“And this cleaner half of the brake rod was in his possession?” Holmes nudged the stub with one finger.

“Yeah. A week or so after the accident, he and his older brother, who ran the garage, took a pair of draught horses up and hauled the wreck off the rocks. Because it had landed upside-down, the fire had just erupted into open air—poof, hot and fast and it's over—and his older brother thought they might be able to salvage some of the engine parts. Which, as it happened, was true. The chassis is still around the back of the garage, the bones of it, and pretty thoroughly picked over. The brother, by the way, died in a racing-car crash, the summer of 1920.”

“The man doesn't remember anyone interfering with the machine, while it waited?”

“Nope. Wheel off, patch it up, wheel on, then fill 'er up and shift the car around to the side.”

“Was it common practice, for the Russell family to pause there on their way south?”

“I don't know, but it would've made sense to stop there halfway along, let the kiddies stretch their legs.”

“A thing anyone might have anticipated.”

“Yeah.” Hammett's eyes came down to the twisted lengths of rod, and he shook his head. “Killing a woman and a kid in that way. I'd sure like to help you solve this case.”

Until the man had come up with these two lengths of rusted steel, Holmes thought, there hadn't been a case to solve. He owed him a great deal, already. Too, he could not see that a man working for the other side would have given him the only hard evidence the case had yet generated. This new lieutenant of his threatened to have as much independence as Russell, and he lacked the physical stamina of Russell or Watson, but Holmes found himself warming to the man. He'd trust him a little further.

“Do you have any reliable contacts among the police?”

Hammett laughed. “You haven't been here long enough to hear about our cops. They're the best money can buy.”

“I see. Any you can trust to take your money and not sell you as well?”

“One or two. What do you want?”

Holmes took out his bill-fold and removed a piece of paper with some writing on it, putting it in front of Hammett. “I'd like to know a little more about these three men. Charles Russell was my wife's father, killed in that accident. That's his home address, and I think he had an office in the Flood Building. I picked up a rumour that he was involved in some what you might call ‘shady' activity during the fire in 1906, thought it would be good to make sure he was clean.”

“What sort of deal?”

“That's all I know.”

“Okay, I'll see what I can come up with.”