I HAD TO ASK. “Can we be clear about this, Mrs. Parker? You don’t mean Thaddeus Gilmore?”
“Good gracious me, no. I hope you didn’t think that.”
“Not really, but I needed to make sure. You said this man came out of Mr. Gilmore’s house.”
“He did. I believe they were friends. When I saw him before, he went there first, then he would visit Katia Kaufmann.”
Out of deference to her feeling of propriety, I found my-self lowering my voice as well. “On what do you base your opinion that this man and Mrs. Kaufmann were lovers?”
Heaven knows what she would say. She’d hardly be hiding in the wardrobe.
“As I mentioned, I like to sit in my backyard. On three separate occasions I saw Mrs. Kaufmann and this gentleman together. How shall I put it? They were expressing great affection toward each other.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Average height and weight. Nothing too distinctive about him, really. Brown hair. Modestly dressed. He wore glasses.”
“Where was Mr. Kaufmann during these affectionate exchanges?”
“He leaves the house on regular occasions. Wednesdays and Fridays. Nine o’clock in the morning. That is when Mrs. Kaufmann had her visitor.”
“Do you know what Mr. Kaufmann does when he leaves the house?”
“I do not. We do not have the kind of relationship where we exchange pleasantries about our daily routines. He is usually gone for two or three hours.”
“Does Mrs. Kaufmann go out?”
“She didn’t used to, but in the past while she has been going out at least once a week. Thursday afternoons. She gets a little dressed up on those days.”
Does she indeed? Meeting the alleged lover? I must say I was impressed with Mrs. Parker. She was giving me these details in a dispassionate way as if she were reporting on the sunflowers or the dahlias. Yes, they were quite bright this morning.
I walked her through her statement again. She had a quiet certitude that was convincing. Shortly after this man had entered the Kaufmann house, she had heard shouts, a cry she was sure was from Mrs. Kaufmann. She hadn’t known what to do when she saw Mr. Gilmore come out of his house and hurry to the Kaufmanns’. Not too long after that, perhaps less than ten minutes, she saw him return to his own house. She did see signs of blood on his shirt. He went back again to the Kaufmanns’, and shortly thereafter a police car and an ambulance arrived. Mr. Kaufmann was carried out on a stretcher and was followed a few minutes later by his wife, also on a stretcher. Mrs. Parker had come out of her own house at that point to see what was happening, but the abrupt police officer had sent her back inside. She saw no sign of the first man, the lover. Nobody as yet had come to ask for a statement from her.
“Could the visitor have left from the rear door?” I asked her.
“He certainly could. There is a laneway that runs behind all our houses. He could have gone out by the back gate and gone along the laneway to the street.”
She sat and looked at me over the top of her old-fashioned pince-nez. “I have no desire to get anybody into trouble. I do like Mrs. Kaufmann, and I consider the Gilmores to be splendid neighbours. What has happened, Miss Frayne? I am afraid to leave my house.”
I reassured her as best as I could. But my words seemed hollow, even to me. Two savage attacks in three days. What was a vulnerable old lady going to do except be afraid?
“Keep your door locked and don’t open it for anybody you don’t know. Do you have enough food to be going on with?”
She did.
“I’ll be back as soon as I know anything more.”
I put the glass on the side table. I hadn’t finished it, but if I was going to have any brain left I thought I’d better stop now. Promising to be back the next day, I left.
The young constable in front of the Kaufmann house greeted me happily.
“I think I dropped my handkerchief in one of the bedrooms. Okay if I pop up and get it?”
That pesky handkerchief was coming in handy.
“Sure.”
I went inside the stifling house and hurried upstairs. I went to Mrs. Kaufmann’s room first. I’d just given a cursory scan before, now I had more idea of what I was looking for.
When I was growing up, Gran had not always approved of my reading material. She was old-fashioned enough to consider certain novels unsuitable for developing minds. I got into the habit of slipping my current library books underneath the bed and reading them at night. I don’t think she would actually have removed any of them, but the threat was there. If she had known I had accidently come across England, My England by D.H. Lawrence, she would have had a conniption. She would have been right. It was far too old for me. Scarred me for life.
I went straight to the bed and crouched down so I could see underneath. Katia Kaufmann obviously had the same need to conceal as I had had. There were no books hidden away, but there was a metal box. Not a speck of dust on it.
I should explain that although I was licensed as a private investigator, I had no more legal rights than an ordinary citizen. I could not take anything or interfere with any property. By even looking at Katia’s things, I was stepping close to the edge. I had to take that risk.
I pulled it out. It was locked, but the key was not hard to find. Katia had hidden it under her pillow.
I opened the box without any difficulty.
Inside, glued to a piece of stiff cardboard, was a pen-and-ink drawing of a young woman. She was looking over her shoulder as she smiled demurely at the artist. Her shoulders were bare, but whether the rest of her was clothed or not you couldn’t tell. She had thick curly hair, loose and wild. It was a charming portrait, intimate and loving.
There was enough resemblance to know this was Katia Kaufmann when she was younger. The artist had written his signature on the bottom of the drawing: “Conal Pierce. ’17.” There was a small photograph. Conal in army uniform, looking young and hopeful.
I put both pictures aside on the bed. I had no idea what to make of it all. Obviously, Katia Kaufmann had a prior relationship with Conal Pierce. Mrs. Parker thought they were lovers, and looking at the sweet portrait that was not hard to believe. I assumed they had reconnected with each other, perhaps when he had come to Toronto to start the café.
I turned back to the box. At the bottom was a leather pouch. I opened that and spilled out the contents. Mostly coins, some notes. They added up to twenty-seven dollars.
My instincts had been right. Conal hadn’t come totally clean. The money wasn’t going to fund strikers. It had ended up in a box underneath Katia Kaufmann’s bed.
I returned everything, locked the box, and replaced the key underneath the pillow.
I WENT TO THE second bedroom. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I had a feeling Arthur Kauf-mann had his secrets just as his wife had.
A battered wardrobe was in one corner. No door, just a chintz curtain hanging from a rod. I walked over to it and pulled the curtain aside. There were only two pieces of clothing hanging up: a man’s shirt, dark blue, and a pair of navy trousers. There was a white metal pin on the shirt with a distinctive red insignia.
My, my. It seemed Kaufmann was a member of one of the Toronto Swastika Clubs. They had sprouted up like ugly mushrooms about three years ago.