BIRDSONG woke me around 5:30 a.m. Wednesday – another beautiful, bright early May morning. I checked in with Cooke after making coffee, then, around 7 a.m., picked up my landline and dialled the sequence of numbers for the Lagonda club secretary in Surrey, England.
After about four of the UK telephone system’s double burring rings, a voice answered.
“Tidewell Engineering, Arnold here.”
“Hello, I’m calling from Ottawa, Canada, trying to reach Mr. David Arnold.”
“That’s me, how can I help you? Snowing in the colonies, yet? Ha, ha …”
Great, a comedian out of Colonel Blimp.
“It’s in connection with the Lagonda club, and you are listed as the secretary of the club, Mr. Arnold.”
“Yes, yes, and also the club’s historian, registrar, and general factotum. What can I do you for?”
I had a bad feeling about this fellow, but took a breath and decided to press on.
“Mr. Arnold, my name is Conn Anderson. I run a specialty garage repairing English sports cars here in Ottawa. We’ve come across a Lagonda and we’re trying to trace its … provenance, I guess you’d say.”
“Have you, indeed?”
This question came out in a very clipped way, and I could sense a sharpened interest with a consequent dropping of the “jolly good, old boy” attitude.
“Is this a convenient time to talk a little, Mr. Arnold?”
“Yes, it is. What is the car, do you know?”
“Before we talk more, I have to ask you …”
I went into my request that information I planned to provide him would be held in confidence, citing a letter from my lawyer, Derek Skinner, that I wanted to fax to Arnold. I said that there were possible title issues around the car, and that it was imperative that ownership of it was resolved before news of its discovery found its way into the global classic car community.
“I quite understand, Mr. Anderson.”
We exchanged fax and phone numbers, and Arnold said he would send a response back to me on Lagonda club letterhead right away.
We disconnected, I faxed Derek’s letter, and by the time my coffee maker had finished brewing a second pot, my own fax machine beeped as a one-page response came through from Arnold promising to hold any such information about “a Lagonda, found in Canada” in strict confidence until released from keeping such confidence by me.
This response seemed to be in the right spirit, though I had no real illusions that, depending on the history of the car currently sleeping under a tarp in the Britfit basement, word wouldn’t get around pretty quickly. But at least I had started a paper trail.
The ink on Arnold’s faxed response had barely dried before my landline rang, the call display showing Arnold’s UK office number. I let it ring a few times before picking up, just to build up a little suspense.
“Mr. Anderson? Dave Arnold here. Did you get my facsimile?”
“Yes, and thank you for that.”
“So, what is the car? What can you tell me?”
“It’s from the middle 1930s. It’s a four-seater, with outside exhausts on the passenger’s side. Cycle fenders, a third headlight in the middle in front of the radiator. Dark British Racing Green paint. There’s a number 18 stenciled on the doors. It looks complete, with a fold-away windshield tucked away in the interior; it has all the gauges that I can see, although some are stored in a box in the boot. The motor looks complete with twin SU carbs, all the components present and correct as far as I can tell. Even the interior isn’t too bad. We’ve got photos we can e-mail you later, but I have serial numbers in front of me now, two sets we were able to find on the motor and bulkhead.”
“Did you say a four-seater? With an outside exhaust?”
“Yep.”
There was silence for a while.
“Hello? Are you still there?” I asked.
“Mr. Anderson, give me those numbers please. I’ve got the complete listing of all the known cars manufactured by the company on a database on my computer here …”
He sounded a little breathless.
“Okay …”
I read off the numbers to him.
Then, again, silence over the line.
“Hello, Mr. Arnold?”
Another pause.
“Where did you say this car was found?”
“In a shed, in Quebec province, about fifty kilometers north of Ottawa.”
“Is it still in this shed?”
“No. It’s in our shop’s basement in central Ottawa, safe and sound. Why?”
Again, a long silence. Then, Mr. Arnold started talking. He didn’t draw a breath for quite a few minutes.
At 8 a.m. I was staring out my window at Isabelle’s house, mulling over what Arnold had told me about the Lagonda, and wondering what kind of further complication this was going to bring down on us, when young Corporal Cooke opened Isabelle’s front door and started walking toward my flat.
Something in the way he was walking made me cross to my landing, descend the stairs, and meet him at my ground floor doorway.
“What’s up?”
“Sergeant Martello just called me …”
The young corporal’s Adam’s apple was moving up and down in his neck.
“They can’t raise Phillips. He hasn’t called in since he went to check out an address for this Robert Short person.”
“The Public Works guy.”
“Yeah.”
“But that was yesterday morning. You’re saying Philips didn’t call in all day?”
“That’s right, and no one can raise him on his car radio or cell phone.”
Cooke said Martello was on his way to my flat, bringing another officer to spell him until dinnertime.
I dropped in on Isabelle for a chat.
“So, Conn, ye were a wee bit surprised to see Sandy the other night, I understand.” This was delivered with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes.
I could feel myself flushing.
Isabelle chortled, and then said: “Ye were right to send her back to London, Conn. Until this business is sorted out.”
“I’m sorry, Isabelle, to drag you into this …”
I reflected that it was high time she knew all the pieces, so gave her the starting point, Morrison’s apparent suicide, and filled her in on the bits she didn’t know.