"All right. But you may have to, whether you like it or not. You realize that?"
"I know. But I've lived all my life with one story and I'd prefer not to change it. Even if my adoption is connected to Harry's going away, I'd rather you take that connection to the police and let them find him. If it's possible? if you could do it like that."
I nodded, though I wasn't exactly happy about it. "I'll try? but you know, this lawyer may not be prepared to see me alone. Your adoption is confidential, privileged?"
"Don't worry. I'll fix it."
I waited in the kitchen while May used the phone in the hall. In tin minutes, she was back. "Good news. My adoption was private."
"But he won't talk about it?"
"Well, he didn't want to, but I persuaded him. My God he's officious I have to write a letter giving him formal instructions."
Stewart Cadogan, Q.C.; I was looking forward to meeting him. He'd agreed to see me that day, but not till six-thirty, and so I set off at dusk in May's Volkswagen, braving the city's traffic for the first time. It wasn't difficult. Toronto is a commercial town. At that hour, no one was making money in the great skyscrapers, but the crowds hadn't begun to spend it yet in the restaurants and bars, so the streets were gray, empty, forlorn. Cadogan's offices were on Victoria Street, just beyond Yonge. I parked, then walked a block to an old, red-brick house with stone steps, a columned porch, and a heavy oak door festooned with the appropriate plaque. Inside was a dim foyer and a desk for a porter; this gentleman, black-suited and very ancient, led me upstairs. Old, rich law firms can be very impressive, and Cadogan's fell into that category; padding along in the porter's dignified wake, I could almost hear the money rustling in their escrow accounts. I passed through a door into an outer office; a secretary, kept late for my benefit?and a trifle peevish took me over.
"You're Mr. Thorne?"
"That's right."
I would have put her age at sixty. She wore a navy suit with a white blouse, and the eyeglasses dangling round her neck bobbed with her goiter. She pressed an intercom. "A Mr. Thorne to see you, sir."
The indefinite article, somehow, made me feel less than reputable, but at least they hadn't kept me waiting, and as the secretary held the door, I stepped straight through into Cado gan's sanctum. It was large and gloomy. The rugs on the floor were probably Kashans, though a trifle threadbare, and the fire in the marble fireplace was blue, flickering coal the overall effect was one of wealth, but wealth that was practical, parsimonious, Scotch. Greeting me, Cadogan lifted himself out of a chair behind an old wood desk. He was very tall, somewhat stooped, with a large, bald head. His hands were also large, the knuckles bumpy and twisted. He could have been a school principal, a retired parson, or, indeed, just what he was. Accepting May's letter, he indicated a leather club chair by the corner of his desk. I sat, and watched him fish spectacles from the pocket of his suit coat. Fitting these to his nose, he began to read, frowning and suspicious. When he was finished, he laid the sheet of paper on his desk and pressed it flat with one of his huge bony hands. Then he glanced up at me.
"You'll not take this personally, Mr. Thorne, but you'll understand that I was reluctant to see you?"
"I gathered that, yes."
"You'll even admit, perhaps, that your situation is somewhat equivocal?"
"Yes, I suppose I would."
A smile flickered. "Then you'll be aware that mine must be too."
I said nothing. After a moment, he grunted which I took as a sign that he'd come to some provisionally favorable conclusion about me. He got to his feet. "It's after six. You'll take something to drink, Mr. Thorne?"
"Thank you, sir. That would be very pleasant."
He stepped around his desk to a lacquered cabinet near the fireplace. His suit was brown; for him, no doubt, an example of sartorial daring. It was several years out of date and, as with many old men, seemed to hang a little loosely on his large frame.
He took bottles and glasses out of the cabinet. "You're a young man and will prefer whiskey. I am old and must make do with sherry." This was a joke, so I smiled. But in fact he didn't look around to see what effect his remark might have had. I watched him pour. Naturally, there was no offer of water or ice. He brought me my glass, and I noticed that his hand, extending it, trembled slightly. I sipped. To my surprise, it was Canadian whiskey; I would have guessed Scotch. This must have shown on my face, for Cadogan smiled. "In this country, Mr. Thorne, we call it rye."
"It's very good, wherever you're from."
Perhaps he thought me incapable of normal civility, for he nodded a little, as if surprised. Then he settled himself behind his desk, his glass of sherry lost inside his vast hand. "As I understand it," he said, "you're trying to find Miss Bright-man's father."
"Not quite that. May thinks her adoption might have some connection to her father's disappearance and has asked me to look into it."
His eyes didn't leave mine, but his hand edged over his desk to a file that was lying there. "Adoption. A very private concern."
"Yes."
"Intimate business. Family business."
"I understand."
"You realize, I suppose, that I offered to tell Miss Brightman everything I know about the matter, but she asked me to tell only you?"
"Yes."
"She must trust you.".
"Yes, I think she does."
"Without wishing to give offense, Mr. Thorne, may I ask if you're absolutely certain that you understand what trust means in a matter like this?"
He had, mildly, given offense, and I didn't mind showing it. "I don't think you have to worry about that, Mr. Cadogan."
"Good. I shall cease doing so. But you also understand that I am under no obligation to tell you anything at all. May Brightman is my client, as well as her father, and she has an obvious interest in this. But these papers come from Harry Brightman's file, not hers. Only he, strictly speaking, can give you permission to read them."
"I'm sure that's true strictly speaking."
He shot me a glance. "As a lawyer, Mr. Thorne, I find nothing wrong with strict speaking."
I hesitated. I didn't want to argue with him. Besides, I knew that eventually he'd do as May's letter had instructed. I said, "Can I ask if you think there's some connection that is, between Brightman's disappearance and his daughter's adoption."
He frowned, irritated at this change of direction. But then he grunted again. "I don't say yes, Mr. Thorne? but I don't say no, either. In any case, I'd let you see these because I know that Harry Brightman would wish me to do as his daughter has asked? and because, as you will see, they contain very few secrets." Abruptly, before I could question this, he shoved the file across his desk. "You will know nothing about adoption law, but that is hardly necessary. May Brightman wasn't adopted under any statute that is in force today indeed, in 1940, the relevant law dated back to the twenties. It is a quirk in that law which gives her case a peculiar interest. You'll understand as you read."
Without saying anything, I opened the file. The first item was a carbon, on flimsy paper, of an old memo from "T. Tugwell" to "G.C." It summarized the Nova Scotia Adoption Act Chapter 139 of the Revised Statutes, 1923 and concentrated especially on the "consents" that had to be obtained before an adoption decree would be granted. Theoretically, these might include the consent of everyone from the child itself, if it was over fourteen, to the husband, if the person being adopted was a married woman, but they could also be waived under a variety of circumstances: if the person whose consent would normally be required was insane, was in a penitentiary, had neglected the child, or allowed it to be "charitably supported." Furthermore, the memo went on, if a person whose consent was normally required couldn't be found, the court could advertise for that person and then declare, if he or she still hadn't come forward, that consent was taken as given. Finally the memo concluded: "NO, the child's physical presence would not normally be required in court; and YES, our client would have to be married. This is not stated as an explicit provision of the law but in practice is almost always required."