as well, took a puff, and asked again: “Who brought the score?”
“You’re from the police, right?” stated Herzl matter-of-factly. He sounded totally sane.
“I’m from the police,” agreed Michael. “And who brought the score?”
“You don’t even know what that music is,” muttered Herzl with suspicion and contempt.
“You’ll tell me,” said Michael pleasantly, and he offered him a plastic cup for his ashes.
“They don’t let you smoke here,” complained Herzl, and with the same breath he added: “Felix wanted it for Gabi. He said Gabi should have it. That it would bring him the recognition he deserved.”
“Did he bring it from Holland?”
Herzl nodded. “Not Felix, me. I brought it. He couldn’t go, because of Nita. She was just about to give birth. He only went later. To check the authentication. But when the first telephone call came I flew there. Felix sent me. I’m the one he sent. Felix and me,” Herzl crossed his fingers, “we were like that. I understood him. But later he made a mistake.” Herzl shook his head. “He made a very big mistake.”
Michael listened for a long time to the torturous speech, with its digressions, detailed descriptions, associations, and regressions, until he grasped the nature of the argument between them. (“I said to him, Why Gabi and not Theo? Why don’t you tell Theo? He’s entitled, too. He was furious. He was so angry because I told him that if he was only going to tell Gabi, I would tell Theo first. I was angry, too. In the end I didn’t want to speak to him anymore. That’s why we closed the shop. And after that—after that he was dead,” he said almost with surprise.) In a stream of words that included a very detailed description of the city of Delft and its great church, and of Felix’s childhood friend, an antique furniture dealer, he described the old church organ this man had bought for Felix, who wanted to restore it. Herzl told about the dismantlement of the organ, about its double layer of wood, and about the manuscript.
“Inside the organ? The score was inside the organ?” asked Michael in a businesslike tone as he steadied his trembling hand.
“The antique dealer realized right away that this was a matter for an expert. He could see that the papers, which were tied up in a bundle with a cord, were old. But what they were he didn’t know. He only knows about furniture,” explained Herzl. “That’s why he phoned Felix. Felix couldn’t go. And we didn’t know how very, how very—”
“What’s the Dutchman’s name?”
“I’m not naming names,” declared Herzl. “You’re not family,” he explained in a friendly tone. “No names.”
“Did Nita know about this?”
“We didn’t tell Nita. What for?”
“And you killed Gabi, so that Theo would have the score.” Michael hoped that this gamble would shake Herzl into revealing more details.
Herzl looked at him astonished, as if Michael had taken leave of his senses. “Me?” he cried out amazed, and he gave Michael an almost pitying look. “Why should I do that? I’m against killing. I would never kill anyone.”
“But you left the hospital on the day Felix died.”
> “Of course I did,” said Herzl proudly as he raised his skinny neck. “There was a concert. How could I miss the first concert of the season? When all three of them were performing?”
“You were at the concert?” Michael overcame his astonishment and asked: “How did you get in? Did you have a ticket?”
Herzl waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need a ticket. I went in through the side entrance, like always.”
“Through the musicians’ entrance?”
“Up the stairs, at the end of the corridor in back,” he said he said as if it were self-evident.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Who?” asked Herzl indifferently. •
“Do you remember the flutist?”
“She played Vivaldi,” Herzl recalled. “The concerto La notte. It was all right.”
“Only all right?”
“I’ve heard the piece a few times in my life. She wasn’t anything special,” he said impatiently.
“Do you remember what she was wearing?”
Herzl looked at him incredulously. “You’re a strange person,” he said distantly. “What do you care what she was wearing? It wasn’t a beauty contest.”
“But she was beautiful,” said Michael, immediately regretting it. Why don’t you stop treating him like a child, he said to himself, and ask him outright for proof, for witnesses.
“A blue dress, kind of shiny,” murmured Herzl. “Like a fish.” And he suddenly shivered.
“It was also on television,” Michael reminded him.
“In the hospital they don’t let you watch so late. At home I don’t have television.”
“Did you see Felix there?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Herzl angrily. “And even if I did, let him look for me! Why should I look for him? He was in the wrong.”
“But was he sitting in his regular seat?”
“No. There were two other people sitting there,” said Herzl, offended. “They gave our seats to other people. That’s why I sat in row seventeen. But it was all right there, too.”
Michael offered him another cigarette, and he grabbed it eagerly and sucked on it like a nipple. He leaned back in bed, lowered his long white face, and plucked at the blanket. “How could I know he would die?” he lamented. “For six months I didn’t speak to him. I said to myself, If he wants me he can come to me. After the mother died there was no one to care about Theo. Only about Gabi. It’s not right to give it all to one child. You tell me. Am I right or not?” He raised his head.
“We found the painting at your apartment,” said Michael very quietly.
“What painting?” asked Herzl innocently.
“The Vanitas that was in Felix’s house. The Dutch painting.”
“With the skull? At my apartment?” asked Herzl, surprised. With open curiosity, without a hint of fear, he asked: “How did it get there?”
“We found it in the kitchen cabinet behind the cocoa and the brandy.”
“Who put it there?” asked Herzl.
“I thought you might know.”
“I really don’t know,” said Herzl, puzzled. “That’s not a good place for a painting. Those cabinets are sometimes damp. They’re never opened.”
“Who had a key to your apartment?”
“Just Felix,” said Herzl resentfully “I wanted to take it away from him, after he wouldn’t agree about Theo, but I decided not to talk to him. He would have thought it was an excuse to speak to him,” he explained.
At any moment, Michael knew, there could be an unexpected outburst. At any moment the clear and indifferent flow of words might suddenly be cut off. As if treading in a minefield, he took care not to say the words “Vivaldi” or “requiem,” and Herzl, too, named no names. Something told him to keep the subject vague until he understood the particulars.
“Gabi came to see me,” Herzl suddenly said with great weariness, and he laid his trembling head down again on the striped pillow. “He came to see me here. That’s why I was so angry with Theo. He didn’t even look for me to tell me Felix was dead. Only Gabi came. He wanted to know what you want to know. Felix had told him about the manuscript some time before he died. They went to Meyuhas because he’s a copyright lawyer. I already knew that Felix had told Gabi. Felix told me everything. He didn’t lie.”
“And Theo? He didn’t tell Theo about it?”
“I told Theo,” Herzl confessed, and he looked around fearfully.
“When? When did you tell Theo?”
“Before . . . the last time he came to see me. After we closed the shop. After Felix refused to agree. Two or three or four months ago, I think.”
“After Gabi already knew?”
“I told him because Felix took Gabi to see the lawyer. That’s why I told him.”
“A manuscript like that is worth millions, right?”
Herzl shrugged his shoulders. “Of course,” he said indifferently.
“Did you tell him it was by Vivaldi? What exactly did you tell him?”
Herzl sat up at once, and he looked at Michael as if he were just realizing that he had been poisoned. “I’m not talking to you anymore,” he announced. “You know nothing and understand nothing. I’m not saying another word. Not another word. Not even if you kill me. What can you do to me?” he demanded defiantly.
“Where is the manuscript now?” asked Michael.
Herzl lay down with his eyes closed, and he clamped his mouth shut.
Michael put the pack of cigarettes down next to the bed. Herzl opened his eyes, looked to the side, shook his head, pretended not to see the cigarettes, and closed his eyes again.
“You know that Gabi was murdered,” Michael ventured. But Herzl didn’t move. “Do you want Theo to be murdered, too?”
Herzl only tightened his narrow lips and breathed rhythmically.
“Have you got a tape recorder here?” Michael asked Zippo, who was standing in the corridor reading the notes pinned to the cork board hanging on the wall near the nurses’ station.
Zippo felt in his pocket. “Sure I have. I took it along this morning. I never move without it.”
“So switch it on and go sit next to him. Does he talk to you?”
“Sure. All the time.”
“What?” Michael was amazed. “What do you talk about?”
“All kinds of things,” said Zippo. “About his childhood in Bulgaria. Did you know that he was in an orphanage until he was six?” Zippo clucked sympathetically. “Poor guy. He hasn’t got a soul in the world. We talk about everything. About women, about why I won’t let him have a cigarette. He’s actually a very nice guy. And he’s not stupid. He understands everything you say to him. I tell him about Jerusalem in the old days. You know, in the days when—”
“And did you tape it?” Michael interrupted him.
“No, actually I didn’t.” Zippo bowed his head. “I didn’t know it was relevant—”
“Everything’s relevant!” Michael said in a choked whisper. “Do you hear? Everything!”
Zippo tugged at the ends of his mustache in evident discomfort and looked at Michael nervously. “Believe me,” he pleaded, “it was all just ordinary talk, like between ordinary people.”
“You’re going back in there now,” said Michael.
Zippo nodded quickly.
“And you’ll start talking to him again. Get him to talk about the van Gelden family, about Theo van Gelden and about Theo and Gabi. Get him to tell you about his trip abroad. Ask him about Holland. Have you ever been to Holland?”
“Not Holland,” Zippo admitted. “A year ago my wife and I went on a group tour to London and Paris. It was very nice. Two weeks. We saw everything. But we didn’t go to Holland. We thought maybe next year. . . .”
Michael recovered his composure and restrained his impatience. “Very nice,” he said. “So ask him where in Holland you should go on your trip. Things like that. Get him to talk to you about the city of Delft.”
“Delft,” repeated Zippo.
“Get him to tell you about his last visit there. You’ll have to be very cunning,” Michael warned.
“No problem,” said Zippo, beaming.
“And get him to tell you in detail about the church there, and about any antique dealers he knows in Delft. Record every word, do you hear?”
“No problem,” Zippo again assured him. “Delft,” he repeated to himself. “Funny names they’ve got over there. Delft!”
14
A Torso
Izzy Mashiah trailed obediently after Michael until they reached the administrative wing of the concert hall building. But as they passed the row of musicians’ lockers, he hurried past him and stopped at the locker that still bore Gabriel van Gelden’s name. He touched it, swallowed hard, and walked on ahead to the orchestra manager’s office. At the door he stepped aside and let Michael go in first. Inside, Balilty was already waiting. He sat in an uncharacteristically erect posture opposite the nervous-looking manager, studying tables and columns of figures on a long computer printout, which had fallen to his feet and snaked across the green carpet, ending up in the hands of Sergeant Ya’ir, who raised his eyes at their arrival and solemnly explained: “This is the detailed balance sheet for last season. Income, expenses, subsidies, losses.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Michael, alarmed. “Where are Nita and Theo?”
“She isn’t feeling well,” explained Ya’ir calmly. “She couldn’t stay in Zichron Yaakov. We had to take’ her home. We even thought of getting an ambulance, but finally I brought her in the van.”
“And Theo?”
“He stayed there. He’s with that German singer. Eli will bring them back later. They’ll need transportation, but . . .” he nodded at Balilty, “the chief said he’d take care of it.”
“And where is she now?”
“Miss van Gelden? She’s at home. I took her there. She could hardly walk. Tzilla was waiting for her at her apartment. A babysitter’s there, too. She’s not alone,” he added quickly when he saw Michael’s eyes. “At Beit-Lillian they called a doctor. I wanted to call an ambulance to take her to the emergency room, but she wouldn’t hear of—”
