Time was short. They turned the corner and rushed out a side entrance of the building.
University Avenue was cold in the windy shade of the hospitals and government buildings that lined the street. The sun was struggling to assert itself this April, making Rebecca shiver in her gabardine jacket. Nesha took her elbow and led her down the street like an old-fashioned man at a dance. She managed to steer him west along Elm toward Kensington Market. They were two blocks away from her office, then another two blocks to Spadina. The rain the night before had soaked the lawns and trees along Baldwin Street, leaving a damp earthy fragrance in the air.
They reached the rushing torrent of Spadina Avenue, that line of demarcation between the calm east side, reaching back to Beverley Street, and the chaotic west side which slid into the market. She felt awkward in the hand-on-elbow position and had taken his arm. He seemed content to have her lead.
The street light turned red before they finished crossing. Saturday shoppers filled the sidewalks of the market as far as she could see. She hated crowds. On Baldwin Street, a few stores past Spadina, she stopped. He said nothing. The ancient Blue Danube Fish sign reflected the paltry afternoon light. In the window lay a greying fish with hard dull eyes, possibly once a trout, displayed on a newspaper.
She took a deep breath, braced herself against the smell. He followed her hesitant step through the door of the shop. Any hint of spring vanished inside the shadows of the store. The awful smell of old fish washed over her. Mona stood behind the counter, wrapping fish for a woman customer.
Beneath the same bloodied apron, Mona wore a brilliant red cotton top. Rebecca thought she would’ve had enough of the colour in the shop without adding it to her wardrobe. Mona’s black-pencilled eyes showed a spark of recognition when they turned to Rebecca. Noticing Nesha, her cheeks lifted in an attempt at a smile. A few bangs wisped down from her widow’s peak.
She nodded. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to ask you some more questions,” Rebecca said.
“I don’t know anything.”
Rebecca held out the news photo over the loathsome counter. “You know this man?”
Mona squinted at the photo. “Fuzzy picture. Oh, it’s our store! And this is one of our customers. Mr. Feldberg. He has a restaurant.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Not for a while. He usually phones to order.”
“What do you know about him?”
Mona tilted her head observing her. “He’s a good customer.”
“Do you know anything about him personally?”
Mona shrugged beneath the blood-red sweater. “He’s a good dresser. Classy looking, you know? But what a ladies’ man. Always flirting.” Her hand whisked a loose strand of hair off her face. She peeked at Nesha, who was playing coy near the carp basin. “His wife came once. Probably checking on him.”
Chana had been there. Rebecca made a mental note of that. “What do you know about his restaurant?”
“Not much. It’s on College Street somewhere.”
“It’s a Spanish club called El Dorado. It’s a front for money laundering.”
Mona stood there, absently wiping her hands on her apron. “I don’t know anything about that. We just sell them fish.”
“Max said you’re the one who takes care of the store.”
Her face went blotchy red. “I know fish!” she cried. “I don’t know business. He does the business!”
Rebecca pulled back. She made a point of looking around at the shabby walls, the rickety carp tank. “How is business?”
She looked at Nesha, who was no longer pretending disinterest. “We get by.”
“According to Feldberg’s books, you’re selling him enough fish to restock Lake Ontario. You’re making an awful lot of money.”
Mona’s black-limned eyes grew wide. “What are you talking about?” she rasped. “Look at this place. Does it look like we’re making money?”
Either Mona was a good actress, or she was being duped. Rebecca glanced toward the door of the partition. There was a muffled sound in the back, someone moving.
“Let me put it this way. If you’d actually sold Feldberg all the fish he shows on his books, you’d have retired to Florida long ago. But you are getting a cut for being involved.”
Mona stared at her, bewildered. “A cut?”
Her eyes turned toward the partition. “Max and Mr. Feldberg knew each other from before. I didn’t tell you but — they were in the same camp during the war. Max told me.”
Nesha snapped to attention. He shuffled closer.
“I’d better talk to him,” Rebecca said, edging toward the side counter.
All at once an invisible door slammed. Rebecca knew just which one. She remembered a rear door leading outside from the study into a laneway. She pictured Vogel running down the alley and disappearing into the market.
Before the women could move, Nesha swung open the door to the study. While he was orienting himself, Rebecca pushed past him and quickly opened the back door that led to the alley. Nothing. He would disappear quickly in the market.
Nesha stepped out and peered around. “Who am I looking for?”
“He never mentioned being in a camp,” Rebecca said.
Nesha came back in and closed the door.
Mona stared at the empty chair. “He told me he was making passports for Jews and some guy found out and turned him in. He was sent to a camp.”
“Then, how did he keep his collection?”
“Hmm?”
“He must’ve been given these things before he ended up in the camp. He couldn’t take them with him.”
Mona shrugged. “Maybe he hid them.”
Rebecca pushed past Mona toward the display of antiques, the filigreed spice box, the delicately wrought menorah. Her eyes swiftly scanned the bookcase. Did he? Didn’t he? He did. She yanked out a slender volume on Raphael and flipped through. A full-page photo of the right Portrait of a Young Man made her catch her breath. The face was alive, the coy expression in the eyes, the careless self-confidence of youth that cannot foresee death.
“What do you know about this painting?” Rebecca asked her.
Mona stared with fish eyes. “It’s very nice,” she said.
“Have you seen the rest of Mr. Vogel’s collection?”
“You mean at home?” she said. “Once. A while ago. He’s a very private man.”
“Did you see this painting
