After the Cabaret by Hilary Bailey

such a car,’ Bruno said. He opened the door and got in. Greg followed suit on the passenger side. The interior was immaculate: the seats were polished leather; the walnut dashboard shone. As Bruno twisted the ignition key Greg heard the sound of a perfectly tuned and maintained engine. ‘Ah,’ said Bruno, happily.
    Greg thought that this must have been the car you wanted when few Europeans had cars. It spoke of wealth and authority. It was like the cars out of which men leaped in darkened streets to hammer on doors, drag people out—
    The air was damp, grey clouds hung low. They sat bythe restaurant’s window, looking over the misty composed vista of trees, grass, water.
    â€˜I like your shop,’ Greg said. ‘How do you acquire the things you sell?’
    â€˜Sales, buying trips. Other dealers come to me, I go to them. There’s a grapevine. I’m training the girl, Fiona, to go to sales for me. But she’s not good. As you may have seen, I specialise in Regency and early Victorian objects. I like them very much – they are cosier than eighteenth-century things but not so ornate as furniture became later in the nineteenth century. In the nineteen fifties there was quite a lot about in houses and attics. It was not so much valued – you might find a card table in a greenhouse, with flower-pots on it, a chair, original upholstery, in a spare bedroom. It’s not so easy now, but that was when I began to deal in it, and learn.
    â€˜You see, Greg, once the war was over I became a junk-dealer in an area of junk-dealers, men with horses and carts going round buying old gas-cookers, baths, broken chairs. When I got a van I became an aristocrat. All London was dilapidated at that time. What was not broken was old and this neighbourhood was as bad as anywhere. One of my distinguished professional rivals – he had a shop not three hundred yards from where I am today – was a famous mass murderer. He had the bodies of six or seven women buried in his flat and his back yard. So, I dealt in old pots and pans, chipped plates, second-hand electric fires, cookers – not very nice. Then slowly I began to collect better things, quietly, and sell them. I haven’t done so badly, eh?’ he asked. ‘Not for a poor immigrantboy, a refugee. You’re an American. You understand such things.’
    â€˜You left Pontifex Street?’ Greg said.
    Bruno shrugged. ‘After the war, Briggs dumped me. He found someone more attractive and that was it, goodbye, Bruno. I wasn’t sad. I was fed up with him. Out of decency – and because I knew too much – they fixed me up with papers and Briggs gave me a little money to get started. Not much but, to be fair, all he had. He was not a wealthy man. What I minded, though, was that I never saw him again. I phoned once, then I wrote. Nothing. He was cold, Briggs.’ He paused then told Greg, ‘They were all cold-Pym, Briggs, Julia Montrose – cold in a way I don’t suppose you could imagine.’
    They had ordered and the waiters brought their food. Bruno tucked into his veal with appetite. Then he looked up at Greg and asked, ‘Tell me about your book. How long have you to write it?’
    â€˜There’s no set deadline. But I hope to begin writing some time next year. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have you talk to me, sir.’
    â€˜I told you to call me Bruno. These days I am too much “Sir” or Mr Lowenthal. That happens when you get old. Well, you want more information, you ambitious young man, in a hurry. Where were we?’
    â€˜Sally had gone off to a party with Adrian Pym. But first, Bruno, can you tell me what happened to Sally? I can’t find any record of her. Of course, women marry and change their names. Do you know how she finished up?’
    â€˜She’s dead, I suppose, like so many of us,’ Bruno toldhim. The thought appeared to give him