The Literary Murder by Batya Gur

Author:Batya Gur
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper Paperbacks
Published: 2020-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

12

When Tzilla finally answered the phone, she had nothing new to tell him. Eli Bahar had not yet returned from Tirosh’s house; the polygraph technician was testing Yael Eisenstein. “Ariyeh Klein’s looking for you,” said Tzilla. “He phones every hour and begs to talk to you—he sounds desperate. I had to restrain myself from telling him where you were.” Michael promised that he would contact him. “He’s at home all day, till half past three, and then he’s coming here for the polygraph,” she reminded him. Michael was on the ground floor of the Humanities Building. Near him, at another telephone, a young girl was standing and whispering into the mouthpiece. He looked at the silk trousers and T-shirt she was wearing, and she sensed his eyes on her and turned around.

And what have you got to tell me? he thought as he dialed Ariyeh Klein’s number. The initial digits identified the neighborhood as Rehavia. Naturally, where else, he thought, with a mother in Rosh Pinna, salt-of-the-earth, pioneering stock—where else would he live but Rehavia? The line was busy; Michael remembered that Ariyeh Klein had three daughters, and he asked himself how long it would take to get through. He looked at his watch and waited. Fifteen minutes later, at a quarter past one, the line was free and Ariyeh Klein answered the phone. “Mr. Ohayon,” he said with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been looking for you since yesterday; it’s of the utmost importance that we should speak.” Michael noticed the pure, correct Hebrew of a native of Rosh Pinna. But he also remembered the friendly informality of Klein’s lectures, their meeting in the corridor on Mount Scopus after the discovery of Tirosh’s body, his terror in the face of death, and the clever eyes of this big man—all this banished the hostility aroused in him by Rosh Pinna and Rehavia and the polished Hebrew. The main reason why Michael accepted Klein’s invitation to go to his house in El Harizi Street was curiosity, the childish curiosity that came from not yet having overcome entirely the teacher-pupil relationship between them. He didn’t deny to himself his wish to become familiar with the man, although he knew that this was not the reason he would give to his teammates if they were to ask him.

Alfandari said nothing when Michael informed him: “We’re going back. I’ll take my own car from the Compound. See that Tzilia gets today’s material; I want it typed up right away, and I want Tuvia Shai brought in for another polygraph test. I never said anything to him about it being inconclusive.” By the way Raffi tightened his lips, Michael knew that he was being criticized. “You think we should arrest him,” he said.

Alfandari stared ahead at the road, as if he were driving in the dark.

“He’s not going to run away,” Michael consoled him.

Only after parking the station wagon in the lot at the Russian Compound did Alfandari say: “No. I know he’s not going to run away,” and added hesitantly: “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.

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