The Shadow Man (3 page)

‘He will kill me,’ she said blankly, her voice filled with resignation. ‘I must warn the others.’ There was a dryness, like leather stretched to cracking, in her words.

‘Mrs Millstein, please, no one is going to kill you. I won’t let them.’

Sophie Millstein seemed to have locked her gaze straight forward, as if Simon Winter was no longer in the room. After a moment, her body quivered, almost as if she was physically struck by some memory. She turned slowly

toward the old detective and nodded.

‘I was so young and I was so scared. We all were, I suppose. It was such an unlucky time, Mr Winter. We were all in hiding and no one thought they would live much beyond the next minute or so. It’s a terrible thing, Mr Winter, when you’re young and everywhere you hide, death seems to track you.’

Simon Winter nodded. He needed her to keep talking, thinking that eventually she would steer herself back to the present. ‘Please, continue.’

‘A year ago,’ Sophie Millstein said slowly, ‘a man named Herman Stein who lived in Surf side killed himself.’ Her voice had flattened once again. ‘At least, that is what we were told by the police, because he shot himself with a gun…’,

Winter thought: like I planned to do. ‘Yes?’

‘After he died, after the police came and the funeral home and his relatives sat shiva and all those things took place, a letter arrived at Rabbi Rubinstein’s home. Do you know the rabbi, Mr Winter?’

‘No.’

‘He is old, like me. Retired. And he got a letter from a dead man, mailed a few days before. And this, Mr Herman Stein, who I didn’t know, I mean, why should I? He lived up in Surfside, which is how many blocks away, Mr Winter? Seventy? Eighty? Like another world. He sends a letter to the rabbi, whom he knows just ever so little, because once he learns that the rabbi, he too once comes from Berlin, like this man, and he too lives through the camps, which is almost impossible and this man I don’t know named Mr Stein says in his letter: I have seen Der Schattenmann. And the rabbi, of course, he knows this name, and so he finds me, and a few others, Mrs Kroner and Mr Silver, who also were once Berliners, and that’s all

he can find, because we are all growing so old now, Mr Winter, there are so few of us left, and there were so few of us to survive in the first place, and he brings us together, and we read the letter, but who knows what to do? There is no police to call. There is no one to help us, and of course we don’t know what to believe anyways. Who would think he would be here, Mr Winter? Of all places. Here. And so, months pass and every so often I go to the rabbi’s house and we all sit together and talk, but this is not the things that people like to remember so much, Mr Winter. Until today, because, just like this poor Mr Herman Stein from Surfside who I did not know, who is now dead, I too see him here, and now he will kill me too.’

Sophie Millstein’s cheeks were laced with tears, and her voice was whispered fear.

‘Where’s Leo?’ the old woman said. ‘I wish Leo were here.’

‘This man, this Mr Herman Stein, he committed suicide?’

“Yes. No. That is what the police said, Mr Winter. But now, tonight, right now I am thinking something different.’

‘And the others, the rabbi…’

“I need to call them.’

Sophie Millstein suddenly looked about wildly.

‘My book. My little book with all my numbers. It’s in my apartment…’

Til go with you. It will be all right.’

Sophie Millstein nodded and gulped the remains of her iced tea down.

‘Could I be wrong, Mr Winter? You were a policeman. It’s been fifty years, and I just saw him for that tiny little moment before they slammed the door closed. Fifty years ad people change so much. Could I be wrong?’

She shook her head.

‘I want to be wrong, Mr Winter. I am praying I am wrong.’

He did not know what to say, so he remained silent. He thought: She is probably mistaken. But the story she’d told was unsettling, and he was unsure what to make of Mr Herman Stein’s suicide. Why would an old man kill himself after posting a letter? Maybe he was simply old and feeling useless, like I was. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was tired of life. Maybe a hundred reasons; when one is filled to overflow with sorrow, they don’t shed only a single tear. He did not know, but he suddenly wanted to learn. Winter felt within him a sensation that he’d thought had disappeared, erased by retirement and the steady passage of time. It was a quickening in his core, where his neighbor’s words and the panicky look in her eyes became factors in an equation, and he felt compelled, like some electronic calculator being fed information, to come up with an answer.

‘Mrs Millstein, whether you’re right or wrong is not important. What’s important is that you’ve received a scare and you need to speak with your friends. Then you need to get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning, when everyone is refreshed, we should get to the bottom of all this.’

‘You will help me?’

‘Of course. That is what neighbors are for.’

Sophie Millstein nodded gratefully and reached out her arm, placing her hand on Winter’s wrist. He glanced down and, for the first time in all the years he’d known her, noticed the fading blue tattoo on her forearm. A-1742. The seven was in Germanic style, serpentine, with a cross mark.

Night had closed with determination.

Simon Winter and Sophie Millstein walked across the courtyard, enveloped by the relentless dark. Heat like ribbons of silk wrapped around the two of them. In the center of the courtyard there was a statue of a half-naked cherub playing a trumpet. The cherub had once graced a small water fountain, but this had been dry for years. The apartment complex was small, a pair of identical tan stucco two-story buildings that faced each other. They had been built in the Miami Beach boom time of the 1920s, and there were certain Art Deco touches - an arched entranceway, rounded windows, an almost sensuous curve to the facade - that gave the buildings a femininity, like the soft shape of a longtime lover’s embrace.

Age and unrelenting sun had treated the apartments roughly; some paint flaked from the walls, air conditioners rattled rather than hummed, doors creaked and stuck, their jambs swollen by the cycles of tropical humidity. Outside by the street was a faded sign: the sunshine arms. Simon Winter had always appreciated the won-drously fractured metaphor, and he had been comfortable in the familiar decrepitude of the buildings.

Sophie Millstein paused outside the door.

‘You will go first?’ she asked.

Winter took the key from her hand and slipped it into the dead-bolt lock.

‘Shouldn’t you take out your gun?’

He shook his head. She had insisted he bring his weapon, which he had, but he felt brandishing it was slightly foolish, and he had enough experience to know that Sophie Millstein’s fear had made him jumpy and nervous as well. Put the gun in his hand, and he would be likely to shoot Mr and Mrs Kadosh or old Harry Finkel, her upstairs neighbors.

‘No,’ he said. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

‘The light switch is on the wall,’ she said, which he knew, because the layout of her apartment was a mirror of his own. He reached out with his hand and flicked on the lights.

‘Jesus!’ Simon Winter screeched in sudden surprise.

A gray-white shape raced through his legs.

‘What the hell…’

‘Oh, Mr Boots, you naughty thing!’

Simon Winter turned and saw Sophie Millstein admonishing a large, fat cat, which was, in turn, rubbing against the old woman’s leg. ‘I’m sorry if he startled you, Mr Winter.’

She lifted the cat up into her arms. The animal eyed Winter with irritating feline complacency.

‘No. It’s fine,’ he said, feeling his heart thump away within his chest.

Sophie Millstein hung in the doorway, caressing the cat in her arms while Simon Winter inspected the apartment. A quick glance told him that they were alone, save for a parakeet in a cage in a corner of the living room, which made an irritating scratching sound as he passed by. He called out: ‘Everything’s okay, Mrs Millstein!’

‘Did you check the closet? Under the bed?’ she responded from the hallway.

Simon Winter sighed and said: ‘I’ll do that now.’ He went into her small bedroom and surveyed the scene. He felt an odd embarrassment, being in the room that Sophie Millstein had shared with her husband. He saw that she was a woman of organization; an off-white nightdress and robe were arranged at the foot of the bed. Her bureau top was clean. He saw a picture of Leo Millstein framed in black, and another photograph of what he immediately took to be Mrs Millstein’s son and his family. It was a

studio shot, everyone wearing jackets, ties, Sunday besi

frilly dresses. He noted a small jewelry box on the bureau.

a finely wrought brass container that some artisan had

spent time over. A family heirloom? He suspected so.

Winter went to the closet and opened the door, revealing

no intruder, but seeing that Sophie Millstein had kept

Leo’s supply of stolid dark brown and navy-blue suits,

each one like the next, hanging next to what seemed to be

a stockpile of flower-print dresses. There was also a silky

brown mink coat hanging in the corner, which Simon

Winter thought was not the sort of item that gets a helluva

lot of wear on Miami Beach, but which probably was

worth its weight in memories. He saw that Sophie Millstein’s shoes were carefully lined up on the floor, next to

her late husband’s.

Simon Winter turned away, looked once toward the picture of Leo Millstein, apologized under his breath, “Sorry, Leo. Don’t mean to intrude, but she asked…’ quickly bent down on one arthritic knee that immediately complained, and saw that no one was lurking beneath the bed. He noted, as well, that there were no little dust balls or ancient magazines shoved out of the way, as he might have found in his own apartment. Sophie Millstein, he considered, probably greeted a speck of dust or a smudge of dirt with the same scorn as a commanding general inspecting a slovenly soldier.

He called out again: ‘Everything’s okay, Mrs Millstein …’ and walked into the kitchen area. There was a sliding glass door just opposite the sink, which led to a small tile patio in the back. The patio was perhaps ten yards from a fence, and a back alley, where the garbage cans were located. He rattled the doors to make sure they were locked, and then walked to the living room.

Sophie Millstein met him there, still carrying the cat.

The color had returned to her face, and relief covered her words.

‘Mr Winter, I can’t say how much I appreciate this.’

‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Millstein.’

‘I should call the others now.’

‘I think that would be wise.’

He watched the old woman move across the living room, and thought that amongst her own knickknacks and photographs, with her cat and frilly pillows on a sofa, her own furniture and furnishings, probably the feeling of threat that had overtaken her was eroding quickly.

‘I always keep my telephone numbers right here,’ she said as she slid into a large easy chair. There was a yellow telephone on a small side table, next to the chair. She opened the single drawer in the table and produced a cheap red leather-bound address book.

He felt, abruptly, as if he were intruding.

‘Would you like me to leave?’ Simon Winter asked. ‘While you make your calls.’

She shook her head as she dialed the first number. She paused, then grimaced. ‘It’s the rabbi’s answering machine,’ she whispered. Then, a second later, she said in a loud, firm voice: ‘Rabbi? It’s Sophie. Please call me back. As soon as you can.’

The words themselves seemed to restore some of her urgency. She was breathing hard when she hung up the telephone. She turned and looked up at Simon Winter, who continued to stand awkwardly by her side.

‘Where could he be? It’s dark. He should be at home.’ ‘Perhaps he went out for a bite to eat.’ ‘Yes. That must be it.’ ‘Or a movie.’

‘Possibly. Or a meeting at the synagogue. Sometimes he still goes to the fund drives.’

‘There you have it.’

The innocence of these explanations did not seem to relieve her anxiety.

‘Are you going to call the others?’ Simon Winter asked. ‘I have to wait,’ Sophie Millstein responded nervously. ‘It’s Tuesday. On Tuesdays, Mr Silver takes Mrs Kroner to the bridge club over at the senior citizen center. He does this ever since we started our meetings with the rabbi.’ ‘Perhaps you want to make another call?’ To who?’

‘Your son? Maybe speaking with him would help you feel a bit better.’ ‘You’re very thoughtful, Mr Winter. I will do that in just

a moment.’

‘Do you have something to help you sleep? You’ve had quite a fright, and it might be difficult…’

‘Oh, yes, I have some little pills. Not to worry.’ ‘How about something to eat. Are you all set?’

‘Mr Winter, you’re too polite. Yes. I will be fine. I feel much better now that I’m home and safe.’ ‘I thought you might.’ ‘And tomorrow, you will help me? And the others.

To….’

‘… get to the bottom of all this. Of course.’ ‘What will you do?’

This was a good question, and he wasn’t precisely certain of the answer. ‘Well, Mrs Millstein, I think the least I can do is check out the circumstances surrounding Mr Stein’s death. At the same time, perhaps, we can all consider what it is exactly you want to do. Perhaps your friends and I can get together and we can map something

out.’

This prospect seemed to cheer Sophie Millstein. She

‘Leo,’ she said, ‘Leo was like you. He made decisions. Of course, he was a haberdasher, not a detective, so what would he know about solving this mystery, right, Mr Winter?’

‘I’ll leave you, then. Make sure you lock the door after I go out. And don’t hesitate to call if you’re still frightened. But I think a good night’s sleep would be best. Then a fresh start in the morning.’

‘Mr Winter, you are a complete gentleman. I will take a pill as soon as you leave.’

She rose and walked with him to the door. He saw the cat leap up into her chair, curling down into the spot made warm by her body.