Harry looked at Robert with a raised eyebrow. Then the brothers at once turned to look toward the street, the gap between them opening and giving Canidy a clear view of what he instantly surmised to be Harry’s personal motorcar.
It was a candy apple red 1937 Austin Seven 65—nicknamed “Nippy”—a tiny, two-seat convertible barely bigger than the passenger’s compartment itself. It looked to be six, maybe seven feet long, not quite three feet wide, and the top of the chrome-plated frame of the windshield looked as if it reached about as high as Canidy’s hip.
It might be best, Canidy thought, if right now I don’t say a word.
Robert turned back to Canidy.
With classic English understatement, Robert said, quite unnecessarily, “It’ll be a bit tight of a fit.”
Robert then smiled and revealed thin gray teeth that could have used the attention of an orthodontist.
He added cheerfully, “But my brother Harry works miracles.”
He looked at his brother.
“Isn’t that right, Harry?”
Harry looked back at Robert wordlessly—and, Canidy thought, more than a little dubiously.
“Right!” Robert answered for him.
Robert grabbed one of Canidy’s suitcases and said, “So off you go!”
After a moment, Harry grabbed the other suitcase and made himself busy with taking rope from the trunk of the Austin, positioning the suitcases on the lid of the trunk, then repositioning them, then tying them down.
After a few minutes, despite the car visibly squatting under the additional weight, it looked as if Harry had been indeed successful.
Even he appeared surprised that he had pulled off the miracle.
Robert went to the left door and opened it.
“Here you are, Mr. Canidy.”
Canidy squeezed into the passenger’s seat as Harry hopped behind the steering wheel.
Inside, it was so tight that they touched shoulders.
To make some room, Canidy stuck his left arm out of his “window” opening—there were no actual glass side windows, nor side curtains, just an opening—and rested it on the top of the doorframe.
This car is so low that if I’m not careful and my arm slips off this door, I’ll drag my damned knuckles across the cobblestones.
Canidy turned to Harry.
“We’re going to Woburn Square,” he said.
Harry made a face that suggested some ambivalence.
“Do you know where it is?” Canidy said.
“Quite,” Harry said. “It’s just that…”
“What?”
Harry hesitated, visibly thinking.
“Nothing. I could be wrong.”
He grabbed the knob of the stick shift with his left hand and moved it into first, grinding gears as he pushed. When the sounds of metal being tortured ended, indicating that the gears had finally properly meshed, he revved the 747-cubic-centimeter engine to a high whine, let out on the clutch pedal, and the tiny motorcar lurched into traffic.