USUALLY THE WALK FROM my house to the office takes me twenty-five minutes at the most, but this morning I was moving slowly, very slowly. The city — indeed, the country — was in the grip of a record-breaking heat wave, and already, at eight o’clock, the temperature was ninety degrees. The sky was a clear blue, except for a few flimsy clouds hanging over the lake in a weak, uncommitted way. It was so humid I could have wrung out the air and made a river.
The Daily Star had reported that fledgling seagulls nesting in a colony on top of the Toronto Bank building had been jumping off because the roof was too hot. As they were not yet able to fly, this was a disastrous move. I sym-pathized. Never mind the apples baking on the trees, I felt as if I could boil over myself. It didn’t help that I was wearing what I tended to think of as my “uniform”: a white cotton blouse with long sleeves and a prim collar, and a navy blue linen skirt. Mr. Gilmore, my boss, was a stickler for proper appearances — no bare arms, and hems had to hover closer to the ankles than the knees. At regular intervals, he would say, “Miss Frayne, you are the face of the company. When a prospective client enters the office, they want immediate reassurance that T. Gilmore and Associates, Private Investigators, are completely respectable.” He never failed to give me a sly grin at this point. “Add to that reasonable rates and we have a winning combination.”
In fact, I was the only other associate, and I still had my jobs as secretary and general dogsbody. I thought perhaps getting a swankier office with windows and decent chairs might improve the “face” considerably, but I hadn’t yet shared this insight with Mr. Gilmore. He was right about his winning combination: in spite of the depression, business was steady. We weren’t getting rich, but we were covering expenses. Perhaps clients drawn to the boast of “reasonable rates” didn’t expect a fancy decor.
One good thing about dressing like a respectable debutante was that I wore a hat with a wide brim. It helped to shade my face from the killing sun. Despite this helpful accessory, by the time I reached the Arcade, sweat was trickling down the back of my neck and my stockings were plastered to my legs.
When it was built over fifty years ago, the Arcade Building had been Toronto’s pride and joy. Like a lot of our early piles, it had a vaguely ecclesiastical look, with a huge arched entrance and elegant classical pilasters. In fact, it was then and is now devoted strictly to commercial operations. The red bricks are getting a touch shabby with age, but it is still impressive: four storeys high, with an inside atrium lit by overhead plate glass windows. In winter, the roof brought in yearned-for sunlight; fortunately now the owners had wisely installed an air-cooling system. Without it, the Arcade would have been a greenhouse fit only for tomatoes, and nobody would have been shopping. Smart shops, albeit small, were on the first and second floors, business offices on the third. There was a hydraulic elevator, but it was constantly out of service. Today was no exception. Stairs it was. In the humid heat, I climbed as if I were ancient. The offices of T. Gilmore and Associates were at the end of the hall, and I trudged past the three other tenants. Nobody seemed to have arrived as yet. All the doors had their “Closed” signs turned out.
I let myself into the office. To my surprise, Mr. Gilmore was already at his desk. He usually didn’t get in until nine at the earliest. As soon as I opened the door, he stood up and came to meet me. He looked terrible.
“Mr. Gilmore, what’s wrong?”
He was holding an envelope, and he handed it to me.
“Take a look.”
It was addressed to him: “Mr. T. Gilmore. The Yonge Street Arcade. 3rd floor. Suite B. Toronto.”
Bold black letters. Neat handwriting.
I took out the single piece of paper. Dead centre were the words:
Filthy Commie Jew. You deserve to die.
At the bottom were drawings of rats with vicious teeth. Each had a knife protruding from its side.
“Mr. Gilmore! What on earth is it about?”
“A good question, Miss Frayne.”
“Why would anybody send you such a letter?”
“I was wondering the same thing. All I can think of is that I have been mistaken for somebody else. I live in a neighbourhood where there are people of the Hebrew persuasion.”
“And it was here when you came in?”
“It was in the letter box. As you can see, the envelope isn’t franked. It was a private delivery.”
“Have you received any other letters like this?”
“Not at all. This one has the dubious distinction of being the first.”
“Has anybody else in the neighbourhood been targeted?”
“Not that I am aware of.” He reached out for the paper. His hand was shaking. He noticed and steadied himself. “It is not something they might want to reveal.” He gave me his typical wry smile. “I know these people, Miss Frayne. If they can ignore such nastiness, it might go away. Mr. Hitler is capitalizing on this trait over in Germany.”
I felt a pang of shame. I was well aware of what was going on in Europe. I knew laws were being enacted against the Jews — book burnings, discrimination — but like a lot of us in Canada, I sort of hoped it would go away. Or that they would deal with it over there. These days I was wrapped up in what was happening in my own country, where unemployed men were being jailed for no good reason except that they were protesting their desperate condition. Besides, since the Christie Pits riot three years ago, overt anti-Semitism in Toronto seemed to have abated. “Should we contact the police?”
He made a burring noise. “What will they say? ‘Let us know if you receive any further such missives’?”
“But there is an implied threat.”
“As you say, implied only. There has been no violence to my person or my property.”
Technically, he was correct, but holding that piece of paper in my hand it didn’t feel quite like that. It was an attack all right.
“But …”
He was already replacing the letter inside the envelope. “I should not have shown you. I was taken off guard for a moment. There is nothing you can do. And, as I say, a case of mistaken identity.”
“I can speak to the other tenants. Somebody might have noticed whoever delivered it.”
“Not likely. It could have come any time after we closed last evening. The Arcade is open to the public. Dozens of people linger in here to escape the heat. Besides, even if somebody were to have seen our private postman, and even if we found such person, it doesn’t mean he was the one who wrote the letter.”
“You say it is a case of mistaken identity and that you are not personally being targeted. How do you know that?”
He blinked. “Because quite simply, Miss Frayne, I do not consider myself to be a filthy Jew, Communist or not.”
Mr. Gilmore was middle-aged, round of chin and girth with grey hair that he combed across his balding head. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. Usually, his conservative blue suit was well pressed. This morning he looked no different, except that he was in his shirt sleeves and he had a couple of angry scratches along his jawline.
I indicated the marks. “What happened to your chin?”
“Oh, that.” He touched the scratches gingerly. “I had an argument with a rose bush. I wanted to confine it, and it had other ideas. Roses can be like that.”
He gazed down at the envelope in his hand. “I should probably burn this thing.”
“No, don’t do that. Give it to me, and I’ll lock it in my desk. If, God forbid, any more show up, I will personally make sure I find the culprit if it’s the last thing I do.”
His eyes met mine. “Thank you, Miss Frayne. Your concern warms my heart.” He handed over the letter. “Perhaps we can keep this between ourselves?”
“Of course.”
I opened my desk drawer and consigned the envelope to the back.
Mr. Gilmore pursed his lips. “I think I ought to check in at home. Just in case the postman has also paid a visit there. I do not want my wife to be upset. She does not tolerate the heat well, and she is rather fragile these days.” He got his hat and jacket from the stand. “I suggest we get on with business, Miss Frayne. Always the best antidote to distress, don’t you think? I left a report on the Dictaphone for you. The Walsingham case. You can type it up. And perhaps we can get some action on any money we are owed. Mr. Epping is dragging his feet. Give him a bit of a prod.”
“When do you think you will be back?”
“I shan’t be gone long. As I said, just a little reassurance required.”
He left.