Monica Ferris - A Murderous Yarn

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.”

“Is that why he wouldn’t sell you the Fuller?”

“What?” He glanced at her, frowning deeply. “What are you getting at?”

“He bought that Fuller because you wanted it, right? His original intention was to sell it to you at a profit. But maybe once he got hold of it, he just couldn’t let it go.”

Adam considered this. “Maybe. But it’s more likely he hung on to it in order to make me as mad at him as he was at me. Stick your arm out.”

“What?”

“I want to pass the Sears, stick your arm out.”

Betsy glanced at the road behind, saw it was clear, and extended her left arm. Adam pulled smoothly out onto the highway, went around the Sears with a wave, and pulled back onto the shoulder again. The Sears sounded its bulb horn and Adam replied with a beautiful French horn note.

They rode in silence for a bit, then Betsy said, “Bill was mad at you because you bought that Maxwell he wanted, right?”

“Partly. But mostly because I ran against him for president of the Antique Car Club. And I beat him. He would have made a lousy president because he didn’t know the meaning of compromise, and everyone knew it. He thought he lost because I was spreading ugly rumors about him.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That he rarely listened to what anyone else said, and if he did happen to hear a good idea, he’d take it as his own without giving credit. Which weren’t rumors, they were facts, and I said as much in the course of a free and open campaign.”

This time Betsy held her tongue on purpose, and after a minute, Adam said, “And because he heard that if he got elected, Charlie and Mack and I would quit and start our own club. And that after six months ours would be the only antique car club in Minnesota.”

“Did you say those things, too?”

“Well, yes. But I was only repeating what Mack said first. Besides, it was God’s truth.”