MR. GILMORE AND I HAD been colleagues now for some two years, but we shared almost nothing about our per-sonal lives. He knew I lived with my grandfather because sometimes I’d had to take time off if Gramps was poorly. I knew Mr. Gilmore had a wife, no children. She suffered from what he called neurasthenia, and she had bouts that required his presence at home. That was about it. Neither of us was inclined to unleash personal disclosures on the other. He called me Miss Frayne, I addressed him as Mr. Gilmore, but there was an ease between us that I valued.
He was not telling the truth, of that was I sure, but I had no idea what he was trying to conceal.
I switched on the overhead fan and went into the tiny cupboard we referred to, with great optimism more than accuracy, as our kitchen. There was a shelf in there, a postage stamp-sized sink, and a hot plate. A cup of coffee seemed like a good idea.
I put the kettle on to boil and returned to my desk. In my short career as a private investigator I’d already brushed up against some of the less wholesome sides of the human condition, but I can’t say I was inured, and this whole occurrence was disturbing.
I took out the letter. Mr. Gilmore hadn’t seemed to want to examine it, but I certainly did. It was written on lined paper and had been torn from a top-opening notebook. Looked like typical school issue. The paper was ever so slightly yellowed, as if it had been around for quite a while. I reached for my magnifying glass to examine the letters. The writer had used a wide nib fountain pen that was obviously in danger of drying up. He or she had needed to overwrite the letters C and d. The draw-ings of the rats were crude, but rather more skilful than ordinary. There was an unpleasant-looking brown stain in the corner. Cautiously I sniffed at it. Smelled like tea. This certainly wasn’t leading me on some magical straight path to the perpetrator, but at least there were enough individual distinguishing points. If we did have another visit from our mysterious postman, we would be able to compare any further letters with some confidence.
I returned the letter to the drawer.
The overhead fan seemed to be simply stirring the air around without making much dent in the heat. The stif-ling atmosphere wasn’t helping with my concentration. I decided to remove my stockings. If anybody did come into the office, my legs would be hidden behind the desk.
I unfastened the suspenders and rolled off my stockings. Pure bliss. I undid the buttons at my wrists and neck. Wonderful! The relief from the heat and humidity was immediate.
All right, back to work.
I pulled a file folder toward me from the To Do tray. I had another tray labelled Done With. At the moment they were about even. Time to send out follow-up remit-tance notices to delinquent clients who, now happy and contented in their lives, seemed to have forgotten the debt owed to the ones who had brought about their reinstated sense of well-being. Beautifully written thank-you cards were sweet, but they didn’t pay the electricity bill, which had the irritating habit of showing up on a regular basis. In this case, a certain Mr. Neville Epping seemed reluctant to settle his account now that his divorce was finalized. The preliminaries had gone on for months. I’d been handed the case shortly after Mr. Gilmore had hired me. In his typical, slightly pedantic fashion, he had warned me that “domestic situations,” as he referred to them, could often be unpleasant. “Like breathing in the foul air that exudes from a sewer,” was how he’d put it. “Estranged couples can build up a lot of odoriferous bitterness.” But these were our most lucrative accounts, and this past year I had already worked on four of them. My job was to stand witness to the fact that Mr. Husband had been seen going into a hotel with a woman-not-his-wife, thereby furnishing Mrs. Real Wife with grounds for divorce. I did not have to catch said couple in flagrante delicto, thank goodness, just report that they had entered the hotel and stayed there for some time. Hey, they may have been having a wild game of dominoes for all I knew.
I far preferred the cases where people were reunited. With beloved pets, cherished jewellery, even lost relatives. I didn’t need a psychoanalyst to explain to me why I was so partial to this kind of case. Suffice it to say, my father, a young soldier, had died in South Africa, never having clapped eyes on me. My mother, equally young, had stuck it out as a mother for two years then also headed out, leaving me with my paternal grandparents. These early upheavals seemed to have left me with a need for order and stability and my predilection for finding lost things.
I picked up a sheet of paper and rolled it into the typewriter. I hadn’t liked Mr. Epping, who struck me as a bully who wanted his own way no matter how many other people were damaged.
July 8, 1936
Dear Mr. Epping,
In my opinion you are a lout and a bully. You have caused your wife untold suffering for no good reason other than that she is not a strong woman and has not been able to conceive and deliver a live child. Didn’t you take an oath to be together “in sickness and in health”? Lot of clout that had. She’s better off getting a divorce, but I’m sure you won’t give her a generous settlement. You and Henry the Eighth have a lot in common, including the fact that you have jowls.
I grinned to myself. I know: a touch childish, but it was satisfying. I rolled out the paper and put it into the file marked, Confidential. Mr. Gilmore would never look in there. But even if he did, I didn’t think he’d mind.
I put a carbon between two sheets of fresh paper and rolled them into the typewriter. With a demure countenance, I typed the standard number three letter, finishing with, “Your immediate consideration to this matter will be appreciated.”
I folded the top sheet, shoved it into an envelope, licked the stamp, and thumped it on.
I sniffed. There was a strong odour of cooking onions drifting on the air. Our immediate neighbour on this floor was making his breakfast. This happened on a regular basis, and I suspected Mr. Patchell was living in his office. This was strictly forbidden by the management of the Arcade, but I wasn’t going to turn him in. If he could survive in that tiny space, washroom down a flight of stairs, bed on the couch, I sympathized. He repaired watches, but these days people were more likely to pawn their watches than to get them fixed. The expense of sustaining home and office must have been too much for him.
I typed up another couple of invoices, at the end of which I was fighting the inclination to put my head down and have a nap. Three sleepless nights in a row, tossing around in a stiflingly hot room, were definitely catching up with me. If Gramps had been in agreement, I would have trekked us down to the lake and slept on the beach. Being a proper Englishman, however, my grandfather had been appalled at the suggestion. I might have insisted, but I’d heard it wasn’t really that much cooler down there unless you wanted to lie submerged in the water.
I took up the headphones to the Dictaphone. Mr. Gilmore preferred to dictate his reports rather than writing them. I switched on the machine. A tinny voice came out.
“Good day, Miss Frayne. This is my report on the Walsingham case to date. First. Charming as she was, Mrs. Walsingham was not entirely forthcoming. It was a simple matter to discover that she is in fact about to be married to a wealthy man from Edmonton. He himself is a widower with two grown children. He is a former general in the army and served with distinction in France. His reputation is that he has little tolerance for slackers or wayward youths. I don’t think she will be too happy to learn that just as she feared, her son is a wastrel and a sorry piece of work. He frequents the gambling dens on Elizabeth Street, coerces the Chinese to sell him opium, pays for prostitutes. A rather advanced state of depravity for a seventeen-year-old. I believe he is unacquainted with the word ‘No.’ If he lives to see his majority, it will be a miracle. My advice to our client is to get him to enlist in the army as fast as possible. Hopefully they will straighten him out. She should certainly keep him out of sight of her new fiancé. Nothing good will come of their meeting. Phrase this anyway you want, Miss Frayne, but don’t be mealy-mouthed about it. She must face the facts or more than one life will be ruined. You can add another thirty dollars to her bill as I did spend at least one sleepless night worrying about this wretched young man. You can list this charge as surveillance.”
I had to smile at that last remark.
My feet were itching, and I rubbed them on the carpet. I lifted my face to the fan overhead. The breeze on my hot cheeks was pleasant.
I was debating whether or not to ring Mr. Gilmore to see if everything was all right at home when I heard somebody coming along the hall. The gait was rather fast, not too heavy, definite. The steps halted outside our door, and there was a knock. I slipped my bare feet into my shoes.
You’d be surprised how much information is conveyed in a knock. A sharp rat-a-tat usually indicated a man, most likely a husband out to find out what his errant wife was up to. A timid, barely audible tap-tap was invariably a female looking for help finding her missing pet. She was coming to us without confiding in her husband, who wouldn’t approve and never did like the blasted dog anyway.
These knocks now were loud enough, confident without being belligerent. I stayed seated and called out, “Come in.”
In stepped a tall, slim man, neatly dressed in a tan-coloured summer suit.
He removed his straw boater. “Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Mr. Gilmore.”
He didn’t look like the kind of man who would send a hate-filled letter, but I was cautious.
“I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment. May I be of assistance?”
I suppose the following moments were ones of mutual appraisal. I’m on the disconcerting side of thirty, and he looked a little older. His hair was light brown and smoothed back from a high forehead; his eyes were brown, intelligent. He was clean-shaven.
“Thank you, Mrs., er …”
“Frayne. Charlotte Frayne. Miss.”
Not all women over thirty are married, but people typically assume we are.
“I beg your pardon. Miss Frayne. I was particularly hoping to talk to Mr. Gilmore. We are acquainted.”
Were they? I certainly hadn’t seen this man in the office before. I’d have remembered.
The visitor continued as if I’d asked the question. “He’s a regular customer at my café. I brew him the coffee he likes. Strong and black, no cream or sugar.”
I already knew Mr. Gilmore’s culinary preferences, so I suppose that was a bit of a confirmation. Was that the intent?
“I can get a message to him if you wish. What name shall I say?”
“Taylor. Hilliard Taylor. I am one of the owners of the Paradise Café on Queen Street. He’ll know who I am.” He glanced around. “It must be difficult for you to not see daylight for hours on end. You can only deduce the weather if somebody comes in with a wet umbrella and a mackintosh, I suppose.”
I gave him a polite smile. “That’s a good deduction yourself, sir. But you’d be surprised. I do get out a lot.”
He nodded, not excited by my itinerary. He was twist-ing his hat round and round. “Do you think Mr. Gilmore will be available tomorrow?”
“I expect he will.”
“I’ll come back then.”
“I am his associate. Perhaps I can help.”
“I, er, I don’t think so, Miss Frayne. Thank you anyway.”
He turned for the door. It wasn’t unusual for prospec-tive clients to dismiss me out of hand, especially when I was seated at the desk. Female private investigators weren’t that common. I’d have let it go, but there was something about this man that made me soften. He looked physically strong enough, but there was an unexpected vulnerability to his face.
“Mr. Taylor. Why don’t you tell me the nature of your business? I promise that if I think it is beyond my skills, I will say so.”
I must admit I rather hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a domestic. He turned and studied me for a moment. I must have passed some kind of test, because his shoulders lowered and he smiled.
“Very well. Fair enough.”
I waved at the single chair.
“Please have a seat.”
I pulled over my notebook and picked up my pen while he walked over to the chair and sat down. He seemed to move more stiffly than he should for a man his apparent age.
“As I said, I am part owner of a café called the Paradise. We are located on Queen Street, near Simcoe. Do you know it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He looked disappointed. “We have only been in business since January, so I guess I can’t expect world recognition.” He chewed on his lip. “It’s about the café that I’d like to consult.”
Good. Not a domestic, unless it was to do with alimony. I smiled my encouraging smile.
It seemed to work, because he continued. “Perhaps I should give you a bit of background.”
“Please do.”
Most of the clients I had dealt with to that point needed what I’d call an indirect entry into their real problem. Hilliard Taylor was no exception.
“Initially, I’d say our first few months of business were good. We keep our prices low and cater to people who can’t afford to spend much money away from home. The café is always full. Our costs have not changed. We should be making a small but steady profit.” He hesitated, then, with a sigh, he went on. “However, some irregularities seem to have occurred that I do not understand. As of the past month we appear to be slipping into a hole.”
He picked up on some expression that must have flitted across my face.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m consulting a private investigating agency about such a matter and not an accountant.”
“I can only assume you suspect some nefarious reason for these irregularities?”
He gave me a slightly lopsided grin that I found endearing.
“Precisely.”
I tapped my pen. “And to your mind, what might be that reason?”
He started to fan himself with his boater. He looked as if he would do anything to avoid what he had to say. I helped him out.
“You suspect somebody is stealing?”
He nodded. I could see a nerve twitching in his jaw. He said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him, “It looks that way.”
I came out from behind my desk, forgetting I wasn’t wearing my stockings.
“I made a pot of coffee earlier. Would you like a cup?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine. I’d just like to get to the bottom of this whole mess as soon as possible.”
I retreated back to my notebook. I would have liked some coffee, but it would have to wait.
“Do you have anybody in mind?”
He flinched. “I’ve gone over and over everything, and I can only conclude that it is somebody who is familiar with the operation of the café.”
“I see.”
He got to his feet. “I need to stretch my legs.”
Considering the size of the office, unless he walked up the walls he wasn’t going to get much exercise. He began to make a tight circle around the chair.
There was something about the way he did it that made me think he had made many such tight perambulations before. Had he previously been in jail?
“Please continue, Mr. Taylor. How many people do you consider are familiar with the running of the café?”
“There are the four of us, the partners, and we have two staff, a mother and her daughter, who wait on the tables. We have a part-time baker.”
“Have you talked to your partners about the problem?”
He glanced at me as if I were a doctor waving a large needle at him that he knew he had to accept.
“Not yet. I didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily. I preferred to be absolutely sure about what was happening.” He held up his hand as if to stop me speaking. “I know what you are thinking. But I must insist. I trust my partners absolutely.”
I decided to enter the arena obliquely.
“How long have you all known each other?”
“Many years. Since 1917.”
“Soldiers?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, we were all prisoners of war together. At Doberitz.”
Prisoners of war would not have had extensive areas in which to stretch their legs; this explained his walking in circles. And the touch of defensiveness in his tone. Not all of society accepted the fact that soldiers often had no choice but to surrender to the enemy and become prisoners of war. I’d heard it voiced more than once that this was an act of cowardice. Why hadn’t they simply given up their lives instead of giving in?
I continued my own cerebral form of circling. “You all first met nineteen years ago. Did you stay in touch over the intervening years?”
“We did. Conal and Wilf both went back to the Prairies. Eric is from Toronto. I returned to Sudbury. And to answer your question, yes, we stayed in touch, wrote letters, visited when we could.” He sat down abruptly, perching on the edge of the chair. “We met up again about two years ago. A veterans’ reunion here in Toronto. We got to chatting, and one thing led to another. Turned out we were all at loose ends. Eric and Wilf weren’t married anymore. Conal had never tied the knot, and as for me … well, I was on my own too.”
I was curious about that, but now wasn’t the time to ask. He continued his narrative.
“By the end of that particular night, we decided to throw in our lot and go into business together. We were all sick to death of being dependent on some boss who didn’t give a toss for our livelihood.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re hired. Snap. You’re fired. Snap. Felt like we were back in that hellhole camp where our fate was in the hands of other people. We decided to start a café.”
I was genuinely surprised. “These days, an enterprise like that would be considered very risky.”
He nodded. “I know it sounds mad, but we did have some grounding in reality. Eric had experience as a chef. He’d been working in a restaurant out west for a few years. Wilf is an electrician. Conal is an artist, but also a fine carpenter.”
“And you?”
“Me? I’m a good dishwasher. Handling the financial side of things devolved onto me.”
His self-deprecating humour was sweet.
“Every restaurant has to have a good dishwasher.”
“What we all agreed on was that we’d had it to the gills with the present state of affairs. At least, doing this, we’d only have to answer to ourselves.”
“The four of you? No other partners?”
“No. Just us. We each scraped up enough money to cover a couple of months’ rent and then we went out looking. I was the one who found this little place on Queen Street. It had gone bust. The landlord was glad to unload it for a reasonable sum and to have us move in right away. We slapped on some fresh paint, blocked up the rat holes, and Bob’s your uncle, the Paradise Café was born.”
He stared up at the ceiling.
“I like the name,” I said.
“There was never a doubt that was we were going to call it.” His voice dropped. “Out there, the Paradise Café was biding her time, waiting for us to find her. And finally, after all those years, we did just that. But you can’t say we adopted her. She adopted us.”
For whatever reason, as yet undisclosed when he spoke as he did, his voice was drenched with sadness.
The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted us.
“Excuse me.” I picked up the receiver. “Gilmore and Associates.”
It was Mr. Gilmore. I hardly recognized his voice, he sounded so strained.
“Miss Frayne, are you in the midst of anything at the moment?”
“I’m speaking with a client.”
I was about to tell him who it was, but I didn’t get the chance.
“Would you be so good as to terminate the interview promptly? An urgent matter has arisen here. I need to speak to you at once. Please call me back right away. I am at home. You know the number.” He hung up.
I swivelled back to face Hilliard.
“I’m afraid I have to deal with another urgent matter. Would you be able to return later, so that we may continue at another time? I do apologize.”
He frowned at me, but I don’t have a poker face. His expression softened.
“I can come back.”
I hesitated. I had no idea what was happening to Mr. Gilmore.
“Tell you what,” said Hilliard. “I assume you would need to see the Paradise with your own eyes and get the lay of the land? Why don’t you do what you have to do and then come over to the café this afternoon?”
“All right. I will if I can.”
He smiled. “Have you ever had waitressing experience?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I worked part-time when I was in high school.”
“Good. We would have to get extra help anyway be-cause Mrs. Reilly has lumbago and we’ve only got one waitress on tonight. I could hire you temporarily. If you could handle it, it would be the best way to get some idea of the routine. You’d be undercover, as it were.”
I had done undercover work before. Last time was as a lady’s maid at a posh house on Jarvis Street. Disastrous. This sounded like a piece of cake in comparison.
“Okay.”
“Excellent. The first dinner sitting is at five. Let’s say I’ll expect you about three-thirty, and if it looks as if you can’t make it you can give me a ring.”
He collected his hat from the floor.
“Miss Frayne, I need hardly tell you how important it is to me to clear this up as soon as possible. My partners and I have invested all our dreams in this project. I cannot bear the thought it might fail.”
He looked so relieved I almost slid by the question of my fee. Almost.
“I will need to charge you my investigator’s fee. I have an hourly rate, which is charged no matter what the outcome. Unless, that is, you consider I have been grossly incompetent.”
Another smile. “Why do I doubt I would ever think that? And in addition, I shall pay you what I would normally pay a waitress. Fifteen cents an hour, less five each time the uniform is cleaned.”
“Done.”
“Miss Frayne, do I have your absolute assurance that nobody will know about this arrangement? Unless, that is …”
His voice trailed off, but I didn’t need him to complete the sentence. Unless one of his closest companions turned out to be a traitor. For his sake, I hoped that wouldn’t prove to be the case.
He saluted and left.