The woman shrugged and stepped aside. The long, open living room was cool and pleasantly dim after the heat of the afternoon. The furniture was Spanish style, dark exquisitely carved wood with subtly patterned upholstery in turquoise and black.
A tall, whipcord thin gentleman in a powder-blue short-sleeved jumpsuit unfolded himself from an easy chair, tossing his Wall Street Journal aside. His steel gray hair was worn short, as close to his skull as a helmet. He had striking, ice blue eyes set in a seamed hawk’s face, with deep creases guarding a narrow mouth. “Gracias, Marinda,” he said, dismissing the maid with a nod. “I’m Jack Galmont, sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“I understand you were at Mount Lemmon yesterday, at the race?”
“I was one of the course judges, yes, but I was up near Windy Point. I told the officers at the scene I didn’t see anything, if that’s why you’ve come.”
“Actually, colonel, what I need is some background on the race itself. I was told you were the man to talk to.”
“About racing?” he said cautiously. “Well, I suppose — forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners. You look like a man who likes a drink now and then, sergeant; will you join me?”
“You’re a good judge of character,” Andy sighed. “Anything wet’ll do fine.”
He followed Galmont across the stadium-sized room to a massively carved bar of black walnut. Real walnut. Galmont stepped behind the bar, came up with two clear bottles of Corona Cerveza, and filled a pair of pilsener glasses.
“All of the servants but Marinda are in Acapulco with my wife,” he said, as though pouring his own beer required an explanation. “Let’s see, the racing. To tell you the truth I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know much about police work, of course, but I doubt that Chris Wilde’s death had anything to do with vintage vehicle racing. More likely it was over some homo spat.”
“He was killed during a race,” Andy pointed out, easing onto a horsehide barstool.
“Well, yes,” Galmont conceded, resting his elbows on the bar, “but — look, I don’t mean to tell you your business, sergeant, I’ll help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”
“For openers, why don’t you think his death is connected with racing?”
“Because there’s nothing serious about it,” Galmont said. “There’s no prize money, no real prestige. Most of the people involved are twice as old as their cars. It’s a gentleman’s sport, nothing more.”
“Some people seem to take it pretty seriously. I’ve already heard stories about fistfights and rules changes and heavy betting. Sounds a little more exciting than collecting stamps.”
Galmont stared at him in frank appraisal for a moment, then nodded. “You’ve been doing your homework,” he said.
“We try,” Andy said. “Can you tell me a little about the sport? For instance, what are the rules?”
“They’re simple enough. The races are either endurance runs on Grand Prix courses, or sprints on closed sections of highway like the one yesterday. The cars must be at least twenty years old and in stock condition. There are different classes, of course, determined by engine displacement, one litre, two litre, et cetera. That’s basically it.”
“I was told there was a rules change a while back, supposedly to force Wilde out.”
“Sad but true,” Galmont nodded, smiling ruefully. “You’ve got to understand that the people who founded this sport in our area are — mossbacks, old money looking for new games to play. The first races were on private estates, by invitation only. Things expanded, and eventually anyone with a vintage racer was allowed in. Then, two seasons ago, the commission found that most of the races and all of the press coverage was going to the — rather flamboyant editor of the Wilde Weekly. This was not the kind of publicity we wanted, so we decided to try to disqualify him.”
“We?”
“I’m a member of the rules committee, sergeant. I’m not ashamed of it, or proud of it either, considering how things turned out.”
“What happened?”
“How much do you know about cars, sergeant?”
“I change my own plugs, that’s about it.”
“Then I’d better give you a little background. Originally the rules allowed the cars to be modified, souped up if you will, as long as the parts used were available for purchase at the time the car was built. Wilde owned a British roadster, a ’64 Morgan, that he’d modified with Weber carburetors, an oil cooler, that sort of thing. He was an excellent mechanic and a better driver, and in that car he was almost unbeatable. So we changed the rules to ‘factory stock condition’ only, no modifications allowed. Without the extra equipment, his car would have been a marginal performer, and we hoped he’d quit.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. He carped and whined in that damned paper of his and then showed up at the next race with a Morgan SuperSport.”
“I don’t understand. What was the difference?”
“The SuperSports were limited production models designed specifically for racing, and were sold with Weber carbs, et cetera, as standard equipment. The car was perfectly legal under the new rules. And Wilde was still unbeatable. Or at least he was until Chuck Buchek came up with a ’65 SS of his own. It’s been touch and go between them ever since.”
“I understand they got into a scuffle a few months ago.”
“After Buchek blew his engine in the Mid-Ohio,” Galmont nodded, sipping his beer. “Buchek’s a bit of a hothead. I’d ah, rather not comment on the scuffle. Didn’t actually see it.”
“Fair enough,” Andy said. “Who would have benefited most from the rules change if Chr—, if Wilde had dropped out?”
“Buchek. And Maraschal. And I would have as well. I was a consistent winner before Wilde began racing, though I’ve been less active recently.”
“Nobody likes losing,” Andy observed.
Galmont glanced at him sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You’re right,” he said evenly, “no one does. And I was a Marine for twenty-five years, in Vietnam, and in Beirut, so I know all about lost causes. But just for the record, sergeant, racing had lost its appeal for me anyway. I’d already won all there was to win, and when you’re on top, the only place you can go is down again. So I quit a winner. And it was the best move I ever made.”
“Really?” Andy said, with just a hint of skepticism in his tone.
“Yes, really,” Galmont echoed, irritated. He tossed off the last of his beer with a gulp. “Come on, I’ll show you something you might find interesting.”
Andy followed Galmont down a narrow stairway that ended at a padded, soundproofed door. The colonel opened it, and they stepped into another world.
The huge subterranean room was nearly as large as the house above it, carpeted throughout and filled with automobiles, magnificent racing machines of every size, color, and description. Each of them was a vision of raw power barely restrained, sleek, gleaming steel and aluminum animals with black rubber hooves. Andy could almost hear them snarling in the silent room.
“I’m — impressed, colonel,” he said honestly. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“It’s not a large collection,” Galmont said, pleased at the awe in McMahon’s tone, “only thirty or so, not nearly as large as Harrah’s, or even Brant’s. But I have some really fine examples here, a ’23 12/50 Alvis, a Hispano Suiza Type 68 bis, a Talbot 105. In racing, you’re only a winner until the next race. In collecting, a victory can last a lifetime.”
“A victory?”
“You don’t build a collection like this without fighting for it, sergeant, and the competition for a rare piece can be brutal. Did you ever serve in the military?”