I HAD TO GET back to the café if I was going to be in time for the lunch sittings, and I knew I wouldn’t be moving too quickly. Surely it couldn’t be hotter today? I walked past a newspaper stand, and the handwritten sign said indeed that: “Another Scorcher. 92 F.” The vendor had a good idea. That or he was altruistic. He’d made room on his newsstand for jugs of iced tea. Five cents a glass. I stopped.
“I’ll take a glass.”
He poured out one for me.
“You look cool as the proverbial cucumber, miss, if I may so.”
A compliment is a compliment, even if the good fellow did look as if he might be the same age as Gramps. The glass he handed me had a rather suspicious looking smudge at the rim, but at that point I didn’t care. He was keeping the jugs in a bucket of ice, and the drink was frosty. If I’d had time to gulp down a second one, I would have. I returned the glass to the vendor, who gave me a little bow, gave my glass a quick wipe with his apron, and returned it to its place on the stand.
I certainly didn’t feel as cool as a cucumber, and I went on my way none the wiser as to his compliment. Maybe it was the hat.
As with yesterday, there was already a queue outside the Paradise. A couple of women today, both looking decidedly down at heel. Neither was young, and I wondered where they lived. Was the café a treat or a necessity?
I went around to the side door and let myself in. There was a strong smell of curry in the air.
Pearl was already loading up her tray with bowls ready for Eric to spoon in the soup of the day.
“There you are,” she said in her inimitable fashion. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d show up at all.”
I didn’t bother to answer. “I’ll get the bread ready.”
Eric called over his shoulder, “Good morning, Miss Frayne. Another scorcher to cope with. We’re doing mulligatawny soup today, tomato or cold veg salad. No dripping left, but there is a nice parsley butter. The blancmange didn’t set too well, so see if you can push the roly-poly pudding or the biscuits.”
“Will do.”
Hilliard and Conal were both seated at the table, having some of the soup. Hilliard beamed at me. “Good morning.”
Conal glanced up and smiled a greeting.
I thought about Hilliard’s story, and I felt even more sympathy for him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pierce, but I think I may have dropped my handkerchief in the side room when you showed it to me. Do you mind if I just take a quick look?”
“What?” Conal looked up at me. “Er. The room’s locked.”
Hilliard jumped up. “You finish your soup, Conal. I’ve got to get out there anyway. I’ll show her.”
Conal pushed back his soup bowl. “No. I’ll do it.”
“Won’t take a minute. Why don’t you help Eric with the fish cakes?”
Pearl scowled at me. “Don’t take long.”
Hilliard beckoned to me, and I followed him out to the dining room. He said quietly, “Five dollars missing from the deposit as of this morning.”
He reached under the counter and lifted a key.
“This is the one. Now, Miss Frayne, you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who loses handkerchiefs except when you need to. Why do you want to see the room again?”
“I just need to confirm something.”
He opened the door as he spoke, and we went inside. I went straight to the desk. The wooden box that Conal had made pains to move out of sight was back on the top of the desk.
A handwritten sign was pasted on one side: “Strike Money.” I pointed at it.
“Any idea what that refers to?”
Hill went to the box, slid off the lid, and tipped the box upside down. Three one-dollar bills and several coins fell out. He poked at the coins.
“Five dollars. Exactly.”
He leaned his hands on the desk and bowed his head. He muttered something I didn’t hear.
“As with the combination to the safe, I assume everybody knows where the key to this room is kept?”
He looked at me, his eyes dark with anger.
“That is true, but essentially this is Conal’s domain. Even if he’s not the thief, he has to know who is.” He banged on the desk with his fist. “Or does he just believe money magically appears in his damn collection box? ‘My goodness gracious, where did that come from?’”
“Is it strike money?”
“Oh, I’m sure that what it’s intended for. It’s Conal’s obsession. Always has been. Justice for the masses.” He banged again. “Damn. Damn.”
“What do you want to do?”
He straightened up. “Find out the truth. As soon as we close after lunch, I’m going to get everybody together. Time to face facts.”
“I’m sorry. I feel bad about the way it’s looking.”
“You do? I’m just getting used the idea that one or more of the men I trusted most in the world has stabbed me in back.”
He scooped up the money and returned it to the box.
“Come on. I’ve got to open the café.” He hustled me out. “I want you to be at the meeting.”
“Okay.”
He went into the dining room. I was heading back to the kitchen when Conal came out.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked me.
“No, I didn’t. Must have dropped it at home. Thanks.”
He had a key in his hand, and he began to unlock the door, bending in close so he could see, as was his wont.
“There’s a meeting tonight. I’d better make sure everything is tidy.”
I left him to it. I could hear the bustle of the incoming customers.
I’d encountered betrayal and deceit before, but this situation was making me feel particularly bad. I’d been hired to find out what was happening to the money, but I almost wished I hadn’t. I couldn’t get the expression on Hilliard’s face out of my mind. I remembered what Mr. Gilmore had said to me early on. “Objectivity, however hard won, is our stock in trade as investigators. Don’t get emotionally involved with the clients.”
Unfortunately, it seemed a little too late to follow his advice.