THE atmosphere at the shop on Monday, April 27, was vastly improved compared with close of business the previous Friday. My own mood was better for several reasons, and the apparent success of Jerry’s operations had a lot to do with a general uplifting of spirits for all of us.
Mind you, he resembled a casualty from World War I. A small plastic pail around his neck kept him from licking his wounds. He didn’t like it. His right eye socket was now sewn shut, he had patches of shaved skin and scabbed-over cuts, mostly around his ribcage, and the stub of his tail was still bandaged.
Marjorie had gently pulled him out of the cardboard carrier to show everyone after picking him up in the Mini Cooper first thing that morning from the vet’s clinic. There were tranquillizing tablets and liquid antibiotics that would need to be administered for at least a week or so. Infection was still a worry, and he needed to be prevented from working at his wounds with his front feet, hence the tranquillizers. His right back leg was in a cast, and he was definitely wobbly trying to stand on Marjorie’s desk.
Marjorie packed him back into the carrier and headed straight off to Isabelle’s in the Mini Cooper, first handing me the bill from the clinic, which was for the truly awe-inspiring amount of $3,252.90, all taxes in.
But I’d successfully struck a deal for my Healey with the club member on Sunday. Not one to beat about the bush, he’d written me a cheque on the spot for my full sixty thousand dollar asking price and said he’d return for the car in a week. I asked Marjorie to put the Healey sale proceeds into our business current account to keep extra cash on hand, so even this eye-watering vet’s bill wasn’t a problem.
Getting Isabelle to agree to having Jerry in her house for a couple of weeks to be looked after by her housekeeper Angela, helped by little Jane, was a coup of sorts. Angela had three felines of her own at home, so was more than willing to administer the doses Jerry needed between her chores.
And Jane? She’d murmured a “yes” when I asked her if she would help look after an injured cat starting on Monday. I had hopes that perhaps caring for Jerry would provide a little bridge-building between this precocious child and me. Sandy and I couldn’t keep our eyes off each other at Isabelle’s dinner table on Sunday. But if her child continued to dislike me, we could look at each other all we liked. There was no future in it.
Sandy’s good news was that she had found a furnished flat in an older house on Hopewell Avenue within walking distance of the university. She’d be moving in over the following weekend.
And this morning, JP had arrived early at the shop, also in high spirits. He insisted that Reg, Dougald, and I drop what we were doing.
We assembled in my office.
Once he had our full attention, he opened an envelope and placed half a dozen eight by ten photos on my desk.
“Michelle printed them on her computer. Nice, eh?”
JP was grinning.
If JP was hoping for dramatic effect, he succeeded. The three of us said nothing until Reg broke the silence with a long low whistle.
“Jaysus Murphy. A Lagonda!”
Dougald just stared. The main photo showed the giant headlamps and upright radiator of a 1930s cycle-fendered car with what appeared to be the remnants of a third middle headlight in front of the radiator. A winged badge on the top front section of the radiator clearly showed the car’s evocative name.
The digital camera’s flash had evened out some of the lighting which, given the blackness of the background, hinted only vaguely at the rest of the car’s shape.
I bent closer.
“What’s the number on the side panel?” I murmured.
There appeared to be a faint white number stenciled on the passenger side door, a thirteen or eighteen.
JP had also shot photos of the side, rear, and top views. The bodywork looked complete, the cockpit was covered with a ragged tarpaulin, all four tires on spoked wheels were flat, and the dark green or black paintwork looked blistered. There was no windshield. Manifold tubing exiting the bonnet showed that the car had been equipped with an outside exhaust, so it wasn’t a car you’d tootle down to the shops in. It was made for racing around a track at least some of the time, and it would have made quite a racket.
The phone rang. Dougald was closest and picked it up, still looking at the photos on my desk.
“Good morning – Britfit.”
He listened, said “Fine,” and put the phone down.
“Just a customer, Conn. Another MGA coming in.”
I nodded, still looking at the photos.
JP was looking extremely pleased with himself.
“C’est superbe, non? I am disappointed it’s not a Jaguar, for sure. But I went on the web. These were fantastic cars …” JP prattled on.
Certainly an illustrious name in vintage sporting cars, Lagondas were made in England in small numbers from the early part of the twentieth century until the company – like many other manufacturers of bespoke cars – disappeared after World War II. The Aston Martin firm bought the rights and has badged several of their models with the Lagonda name.
JP was still talking. “… and a racer, just sold, you know boss, for nearly a million dollars! U.S. dollars!”
I remembered that a Lagonda works team car, prepared at the factory for racing at Le Mans, had indeed been auctioned off for nearly 500,000 pounds sterling some months ago.
“Whoa, JP, hold on a minute. Don’t jump the gun here. It’s clearly a sporting car all right, but I doubt it’s an official team racing car. Lots of rich enthusiasts were weekend warriors in their own personal cars.”
I didn’t want to rain on JP’s parade, but the world market of high-end vintage cars was fraught with peril. Provenance was all, and many cars like this were not what they seemed. With so much money to be made, out and out larceny was rife. Bodies, engines, and all manner of parts were mixed and matched. Paperwork and serial numbers were forged or switched to create false histories.
Many so-called official team racing cars, purpose-built for Le Mans or other racing venues, commanded very high prices at auction. But, unfortunately, simply putting a racing number on a car in water-soluble paint using a stencil didn’t cut it.
“Could you see if it had an engine?” I asked.
“I didn’t … how you say … dérange …”
“Disturb it?”
“Oui, I didn’t try to open the … bonnet. But I looked underneath and could see the sump, so I would say yes.”
Dougald spoke up.
“What about the owner?”
“He is dead. It is his cousin who is … responsable … and he is Michelle’s oncle.”
I let out a long breath.
“So, Michelle’s uncle is the legal owner?”
JP rubbed his forehead. “Dat’s not quite clear, boss, but he owns the shed in which it is, and he say to me his cousin give it to him.”
“Did you talk at all to Michelle’s uncle about what he wants to do with it?”
“Oui. He says he doesn’t know. Mais, he is not a stupid man. I tried not to be too excited, but it was hard for me.”
“Yeah, it gives me the willies just looking at the photos,” Reg said with a shiver.
“Okay, JP. Here’s a suggestion. Ask Michelle’s uncle if he wants us to assess it for him. No strings. But try and get him to agree to that at least. And it would be best if we could get it here and out of that damp shed before things get worse. It could be, only could be, mind you, a very valuable car. We at least can help him get in touch with the right people. Steer him clear of the crooks out there. And on that, let’s keep quiet about this for now – and advise Michelle’s uncle to do the same – for his own protection. Okay?”
“Okay, perfect. I will call him tonight, boss.”
JP packed up the photos, and we returned to work. Marjorie arrived back in the Cooper, having safely ensconced Jerry at Isabelle’s, and took a turn making tea. Phones rang and cars came in and went out. I signed off more paperwork.
The day was ticking over nicely until JP was arrested for theft at around 4 p.m. I was taken in for questioning about a murder something like half an hour later.