Betsy didn’t see Lars and Jill, but that didn’t surprise her; she hadn’t seen the Stanley outside, either. They must have already stopped and gone on, or not stopped at all, more likely. After having been beaten last Saturday, Lars was probably determined to arrive first in Litchfield.
Although this was not, of course, a race.
What was a bit more problematic was that Mike and Dorothy weren’t there, either.
Betsy took her Coke outside, to be reassured by the sight of the Model T still parked across the street. They must be in the restrooms, she thought. Two drivers came out and started cranking their cars. The driver of the REO had to adjust his magneto twice before the engine caught. Grunge, grunge, grunge, it complained, before he pulled out well behind the other and putt, putt, putt-putt-putt, started up the road.
She watched him diminish to a heat-waved mirage then heard a sound-not quite like a modern car, but not like the rickety sound of an old one, either. She turned and saw something spectacular coming up the road, to pull off behind the Model T.
It was a gorgeous antique limousine, tall and long, a rich, royal blue with inlaid brass stripes on the hood and along the back door. The back seat was under a black leather roof, but the front seat wasn’t. There was a kind of second windshield behind the front seat, with hinged wings to further enclose the rear passenger compartment, which appeared to be empty. The very distinctive hood sloped downward to the nose, then sloped very steeply down and forward to the front bumper. The radiator was behind the hood, sticking out around the edges. The tires were fat, the heavy wooden spokes of the wheels painted creamy white. The engine, ticking gently over, stopped, and a man shifted over to the passenger side and climbed out. He was slim, broad-shouldered, and extremely elegant in royal blue riding pants, the old-fashioned kind with wings, and black leather gaiters with buckles. He wasn’t wearing a coat or jacket, but an immaculate white shirt whose upper sleeves were encircled by royal blue garters, and as he got out, he took off a royal blue cap with a narrow black bill and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
Betsy suddenly recognized him. “Adam!” she called.
He looked over at her and smiled and waved his cap.
Betsy looked both ways and hurried across. “Oh my, oh my, oh my!” she said. “Is this the Renault? Golly, what a car! Was it made by the same people who make Renaults today? I’ve never seen anything so elegant!”
“Yes and yes,” said Adam, pleased at her enthusiasm. “And I agree, it’s about as elegant as a car can get. Body and chassis by Renault, who of course still make cars, running board boxes by Louis Vuitton, who still make luggage, headlamps by Ducellier and ignition by Bosch, both of whom are still in the automotive business.”
“What is that half-a-top called, a landau?”
“No, a Victoria.”
Betsy swept her eyes down its length. “Gosh, it must be twenty feet long! I didn’t know they made limos this far back!”
He laughed. “It’s not really a limo, but a sport touring car. It’s seventeen feet long, seven and a half feet tall with the top up.”
“Does it have a speaking tube? You know”-she mimed holding something between thumb and two fingers-“home, James,” she said in plummy accents.
“As a matter of fact, it does.”
“The engine compartment doesn’t look very big-how fast does it go?”
“It has four cylinders, which for 1911, the year it was built, is pretty good. She’ll do about fifty on a level stretch, if it’s long enough. She’s heavy, so it takes a couple of miles to get to her top speed. She has a big muffler, so the ride is both smooth and very quiet.”
“Wow, I can’t get over it, this is so beautiful! I’m so glad you were able to catch up. Mike Jimson told me you got busy just about the time we were supposed to leave, so I rode with him and his wife in their Model T.” Betsy gestured toward the car parked ahead of the Renault.
“I’m glad I caught up before you left Pine Grove. But come on, I need something cold to drink before we head out.”
They waited for a truck and two cars to pass, all honking at them, one swerving while the driver and his passengers waved madly. While Adam got his can of root beer, Betsy found Mike and Dorothy at a table in the back and explained that she was going to continue the trip in Adam Smith’s Renault.
“So Adam got here after all,” said Mike. “Good for him. And you’re gonna love riding in that thing.”
As they went back across the road, Adam asked, “Front or back?”
“Oh, front, so we can talk.”
“Wait till I get her started, then.” He went to the front of the car, Betsy following, to push a short lever by its brass knob with his left hand, and began to crank with his right. The engine went fffut-fffut, he released the lever, and the car started.
“What is that, some kind of spring windup mechanism?” she asked.
“No, the lever is a compression release. It opens the exhaust valves a little so it’s easier to crank. Here-” He pointed to a small silver knob on the front-“this is what retards or advances the spark on the magneto, so the car won’t backfire and break your cranking arm.” He went to climb in, Betsy following.
She looked across the road and saw a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, some of them fellow antique car drivers.
“You’d think they’d be used to seeing this,” said Betsy.
“No, I don’t bring this one out very often. It’s really rare and it would be a pity if it got in an accident.”
The notion of an accident made her reach for her seat belt, which of course wasn’t there. “Do you ever think of having seat belts installed?”
“Nope. I only put back what once was there,” he said with a smile.
“Do you want me to navigate?”
“No need. I helped lay out this route, so I know it pretty well.”
They rode in silence for a bit. The Renault had the weighty, comfortable feel of a big sixties convertible, but the inside wasn’t much like a modern car-especially the blank dashboard.
“How do you know how fast you’re going?” Betsy asked.
“Look down on the floor near my feet.” Sure enough, the speedometer was on the floor. “And the key to turn on the ignition is on the seat, behind my legs. This car has many unique features. You notice there’s plenty of room up here.”
“Yes?” said Betsy.
“Makers of chauffeur-driven cars wanted to give as much room as possible to the passengers, so the driver’s compartment was very small. That’s one reason there was a fad for Asian chauffeurs, who, generally being smaller, weren’t as cramped.”
“That’s the kind of trivia that could win someone a lot of money,” said Betsy laughing. “All right, why was the driver of this car given more room?”
“Because this wasn’t really a limo, and the buyer needed a driver who could double as a bodyguard, someone big enough to need extra space.”
“What was this, a gangster’s car?”
Adam laughed. “No, not at all.”
Betsy was pleased to have put Adam in a good mood, but a little silence fell while she tried to think how to phrase her next question. At last she simply began, “Adam, what do you think happened to Bill Birmingham?”
“What do you mean, what do I think happened? Someone shot him and set his car on fire.”
“Who?”
He frowned at her briefly, then returned his eyes to the road. “How should I know?”
“Well, who would want to do such a thing?”
“I don’t want to say,” he said. “It’s hard to think it might be someone I know.” His attitude was so sincere, Betsy began to worry she was on the wrong track entirely. She thought again how to continue, but before she could say anything, he went on. “His son Bro, obviously.”
She said, “Because he wanted the business?”
“Because his father wouldn’t quit the business like he was supposed to. That was Bill all over, couldn’t let go. He just couldn’t let go.”