Selected Detective
A FUTILE EXCAVATION

The envelope was already waiting for YUNIS ABU JISH When it awoke at dawn, tucked from under the door of his house, without him knowing who had sent it, how and when. In it there is a simple note typed, reporting that his martyrdom will be realized within the next six days. At five o'clock in the afternoon he must be outside the pay phone at the corner of Abu Tareb and Ibn Khaldun streets in east Jerusalem, where he will receive the final command.

He read the note three times then, as instructed, took it out towards the small, dirty alley behind the house and set it on fire. As soon as his paper rolled up, blackened and turned to ashes, he felt a sudden rush from within his stomach. Falling on all fours, he vomited uncontrollably.

Three Days Later

“WHAT IS IT? WHAT DID YOU FIND?”

Khalifa thrust her body into the bars of the veranda fence, her voice so excited.

“Bicycle frames, o inspector.”

“Damn it! You sure?”

“I guess my people know what a bike looks like when they see it.”

“Choose right!” The detective threw out his half-burned cigarette and stomped on it with his toe, grumbling resentfully at what was found this last time. In front of him, leaning on their turia among the ruins of Dieter Hoth's garden, a well-groomed grove of roses and a smooth grassy courtyard were now disheveled with trenches and pits, sand and mud mounds here and there, four dozen porters in a djelabba full of dirt stains. Three days and three nights they had been digging, Gurnawis Fellaheen, peasant from a number of villages on the west bank of the Nile, the best digger in Egypt. When there is anything buried in the garden, they are the ones who take it out. But now they have found nothing, just a few concrete pipelines, the rest of the old wooden shaduf, and now, part of the bike. Wherever Dieter Hoth hid Menorah, it was definitely not there. Because, deep down, Khalifa always knew what it would look like.

He watched the chaos before him, disappointed and tired; then, while lighting his other cigarette he signaled to the leader of the workers that they just stop and take care of all the tools. The detective then turned around and went back into the villa. Here too the scene was a mess: half the floorboards were peeling, stacks of books and papers were scattered everywhere, the chipped holes in the walls and white-plastered ceilings are the remains of a three-day on-going intense search. Three days of searching were in vain, for nothing was found here either: there was no Menorah, no sign of where he was, not even a single mention of the thing.

Standing in an alleyway, with a cigarette tucked away on her lips, and observing the surroundings, Khalifa finally admitted that she had reached the end. Jansen's office at the Menna-Ra hotel, which is a play on the words of Menorah, has only realised that now his former home is in Alexandria, even his blue Mercedes: everything has been investigated and everything is fruitful Mafeesh Haga nil. The only other possibility, which was kept by Hoth's friend Inga Gratz when Khalifa interviewed him the night before, for a moment has not been made clear.

Khalifa remained in the villa for another twenty minutes, taking aimless walks from room to room, it is uncertain whether he should feel relieved that he has done what he can and can now leave the place with complete honor, or disappointed that he has not gained more results. Then, while observing the surroundings of the house, he returns to the station, calls Ben-Roi and reports that his search has failed. The Israeli was not happy. From their conversations over the past few days rigid, rough, monosyllabic it seems clear that the end of his investigation will not be better than Khalifa produced. Time and choice were getting narrower, and the Lamp was still hidden.

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