The Shadow Man (10 page)

‘That she had seen—’ He stopped, correcting himself, … that she believed she had seen a man she called—’

The rabbi interrupted: ‘Der Schattenmann.’

‘That’s right.’

Silence gripped the phone line.

‘Rabbi?’ Winter asked.

There was another hesitation before the rabbi spoke ice words.

‘He will kill us all.’

Rabbi Chaim Rubinstein lived in a modest high-rise condominium on the wrong side of Ocean Drive, its view of the sea mostly blocked by two larger, more imposing buildings. From the best apartments, Winter saw, there would be just a sliver of pallid blue available to the eye. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish the old building from dozens like it up and down Miami Beach, stretching into Fort Lauderdale, Delray, up to the Palm Beaches, save its name: The Royal Palm. There was, of course, nothing royal about the building, nor did he see

any palms, except for a single, unassuming potted tree drooping in the lobby.

Winter rode the elevator up to the sixth floor and stepped into the hallway. A blandly irritating Muzak played through tinny speakers in the ceiling. The corridor itself employed a depressing uniformity: a beige carpet, flower-print wallpaper, a seemingly endless series of white doors, notable only for the gold-plated numerals in the center of each.

He knocked at number 602 and waited. He could hear locks being disengaged, and the door opened partway, still secured by a chain.

‘Mr Winter?’

‘Rabbi?’

‘Could you show me some identification? With a picture

on it?’

Simon Winter nodded, reached into his wallet and produced his driver’s license. He held this up for the rabbi to inspect.

‘Thank you,’ the man said after a moment. He closed the door to release the chain, and then opened it wide. ‘Please come in. Thank you for coming.’

The two men shook hands. Rabbi Rubinstein was a short, thin man, but without the bony, cadaverous look of an aesthete. He sported a shaggy, curly mane of gray hair that toppled over his ears, and black-rimmed eyeglasses that were perched at the end of his nose. Through these he examined Simon Winter for an instant, then, with a wave, he directed Winter into the living room.

Winter saw the elderly couple sitting on a white couch, behind a glass coffee table, waiting for him. They rose as

he entered.

‘This is Mr Irving Silver and Mrs Frieda Kroner,’ the rabbi said. Winter stepped forward and shook hands. Mrs

Kroner, thickset, wearing white slacks and a bulky sweater that made her seem twice the rabbi’s size, immediately sat back down and poured him a cup of coffee. Mr Silver was a small, round man, nearly bald, who nervously drummed his fingers against his knee when he returned to his seat on the couch. Winter glanced around for an instant. He saw a bookcase and quickly read titles. There were some works on Judaica, a great number of histories of various aspects of the Holocaust, and a smattering of contemporary thrillers and horror novels. The rabbi caught his eye and said:

‘So, most of the time I study and learn, Mr Winter. I try to understand these events that I was a small part of. It is what I have devoted my retirement to. But sometimes I, too, like to read something by Stephen King. This is not terrible. All the supernatural monsters and evil things he writes about, they cannot truly exist, can they? They are not real, and yet, he makes it seem as if they do, and that is most interesting, isn’t it? We all like a good scare once in a while, do we not? It’s entertaining.’

‘I suppose so,’ Winter answered.

‘It is much easier, some nights, Mr Winter, to read of terrors that jump from a man’s imagination, that are fantasy, than to study horrors that truly happened.’ He pointed at a row of books examining the Holocaust.

The detective nodded. … Or are still happening,’ the rabbi added.

The rabbi swept him into a chair with a gesture. Mrs Kroner handed him the cup of black coffee. She did not ask whether he cared for sugar or cream. He saw Irving Silver shift in his seat, leaning forward. His hands shook slightly as he rattled his cup into the saucer on the table in front of him. Winter saw a pale restraint in Irving Silver’s face as he looked toward the rabbi with nervous need. The

rabbi nodded, and then asked:

‘So, tell us, Mr Winter. Tell us about what Sophie told

you.’

The rabbi had an odd voice, one that started with a gravelly, deep tone, and then rose sharply with each word, so that at the end of his question, it was high-pitched and insistent.

‘I can only repeat what I told you on the phone, Rabbi. She came to me in a panic. She believed that she had seen this man that she remembered from fifty years ago. She felt it was her responsibility to warn the three of you. And then later last night, she was killed—’

‘Yes. Yes. The junkie,’ Mr Silver interrupted. His voice was shrill. ‘Isn’t that what they still call some addict? We read about that in the paper. It was on the noon news too. He broke in and then he killed her and stole some things! The police are searching for him now! There was no mention of Der Schattenmann!’

Rabbi Rubinstein glared at Irving Silver, and asked Winter: ‘So, how sure was Sophie, may she rest in peace, of the man she saw?’

Winter hesitated before replying, looking at the frightened eagerness in the three faces in front of him. He had the feeling that he was entering in the midst of an argument that had been going on for weeks, which he suspected was precisely the case.

‘At first, when she knocked on my door, she seemed afraid enough to be certain. As she calmed down, she seemed less sure.’

He stopped abruptly.

‘See?’ Irving Silver insisted sharply. ‘She didn’t know for sure! None of us know for sure!’

The rabbi shook his head slowly. ‘Irving, please. Let Mr Winter finish. Bear with us, Mr Winter. We do not want to

believe this man is here. Now. Today.’

“He should be dead!’ Mr Silver interjected swiftly. ‘How could he not be dead? And why here? Why now? No, he must be dead! He could not have survived!’

Frieda Kroner frowned at Mr Silver. Then she spoke for the first time. Traces of German hid in her accent.

‘He is here, you old fool! And where else would he be?’

‘But we are the people he once …’

‘That is correct,’ she said coldly. ‘He killed many of us once. And now, he is doing it again. This is to be expected. Why are you so surprised? Does a man who hates so much ever really stop? Poor Sophie. When he saw her, she didn’t have a chance. Nobody ever, did.’

A large tear dropped down her round cheek. She sat back hard, folding her arms across her ample bosom, making no effort to wipe it away.

Simon Winter held up a hand.

‘Mrs Kroner … there’s no indication that someone other than the suspect the police are searching for is involved in Sophie’s death …’

‘If he saw her, he wouldn’t hesitate. He would act swiftly. And she would die. And this is what happened.’

The woman spoke with a bitter finality, forcing Winter to hesitate, his mind racing with questions, as he told himself to move slowly.

‘There was a letter. Sophie told me about a Herman Stein who killed himself. He allegedly saw this man as well?’

Again there was a small silence in the room.

Rabbi Rubinstein nodded his head gently.

‘We talked, but we could not agree. It is hard to believe.’

‘You have the letter?’

‘Yes.’ The rabbi reached down and picked up a copy of Raul Hilberg’s The Destruction of the European Jews, which

was resting next to the coffee service. The letter was inside the book. He handed it to Simon Winter, who swiftly read:

Rabbi:

I know of you through Rabbi Samuelson at Temple Beth-el, who gave me your name and told me that you were once a Berliner, as I was, many, many years ago.

You, perhaps, will remember a man we knew in those sad times only as Der Schattenmann. This was the person who found my family, when we hid out in the city, in 1942. He saw to our deportation to Auschwitz.

I hoped that this man was dead, along with all the others. But it is not so! Two days ago I attended a large meeting of the Surfside Condominiums Association and accidentally saw him in the audience, sitting two rows behind me! He is here. I am certain of it.

Rabbi, who am I to call?

What am I to do?

It is wrong that this man still lives and I feel I must do something. My mind is black with questions, clouded with fears. Can you help me?

The letter was signed by Herman Stein, who also gave his address and telephone number.

Simon Winter looked up from the single sheet of paper and the handwritten message.

‘The letter arrived?’

‘Three days after Mr Stein’s death. All the way from Surfside, this is not far, it is not Alaska or the South Pole, but the postal service does not deliver the letter until three days after it was written. Such a thing.’

The rabbi’s lip quivered slightly.

‘I was too late to help this poor Mr Stein.’

‘And?’

‘I contacted the police. And I called Mr Silver and Mrs Kroner and of course your neighbor.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘I spoke with a detective who made a copy of the letter, but who told me that Mr Stein, whom I didn’t know, had lived alone for many years and all his neighbors had been worried for him of late, because he seemed so sad. Moping about. Talking to himself—’

‘Acting crazy just as if death was standing beside him,’ Frieda Kroner interjected.

The rabbi nodded. ‘The detective told me Mr Stein had written a suicide note before he shot himself and that was that, he could not help me further. He was a nice man, this detective, but I think he was busy with many other things and not so interested in my problems. He showed me Mr Stein’s suicide note.’

‘Do you remember—’

‘Of course. How can you forget such a thing? I can still see the words, right in my memory. It was one sentence only: “I am tired of life, and miss my beloved Hanna and so I go to join her now.” That was all. He shot himself. The detective told me. One time, right in the forehead.’

‘The forehead?’

‘That is what the policeman said.’ The rabbi tapped the space just above his eyebrows as he spoke.

‘You’re sure? Did you read the detective’s crime scene notes? Did they show you any of the crime scene photographs? Did you see the autopsy protocol?’

The rabbi arched a single eyebrow upward at the quick array of questions.

‘No. He just told me this. He showed me nothing. A protocol?’

Simon Winter started to ask another question, then stopped. He thought: the forehead. Not the temple. Not the

mouth, as he had selected for himself in what seemed years beforehand. In his mind’s eye he tried to envision holding a pistol in that position. Awkward. Not impossible. Not even improbable. But awkward and why would anyone make their own suicide awkward? His immediate answer to this question was that the rabbi had misunderstood the detective.

The rabbi looked over at him sharply. ‘You know of such things, Mr Winter?’

‘Yes. For two decades I was a policeman for the City of Miami. I retired to the Beach a number of years ago. So, yes, it has been a long time, but I still know of such things, Rabbi.’

‘You were a policeman?’ Mr Silver asked hurriedly. ‘And now?’

‘And now I’m just another old person on the Beach, Mr Silver.’

Rabbi Rubinstein snorted. ‘This is why Sophie went to you.’

‘Yes. I suppose so. She was afraid, and she knew I had a gun.’ Winter took a deep breath. ‘She thought I could help her.’

‘I am going to get a gun too,’ Irving Silver said defiantly. ‘And I think we should all go get one and be able to defend ourselves!’

‘What do I know of guns?’ Frieda Kroner interrupted. ‘And what do you know, you old fool? More than likely, you will shoot yourself, or your neighbor, or the delivery boy who brings your heart medicine from the pharmacy.’

‘Yes, but maybe I will shoot him first, when he comes for me!’

This statement brought a silence crashing into the room.

Simon Winter looked at the three faces in front of him.

The rabbi seemed exhausted by fear and sadness; Mrs Kroner’s eyes captured a combination of despair and defiance; while Mr Silver covered the terror he felt with anger. The rabbi spoke first.

‘You must forgive us, Mr Winter. Sophie was our friend and we are in mourning. But we are also upset, and now, I think, we are afraid as well.’

‘There’s no need to apologize, Rabbi. But why is it that you are so convinced that she was killed by this man? The police have a witness, another neighbor, who saw the perpetrator fleeing the murder scene. A young black man.’

‘You believe this?’ Irving Silver demanded.

‘An eyewitness,’ Winter replied sharply. ‘He chased the man into an alley.’

The rabbi shook his head. ‘I am confused, Mr Winter. And confusion only seems to make me more uncertain and afraid. Mr Stein says he sees Der Schattenmann and then he dies. A suicide. Sophie says she sees Der Schattenmann and then she dies, killed by some unknown black man. This is a mystery to me, Mr Winter. You are the detective. Tell us: can such odd coincidences occur?’

Simon Winter paused before replying. ‘Rabbi, for many years I was a homicide detective—’

‘Yes, yes, but answer the question!’ Irving Silver interrupted. He opened his mouth again, but Frieda Kroner snapped an elbow into his ribs.

‘Let the man speak!’ she whispered harshly.

Winter let quiet fill the room while he considered his response. ‘Let me say this. Coincidences do occur. Fantastic, unbelievable coincidences. All detectives remember remarkable events, things that no one could have anticipated in a million years. In homicide work, these things are, if not commonplace, at least familiar. But, that said,

you should understand that the vast majority of deaths are perfectly routine and straightforward. It is important to always search for the simple answer first, because in almost every case, that is the truth of the death.’

‘So what you’re saying is—’ Irving Silver broke in.

‘Let him finish!’ Frieda Kroner said, exasperated. Again she jabbed at Irving Silver’s ribs. ‘You rude old man!’ she chastened him.