Читать книгу Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 31

It’s a small world,” said Rebecca.

The Capitán nodded a greeting and sat down.

Feldberg smiled with bared teeth. “You see,” he addressed her. “Here we try to recreate a little bit of Buenos Aires.” His hand showed her the room as if the feeble rendering of the toreador on the wall, the painted señorita, the bull’s horns, had transfigured a rather perfunctory space into something more.

As he sat down, Isabella rolled her eyes. “Ay! Buenos Aires! How can you compare? All along the streets people sit laughing, singing till four in the morning. Strangers talk to each other, people are friendly. You can discuss. Not like here. Nobody talks to you here. You could be dying in the street, people would just step over you.” Unsmiling, she looked to Rebecca for an answer.

“I’ve heard people say Toronto is a cold place for a stranger,” Rebecca said. “But if you’re in trouble here, people will help. The city may be cold, but the individuals aren’t.”

A few strums from a guitar made Isabella turn toward the men in the band who had gone back to their places. Feldberg and the Capitán rose as she stood up and passed by, lithe and bony.

As soon as the music resumed, Feldberg approached Rebecca’s chair. “Would you like to dance, Doctor?”

The Capitán watched her with half-lidded eyes and lit up another cigarette.

While Isabella sang, Feldberg manoeuvred Rebecca deftly around the other couples sharing the dance floor. His arm gripped her waist with firm assurance, his own back straight and dignified. Rebecca took deep breaths in the opposite direction to avoid the noisome sweetness of his scent.

“So how do you like our little club?” he asked.

She nodded approval and hoped he wouldn’t push for a real answer. “It’s the Capitán’ s place?”

Feldberg’s smile stiffened a bit. “He runs the day to day in the club. I manage the rest. And of course, the building is mine. He rents from me.” With this, his old smile resumed.

“Then you’re old friends,” she said. His lips pursed with displeasure. She’d expected as much. “You knew each other in Argentina?”

“Slightly,” he said.

“And he knew Goldie too?”

“Goldie?” The contempt he injected into his voice distorted his face. “He didn’t know Goldie.” “Was he in the military?”

Feldberg appraised her, then said, “No. He knew people; he had connections if he needed something. But he himself, no.”

As if to evade further questions, Feldberg began some faster, fancier dance steps. She tried to follow, but fumbled.

“Don’t think so hard about what you are doing, Doctor. Let yourself go. Is that the expression? You Canadians are too self-conscious. You don’t know how to enjoy yourselves.”

The song rose to a sudden crescendo, then lapsed into a trembling beat.

“You’ve known Isabella a long time?” she asked.

“We’re both expatriates from Argentina. Away from home, so to speak. It’s hard to make people understand who never had to flee their country. And her past is tragic. So many tragedies. The world is filled with sad stories, Doctor.”

The words came too easily. All the sad stories were someone else’s. Life went on.

“You believe Goldie betrayed her own son?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The poor woman’s out of her pain.”

How magnanimous, Rebecca thought. “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

Feldberg danced with half-closed eyes as if trying to avoid her questions.

“Do you think it could’ve been someone from the terror? Maybe someone with a grudge?”

His eyes snapped open; his dancing slowed. “It’s all over. The terrorists are in Argentina, most of them pardoned by the new regime. It’s not logical for them to risk their lives to come here and finish someone off.”

His dancing continued to be slow. “I’d rather not talk about her. I feel so guilty about what happened to her,” he said. “Three buildings away and I couldn’t help her. I cannot imagine what you must think.”

His hypocrisy sickened her. As soon as the music stopped, she excused herself.

Outside, the flashing bulbs of the El Dorado sign lit up the sidewalk on College Street as she headed back to her car. The street was empty. She jumped into the Jaguar waiting quietly in the dark by a meter and locked the door.

Driving east along College she rolled her head on her neck to loosen the kinks. God, she was tired! She turned north up Spadina. Traffic was light. One car ahead, a van behind. As long as there were two, she felt safe. But at Dupont, the car in front made a right turn. The van still followed behind. They were the only ones in sight. The van’s headlights were bobbing high off the ground and glared into her mirror. As she approached Davenport, the traffic light turned yellow. She took the chance and sped up to fly through as it changed to red. In her rear-view mirror she saw with relief that the van stopped at the light, its size diminishing as she continued on.

She sailed serenely around the curve heading toward Casa Loma. Maybe some music. She turned on the radio and flipped the channels for something easy to listen to; she didn’t want to hear any more news.

She loved this part of town, the colossal folly of Casa Loma, the stone turrets of which shone yellow in the night like ghosts high above. The parking lot was empty at this time of night. She drove across the bridge of Sir Winston Churchill Park, heading toward St. Clair, before headlights disturbed the dark road behind her. She squinted at the too-high headlights. They looked like high-beams. It was the same van. He was lumbering up the hill, probably going home to the wife and kids.

She made it through St. Clair as the light was turning yellow. Nearly home. Glancing in her mirror she saw the van pick up speed at the intersection behind her and barrel through as the light turned red. Now he was behind her, his high-beams reflected in her mirror, stinging her eyes. So he was in a hurry. It was late.

She drove toward Forest Hill Village, a quaint little neighbourhood of old-fashioned shops with benches on the sidewalk and daffodils in wooden planters. Everything lit up for the night, but deserted. No strollers out at this hour on a week night.

She yawned and rubbed one eye. What had she learned at the club? Not much more than she already knew: Goldie’s American cousin had asked her to look up a shop in Kensington, possibly based on the missing photo. Goldie found Blue Danube Fish and questioned Vogel about a man. Possibly the man who killed her. Vogel sent Rebecca to the El Dorado to find, presumably, the Capitán. But the link between the Capitán and Goldie was tenuous since he claimed he didn’t know her. He could be lying, though Leo corroborated his story. They could both be lying.

She felt herself floating on a surface that deceived, with crests of icebergs in full sun. Everything she needed to know was submerged; somehow she had to find a way to plumb the depths.

All the traffic lights were green as she continued up Spadina. The street was empty except for a few cars driving the other way. And the van a distance behind her. A few blocks north of the Village, she made a right turn down Kilbarry, a side street that would take her to Avenue Road, then home.

Suddenly, headlights emblazoned the road behind her. The van with its high-beams was speeding after her, closing the distance between them. Alarm bells rang in her head. She pushed her foot to the floor. Her tires squealed and pulled her away. What was she thinking? This was a new universe she found herself in and all the rules had changed. She should have been more paranoid.

Her heart knocking in her chest, she raced by huge brick houses. There would be no help here.

A stop sign! She couldn’t stop. But with her luck, someone might choose that moment to drive through. She slowed down just enough to glance both ways, then tromped through. To her horror the van didn’t even slow down but lurched toward her. His engine was gutsier than he had let on and he heaved the van beside her. Adrenaline pushed through her body. They flew parallel down the side street for a few seconds, then finally he pitched his huge front fender toward the side of her car. She swung away onto the sidewalk and slammed on the brake to avoid crashing into the fence.

Blood pulsed through her ears; she could feel the walls of her veins expanding with the rush, but she had to move — the van door was opening. Someone was getting out. “No!” she screamed, and punched her gearshift into reverse. Craning her neck to see out the rear window, she pumped her foot to the floor, then screeched backwards off the sidewalk. She flew in reverse for a block till she could turn around in a driveway and race back toward Spadina. Her heart knocked in her chest. Stupid, stupid! If she got away, she would never be this stupid again.