Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (8 page)

Dave had not given me details of the two outstanding Swansea registrations, so I contacted the Porsche Club 356 Register, which as I expected had all the information on Mike's car – not just on the technical side but even on my involvement – but there had been no attempt to register it either under foreign or UK plates. They would be on the alert at any such attempt because of the rarity of Mike's Porsche; the engine and chassis numbers, whether the correct ones or altered, would be a crucial element, because alterations meant the car would not tally with their series numbering records.

On the thesis that the trail to the Porsche could hardly be bleaker, I decided to tackle Harry Prince on the slim chance that since Huptons was part of his empire he might have heard a whisper about it and an even slimmer chance that he would convey this news to me if I presented myself on his doorstep.

Harry seems a great guy until you cross him. He and his wife live in a plush mansion in the village of Charden on the way to Ashford. I like his wife very much, which suggests that Harry must have a tender side, the existence of which has eluded me. I do have to admit that Harry is sometimes willing to do me a good turn even though a bad one is equally attractive to him.

The garages he owns are all reasonably honest – or if they aren't he turns a blind eye until the truth comes out and kicks him in the face. I went to see him on Tuesday morning – unannounced, as that way Harry is more likely to be available, because he is always hopeful I've come crawling to beg him to buy Frogs Hill. Not in a million years. My luck was out, because so was Harry. I tried again in the afternoon and this time Harry was actually in his forecourt when I pulled up at the electric gates. Even Harry didn't go so far as to refuse to open them.

‘Bad day on Sunday,' I said as I parked the Alfa.

‘That why you're here, Jack? Come to sell up?' Harry shook with guffaws of laughter.

‘Yes, but not to sell up. It's about Mike Nelson's Porsche.'

‘Poor old Mike,' he said reflectively. ‘I heard it had been nicked.'

‘Any line on it? Someone told me that Huptons had a customer asking about a Porsche 356 for sale.'

A pause. ‘Is this official, Jack?'

‘Yes.'

‘No.'

‘Then make it unofficial, Harry.'

An agonized look. ‘You know me, Jack. Always willing to help when I can. Yes, someone did ask about a 356. Why not?'

‘And could Huptons give this customer any help?'

‘As it happens, they could.'

My day was brighter already. ‘Huptons had one for sale?'

‘Well, yes, they did.'

‘What makes me think this particular customer wasn't interested in that one?'

‘Which customer?' he asked carefully.

‘The one who was asking about a particular Porsche,' I said trying to hang on to patience. ‘What did they sell him?'

‘They didn't. It wasn't Mike's. They'd know that one. Mike was a customer of theirs.' He blew out his cheeks defiantly.

‘
Tell
me, Harry.' I flashed my ID ominously.

He licked his lips and then burst out with, ‘Someone at Huptons referred him to someone.'

‘Who?'

Explosion of laughter from Harry. ‘Doubler!'

Dark clouds immediately rolled in again. I could understand why Harry found it so funny.

Doubler's real name is lost in the mists of the underworld. Everyone knows him as Doubler. Some say he gets his nickname from his eagerness to double-cross both foes and friends although he objects strongly to being double-crossed himself. Others say that it comes from his boast that he can double your money for you – but that he'd rather kill you than hand it over.

Whichever, he was bad news. If the theft was indeed linked to Mike's murder – and after my talk with Arthur this seemed likely – the name of Doubler made it much, much worse, and something that no one who valued his tenure on this earth would pursue.

So what did I do? I drove back to Frogs Hill, rang Arthur and took the job. I always like a challenge.

¹
See
Classic Calls the Shots

I'
d never met Doubler, but I'd heard about him. Who hadn't in the car trade? Doubler works to his own rules, and Rule Number One is: you don't find him – he finds you. Address? Office? Phone number? No way. Like T.S. Eliot's Macavity the Mystery Cat, whenever there's trouble around, Doubler's not there, and the furore over Mike's murder is just the kind of situation he avoids at all costs. The mere idea of murder hurts Doubler; it hurts him so much that he sends his hit men round rather than knifing you himself. Letting Doubler know that one is on his track is a risky business at the best of times and at the worst downright stupid.

I had thanked Harry, of course, and after he had recovered from his paroxysm of mirth, I had belatedly tried to shut the stable door after the horse had undoubtedly galloped off to inform Doubler.

‘That customer at Huptons can't have been after Mike's Porsche then,' I'd said in the vain hope that my name wouldn't reach him.

Finding the car through other routes was therefore a priority before the winds of fate blew him my way. If it had been one of Doubler's men who killed Mike the less I involved his boss at this stage the better. But would Mike ever have let one of Doubler's men near the Crossley? This faint ray of hope vanished when I realized that there were at least a dozen volunteers around, each one of whom Mike would have trusted and any one of whom could have been a Doubler hit man.

On the Wednesday morning I turned my attention back to the two first-time registrations at Swansea, one of which had been a 356 coming in from Ireland, the other from Spain. Dave's team had initially passed these as genuine and for one of them I agreed. I wasn't so sure about the other one, though. Now duly registered with British plates, it belonged to a Jennifer Ansty, who lived not a million miles away in Sussex. It all sounded above board but it was worth rechecking. If that failed then the Porsche must have left the country despite Dave Jennings' vigilance, or was under heavy wraps until the fuss had died down and the insurance paid up. The latter might be a distinctly unsavoury possibility, and with Mike's death and probate to sort out, it could take some time. Jennifer Ansty, I therefore decided, was first port of call.

The best laid plans are sometimes rewarded by a touch of serendipity along the way. An hour later I had a call from the Porsche Club 356 Register to tell me that Mike's car could be the one that had just been registered with them. The number plates did not match, of course, being newly allotted, nor did the engine and chassis numbers, but with the Carrera engine this was a rare car, and the engine number supplied did not match any ever built. The car was now owned by – guess who? – Mrs Jennifer Ansty.

I put the receiver down to find a message from Dave Jennings ordering me to call him back pronto.

‘We're fairly sure we've found the Porsche,' he told me with great satisfaction. ‘Spotted in Sussex.'

‘Mrs Jennifer Ansty,' I said. ‘She blithely signed up with the Porsche Club 356 Register, and the numbers don't check out.' I received no congratulations.

‘Good. I'm picking you up at nine tomorrow. Not my idea,' he told me again with great satisfaction. ‘Brandon wants you along with me in case there's a link with his murder case – he doesn't want to scare the birds by coming himself.'

‘Is Mrs Ansty a possible killer bird?'

‘Hard to see how. But that's Brandon's job. Tomorrow, ours is the Porsche.'

And a dream of a job it was too, save that this poor women was going to be in for a rude awakening if, as was probable, she was entirely innocent. No one would clock in with the 356 Register if they knew the slightest thing about stolen cars. Nevertheless, I automatically distrusted anything in which Doubler was involved, even if (or because) the Mystery Cat wasn't present himself. Any fish that cat had been pawing over stank.

And then there was the Porsche itself, assuming that this wasn't a fishy red herring. Great to know it was safe at least. Would I get the job of returning the car to its rightful owner? If so, who was that going to be? Boadicea? Jason? Or the insurance firm, if I'd been misled and it had already paid out? And how did that fit with my job for Arthur? I had run my arrangement with Arthur past Brandon yesterday and he hadn't been pleased. Far from it. He had been within an inch of forbidding me anywhere near his case when he reconsidered, read me my rights and his rights, and then informed me he couldn't stop me, but if I crossed his path on the way, I'd be obstructing justice.

He drew breath, and then added, ‘And incidentally we found the greatcoat. Stuffed up in a bundle in the hangar storeroom, covered in blood.'

A date with Dave on Thursday would leave me the rest of Wednesday to take Arthur's challenge forward. No contest as to where to begin. Old Herne's. I had to juggle as many aspects of this situation as I could, and if the theft was involved in the murder there could well be quite a lot to juggle there. As soon as I reached its car park it was obvious there was still a police presence, but when I walked over towards Thunderbolts Hangar I saw that the crime scene was now clear of cordon tape. Old Herne's had a general air of desolation though, as if it were in mourning for the loss of its leader.

As the clubhouse looked closed, I made for Morgans Hangar, where as I entered I could see Tim. He was engrossed in repositioning a splendid print of a
Saturday Evening Post
advertisement for a 1930 then-revolutionary airplane-type-engined Franklin for which – to quote their claim – riding is gliding. He straightened up as I approached, eyeing me (I thought) warily.

We exchanged a few words and I asked if the police were still active in Thunderbolts.

‘Off and on,' he grunted. ‘Haven't been there myself. Couldn't face it, though the police said I can go in if I want to.'

I was sympathetic. ‘You'll have to face it sooner or later. Want to come over right now with me?'

He hesitated, but agreed that my support would be a plus. When we reached Thunderbolts, I could see all too clearly that although the crime scene had been lifted, reminders of it were everywhere, including the chalk marks on the flooring where the body had lain. Somehow the whole place had lost its atmosphere of history; it spoke only of the aftermath of murder.

‘Where's the Crossley?' I asked him, seeing no sign of it. The question was more for the sake of hearing a human voice in this depressing place than for information.

Tim must have felt as I did, because he clutched at this opening. ‘Still with the Old Bill. What they expect to find I don't know.'

‘DNA of whoever was in that driving seat and wearing that greatcoat,' I replied. ‘There might be trace evidence on the killer's clothes or the seat.'

Tim sniffed. ‘Plastic seat covers,' he pointed out. ‘The coat was lying behind the seats, and the axe was around if you knew where it was.'

If
you knew where it was … I caught Tim's eye and he looked away.

‘We all did,' he muttered.

‘No casual day visitors then,' I said as lightly as I could. Doubler's hit man was still on my mind – if not, then the killer was a lot closer to home. ‘Do many people drive it?'

‘Not drive. But sit there, yes. Even Arthur. After the Morgan it's his pride and joy. It's the tender that saved his life when he crashed, so that's natural enough. It's the devil of a job to look after though. Kids clamber in and out all the time, putting their sticky hands everywhere, leaving me –' a belligerent glance – ‘to clean up.'

I knew he had a team of volunteer supporters so I kept a diplomatic silence on this point. There'd be an impractical amount of elimination prints for Brandon to gather. ‘It had to be someone whom Mike wouldn't be surprised to see at the wheel.'

Tim's face quivered. ‘He'd have been about to back it out of the double doors for its track run. I've been thinking – someone could have offered to do it for him.'

At least Tim was talking about it now, which was a good sign. ‘Or more likely,' I said, ‘someone sitting there cranking while Mike was looking at the engine.' The whole terrible picture began to form. ‘No,' I corrected myself. ‘He was hit first with the axe, and if he was still conscious after that he wouldn't be in any position to stop his killer if he saw him climb up again into the Crossley driving seat.' That meant it wasn't necessarily a spur of the moment crime; it could have been at least partly premeditated.

Tim swallowed. ‘Police asked me I ever drove it. I said yes, but not at the chap I'd worked with for forty years.'

He sounded truculent but it was obvious how heavy a toll this was taking on him. Nevertheless, I had to carry on. ‘Would there have been people around?' The concert began at five and most people were already seated by four thirty, but surely not everyone would go to the concert. ‘Was Mike killed during the concert or before, do you think?'

‘Before,' Tim barked at me. ‘Told the police that. He wanted to see the concert himself so he was going to bring the Crossley to the track before that and leave it with me. I was down there with Arthur.'

‘In which case, how could his murderer be sure that people weren't milling around here?'

‘Visitor door was bolted at four o'clock,' Tim said briefly. ‘Mike wouldn't have people around when he took the Crossley out. Health and safety, Mike said, so he always closed the doors and cleared Thunderbolts at least half an hour before he intended to set off. If staff came in, we used the double doors.'

Once again it looked as if the killer knew Old Herne's, though that might apply to Doubler's men too.

Tim was looking round despairingly. ‘I'll not feel the same about this place again, Jack.'