At Six Mile Road, the pavement changed from red brick to concrete—the first mile of concrete road in the country, not surprisingly located directly in front of the exclusive emerald links of the Detroit Golf Club. I turned right on Seven Mile and then headed back into town through Hamtramck.
“My Lord,” Dr. Miller said. “Look at this place. Last I was here, there was nothing but farms.”
Buildings had been thrown up everywhere, filled with shops and businesses, most with signs scrawled out in some Eastern European language. Men, women, and children filled the wooden boardwalks, chattering and shouting, none in English. They were bustling about everywhere—to shops, to schools, but most of all to the four-story concrete and glass Dodge Main Assembly Plant that had recently risen in a matter of only a few months. Practically overnight, Hamtramck had gone from a sleepy farming community to an immigrant Mecca.
I nudged the doctor. “You know the Dodge brothers give their workers free beer?”
He snorted. “Those louts. I’m surprised they don’t drink it all themselves. It’s a wonder they can even run a business.”
“They may be drunks, but they’re serious about their business. Everyone else was running away from Mr. Ford after his other companies failed. They saw something no one else did, and it’s worked out pretty well for them.”
Dr. Miller gave a grudging nod. John and Horace Dodge were infamous for their boorish behavior, and a man like the doctor had a hard time getting past that to see their genius. He looked up at the building as we drove past, chasing the glittering sun sparking across the wall of windows. “What do they make for Ford?”
I laughed. “Almost everything. Ford’s men don’t do much with the T except slap them together.”
He shook his head. In his world, successful men were, for the most part, gentlemen. In the new world of automobile manufacturing, the tycoons—Ford, the Dodges, Leland, Durant—were mechanics.
At noon the odometer read 86.3 miles, and according to the meters the batteries still had better than sixty percent of their capacity remaining. There was a long way to go, but we had a good chance. In need of a break, I drove down to Preemo’s saloon. Over a couple of beers and the free buffet lunch, Elwood, Joe, Dr. Miller, and I discussed the state of the electric automobile business (growing), the gasoline automobile business (growing exponentially), and the steam automobile business (fading fast).
For the first time since I found the body, I could focus on something other than the image of John Cooper crushed in a press.
After lunch Joe filled the gasoline tank of the Model T, and we drove out through the stately neighborhoods of Grosse Pointe and then back again to Jefferson and East Grand. As I drove across the bridge to Belle Isle, I felt a deep pang of regret. Elizabeth and I had spent many nights leaning on the railing of this bridge, looking over the river at the skyscrapers of Detroit on the right and the village of Windsor, Ontario, on the left. We talked about our future—marriage, children, someday grandchildren.
Shit.
We spent the rest of the afternoon on Belle Isle. The road encircling the island was pristine and nearly deserted this time of year—at least until evening, when the casino’s business began to pick up. On a fine sunny day such as this, even the repetitive drive was enjoyable. The temperature was hovering near sixty degrees, and we stripped off our dusters and enjoyed both the view and the fresh air coming off the water.
Dr. Miller tilted his face up toward the sun. “Ever been to Central Park in New York?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, you should see it. Magnificent. Many parallels here, of course. Designed by the same man, Olmstead, you know.”
Leaves fluttered down from majestic maples and oaks as we drove past picnic grounds, walking paths, baseball diamonds, and buffalo grazing in a grassy pasture. The Model T had fallen back a hundred yards or so, and its engine’s irksome farting had faded into the background. Water lapped against the shores with a gentle shhh, shhh, shhh, interrupted by the occasional laughter of children on a playground and hum of conversation from couples on a bench here, in a canoe there.
The entire island was lovely—the bathhouse, zoo, aquarium, and boat club, the Spanish-style casino with vaulted towers and covered verandas, and the conservatory, its copper dome gleaming in the sun.
Dr. Miller cleared his throat. “Say, Will, we’ve never really talked about Elizabeth’s . . . problem. The damage had been done long before I got to the house. There was nothing I could do.”
“I know.” I didn’t want to discuss it.
He was quiet for perhaps half a minute. I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. “Did you know,” he said, “she was going to abort the child?”
My head felt like a lead weight. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”
“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just move up the wedding date. That sort of thing happens all the time.”
I barked out a harsh laugh. “Because she hated me. She refused to even see me by then.”
Dr. Miller made a noise like he’d been punched in the stomach. He reached over and patted my knee. “You’re a good boy, Will, a good man. I’m sure Elizabeth has come to terms with it by now. You need to let yourself get on with your life. She did it, not you.”
He was quiet on our next few circuits of the island, for which I was very grateful. How could I have responded to that? Get on with my life? If only he knew.
Just after four we passed the bridge for the seventh time. My father was waiting for us atop Comet, his chestnut quarter horse. I was surprised to see him here, and hoped his presence didn’t announce some other development in the Cooper case. He dismounted and exchanged greetings with Dr. Miller, then looked up at me. “How far have you gotten?”
I looked at the odometer and made a quick calculation. “One hundred thirty-four point one.”
“You’ve got what, sixty-seven and a half miles to go? Are you going to make it?”
I glanced at the meters. “It’ll be tight. We’ve got somewhere between thirty and thirty-five percent capacity left.”
“No time to talk then.” He slapped the side of the auto. “Daylight’s a-wasting, gentlemen. Get back to it.”
I pushed the controller forward. When we reached the bridge again, my father was gone, probably back to the factory. It wasn’t like him to spend any time on a weekday away from his business.
By six we had made five more circuits and were at 165.3 miles—less than thirty-six away from the record. It was beginning to get dark now, so I drove back down the Belle Isle Bridge to Jefferson. On the corner was Electric Park, home of the best roller coasters in Detroit as well as the Palace Gardens Ballroom, where Wesley McRae said he was singing. Screams echoed down from the Ride through the Clouds coaster, while dozens of people exited the park into the street. The corner, always busy, was at a standstill, and we wasted precious electricity in the fifteen minutes it took to negotiate a left onto Jefferson.
Joe and Elwood shadowed us downtown. There was enough daylight left to see the advertisements that had thankfully been invisible this morning—Uneeda Biscuits, Coca-Cola, Vicks Magic Croup Salve, Vita-graph Pictures, on and on and on, pasted onto every surface and soaring above the buildings in ostentatious displays.
I kept the car in second, and we circled the city at eight miles per hour. At this speed we didn’t need our goggles, and my eyes kept darting from the odometer to the voltmeter and back to the street. At 9:28 P.M. with the odometer at 199.5 miles, the voltmeter bottomed out. I flicked the glass in front of it, but the needle stayed where it was.
Dr. Miller held out both hands, fingers crossed. “Don’t panic. I’ve driven my coupé for quite a while after the meter showed it was empty.”
There was nothing to do except keep driving. At 9:45 P.M., we hit 201.6 miles. My eyes stayed on the odometer. The last number clicked over, and Dr. Miller shouted, “Huzzah! You’ve done it!”
Two hundred one and seven tenths miles—a
new world record. I stopped the Vicky, and the doctor wrapped his arms around me in an enthusiastic embrace. The Model T pulled up next to us, and the two men jumped out and ran over to our car.
Elwood pushed me to the side so he could see the odometer. “Yes!” He jumped in the air, shouting, “Take that, Walt Baker, you old so-and-so!” He and Joe shook hands with both Dr. Miller and me before Elwood gestured for us to continue. “Let’s put some distance between us and them.”
They climbed back in the Model T. I pushed the controller up to first and then second. As each additional mile rolled up on the odometer, Dr. Miller and I shouted and laughed, until finally, an hour later, at 211.3 miles, the Victoria slowed and stopped about a quarter mile from the garage.
We climbed out and shook hands. While Joe waited with the Victoria, Dr. Miller and I piled into the Model T for the short drive to the garage, where my father was waiting. When Joe returned aboard the tow wagon, we popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and toasted the new world record. I expected my father to pull me aside at some point, but he acted normally, as if I wasn’t suspected of killing someone in his automobile factory. He even gave me some good-natured ribbing when Dr. Miller explained in excruciating detail how I’d almost driven straight into a dead horse.
Joe, Elwood, and I stopped at Louie Schneider’s as we often did, and knocked back a couple of whiskeys before I caught the streetcar home about midnight. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. The other riders edged away from me, likely assuming they were riding with a lunatic. But I didn’t care. I had set a world record!
I was whistling as I strolled up the walk to my apartment building, feeling tired but satiated. Sleep sounded just right. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Rough hands spun me around and shoved me against the wall. My hands were jerked behind me. Cold metal rings snapped around my wrists.
“Wh—What are you doing?” I sputtered.
A hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me away from the wall. A young Detroit policeman with two chins and a bottlebrush mustache poked a stubby finger into my sternum. “Riordan wants to talk to you.” He jabbed me again. “And he don’t like waiting.”
Detective Riordan sat down at the table across from me and folded his arms over his chest. In the harsh light of the interrogation room the scar on his face, shadowed by a black fedora, was a jagged burgundy slash. The whites of his eyes blended into pale blue irises. His pupils seemed to literally stand out, boring into mine. “Mr. Anderson. You can be a very difficult man to locate.”
I stared back at him. I was just drunk enough to be brave. “And you work very late hours.”
“Not normally.” His eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Riordan gets irritated when I miss dinner with the kiddies. But when someone I need to talk to doesn’t show up at work or at home all day, I have to make exceptions.”
I had been sitting in a hard wooden chair in this windowless eight-by-eight room for at least an hour, though I couldn’t be sure of the time as my hands were still cuffed behind my back. The room smelled sour, a funk of sweat and fear. It was very warm, and I still wore my duster over my suit.
“How about you take these things off,” I shook my hands, and the cuffs clattered together, “and I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing?”
“He cuffed you?”
I just stared at him.
Riordan came around behind me and unlocked the handcuffs, apologizing for the “rookie.” I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just playing with me.
He sat again. “Where have you been?”
I hung my duster on the back of the chair and told him about the mileage test. He asked questions and seemed impressed when I told him how far we had gone.
“Maybe the police department could use a few of those electrics,” he mused. “Most of the driving is around town.”
He seemed to be trying to make me comfortable. I was wary, waiting for a trick question. The courage the whiskey had given me was splintering.
“So, Will. May I call you Will? That’s what everyone at the factory calls you.”
I nodded.
He said, “The cap,” and sat back.
A bead of sweat slid down the side of my face. I knew I should tell him I was at the factory that night. Between the Victoria and the blackmailer, it would only be a matter of time until he knew. But I couldn’t. I was too scared. So I stared at the table. My watch ticked in the pocket of my waistcoat. Finally I said, “What about the cap?”
“Everybody seems to think it was yours, Will. Your motoring cap.”
“It wasn’t mine.” I took off my hat and flung it onto the table, harder than I’d intended. “As you can see, this one is mine.”
He picked it up and examined it. “Very nice. Looks pretty new.”
I shrugged.
He set the cap down. “Tell me about your relationship with John Cooper.”
“We were friends.”
“How did you meet?”
“We lived at the same boardinghouse while we were at the University of Michigan.”
“Were you still friends?”
I hesitated a beat too long. “Yes. Sure.”
He studied me. “Close friends?”
“Not so much anymore.” I wiped sweat from my forehead.
“Interesting. Why do you suppose that is?”
I shrugged again, trying to act nonchalant. “Well, I didn’t see him that often. His work kept him busy.”
“But he was at Anderson Carriage all the time.”
“Right, well, we were both busy.”
Riordan sat back and cocked an eye at me. “So he spent a lot of time at the factory, but you didn’t see him often. Why is that?”
“People drift apart. It happens.”
“Any particular reason you drifted, Will?”
I didn’t know what Riordan had found out, but I wasn’t going to volunteer anything. “No.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Seems people liked John.”
“He was very charming.”
“Was John still close with anyone else from college?”
“The football team always got together for homecoming in Ann Arbor. But I don’t think he was particularly close to any of them.”
“At Mr. Cooper’s apartment,” Riordan said, “we found four sets of fingerprints—two men and two women. The women proved to be Cooper’s maid and Elizabeth Hume. Cooper, of course, was one of the men. The other also had big hands. Any idea who that might be?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, John spent a lot of time with Frank Van Dam. He’s almost as big as Cooper, probably six-three, two forty.”
“How might we get ahold of Mr. Van Dam?”
“He works for John at the Employers Association. Well . . . worked for John, I guess.”
“Tell me about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of man is he?”
“I don’t really know him. He mostly hangs—hung—around with John.”
“What did he do for Cooper?”
“He was John’s right-hand man. You know, kept the peace, knocked some union guys around, that kind of thing.”
Riordan wrote something on his notepad, then shifted in his chair. “What do you like to drink, Will?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The usual, I guess—beer, whiskey, that sort of thing.”
“Bourbon?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Hmm. And what size shoes do you wear?”
Shit. “Eleven. Or ten. Depends on the shoe.”
He nodded and pursed his lips. His scar puckered near his mouth. “Ten? That’s interesting, Will.” He didn’t say anything else.
I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “Is there a point to this or can I go home?”
He crossed his arms and looked up, deep in thought, his eyes searching the ceiling. “Ten,” he said again.
“Look, I didn’t kill Cooper. It had to be the AFL.”
“Why do you
say that?”
I explained to him about Cooper’s job, about how the unions would want him gone, about how doing it at our factory would serve their purposes.
He just sat slumped in his seat, staring at me from under the brim of his fedora. When I finished, he said, “Huh,” and went back to staring at me.
I couldn’t take any more. “I had nothing to do with it. Let me out of here.”
“Sure, Will, sure,” he said in a soothing voice, holding his hands out in front of him. “Settle down. I wouldn’t want to make you angry. You might run to your daddy, get me in trouble.”
“Why don’t you—” I stopped myself and took a deep breath. Exhaling, I stood, grabbed my cap and duster, and stalked to the door. I threw it open and turned back to Riordan, who still sat at the table. “Leave me alone. John was my friend. I’m innocent.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Oh, no, Will. Everyone’s guilty of something. Even a rich boy like you. I’ve just got to figure out what you’re guilty of.”
CHAPTER SIX
After calming my nerves with a few drinks, I climbed into bed. It seemed my head had just hit the pillow when pounding on my front door awakened me. It was still dark outside. I rubbed my eyes, threw on a robe, and stumbled to the door.
Ben Carr stood outside. “Mr. Anderson! I gotta talk to you.”
“What is it?” I asked, a quaver in my voice.
He kneaded his old gray cap with both hands and looked around. “Could I come inside for a minute?”
Oh, God. “Sure.” I held the door open.
He hurried in and turned back to me. “It’s the police, sir. They was at the garage asking about the Vicky. I had to show them the logbook.”
“The logbook? You changed the time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s out of order.”
“What do you mean?”
His face was slick with sweat. “It’s twenty-seven lines out of order. In the book before you checked out the Victoria, there’s twenty-seven pickups after five thirty in the morning.”
“Damn.”
“I’ve got a family,” he said. “I can’t go to jail.”
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 5
