I nodded, and Jerry said, "That's some kind of car you got, Mr. Thome, but I'll be glad when you take it. Nothing left but the drive train, you leave it here a couple more nights."
I gave him another nod and he turned, leading us confidently into the landscape of this strange world: mountains of tires, valleys of broken glass, defiles of stacked-up batteries and radiators. Brightman's Jaguar was way at the back, and had already been assimilated to the Pop-Dali style of the place. To its left was an enormous pile of old wheel rims; behind it, arranged in an arc, were a dozen black motorcycles. Only a naked lady, reclining on the car's vast hood, was required to complete the ad for some elegant whiskey.
Katadotis shook his head mournfully. "It's a real shame, Mr. Thorne. If she'd told us he was driving that car, we'd have picked him up the minute he came over the border."
I stared at the car. As a boy, I'd been crazy about cars, knew them all, and seeing this model again — not uncommon on the embassy circuit — I recognized it at once. A Mark VII, circa 1955. A stripped-down version, with an aluminum body, had won at Le Mans. It was painted white and truly enormous, its lines rounded and flowing — a rich man's horseless carriage from an era when liners still plied the Atlantic.
"It seems to be missing some hubcaps."
Jerry grinned. "Yeah. And one of the guys must have cut the Jaguar out of the hood. The radiator'd go next."
Fishing keys from his pocket, he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. There was a choke, of course. And a starter button. But these antiques were still working and the engine caught first time, idling with true British discretion. Jerry got out and patted the roof. "Runs like the lady she is. Should look under the hood. He kept her real nice."
Yet May had forgotten the car's very existence… you couldn't help thinking this. But she had no use for cars; all the time I'd known her, she'd only driven Volkswagen Beetles. This great boat just hadn't registered.
Katadotis stepped forward, holding a large manila envelope toward me. "The contents of the glove compartment, Mr. Thome. You have to sign for them, and of course for the car itself." As I took it from him, he handed me a form and I read it through — finding no mention of compensation for hubcaps or hood ornaments. But I signed it anyway—"received in good order." Katadotis went on, "That just leaves us one problem, Mr. Thorne. The registration was in his wallet and we have to keep that… personal effects of the deceased. What I did, I had them make a photostat and then I wrote you this note. If anyone still doesn't like it, have them call me."
"I'll do that, Lieutenant."
I stepped forward warily and slid onto the seat, halfway intimidated at the prospect of driving this monster. When I took a breath, my nose filled with the smells of leather, polish, wax— the fat, fruity smell of rich car. I looked around. The carpet on the passenger side was stained, and there was another stain— you could see that someone had tried to towel it off — on the roof above the window. Other than that, however, it was clean enough: real nice, as Jerry would say. In fact, as I sat there, I realized how beautifully the car had been cared for. The huge dashboard, probably walnut, was lovingly polished, and there wasn't even dust on the gauges. Brightman had loved this machine: it made sense that he'd chosen to end his life here.
Katadotis leaned through the window. "You okay, Mr. Thome?"
"Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant."
"Well, I'm sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances, but you've been a great help, believe me, Mr. Thorne. You've been a real good friend to Miss Brightman."
We shook hands. Jerry shouted directions. I eased off the clutch… As the transmission took hold, it was as if a great locomotive was delicately nosing me forward. I held my breath; hung on to the wheel. Turned right at the tires. Right again at the door panels. Left at the fence. I reached the gate, still in first gear, then daringly shifted to second as I started down St. Jean. How bizarre this all was. I was Churchill, touring the lines after D Day. Or James Bond: all around me were black townships in South Africa where diamond smugglers were working… I turned left onto Jefferson. For the first time, I put my foot down a little, and switched up into third. The Jag moved as if in a dream, with no sense of effort or strain. I decided to count my blessings. Tomorrow, I'd be home in Charlottesville. In a month, this would all be forgotten. All those unanswered questions were frustrating, but I told myself to be philosophical. As a journalist, you learn that 90 percent of your questions never get answered, and your best stories are never turned out of the typewriter — which may be the greatest blessing of all. So I relaxed. Checked my watch. Three forty-five… I hadn't eaten since this morning, on the plane, and I was more than a little hungry. As between Detroit and Windsor, I know where I'd rather live, but when it came to restaurants, I wondered if I wasn't better off here. Besides, looming up on my left were the towers of the Renaissance Center, the massive hotel and office complex that's supposed to "revitalize" downtown Detroit. I knew I'd find something in there, and so I ponderously turned the great car and rolled sedately down an access ramp to a parking lot. I found a spot… and then, despite my philosophizing, I delayed. Lighting a cigarette, I tore open the envelope Katadotis had given me, searching for one last hope, some clue the police might have missed. But there was very little inside, and certainly no revelations; nothing to prevent me kissing Harry Brightman goodbye: just a government map of Ontario, an old Rand McNally map of the New England states, and a membership in the Canadian Automobile Association that had expired in 1968… I tossed them back where they'd come from, a glove compartment that was the size of most trunks.
And then a face leaned down toward the window.
I rolled it down.
"Mister?"
It was a young black man — the attendant, I realized, who'd let me in at the gate.
"Yes?"
"I got an urgent call for you, up in the booth."
"I don't understand. A telephone call?"
"Yessir. The man said, the man in the big white car that just came through."
"What's his name?"
The black kid looked impatient. "Your name's Brightman, isn't it? He just said to go fetch you."
"Hang on," I said, "I'll be there in a second."
8
"Mr. Brightman?"
"Yes. I'm Brightman."
"But I know it is you, Mr. Thome. I only wished to get your attention."
The voice was male, and the accent was Russian.
"Who are you?"
"Never mind, Mr. Thome. We've never met — but now I think that we should."
"I'm not so sure. Perhaps we already have."
A pause. Then: "It is interesting that you say that, Mr. Thome. But I assure you we've never so much as laid eyes on each other."
And I believed him — it wasn't the Russian from Halifax. But he must have been following me, whoever he was; it was the only way he could have known I was here. I looked around. The booth was only four feet by eight, but was nonetheless fairly substantiaclass="underline" baseboard heaters; built-in coat locker; a shelf with a portable television — Monty Hall was dealing away in full color. There were tinted-glass windows on all four sides, and I knew he had to be close by, but there wasn't much I could see: the booth was on the downslope of a hill, so I could just make out the tops of the cars passing along Jefferson while the far side of the road was completely hidden from view.
"Mr. Thorne?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"I am surprised you are not more interested. I can tell you everything, Mr. Thorne. How it was done. What has happened to Brightman. Everything."
"I'm listening."
"No. It is better to meet face to face."
Russia. Brightman had been there, I had lived there, that man in Halifax, and now… I said, "There might be other things besides Brightman to talk about."