I DIALLED MR. GILMORE’S HOME number, and he answered right away.
“Miss Frayne, bless you for responding so promptly.”
“Of course.”
“Somebody broke into my house while I was away. They attacked my wife.”
“Good heavens! That’s dreadful. What happened?”
“We don’t know as yet. She hasn’t recovered conscious-ness. She’s been taken to the hospital. The police are here now. I am so shocked, Miss Frayne, I hardly know what I’m saying. They seem to be implying I am responsible.”
“What! What do you mean, responsible?”
“For the supposed break-in and the attack on Ida.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Apparently not. I wonder if you would come here.”
“I’ll be there right away.”
“Thank you, I would appreciate that. I don’t quite know where to turn.”
We hung up, and I realized he’d forgotten to tell me his address. As we kept our relationship on a professional basis, I’d never been to his home. He didn’t live too far from the Arcade, but that was all I knew. I was just about to ring him back when I remembered we kept special papers in the tiny safe in the office. We didn’t have to use it very often, and I hadn’t memorized the combination. I pulled open the drawer of my desk and rummaged at the back where I kept a cigar box thrust underneath a pile of old invoices. The number was in there: 17-5-34. I retrieved it and hurried over to the safe. It was an ugly black thing with no pretensions except for appearing impregnable. I squatted down in front of it and turned the dial.
It opened easily. I was experiencing rather irrational feelings of guilt. I knew that the safe contained reports on cases that he considered sensitive; Mr. Gilmore was the one who handled that material, not me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to see them; however, I always felt I was discouraged to do so.
There were only a handful of labelled folders. I pulled them out. One on the top said, Applications I couldn’t resist a quick look. It was a form I had filled out when I was applying for the position of assistant private investigator. Mr. Gilmore had attached a note: “Excellent candidate. No reservations. Job offered.”
I was chuffed.
The folder underneath was labelled, Personal Papers. For Emergency Purposes Only. I thought this qualified as an emergency, and I opened it. Inside were three sheets of paper. One was a copy of Mr. Gilmore’s licence as a private investigator, the second was his marriage certificate, and the third was a certificate of name change. It read, “On the 3rd April, Daniel Jacob Goldenberg changed his name by deed poll and is henceforth to be known as Thaddeus Gilmore.”
The certificate was dated 1928, which was when Mr. Gil-more established his investigating business. I sat back. That was a bit of a shock. It had certainly never come up in any of our talks. But I had been right about Mr. Gilmore dissembling. Given his original name, I had to assume he was Jewish. His carefully phrased comment came back to me: “I do not consider myself to be a filthy Jew, Com-munist or not.”
I wondered if the piece of hate mail that had arrived earlier was in any way connected with what had just happened at his house. Was the snake of anti-Semitism only scotched, not killed?
I took Might’s City Directory off the shelf and consulted it quickly. Mr. T. Gilmore was listed as living at number sixteen Phoebe Street. I wrote down the names of the immediate neighbours in case I needed to talk to them.
I resumed respectability with stockings, straw hat, and cotton gloves and hurried out of the office. Briefly I considered getting on one of the streetcars clanking down Yonge Street, but I couldn’t face being in such close proximity with other overheated humanity. Phoebe Street wasn’t that far away, and I decided walking would be just as fast. The oppressiveness of the heat and humidity was worse than ever. I turned west on Queen Street. Just as I went past Osgoode Hall Law School, an open-topped Packard Roadster turned out of the driveway. The car was the colour of a robin’s egg; there was a uniformed chauffeur driving, and two young women in gauzy summer frocks were in the back seat. I felt a stab of envy. Not particularly because they were in a car that would have cost more than I might earn in ten years, nor because the women were young, pretty, and rich. I envied them the breeze in their faces.
I continued on. Just ahead of me was a straggly lineup, mostly men, all silent. I realized they were lined up in front of a café. The name? The Paradise. It was squeezed be-tween a shop selling second-hand goods on one side and a shabby boarded-up storefront, with the words “FOR RENT” scrawled across the plywood, on the other. The Paradise stood out like a lighthouse in a dreary sea. The trim was a bright, cheery yellow, and the name above the window was picked out in orange lights. It didn’t look like the kind of place that would draw the law school crowd, but it did convey warmth and friendliness. Clearly the customers waiting outside thought the same.
Phoebe Street was only ten minutes’ walk from the café by way of Soho Street. Unlike its rather rakish name, Soho was sedate, empty of traffic. Phoebe intersected to the left. I paused to get my bearings. It was a short street, lush with trees, lined on each side by Victorian-era row houses. Black wrought iron railings enclosed tiny front gardens filled with shrubs and flower beds. Ensuring some individuality, each door had its own stained-glass skylight and different coloured trim around the windows. These houses conveyed a sense of permanence, order, and calm — an illusion shattered by Mr. Gilmore’s recent call and news.
From the corner, I could see a small knot of spectators were gathered on the sidewalk in the shade of a linden tree, all focused on something nearby. This had to be Mr. Gil-more’s house. Rather like the owner, it appeared to be neat and unassuming.
A uniformed constable was standing in front of the gate. I paused, just long enough to wipe off my face and neck with my handkerchief, and approached the house.
Perhaps the officer, an older man, normally had a red face, but I assumed he was scarlet right now because he was boiling hot in his serge uniform and helmet. I sympa-thized with the suffering caused by the high collar and long sleeves. He held out his arm in order to block me.
“Sorry, madam. You can’t go in there.”
“I’m a friend and an associate of Mr. Gilmore’s. He sent for me.”
The constable had an expression on his face that suggested he wouldn’t have believed Queen Mary herself if she’d claimed the present king was her son.
“You’ll have to wait until the detective gives permission.”
“All right. Where is he? I’ll speak to him.”
I didn’t have to wait long. The front door opened, and a man emerged. He was dressed in a light blue summer suit, and he looked a lot cooler than the constable. He had the demeanour of a man of authority. He walked down the path toward us.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the constable. “This lady here says she’s an associate of Mr. Gilmore’s. She wants to see him.”
The constable managed to convey deep suspicion as to my motives, not to mention my honesty. The detective regarded me dispassionately, and I was sure he was going to deny me access to my poor boss. Then I realized I knew him. I stepped forward, hand outstretched in a rather manly way.
“Detective Murdoch. We’ve met.”
He obviously didn’t have a clue as to who I was, but he smiled politely.
We shook hands. It was a little awkward, as I had to stretch over the railing to reach his hand.
“It must be two years ago now,” I babbled on. “You gave a talk to the students at the school where I was teaching. St. Mary’s. I’m Charlotte Frayne. It was my job to thank you.”
He made a good recovery, and his smile seemed genuine. “Of course. Glad to meet you again, Miss Frayne.”
I was slightly chagrined I had offered such a sticky palm. His was dry. Physically, he looked the same as I remem-bered. Dark hair, dark eyes, well-defined bone structure. He was still what my friend Polly would call “a dish.”
“Your topic was ‘What Next?’ as I recall. There wasn’t a lot to cheer about back then. The future looked bleak. You gave the students hope.”
I was laying it on a bit thick, but, in fact, I had liked him. Never mind his good looks, his talk had been thoughtful and pertinent. My students had appreciated him.
He grimaced. “I’m glad to hear it. As you say, not a lot to cheer about. I wish it were significantly different nowadays, but I’m not sure it is.”
The beefy constable was eavesdropping and doing a very bad job of pretending not to.
“I gather you’re not a teacher anymore,” said Murdoch. “The constable said you were an associate of Mr. Gilmore.”
“That’s right. I left teaching not too long after you and I met.”
I wasn’t about to go into the circumstances. I had been fired. The official reason was cutting down on staff, but we all knew it was because I had challenged one of the school trustees. I’d underestimated the amount of influence he had. Or more accurately, the amount of fear he was able to generate. Nobody could afford to lose their jobs.
“May I speak with Mr. Gilmore?” I asked Murdoch.
He glanced around. We were still on either side of the gate at this point.
“Let’s move over into the shade for a minute, shall we.” A few feet away, at the corner of the house, were a striped garden umbrella and a couple of canvas chairs.
Murdoch swung open the gate, and I stepped through and followed him. In the front garden, the flowers were in dire need of resuscitation, and the tiny lawn was already turning dry and brown. For the past week, the city council had ordered all citizens to refrain from any watering until the weather broke. Mr. Gilmore was evidently obedient. I wasn’t sure about the rest of the houses on the row.
There was some relief from the day’s sun under the umbrella. It was also out of earshot of Beefy. We sat down.
“Can you tell me what has happened?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t go into a lot of details at this point, as I’m sure you can understand. All we know is that Mrs. Gilmore was attacked. A Mrs. Kaufmann, who lives at the end house, found her lying unconscious in the hall.”
“When was this?”
“Just after nine o’clock. She ran across the road to Alexander’s repair shop. The owner has a telephone. He rang the station.”
“Did the neighbour see the attacker?”
“She says not.”
“You said she found Mrs. Gilmore about nine. Do we know when the attack itself actually took place?”
“Not at the moment. I did speak with Mr. Gilmore, and he was adamant his wife was sleeping peacefully when he left at seven-thirty this morning. He said he went directly to his office.”
“I can vouch for that. He was there when I arrived at eight o’clock.”
I wanted to say that there was no way Mr. Gilmore could have just clobbered his wife. True, he was upset, but I attributed that to the nasty letter he had received. I bit my tongue. Better to wait and hear what the police had to say.
“Assuming he is telling the truth,” Murdoch continued, “his wife was attacked between half past seven and ten past nine. A window of more than one hour and a half.”
Murdoch removed a rather handsome watch from his inner pocket and flipped it open.
“Mr. Gilmore returned here about a quarter to ten. Did he remain at the office from when you saw him at eight?”
What the heck was I going to say? Murdoch was doing what he should do to investigate this crime, but I was reluctant to reveal that Mr. Gilmore had high-tailed it out directly after he read the letter. This was about twenty-five past eight.
I stalled for time. “Is that what he said?”
“Not precisely. He was rather vague about it. But he was emphatic about not returning to the house since he left this morning.”
Mr. Gilmore had said he was going to check on his wife. If he had gone straight home, he should have been at his house a lot earlier. What was he doing? There seemed to be more than an entire hour unaccounted for.
“Where is he now?”
“Inside.”
“He’s afraid that you’re considering him a suspect.”
“All possibilities are open at the moment.”
I saw that Murdoch was watching me. For the second time this morning a man was sizing me up. Nothing lascivious in either case. Apparently, I passed Murdoch’s inspection as well as I had Hilliard Taylor’s.
“I should tell you, Miss Frayne, I do not seriously sus-pect Mr. Gilmore. Unless he is a consummate actor, I believed his distress when he found out what had hap-pened. The blow to his wife was on the back of her head, and there was quite a lot of bloodshed. There is no blood on Mr. Gilmore’s clothes. He does have a couple of nasty scratches on his face, however.”
“He explained that to me. He said he was doing some gardening and was scratched by a rose bush.”
Murdoch nodded. “That’s what he told me as well. I did take a look at the back garden. There are a couple of rose bushes, but they don’t appear to have been tended to recently.”
“I suppose he gave up the fight after he was scratched.”
“Possibly. As I said, he is not a prime suspect.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t Mrs. Gilmore be able to enlighten us as to what happened?”
“I hope so. She has not recovered consciousness as yet. Her condition is grave, but let us hope for a full recovery.”
I saw the curtain move in the front window, and I glimpsed my boss peering out.
“Is it all right if I go and speak to Mr. Gilmore?”
“Certainly. I will come with you. I’m sure he’s eager to go to the hospital. I’ll have him driven there.”
We headed to the door.
“You haven’t said what time Mr. Gilmore did leave the office,” said Murdoch casually.
Once again I was put into the position of having to choose.
“I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.” Sort of true. I fervently hoped it wasn’t significant.
I glanced at Murdoch and had the feeling I didn’t fool him one little bit. I was saved further venery by Mr. Gil-more, who opened the front door and came out. Gone was the mild, immaculately dressed man I was used to. His mouth was tight, his face flushed and sweaty. He was in his shirt sleeves.
“Miss Frayne. Thank you for coming. Perhaps you can assure the detective that I was with you in our office, not here attacking the woman I love and cherish.”
That sure put me on the spot, as I knew that strictly speaking I could not give him the alibi he wanted.
“I’m sure Mrs. Gilmore will be able to say what happened.”
He looked at me, aghast. “Let’s pray she recovers.”
Murdoch intervened. “Mr. Gilmore, I have no desire to add to your distress. As soon as one of our detectives arrives, I shall have you taken to the hospital.”
Mr. Gilmore looked as if he might shove past Murdoch and take off down the street, but right then a car turned onto Phoebe Street.
“Ah, that’s the police car now,” said Murdoch. “If you will wait here, sir, I’ll give him instructions.”
This was the first opportunity Mr. Gilmore had had to speak privately to me. He leaned in closer. The scratches were livid, and there was a drop of spittle on the corner of his mouth; his breath was foul. He lowered his voice. “Miss Frayne. I ask you not to mention the letter I re-ceived this morning. It has nothing to do with what has happened here.”
“Can you be sure of that, sir? It might help the police to know about it.”
“If that proves to be the case, I shall tell them. But for now I don’t want to muddy the waters.”
I didn’t have a chance to pursue this further because Murdoch returned. He was followed by a heavy-set man who was sporting a decidedly unfriendly expression.
“Detective Arcady will drive you, sir,” Murdoch said.
Mr. Gilmore addressed me. “I shall ring as soon as I learn anything more.”
He hurried down the path to the car, with the unrelenting detective right behind him. Not under arrest, but, in spite of what Murdoch had said, at least one of the detectives was holding him under suspicion.
Murdoch turned. “Come inside. It’s a bit cooler.”
We went into the house. It was a traditional design with a narrow hall leading to the back, the stairs directly to the right. Opposite, through open French doors, I glimpsed a pleasantly furnished living room. Not too cluttered, not too sparse. There was a rug on the hall floor, and inter-woven with the pattern was a dark, ominous stain. A silver candelabra was lying near the door.
Murdoch pointed. “The attack seems to have happened here. There’s no doubt that was the weapon. We’ll get it tested for fingerprints. Mrs. Gilmore was a little further into the hall, near the kitchen. She was lying face down, and she had been attacked from behind.”
“Was she dressed?”
My question elicited a shrewd glance. “She was in her nightclothes, but she was wearing a dressing gown. I assume her assailant entered by way of the front door; whether he forced his way in is not clear. She might have been running away, or …” He hesitated.
“She knew the man, let him in, and might not have realized she was in danger. She might have been simply heading back toward the kitchen.”
“Precisely.”
He didn’t have to fill in the blanks. If Mrs. Gilmore had not been alarmed by her visitor, her husband was still under suspicion. But why would he attack her? There was absolutely nothing to indicate that he was a violent man or that there was any animosity between the two of them. Quite the opposite. Unfortunately, his own words came back to me. Things are not always what they seem, Miss Frayne. Never jump to conclusions until you have conducted a thorough investigation. He’d smiled at me. And even then, you might not be right. People can be astonishingly duplicitous.