Heat Wave: A Paradise Cafe Mystery

By Maureen Jennings

July 1936. Toronto is in the grip of a deadly heat wave. Horses are dropping in the street. Charlotte Frayne is the junior associate in a two-person private-investigation firm owned by T. Gilmore.

Anti-Semitism and murder in "Toronto the Good” in the depths of the Great Depression provide the historical background for this satis

• Language: English
• Publisher: Historia
• Release date: Jan 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087858890

Maureen Jennings

Maureen Jennings emigrated to Canada from the UK at the age of seventeen. Best known for the Murdoch Mysteries series, the TV adaptation of which has been running since 2008, Jennings has also launched a new contemporary series featuring a forensic profiler named Christine Morris. She lives in Toronto, Canada with her husband, two cats and two dogs.

Book preview

Chapter One

Usually the walk from my house to the office takes me twenty-five minutes at the most, but this morning I was moving slowly, very slowly. The city — indeed, the country — was in the grip of a record-breaking heat wave, and already, at eight o’clock, the temperature was ninety degrees. The sky was a clear blue, except for a few flimsy clouds hanging over the lake in a weak, uncommitted way. It was so humid I could have wrung out the air and made a river.

The Daily Star had reported that fledgling seagulls nest­ing in a colony on top of the Toronto Bank building had been jumping off because the roof was too hot. As they were not yet able to fly, this was a disastrous move. I sym­pathized. Never mind the apples baking on the trees, I felt as if I could boil over myself. It didn’t help that I was wearing what I tended to think of as my uniform: a white cotton blouse with long sleeves and a prim collar, and a navy blue linen skirt. Mr. Gilmore, my boss, was a stickler for proper appearances — no bare arms, and hems had to hover closer to the ankles than the knees. At regular intervals, he would say, Miss Frayne, you are the face of the company. When a prospective client enters the office, they want immediate reassurance that T. Gilmore and Associates, Private Inves­tigators, are completely respectable. He never failed to give me a sly grin at this point. Add to that reasonable rates and we have a winning combination.

In fact, I was the only other associate, and I still had my jobs as secretary and general dogsbody. I thought perhaps getting a swankier office with windows and decent chairs might improve the face considerably, but I hadn’t yet shared this insight with Mr. Gilmore. He was right about his winning combination: in spite of the depression, busi­ness was steady. We weren’t getting rich, but we were covering expenses. Perhaps clients drawn to the boast of reasonable rates didn’t expect a fancy decor.

One good thing about dressing like a respectable debu­tante was that I wore a hat with a wide brim. It helped to shade my face from the killing sun. Despite this helpful accessory, by the time I reached the Arcade, sweat was trickling down the back of my neck and my stockings were plastered to my legs.

When it was built over fifty years ago, the Arcade Building had been Toronto’s pride and joy. Like a lot of our early piles, it had a vaguely ecclesiastical look, with a huge arched entrance and elegant classical pilasters. In fact, it was then and is now devoted strictly to commercial operations. The red bricks are getting a touch shabby with age, but it is still impressive: four storeys high, with an inside atrium lit by overhead plate glass windows. In winter, the roof brought in yearned-for sunlight; fortunately now the owners had wisely installed an air-cooling system. Without it, the Arcade would have been a greenhouse fit only for tomatoes, and nobody would have been shopping. Smart shops, albeit small, were on the first and second floors, business offices on the third. There was a hydraulic elevator, but it was constantly out of service. Today was no exception. Stairs it was. In the humid heat, I climbed as if I were ancient. The offices of T. Gilmore and Associates were at the end of the hall, and I trudged past the three other tenants. Nobody seemed to have arrived as yet. All the doors had their Closed signs turned out.

I let myself into the office. To my surprise, Mr. Gilmore was already at his desk. He usually didn’t get in until nine at the earliest. As soon as I opened the door, he stood up and came to meet me. He looked terrible.

Mr. Gilmore, what’s wrong?

He was holding an envelope, and he handed it to me.

Take a look.

It was addressed to him: Mr. T. Gilmore. The Yonge Street Arcade. 3rd floor. Suite B. Toronto.

Bold black letters. Neat handwriting.

I took out the single piece of paper. Dead centre were the words:

FILTHY COMMIE JEW. YOU DESERVE TO DIE.

At the bottom were drawings of rats with vicious teeth. Each had a knife protruding from its side.

Mr. Gilmore! What on earth is it about?

A good question, Miss Frayne.

Why would anybody send you such a letter?

I was wondering the same thing. All I can think of is that I have been mistaken for somebody else. I live in a neighbourhood where there are people of the Hebrew persuasion.

And it was here when you came in?

It was in the letter box. As you can see, the envelope isn’t franked. It was a private delivery.

Have you received any other letters like this?

Not at all. This one has the dubious distinction of being the first.

Has anybody else in the neighbourhood been targeted?

Not that I am aware of. He reached out for the paper. His hand was shaking. He noticed and steadied himself. It is not something they might want to reveal. He gave me his typical wry smile. I know these people, Miss Frayne. If they can ignore such nastiness, it might go away. Mr. Hitler is capitalizing on this trait over in Germany.

I felt a pang of shame. I was well aware of what was going on in Europe. I knew laws were being enacted against the Jews — book burnings, discrimination — but like a lot of us in Canada, I sort of hoped it would go away. Or that they would deal with it over there. These days I was wrapped up in what was happening in my own coun­try, where unemployed men were being jailed for no good reason except that they were protesting their desperate condition. Besides, since the Christie Pits riot three years ago, overt anti-Semitism in Toronto seemed to have abated. Should we contact the police?

He made a burring noise. What will they say? ‘Let us know if you receive any further such missives’?

But there is an implied threat.

As you say, implied only. There has been no violence to my person or my property.

Technically, he was correct, but holding that piece of paper in my hand it didn’t feel quite like that. It was an attack all right.

But …

He was already replacing the letter inside the envelope. I should not have shown you. I was taken off guard for a moment. There is nothing you can do. And, as I say, a case of mistaken identity.

I can speak to the other tenants. Somebody might have noticed whoever delivered it.

Not likely. It could have come any time after we closed last evening. The Arcade is open to the public. Dozens of people linger in here to escape the heat. Besides, even if somebody were to have seen our private postman, and even if we found such person, it doesn’t mean he was the one who wrote the letter.

You say it is a case of mistaken identity and that you are not personally being targeted. How do you know that?

He blinked. Because quite simply, Miss Frayne, I do not consider myself to be a filthy Jew, Communist or not.

Mr. Gilmore was middle-aged, round of chin and girth with grey hair that he combed across his balding head. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. Usually, his conservative blue suit was well pressed. This morning he looked no differ­ent, except that he was in his shirt sleeves and he had a couple of angry scratches along his jawline.

I indicated the marks. What happened to your chin?

Oh, that. He touched the scratches gingerly. I had an argument with a rose bush. I wanted to confine it, and it had other ideas. Roses can be like that.

He gazed down at the envelope in his hand. I should probably burn this thing.

No, don’t do that. Give it to me, and I’ll lock it in my desk. If, God forbid, any more show up, I will personally make sure I find the culprit if it’s the last thing I do.

His eyes met mine. Thank you, Miss Frayne. Your concern warms my heart. He handed over the letter. Perhaps we can keep this between ourselves?

Of course.

I opened my desk drawer and consigned the envelope to the back.

Mr. Gilmore pursed his lips. I think I ought to check in at home. Just in case the postman has also paid a visit there. I do not want my wife to be upset. She does not tolerate the heat well, and she is rather fragile these days. He got his hat and jacket from the stand. I suggest we get on with business, Miss Frayne. Always the best antidote to distress, don’t you think? I left a report on the Dictaphone for you. The Walsingham case. You can type it up. And perhaps we can get some action on any money we are owed. Mr. Epping is dragging his feet. Give him a bit of a prod.

When do you think you will be back?

I shan’t be gone long. As I said, just a little reassurance required.

He left.

Chapter Two

Mr. Gilmore and I had been colleagues now for some two years, but we shared almost nothing about our personal 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 draw­ings 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 stif­ling 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 remit­tance 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 tan­coloured 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 twist­ing 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 prospec­tive clients to dismiss me out of hand, especially when I was seated at the desk. Female private