Chapter 6: The Driver

"That's an unusual key," Amos said.

His voice was perfectly even, but his hand had tightened on the silver head of his cane.

"It was my father's," Suzette said. "It opened his pocket watch."

"Your father."

"He kept books for a living. He died when I was sixteen."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Thank you."

My grandfather looked at the key one second longer than anyone looks at a key.

Then he turned and led us into dinner.

I caught Suzette's eye across the hall.

She gave a tiny shrug, and I let it go.

Dinner was Desmond's empty chair, Amos's silence and a roast that nobody finished.

When the plates were cleared, my grandfather set his cane against the table.

"The third trial is tomorrow at noon," he said.

"In the back room at Gianni's, a man who stole thirty-one thousand dollars from a cash route will be brought before you."

"Whose man?"

"Mine. He has driven for me eleven years."

"Why did he take it?"

"That is for you to find out."

Suzette's fork stopped halfway.

Amos watched her face the whole time he talked.

At noon the back room at Gianni's smelled of garlic and old cigar smoke.

It had a round table with a green cloth.

Amos sat at one side, Desmond at the other, and four of the old captains in between.

I sat at the head.

The man they brought in was fifty, thick through the shoulders, with a bad knee and a worse look on his face.

He didn't beg.

"Mr. Wetherill," he said. "I took it. I'll say so."

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