Feeblest British car of the seventies: It was a close call between the Morris Marina and the Austin Allegro, but the latter finally won out. Although originally designed as sharp and sporty, the Allegro (1973–82) was a victim of design and manufacturing compromises that conspired to dilute the original concept until the resultant car was utterly lacking in appeal, and the buying public responded in a lukewarm manner. When production was eventually shelved, there were—tantalizingly—plans in the design office for a 420-horsepower V12 “Muscle” Allegro, a stretch “Allegrosine” and an RB-211 turbofan-powered version, with which it was proposed to break the land speed record.
Jack’s last car, a very reliable Austin Allegro Estate, had been written off when he ignored a complicated and little-understood—at least to him—procedure for setting the torque on the rear wheel bearings. The cost of repairing it far outstripped the value, so it had been scrapped. On reflection he should have just rebuilt it at any price, but at the time he hadn’t realized how much he liked it. For all his sneering at other detectives for owning classic cars, such as Moose’s Jaguar, Chymes’s delightful old Delage-Supersport and Miss Lockett’s wonderful pair of Bristols, he had begun to like the Allegro in a strange sort of way. It was his hunt for another in showroom condition that had led them here to Charvil on the eastern edge of the town.
They pulled up outside a shabby used-car lot that was exactly the sort of place you might expect to buy a used Allegro. It was decidedly low-rent and displayed about a dozen well-used cars of dubious provenance. Faded bunting fluttered from light standards at the four corners of the yard, and Jack rechecked the address before getting out of the car. Mary, passionately disinterested in Allegros, like most other people on the planet, picked up the paper from the backseat and started to read the sports pages. Her cell phone rang. She took one look at the screen and then put it back in her pocket, where it trilled plaintively to itself. Despite several subtle hints and a raft of unsubtle ones, her ex-boyfriend, Arnold, still hadn’t figured out the “ex” part of their relationship.
Jack walked up between the ranks of the cars, being careful not to touch them, as they were all covered with a thin film of dust; it didn’t seem the dealer sold that many. He was looking around for the Allegro when a young man stepped out of the office. He was impeccably dressed in a morning suit, bow tie, high collar and starched cuffs. From the bloodred carnation in his buttonhole to his shiny patent leather shoes, the young man carried with him the haughty air of undeniable superiority—and incongruity. He looked as though he were dressed for a society party, not selling cars. He regarded Jack with suspicion and then forced a smile onto his thin lips.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I hope so,” replied Jack. “I called yesterday. You had an Allegro—”
The car salesman’s manner changed abruptly, and a genuine smile supplanted the bogus one. “Detective Chief Inspector Spratt?”
Jack nodded, and the salesman put out a well-manicured hand for him to shake.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said excitedly, giving off wafts of expensive aftershave as he moved. “I followed the Humpty case with enthusiasm. Extremely impressive. My name is Gray, Dorian Gray—but you must call me Dorian. I for one do not believe a word when Josh Hatchett refers to you as ‘a bad joke’ or ‘a stain upon the good name of the Reading police force.’"
“You’re very kind,” said Jack a bit uneasily.
“Think nothing of it!” replied Dorian happily. “I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time, but my diary is so very full. It was lucky, in fact, that you caught me when you rang. Society is such a drain on one’s energy. Would you follow me?”
He led Jack through the collection of battered wrecks that had nothing over two hundred pounds written on their windshields and on to a small lockup garage at the back of the lot. Dorian smiled again, carefully donned white gloves and pulled the doors open with a loud sqraunch of long-forgotten hinges.
Gray must have seen Jack looking doubtful, for he added quickly, “It has been in storage for a number of years, yet I don’t believe it has aged significantly.”
The garage opened to reveal an immaculate 1979 Allegro Equipe two-door sedan. It was painted silver with orange and red stripes down the sides and had alloy wheels and twin headlamps at the front. The paintwork glistened as though it had only just rolled off the production line. Dorian got in, started it at the first attempt and drove it into the sunshine.
“Remarkable!” said Jack after a pause.
“Isn’t it just?” answered Dorian as he got out, unlatched the hood and revealed an engine bay that didn’t have a spot of dirt or oil on it anywhere.
Jack smiled and got into the car. He could smell the freshness of the factory, and the orange velour seats still had the fuzz on them. He looked at the odometer. It had only 342 miles recorded.
“Where did you find it?” asked Jack incredulously. “This belongs in a museum. None would take it, of course, but it does.”
Dorian Gray looked to left and right and lowered his voice. “It’s not quite so strange as you think, Inspector. You see, every now and then I sell a car to a favored customer with my own… ahem… unique guarantee.”
Jack sensed a scam of some sort and narrowed his eyes. “Guarantee?”
“Yes. I guarantee that this car will never rust or even age significantly.”
“Waxoil and underseal, eh?”
“Better than Waxoil, Inspector. Allow me to demonstrate.”
They walked around to the back of the car, and Dorian opened the trunk. Inside was a finely painted oil of the same car, but in much shabbier condition. The car in the picture had rust holes showing up through the bodywork, a peeling vinyl roof, the trim was missing, and there was an unsightly scrape on the left rear, which had taken the bumper off. In short, a bit of a wreck. Jack looked at Dorian quizzically.
“See the rear windshield in the painting, Officer?”
Jack looked. It seemed normal enough. Dorian smiled again, removed the wheel brace from the trunk and shattered the rear window of the Allegro with one strong blow. Jack took a shocked step back at this apparently motiveless act of vandalism. Dorian, however, merely smiled.
“Look at the painting, Mr. Spratt.”
Jack frowned. He was certain that the car in the picture had not had a broken rear windshield before, but now it did. His frown deepened, but Dorian had another surprise for him.
“Look at the car.”
The rear window was intact.
“How…?”
Dorian Gray put the wheel brace away, shut the trunk and smiled the enigmatic smile of a conjuror who has just caught a speeding bullet in his teeth and no way on hell’s own earth was going to let on how he did it.
“Everything you do to the car happens to the picture, Inspector. It never needs cleaning, repairing or servicing. It will stay new forever. You may want to have rear seat belts fitted and replace the AM push-button radio, but I feel those are small inconveniences when you consider the vast savings this car has to offer.”
“Forever?”
Dorian stared absently at his perfectly manicured nails.
“Nothing lasts forever,” he said carelessly, “but yes, for the foreseeable future.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’ve offered this warranty to only six other people, and do you know I’ve not had a single complaint?”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred guineas.”
“I’ll take it.”
Dorian was quite happy to accept a check and moved several cars so Jack could drive out, the engine purring like a kitten brought up on cream. Jack was just signing a buyer’s agreement, in Dorian’s red pen and thinking he had gotten the bargain of the century, when Mary knocked on the window in a state of some agitation. She was holding her cell phone and waved it at him.
“I need to speak to you as a matter of some urgency, sir.”
“Don’t worry.” Jack smiled. “I won’t insist you drive it all the time.”
“It’s not the Allegro. It’s the Gingerbreadman.”
“What about him?”
“He’s escaped.”
Jack laughed.
“Sure he has. I do this joke to Madeleine all the time, and she…”
He stopped talking as he noticed that Mary was doing everything but laughing and that Dorian Gray had turned on the television, where a news bulletin was under way. The volume was off, but it didn’t matter; the grim face of the anchorman with a stock picture of the gingery lunatic said it all. Jack felt a heavy hand fall on his heart. Not again. He and Friedland Chymes had captured him the first time around. Jack and Chymes had survived, Wilmot Snaarb had not. Jack could still see Snaarb’s look of agony as he had his arms torn from their sockets, his cries of pain and terror mixed with the maniacal cackle of the psychopathic snack. If Jack hadn’t tricked him into a shipping container, the Gingerbreadman would have stayed at liberty for longer. He was delivered to prison still inside the container, and it took fourteen men in riot gear to subdue him. It was nursery crime at its very worst.
“Who called you?” asked Jack, suddenly alert.
“Ashley,” replied Mary. “He said the whole station was in an uproar; Briggs was running around barking orders at people—and sometimes just barking.”
“And that’s what worries me,” said Jack, thanking Dorian and walking briskly from his office.
“That Briggs is rusty when it comes to panic?”
“No. I was the original arresting officer. The Gingerbreadman is clearly NCD—why didn’t they call us first?”