by Amy Myers
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Amy Myers From Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
The Car’s the Star
Footnotes
Recent Titles by Amy Myers from Severn House
The Jack Colby, Car Detective, Series
CLASSIC IN THE BARN
CLASSIC CALLS THE SHOTS
CLASSIC IN THE CLOUDS
CLASSIC MISTAKE
CLASSIC IN THE PITS
CLASSIC CASHES IN
MURDER IN THE QUEEN’S BOUDOIR
MURDER WITH MAJESTY
THE WICKENHAM MURDERS
MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET
MURDER IN HELL’S CORNER
MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET
MURDER IN THE MIST
MURDER TAKES THE STAGE
MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD
MURDER IN ABBOT’S FOLLY
CLASSIC CASHES IN
A Case for Jack Colby, Car Detective
Amy Myers
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by Amy Myers.
The right of Amy Myers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Myers, Amy, 1938- author.
Classic Cashes In. – (The Jack Colby, car detective series)
1. Colby, Jack (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Antique
and classic cars–Fiction. 3. Packard automobile–
Fiction. 4. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 5. Detective
and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’14-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8438-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-545-2 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-592-5 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
In memory of
Dot Lumley
Super-Agent, Super-Friend
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Jack Colby’s sixth recorded case takes place in Kent, where he has his classic car restoration business at Frogs Hill, near Pluckley. It’s from here that he also carries out his car detection work. As in his previous cases, some of the settings are fictitious, including Monksford, Frittenhurst, Staveley Park and Piper’s Green, the nearest village to Frogs Hill.
My thanks for helping me with information go in particular to my friend Douglas Tyler, who graphically described to me his experiences as a bank clerk in Hull in the late 1940s, to my car buff husband James whose input on classic cars has been the backbone of the Jack Colby series, and to John Bath, chair of the Packard Club of Great Britain. Their help was invaluable, and the interpretation I have put on it is my own.
The team at Severn House has as always been a pleasure to work with, and my thanks are especially due to my editor Rachel Simpson Hutchens and cover designer Piers Tilbury. They’ve done Jack Colby proud.
ONE
Robberies in days of yore, a getaway car.…
‘A Packard?’ I repeated blankly. A fleeting memory of The Ladykillers came to mind, which features a black 1930s’ Packard in that role, while in the United States it was famed as a magnificent family car. So how did a classic 1936 Packard tie up with the austere sixtyish well-dressed gentleman currently entertaining me to tea in a superbly English country house? ‘You want a Packard?’
‘Not a Packard, Mr Colby,’ the dry voice explained. ‘The Packard. Or if you prefer, a particular Packard. An eight-cylinder, right-hand drive, One-Twenty saloon, registered in England although not with the original registration number. Probably pale butter yellow in colour, originally black.’
‘May I ask why this particular car—’
‘No, Mr Colby, you may not.’
I can do dry and stuffy too. ‘In that case, I can’t accept this job. I need to know the context. I work on a freelance basis for the Kent Police Car Crime Unit, and therefore any other job I take has to bear that in mind.’
Philip Moxton stared at me thoughtfully. At least he wasn’t an eye contact evader, which was a good sign. ‘I used to own this particular Packard,’ he said at last. ‘I was obliged to sell it. I want it back. Legally,’ he added, super drily. ‘I don’t expect you to don a mask and striped jumper to whisk it away from its current owner, whoever he – or she – might be.’
I laughed. ‘Put that way, I’m almost sorry I can’t dress up in fancy clothes. Have you any idea where this Packard might be?’
‘Roughly, yes.’
Again, I was thrown, struggling for a clear idea of the possible task ahead. ‘Then why employ me to find it?’
‘I want you to buy it for me.’
My face, as they say, must have been a study, and it was his turn for mirth – although his was in the form of an unwilling grimace. ‘I shall pay for it. Never fear.’
‘Whatever the cost?’
‘Whatever the cost.’
‘And if it’s not for sale?’ I was even more puzzled now.
‘Its owner has recently died.’
Even more curious. ‘Then—’
He cut me off impatiently. ‘Because I wish it to be bought anonymously. Come, we are wasting time.’
Clearly this was not usual for the chair of the very exclusive Moxtons, the private banking arm of the huge conglomerate Fentons Bank, despite the fact that today he was ‘relaxing’ at his home, a Kentish stately mansion called Staveley House. Nor in fact was wasting time usual for me, Jack Colby, car detective. I was beginning to be sorry I’d come. It had been hard enough to find the place.
Staveley House was not far from Tenterden, in the west of Kent, but was the most private of private country houses I had ever seen. Hidden down a lane leading off a minor road, the entrance to its grounds was so well concealed that one needed more than satnav to find it. I’d been given directions, of course, but the gateway had seemed at first sight merely to be the vehicular entrance to a small Kentish stone cottage. It looked far more like a weather-beaten farmgate than the way to approach the no doubt sizeable home of a banking magnate.
Having opened the gate, I had
driven in with caution. Evergreen trees and bushes shielded the entrance from undue interest from the casual passer-by and shrouded in mystery the path beyond it. Even as I closed the gate behind me I expected a furious farmer to leap out of the cottage to accuse me of chicken rustling – especially as one or two had been pecking incuriously at the roadside.
No one had leapt out, however, although, as I got back into my classic Gordon-Keeble again (have to impress new clients), it seemed to me that the cottage windows exuded an air of careful guardianship. Certainly it had been easy to imagine human eyes behind them watching my every move.
I had then driven along a track bordered on both sides with woodland, with leafy bushes pushing their way outwards over the path with all their late summer confidence. Then abruptly the woodland had ended and given way to a vista of seemingly endless parkland. I had driven well over half a mile before I reached a stark sign reading ‘Car Park’ and it had been clear my car would have to remain right there. I had left my Gordon-Keeble somewhat nervously as it is very precious to me. Reason had told me however that it was as safe there as in its barn-cum-garage at Frogs Hill where I live. Emotionally I didn’t like abandoning it, but needs must when the mortgage has to be paid and a lucrative job might lie ahead.
I had duly walked along the drive somewhat uneasily wondering what was in store for me, until I was faced with a high wall of neatly trimmed yew hedge, with a gateway that at last gave me a sight of Staveley House. At first glance it had looked mock-Tudor, with its black beams, white plaster, red Kentish peg tiles and a rambling building with the odd gable or tower. A second look, when I took in the splendid chimneys, told me this was the real McCoy, sixteenth-century brick in places and probably much earlier in parts.
Philip Moxton had been there to greet me at the open central door, indicating that some kind of security system had warned him of my arrival. It probably consisted of cameras disguised as blackbirds in the trees. OK, perhaps that was a step too fanciful, but this chap certainly had security in mind when he bought this place.
Staveley House, I thought, was the kind of stately pile that should have a Rolls-Royce outside, with perhaps a Bentley or two for the kids. So why, I wondered, looking at Philip Moxton now, sipping a cup of tea from an antique bone china teacup, did he want a Packard, even if it was a particular Packard. It was true that Packards had been a status symbol in Britain in the nineteen twenties and thirties, but that didn’t explain why a man only born, at a guess, in the early fifties would want one. A family car? Possibly, I supposed, in which case a Packard might evoke memories of his childhood long past if his parents had one hanging around. Even so, why should he ask me to buy it for him anonymously, and not tell me the owner’s details?
There was one indisputable fact – that he wasn’t going to tell me any more. That deceptively mild expression told me he had quelled and quashed far more vigorous questionings than mine. His expression also implied that I could take the job or leave it.
What did I have to lose provided the money transfers were sorted properly? I’d take the job – with a double check. ‘Whatever the cost?’ I repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘One problem then. If I turn up at the dealer’s or owner’s place with the cash I look like a dodgy character. If I give the seller a cheque that also could lead to a problem,’ I explained delicately. I wasn’t in the habit of having twenty or thirty thousand pounds hanging around the Frogs Hill Classic Restoration Company business account, let alone in my own private one.
‘I’ll arrange an express bank transfer.’
‘Certainly, but I need to understand you better first.’
He flinched. ‘This is not a social meeting, Mr Colby.’
‘I agree. So we can talk frankly. I can buy the car in the name of Frogs Hill Classic Car Restoration Company, but even so arrangements have to be made. I will be buying it on behalf of a customer, who – I can legitimately say – wishes to remain anonymous. However, that will arouse curiosity in itself. Will you take that chance?’
‘I shall have to do so. Naturally I realized that whether private seller or dealer, there would be an element of risk. Apart from the question of anonymity, I do not know you, except by reputation. That adds to the risk. Do you have more questions?’
The chair was clearly bringing the board meeting to an end by this flattening analysis. It was time to show that I wasn’t to be flattened.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why?’
To my surprise instead of cutting me off, he answered me. ‘Because, Mr Colby, I must have that Packard before I die. And that may be very soon.’
That naturally shook me. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re in ill-health.’
‘I am in perfect health. There is, however, every possibility that I shall shortly be murdered.’
Top that for an exit line. I was so shaken I couldn’t wait to get away, so after a brief exchange on details of procedure I left to rejoin my Gordon-Keeble with great relief. Oddly, I realized I’d rather taken to this man, and surely he couldn’t be serious about his prediction? On the other hand, he didn’t seem the jokey sort, and certainly Staveley House and its grounds seemed to be going overboard in their efforts not to be noticed. The windows of the room where Philip Moxton and I had been sipping tea looked out over the rear gardens which were a spectacular sight with late summer dahlias – but deserted. Did he live in this place alone, I wondered? Had he an army of servants hidden behind green baize doors? Hard to tell.
As I drove up to the stone cottage at the entrance to the grounds, there was still no one to be seen. I opened the gate and drove through, but once again had that prickly feeling down my spine as though I was being watched. Human eyes? Or my imagination? It was pretty odd for the owner of Staveley to state he was facing the possibility of his own murder but yet have a gate that opened to the touch, an empty lodge and no overt security measures; which suggested there were many of these around, but that they were state of very high art.
I reached Frogs Hill with gratitude. My home lies a few miles from Pluckley on the Greensand Ridge, with the lowland of the Weald of Kent spread out before it. The nearest village is Piper’s Green, but once there you would still have to work hard to track down Frogs Hill, which lies at the end of winding lanes that amble peacefully along the side of the ridge.
Driving through the gates, I began to relax as the familiar aroma of petrol, oil and grease that spelt home met my nostrils. It comes from the Pits, our name for the converted barn that houses the Frogs Hill Classic Car Restoration Company. Here, Len Vickers and Zoe Grant are installed, working away to their hearts’ content on such exciting projects as a Jaguar 120 gearbox overhaul and a complete rebuild of a Sunbeam Alpine’s running gear.
Len is sixty plus and curmudgeonly; Zoe is nearly forty years his junior and sharp witted. They ignore the differences between them – if they even notice them – and get on famously through their joint love, the innards of classic cars. Occasionally I’m allowed to help under their eagle-eyed supervision, but really they prefer me to keep to my own quarters in the farmhouse. I do pay their wages, however, so I can demand a modicum of their attention from time to time.
Now was one of those times. Except that I baulked at the last moment. It was clear as I got nearer the Pits that they were both engaged in anxious consultation over a gearbox main shaft and would have no time to spare for what they consider to be unimportant queries from the boss. I left them to it. It was Tuesday, and the Jaguar was already overdue to be restored to its owner in pristine condition.
‘What bells do nineteen thirties Packards ring for you?’ I asked casually the next morning.
‘Ladykillers,’ Len replied. He isn’t a verbose man and he continued reassembling the Jaguar’s gearbox.
‘Right. The Ealing Studios film. One of the cars Alec Guinness and gang used in the getaway after the robbery.’ The film had come out long before I was born, but it was one of my parents’ favourites.
‘Nifty in traffi
c,’ Zoe contributed. ‘Clutch and gear shift work like a dream.’
‘I know a chap who wants one,’ I explained. ‘He’s not planning any bank robberies so far as I know. Heard of any around?’
‘Ask the Man Who Owns One,’ Len replied in a rare display of wit. Even I knew the famous Packard advertising slogan.
‘Or Harry Prince,’ Zoe added, to wind me up.
‘No way.’ I refused to be wound. Harry Prince, local garage chain magnate, has a hand in a great many pies and he’d like Frogs Hill to be included. That’s not going to happen. Harry isn’t all bad, but discretion only applies to his own welfare and concerns. Over anyone else’s he has none at all.
When Dave Jennings, who runs the Kent Police Car Crime Unit, offers me a job, I can bank on it that it’s going to involve brain power – naturally enough because he has a great team which means I get the awkward ones. This job for Philip Moxton therefore sounded a bonus in that it should be reasonably straightforward. Which contrariwise made me suspicious that it wasn’t going to be anything of the sort.
I was right. When I rang the Packard Club and various other motoring organizations the net result was that there was a rumour that one or two were available in Kent, but nothing more to back it up. That meant I either had to work my way through all the classic car dealers and magazines or use my contacts. I had had strict instructions from Philip Moxton to ring him as soon as I had a line on the car. I should tell him the price, he’d then give me the banking details and as soon as the cash was through I should pick the car up and deliver it to him.
I would have been amazed if I hadn’t had fair warning that this was an unorthodox sale. ‘Buy it sight unseen? What about a test drive?’ I had queried.
‘Not necessary.’
‘Won’t the seller think that strange?’ I had asked mildly.
