THE POLICE HEADQUARTERS WERE housed in the Stewart Building on College Street. It was a sumptuous Roman-esque pile of red sandstone with pointy towers, the roofs once burnished copper, now oxidized into a soft green. Elaborately carved friezes rimmed the walls. The entrance was by way of a two-sided flight of stairs that swept up to two arched entrances. Aside from the architectural sym-metry, I thought the dual arches made a pithy statement about the primeval dichotomies we humans like to set up. Saved on the left, sinners on the right; the rich on the left, the poor on the right; men on the left, women on the right. Not surprisingly, the building hadn’t started out as a home for police with cells for low-life criminals in the basement. It had been built originally for the elite Toronto Athletic Club, peopled by men of wealth and privilege. Swimming, golf, billiards, all offered. At some point the golden balls had tarnished and the club had run into financial difficul-ties. A technical school moved in for a while; the swimming pool was drained and functioned as a classroom. The police department took it over a few years ago, and the empty pool became a good place to store lost and confiscated bicycles. To my mind it was like various hermit crabs stuffing themselves into a discarded shell. An exquisite shell.
I hadn’t wanted to risk travelling on the public transpor-tation with the rat. No matter how tightly wrapped it was, the vile smell still escaped. So I walked over. It took me about half an hour, and in this heat I was dripping wet by the time I got there. The heat intensified the smell from the dead rodent.
I slowly climbed the steps, right side. The side for the poor, the sinners, and women. At least both arches led to the same door, which was heavy and metal-studded. I pushed it open and stepped into the outer foyer. It seemed dim after the bright sunlight outside, an impression rein-forced by the rich, dark-hued wood panelling.
The decor changed drastically when I passed through another set of doors.
The large interior foyer had been partitioned into two areas. The walls had been painted what I could only call “depression beige” and ran floor to ceiling; there were no windows, one door on each side. I assumed one went through the respective doors into the office areas beyond. They had a graceless, makeshift look to them, unlike the beauty of the external design of the building and the aristocratic pretentions of the panelled inner foyer.
A narrow staircase was directly ahead, and to the right was an open counter above which a small sign ordered visitors to check in.
I walked over. A young man in police uniform was sit-ting at a desk typing. For a moment I had to admire his skill as his fingers flew over the clacking keys. He was listening to a Dictaphone.
“Excuse me,” I said and rapped on the counter.
He stopped what he was doing and removed his ear-phones, albeit conveying a certain reluctance.
“Can I help you, madam?”
“I’m here to see Detective Murdoch.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
At that moment, the young man sniffed. It’s possible he might have been coming down with a cold. However, he gave me what I could only think of as a strange look. I had the feeling the rat was making its presence known.
“Just a minute.”
He turned to a board just behind him and pushed a switch.
“Detective Murdoch, there’s a lady here who says you’re expecting her. Name of?”
He looked over at me, eyebrows raised.
It was a perfectly correct procedure, but there was some-thing about the disdain that this constable was conveying that got my back up. I felt like saying, “Lady Godiva” or “Mary Pickford.”
Before I could confuse matters, one of the side doors opened and Jack Murdoch emerged. He greeted me with a smile.
“Miss Frayne. Good morning. Come this way.” He nodded at the constable. “Thank you, Evans.”
The fellow returned to his desk and typewriter. The door had hardly closed behind us when I heard the keys clacking away.
“He types fast, that chap,” I said to Murdoch.
“He sure does. He won the Canada–U.S. typing championship last year.”
That explained it. He must be intent on practicing for a repeat performance.
Jack led the way down the hall past one or two offices. It was pleasantly, delightfully cool.
“You’ve got an air-cooling unit.”
“We certainly do. Put in last year. It has made all the difference. I can’t imagine how we would have coped without it this summer.” His lips twitched. “It can get pretty heated in here, especially when we bring in the usual crop of D and Ds.”
I began to wonder if I could feign a ladylike fainting fit that would take some time to get over, thereby delaying my returning to the furnace outside.
Jack ushered me into his office. He put two sheets of fresh writing paper on the desk.
“All right then. Let’s see your epistles.”
I took out the letters and laid each one down carefully. The deceased rat I kept back. Jack removed a large magnifying glass from the drawer.
“They seem to be written by the same hand. Same style, pen, and ink. Do you agree?”
“Totally.”
“I’ll send these to the lab and see if we can lift any fingerprints.”
He sandwiched the letters between the clean papers and moved them to one side. He laid two more sheets on the desk.
“Now let’s have a look at poor Yorick.”
I placed the pencil box on the desk, unfolded the newspaper, and slid off the lid.
“I put it in here, but it came untrammelled.”
Jack jumped back. “Whew. I’d know that particular stink anywhere.”
Holding his breath, he used the glass to examine the rat.
“It’s hard to know what killed it exactly or how long it’s been dead. In this heat it would deteriorate very quickly. I doubt it was hard to find a dead rat in certain areas of this city. Or, for that matter, a live rat that was deliberately killed.”
He straightened up. I thought he had an odd expression on his face.
“It became quite a sport, killing rats. We’d take bets on how many we could dispatch in one go. One of the men adopted a little lost terrier. Great dog. We named it Flash. It could kill two dozen rats in fifteen minutes. It wasn’t difficult. They were so fat with gorging themselves, they couldn’t run fast.”
For a second, I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about, then I realized he was referring to his experience in the trenches.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just made a sympa-thetic murmuring noise. It had been almost eighteen years since the war had ended, and I constantly encountered evidence of its continuing aftermath. And now all the signs seemed to indicate we might be heading for another war. It was unbearable to think about.
Jack rewrapped the box.
“I’ll put a rush on these. I hope we can have some results immediately.”
I took the bull by the horns. “There is no reason that I can see why you and I should not co-operate on this case. I’ll pass along any pertinent information I get.”
He chuckled. “You said that so circumspectly. I take it you will be the one to decide what is pertinent or not?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“And you, me. I might not be able to reciprocate in kind, but I will do my best.”
“Okay.”
“I plan to drop in at the hospital later on today. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Gilmore, if she’s able. Have you been in contact with Mr. Gilmore?”
“He rang this morning. He told me Mrs. Gilmore had still not regained consciousness.”
“Does he know about these letters and the rat?”
“No. He called before I got to the office. I think I’ll hold off telling him. He’s got enough worries on his mind.”
“You’re probably right.” He looked up at me. “You will, of course, notify me if you receive anything else.”
“I will indeed.”
Jack pushed back his chair. “I’ll see you out.”
He seemed to have recovered from his sojourn in the past; however, he made me think of the Paradise Café men and the painful memories they still seemed to bump into.
As I exited the cool building, the heat fell upon me like a blanket.
I headed back to the office.
Feeling like an old nag, I was plodding up the stairs to the third floor of the Arcade when I encountered Hilliard Taylor on his way down.
“There you are,” he said. To my ears the ordinary phrase carried unnecessary impatience. “I said I’d come over this morning. Did you forget?”
“Of course not.” I saw no reason to reveal I had only remembered the instant I saw him on the stairs.
“We probably should talk on the way over to the café. We might not have time otherwise.”
We’d halted on the stairs during this conversation, and suddenly he leaned in closer and peered into my face.
“You look bagged. Are you up for coming?”
All of my muscles wanted to say, No, I’m not. But he was a client, after all.
“What do you take me for? I certainly am.”
He squinted at me. “I’ll have to take your word for it rather than the evidence. We’ll walk slowly.”
So we did, more or less. I am not naturally a stroller, and neither, it seemed, was Hilliard. We proceeded down Yonge Street at a fairly brisk pace.
“I should tell you that the intake money was fiddled with again.”
“Darn. How much?”
“Strange thing is, some money has been returned, not taken. First thing this morning I checked. Last night, I made a duplicate of the deposit slip and put it in my desk. When I compared it with the one in the safe, I could see they didn’t match. Somebody had changed that one. Five dollars in one-dollar bills have been put back.”
“Have you come to any conclusions?”
“None except the obvious. First, it must have happened in the middle of the night when I, at least, was fast asleep. Second, the person fiddling knows the combination to the safe.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to speak to your partners?”
He frowned at me. “Not yet. I couldn’t tell who changed the slip. Officially there are just the four of us who know the combination, but you don’t have to be Moriarty to notice where we keep it. Anybody coming and going in the café could have seen me get it out of the tea tin.”
“From what you’ve told me, that could only be Mrs. Reilly and Pearl or your baker. Perhaps you could speak to him. If he’s coming in the early hours of the morning, he might have run into somebody.”
“I don’t want to start rumours.”
“Did you bring the slips with you?”
“I did. I was intending to show them to you.”
“Sorry.”
At that point we were trotting around an older couple who were shuffling slowly along. They both looked so hot and uncomfortable, I felt a surge of pity. Where did you go if your own home was like a furnace? As we passed by, the woman suddenly stumbled. The man caught hold of her just in time. Hilliard stepped forward.
“Can I help?”
Neither of them answered, but the man said something to the woman in a language I didn’t understand. She shook her head.
“We’ll be all right,” the man said to Hilliard. He had an accent, Ukrainian perhaps.
“I think you should be out of this heat,” said Hilliard. “It’s going to get even worse by this afternoon.”
The man looked at him through weary, red-rimmed eyes.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “We thought we’d make our way down to the lake.”
“It’s a bit of a walk.”
His wife’s head was drooping, and she was so listless I wasn’t sure she could stay on her feet.
He didn’t need to say they didn’t have the money for the streetcar fare. I could see it.
“You know what?” said Hilliard. “I own the Paradise Café on Queen Street. Why don’t you come over there? You can have some lunch on me. Great soup, and I can promise you it’s cooler.” Some time ago the old couple had lost whatever pride they’d once had. The man translated what Hilliard had said to his wife. She lifted her head. She faced Hilliard and said something in her own language. It was clear she was saying thank you.
“We thank you, sir,” the man said. “God bless you. We do accept.”
“Good,” responded Hilliard briskly. “We’ll go on ahead then. Keep walking along Queen Street. You can’t miss it. The Paradise.”
Hill and I continued on in silence, leaving them to follow.
“That was kind of you, Mr. Taylor.”
He shook his head. “Nobody should have to suffer like that. Surely at their age they have a right to some peace of mind. We should be cherishing them, not treating them like mouldy potatoes to be tossed out at the earliest opportunity.”
It was a rather odd expression, but I understood his feelings. Thank God I had been able to take care of Gran and Gramps.
We were approaching the café when Hill paused. “I suppose having the money returned is preferable to having it stolen, except that I can’t leave it like this. I need to know what’s going on.”
“I can understand that.”
“Are you all right to continue our arrangement for the time being? Mrs. Reilly is due back next week. We could take stock then.”
“Of course. I enjoyed myself.”
This was true. I could survive a few more days of heavy lifting, never mind the ice maiden who wanted me out of the way.
There was a lineup already, and most of them recognized Hill and called out a greeting. “We’re getting fried out here! Hurry up.”
“Give me five minutes,” said Hill. He and I went to the side door, where I’d entered yesterday.
He sniffed. “Cabbage soup today. Not my favourite, I must admit. Brings back too many bad memories.” He didn’t elaborate, and we went through to the kitchen where Eric was at his familiar post over the stove, stirring the soup in a large pot. Pearl was waiting beside him. She greeted me with an astonishingly powerful scowl.
“There you are. I was starting to think you’d jumped ship. We’ve got two minutes, and the tables aren’t even set yet.”
“I’ll get to it.” I put my hat on the hook, slipped on the apron, and took down the money pouch.
“Where’re the others?” Hill asked Eric.
“Conal’s writing up the menu. Wilf said he’d be back shortly. He’s nailing up some posters about the chess tournament.” He nodded over at me. “Good morning, Miss Frayne.”
I took the tray of cutlery from the counter and went into the dining room. Hilliard was behind me.
“Don’t let Pearl bother you,” he said. “She’s protective of her environment.”
“Is that what it is?”
Conal was working on the blackboard. Soup of the day was indeed cabbage, and he’d drawn a cabbage with human features beside the line. It was beaming — presumably at the thought of providing sustenance to hungry people. He gave me a shy smile but didn’t stop what he was doing. He was as close to the board as he could get. Even with his glasses, he appeared to be very short-sighted.
“Hey, Hill,” he called out. “What’s the dessert choice today? I forgot what Eric said.”
“Ginger pudding, Bakewell tart, or dates and custard.”
Conal wrote it on the board, adding some cheery-faced fruits. I hurried to put the cutlery on the tables. Again with the down-to-basics approach, the spoons, knives, and forks were all in separate jars ready for the customers to help themselves.
It was true what Hilliard had said earlier. With the two whirling fans and the shades down, the temperature in the café was quite pleasant. The sticky flytraps flapped in the breeze from the fans, and I, too, could have done without the cabbage smell — but it was definitely preferable to trudging the hot pavement looking for some relief.
Pearl poked her head through the door.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Hilliard answered.
He went to unlock the door.
EACH SITTING WAS PACKED, and because the customers were reluctant to leave and go out into the heat, things dragged. The couple Hilliard and I had encountered did accept his kind invitation; they came in time for the first sitting. I was pleased to see the gusto with which they ate. I thought they were lonely as well as hungry. They both chose Bakewell tarts for their desserts and ate them very slowly and with great satisfaction.
Three men, all nicely dressed, arrived about noon just as the sitting was changing. They went directly to the back door that required such a strange code to enter. This time I made sure I could see who was on the other side; it was indeed Conal Pierce. Nobody re-emerged, so either there was a second exit or they were having a long meeting.
After two hours, I was more than ready to sit down. I did so when the last customer was ushered out. As he’d done before, Hilliard took the money that Pearl and I had collected and deposited it in the till.
“The Bakewell tarts were popular,” he said. “All of them went. I’d better warn Eric and see if he has time to whip up something else for the dinner sittings.”
“I’ll be off then,” I said. “See you later on.”
“Or thereabouts,” added Pearl, just low enough that I could hear but not the other two men.
I checked my impulse to dump a jug of cold water over her pointy little head and left.
I wanted to go straight home and have a nap, but first I needed to go to the office and see if there were any messages. Or private posts.
I’D HARDLY SAT DOWN at my desk, kicked off my shoes, and peeled off my stockings when the telephone rang. It was Mr. Gilmore.
“Miss Frayne. I have to tell you. Ida died this morning.”