I sat on the couch and smoked while she clacked away on her keys with impressive speed. A number of newspapers lay on a low table, and I riffled through them, catching up on the news. Shmuel Birnbaum had a column on the condition of Jewish refugees still stuck in various ports and camps in Europe, desperate to be allowed to come to Israel. He had a good writing style—factual, direct, without the proclivity to flowery language that some of his colleagues suffered from.

While I waited, four men in button-down shirts and ties wandered singly or in pairs in and out from adjacent offices, handing papers to the secretary or grabbing a cup of coffee from the small kitchen. None spoke to me. Maybe they were used to having people waiting.

After twenty-five minutes, the door to Mr. Strauss's office opened and out stepped two men. One was tall and slim, with a full head of metallic gray hair; the other shorter, fatter, with thinning hair combed desperately over his bald pate. They shook hands and exchanged a few parting pleasantries before the fat man walked to the hat stand, retrieved his homburg, and left.

The tall, slim man—Mr. Strauss, I presumed—was turning to go back into his office when his secretary called to him, informing him that he had a visitor. I crushed out the cigarette I'd been smoking, got up, and strode over to him. He watched me approach with an inscrutable expression on his face.

He wore a navy blue shirt tucked into belted gray slacks and black shoes polished to a high gloss. A masculine Adam's apple bulged above the knot of his red tie. His clothes were new and expensive and had either been ironed recently or he didn't make any sudden moves while he was in them. The watch on his left wrist gleamed money. He had a narrow face with sharp features—a long, straight nose, pointed chin without a trace of stubble, pronounced cheekbones, a slash of a mouth, and piercing blue eyes under widely spaced eyebrows. He was between fifty and fifty-five, fit and preserved, with an erect bearing that hinted at vanity. He was five inches shorter than I was, but still gave the impression of looking down at me. He didn't ask who I was or what he could do for me, but waited for me to speak.

"Mr. Strauss, my name is Adam Lapid. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time."

His eyes went over my hair, face, and clothes. He didn't seem to find much he approved of.

"I'm very busy, Mr. Lapid. If this is a legal matter, Dana can see whether one of my junior associates is free to see you." His tone was that of a man speaking to an inferior, one he had no patience for.

"It's not a legal matter, Mr. Strauss. It's regarding one of your former employees. Esther Kantor."