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.

22

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.