Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [136]
The accident site appeared up ahead of us, looming above the sandy beach where we had talked with the insurance investigator. The beach was sunny today, but deserted, with neither bread van nor closed touring car parked on the side of the road. When we got to the top of the hill, I scarcely glanced at the place where it had happened; my mind was taken up with the coming garage.
Donny pulled up to the petrol pump and all three of us got out of the motor. The boy who came out to help us was too young to remember much about the events of 1914, far too young to have built up the garage on his own. I asked him if the owner was there.
The boy glanced at me curiously, but could see no reason to fend me off. “My uncle's around the back, working on a transmission.”
The mechanic looked as if he was doing battle with the transmission, or being eaten by it. The dismantled vehicle lay strewn all about, the body lifted to one side, the engine hanging from a gargantuan tripod, and the underpinnings—drive-shaft crossed by two axles—lay atop a pair of outstretched legs. I stopped short, wondering if I should summon help to lift the weighty object off a dead man, but then the legs convulsed and, marginally more reassuringly, a string of dire imprecations emerged from the wreckage. Someone that eloquent, I thought, could not be in extremis.
“Er, I beg your pardon?” I said loudly.
The imprecations paused, the convulsing legs began to push against the paving stones, and one arm wrapped around the drive-shaft, pulling its owner into open air.
A grease-blackened face glared at me. “Yeah?”
“I'm very sorry to interrupt you, but I'm looking for the gentleman who owned this establishment back in 1914.”
More of the torso emerged, and a rag was waved across the visage, making no discernible difference, although beneath the film he appeared not much older than I. “That would've been my brother, Dick,” he said. “I helped out, and took it over after he was killed back in '20.”
“Would you have been here in September 1914?”
He cocked his head and fixed me with a long, thoughtful gaze before deciding to get to his feet. The rest of him was no less greasy, and I had to stop myself from retreating fastidiously when he climbed over his project and came over to stand in front of me. He tugged a cap from the back pocket of his overalls and pulled it on. Thus equipped for a formal interview, he squinted at me. “Why do you want to know about September 1914?”
It was my turn to look thoughtfully at him. Was it the date itself, or my asking, that had caught his attention? When in doubt, fall back on the truth, or a close facsimile.
“I was in a motor accident then, just down the road from this place. I wondered if anyone might remember any details about the day.”
The black, shiny surface before me shifted as his expression changed. “You were in that car?”
That car. “I was.”
“You're the girl.”
“I was, yes.”
“Well, I'll be da—Sorry, miss.”
“So you do remember it?”
“Yeah, and I'm sorry to tell you you're too late. I already gave it to him.”
“Gave what to whom?” It was an effort to speak over the sudden pounding of my heart, but I didn't know if it was excitement or apprehension.
“The insurance man.”
“Insurance—you mean the tall man with the hair going white?”
“Bad cough.”
“That's the one. What did he want?”
“Didn't want much of anything at first, just asked questions about the accident. But when I told him what I'd done, what I had, he got more interested in it than in his questions.”
“What you'd—” I drew a breath, let it out slowly, and began over again. “Mister—what is your name?”
“Hoffman,” he replied, automatically sticking out his filthy paw. Without hesitation I took it, and took also the grubby rag he handed me afterwards.
“Mary Russell,” I told him. “Might we sit for a moment?”
“Sure, over here.”
I did not look too closely at the condition of the bench he offered—they were, after all, merely clothes. “Mr Hoffman, could you tell