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“To be sure,” Trippet murmured when he was through wincing.

“If you want to meet anybody, just ask old Eddie Cauthorne here. Old Eddie knows everybody, right Eddie?”

I started to tell him that Old Eddie didn't know everybody and didn't want to know everybody, but Conklin had moved off to use his ever busy hands on other guests.

“I believe,” Trippet said, turning to me again, “that we were talking about your motor scooter. Do you actually have one?”

“No,” I said. “I drive a Volkswagen, but I have twenty-one other cars. Would you like one?”

“Thank you, no,” he said.

“All pre-1932. Prime condition.” As I said, I was on my third drink.

“What in the world for?” Trippet said.

“I inherited them.”

“What do you do,” Barbara Trippet asked, “drive hither and yon?”

“I rent them. To studios, producers, ad agencies.”

“That makes sense,” Trippet said. “But the gentleman we just spoke to—the one with the 1937 Plymouth. He's afflicted, you know.”

“If he is, so are thousands of others.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” I said. “Take those twenty-one jalopies I have. I keep them in a warehouse way to hell and gone out in East Los Angeles—past 190th. Nobody sees them; they're not advertised; my phone's unlisted. But I get at least one or two calls a day from nuts who want to buy a particular car—or even all of them.”

“Why not sell?”

I shrugged. “They produce an income and I can use the money.”

Trippet glanced at his watch, a gold affair that was thicker than a silver dollar, but not much thicker. “Tell me, do you like cars?”

“Not particularly,” I said.

“How splendid. Why don't you join us for dinner? I think I've just had a perfectly marvelous idea.”

Barbara Trippet sighed. “You know,” she said to me, “the last time he said that we wound up in Aspen, Colorado, with a ski lodge.”

After escaping from the cocktail party, we had dinner that night at one of those places on La Cienega which seem to change owners every few months. Barbara Trippet was a small, bright brunette of about my age, thirty-three, with green eyes and a wry, pleasant smile that she used often. At fifty-five, Richard K. E. Trippet just missed being elegant. Perhaps it was the way he wore his clothes or the manner in which he moved. Or it could have been what at first seemed to be a totally languid carriage until you noticed that actually he held himself fencepost straight and that it was the grace of his movements that gave him that curious air of blended indolence and energy. His hair was long and grey and it kept flopping down into his eyes as we talked over the steaks. He was not in the least reticent about himself, and most of the things he told me that night were true. Maybe all of them. I never found otherwise.

Not only was he an Anarcho-Syndicalist in theory and a registered Democrat in practice, but he was also a naturalized U.S. citizen, a top-grade fencer, a saxophone player of merit, a specialist in medieval French, and had been, at one time or another, a captain in what he described as “a decent regiment,” a racing driver-mechanic, a skiing instructor and ski lodge owner (in Aspen), and finally he was still—now—a person of “independent means.”

“Grandfather made it all in Malaya, you know,” he said, as if everyone else did. “Tin mostly. When he came back to London to retire he couldn't abide the climate and died within a fortnight. My father, who knew absolutely nothing about business and had no intention of learning, simply looked up the most conservative bankers he could find in the City and told them to take care of things. They still do. Barbara's also rich.”

“Wheat,” she said. “Thousands of acres of Kansas wheat.”

“I feel like Tacky Tom at Rich Rollo's party,” I said.

“Not to worry,” Trippet said. “It's just that when we get to my perfectly marvelous idea, I want you to rest assured that we can handle the necessary financing.”

That brought us up to the coffee and brandy, but it still took a while to get to the point.

“That chap at the party with the Plymouth,” he said.

“What about him?”

“Pathetic case really. Yet typical.”

“How?”

“Most middle-aged Americans, I've noticed, attach an inordinate amount of sentiment to the first car that they owned. They may not remember their children's birthdays, but they can tell you that first car's year, model, color, even date of purchase, and exactly what they paid for it down to a dime.”

“Probably,” I said.

Trippet took a sip of his brandy. “My point is that there is scarcely an American over thirty whose life hasn't been touched in some meaningful way by a particular make and model of car—even if he only lost his virginity in it despite an awkwardly located gear lever.”

“It was a 1950 Ford convertible and the gear shift didn't seem to bother anything,” Trippet's wife said. “In Topeka.”

Trippet ignored her. “Snobbery, greed and status play an important role, too. I know of a lawyer in Anaheim who is actually hoarding five 1958 Edsels. Hoarding, mind you, waiting for their price to rise. Another chap I heard of retired at thirty-five from whatever he was doing, something profitable, I'd venture, and began to collect Rolls-Royce. Why? Because he liked ‘big things,' big houses, big dogs, big cars. Such temperaments are perfect for exploitation.”

“Here it comes,” his wife warned me.

“I'm braced,” I said.

“What I propose,” Trippet went on, not in the least perturbed, “is that we establish one of the nation's most useless, unneeded businesses.”

“Something like the ski lodge?” his wife said.

“To the young,” he continued, “we become vendors of snobbery and status. To the old and middle-aged we cater (or rather
pander,
don't you think?) to their nostalgic yearning for the past. We provide them a tangible link with yesterday, with that time when not only their cars were simpler, but also their world.”

“He does talk pretty,” I said to Barbara.

“He's just warming up.”

“How do you like the proposition?” Trippet asked.

“Interesting, I suppose. But why me?”

“Obviously, Mr. Cauthorne, you don't care a fig about cars—no more than I. You have a most presentable appearance and you also have twenty-one sturdy relics safely garaged in East Los Angeles which we can use for bait.”

“Bait for what?”

“For suckers,” his wife said.

“For future clients,” Trippet said. “My idea is that we establish a garage—no, not a garage. That's too plebeian a word. We establish a clinic. Yes! We establish a clinic that specializes in restoring junkers to their original, pristine condition. Note that I stress the word ‘original.' For instance, if a microphone to the chauffeur's speaker were needed for a 1931 Rolls, we would not settle for a microphone that was used in—say—a 1933 Rolls. No, we would scour the country, indeed, the world for exactly the right part. Only the 1931 microphone will do. Guaranteed authenticity will be our motto.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I'm not of independent means.”

Trippet waved my objection away. “We'll capitalize your twenty-one cars. That will do nicely and I'll manage the rest.”

“All right,” I said. “Now I understand the why me. What about the why you?”

“He wants to get out of the house,” his wife said.

Trippet grinned and brushed the hair out of his eyes for the twenty-third time that evening. “Can you think of a better method to study the decay of the system than by establishing a useless business that charges exorbitant fees to foolish persons for services and products that are absolutely unneeded?”

“Not offhand,” I said. “But I really don't think you're serious.”

“He's serious,” his wife said. “It's the only time he gets serious—when he comes up with a nutty one like this.”

“Of course I'm serious,” Trippet said. “While trafficking in sentiment and snobbery, I strike another blow at the underpinnings of the system and at the same time turn a neat profit. I'm not above that, you know. Must be some trait I inherited from grandfather.”

“Let's suppose we're in business,” I said. “Who does the work—you know, the kind where you get your hands dirty?”

Trippet looked surprised, then offended. “I do, of course. I'm really quite good with cars although I no longer have a liking for them. Prefer horses, actually. Naturally, we'll pick up a couple of bodies to train and to perform the more menial tasks. By the way, just what is it that you usually do when you do something?”

“I'm an unemployed stunt man.”

“Really? How fascinating. Do you fence?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. We should have some jolly times together. But tell me, why unemployed?”

“Because,” I said, “I lost my nerve.”

In the two years that followed it worked out much as Trippet had predicted that night in the restaurant on La Cienega. He discovered the A&P building near La Brea and Santa Monica, supervised most of the remodeling, bought the necessary equipment, arranged for the legal papers to be drawn up, and then counseled me to have my own lawyer go over them. When everything was ready Trippet set out to restore a 1930 Packard which was part of my legacy. The car was a straight eight Model 7/34 boat-tailed speedster with a high-ratio rear axle that enabled it to do one hundred miles per hour on the straightaway if its future owner were so inclined. Trippet gave the car fourteen coats of handrubbed lacquer, reupholstered the interior in glove-like leather, supplied it with a new top and white sidewall tires, including those in the fender wells, and then instructed me to sell it for $8,000.

“Not a penny less,” he warned.

The first day that the Packard went on display, twenty-three persons came in to look at it. The twenty-third was a seventy-year-old retired cowboy singer who now lived in Palm Springs. He walked around the Packard twice and then came back to my office.

“Does it run?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” I said.

“How much you asking?”

“Eight thousand.”

He grew a canny expression. “Give you seven. Cash deal.”

I lifted an eyebrow and smiled what I hoped was a chilly smile. “I'm sorry, sir, but we do not haggle.”

The ex-cowboy singer nodded at that and went back out to look at the Packard some more. Five minutes later he was back in the office writing out a check for $8,000.

I thought about some of this, but not all, after the man in the spats had left, trailed by his outsized companion. If they were a problem, so was the rain that splashed against the plate glass windows. Then the rain finally stopped and I picked up the phone and dialed a number. A voice answered on the third ring and I made an appointment for later that evening. I had some questions about the man in the spats and the man I was to see that evening might have the answers. And then again, he might not.

CHAPTER IV

The rain had started again, a thick, grey downpour that slowed homeward-bound traffic on Wilshire Boulevard to a fitful crawl and made drivers champ their jaws in unison as they cursed the idiot ahead. There was an opening in the curb lane and I slipped into it, turning right some two or three blocks past Doheny. Behind me a horn blasted out of pique or jealousy or both. A few blocks and a turn or two later I parked next to a fire hydrant, deciding that if a cop left a dry patrol car to write out a ticket in that rain, I no doubt deserved it.

The apartment house that I parked in front of was a fairly new two-story garden-type structure, built in a U around a swimming pool, and coated with pale yellow stucco that the rain had wetted down so that it looked like tapioca. I sat in the Volkswagen for a while, smoked a cigarette and watched the windows grow steamy. At six-thirty I draped a raincoat around my shoulders and made a dash for the shelter of the building. There were some pale pink roses growing near the outside staircase that led to the second floor, but the rain had knocked most of their petals to the ground. I was only slightly wet when I went up the stairs, turned right, and rang the bell of Christopher Small. There was a light scraping sound as someone inspected me through the security peephole. Then the door opened wide.

“Come on in, Eddie. How are you, wet?”

“Not too bad. How're you, Marcie?”

“Fine.”

Marcie Holloway was a tall black-haired girl with blue eyes, a wide mouth with an attractive overbite, and a nose that could have been just a little snub and perhaps a trifle shiny if you worried about such things. She carried a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her narrow plaid slacks seemed to be part of a suit and she comfortably filled the white blouse that topped them. She had been living with Christopher Small for almost three years which, in that town, may have been some sort of a record.

I made another inane comment about the weather, she asked if I would like a drink, and I said that I would.

“Chris'll be out in a minute. Scotch and soda okay?”

“Make it water.”

Marcie disappeared through a door with my raincoat and I sat down on a green divan and studied some of the photographs that almost covered the opposite wall. There seemed to be more of them than I remembered. They ran from the ceiling to near the floor, were framed by thin, black molding, and shielded by glareproof glass. They portrayed Christopher Small and friends and he seemed to have a lot of them. The room also had a built-in bookcase that held six books, some crockery, and a collection of china cats and kittens. There was a color television set in one corner, a stereo unit in another, and twin speakers were strategically placed at ceiling height in opposite corners. The rest of the furniture looked as if it came with the apartment.

Those who have eyes good enough to read the “and featuring” credits on the late show might recognize Christopher Small's name. He had earned a comfortable living in Hollywood for more than thirty years by playing minor roles in films that called for a cab driver, a reporter, a tough sergeant, a bartender, a number two cop, or—most often of all—a number three or four gangster, the one who gets queasy about the entire setup and takes off in the getaway car before the rest of the gang has had a chance to clean out the tellers' cages.