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anxiously at Berthea as he spoke.
“It’s all right,” Terence reassured him. “My sister knows about this car and gives it her blessing.”
77. Terence Moongrove, Porsche Owner
BERTHEA HAD no real interest in cars and left Terence and Lennie to get on with their transaction while she returned to the morning room. There could be no question of taking up the autobiography again, so she picked up the newspaper and began to tackle the crossword. 1 across: He conquers all? A nubile tram. This old clue required only a moment’s thought. Tamburlaine! Of course. And 1 down? This for two and two for this (3 letters). Well really! Who did they imagine would be doing these crosswords—children?
Outside, Lennie led Terence to the garage, where he had parked the Porsche.
“I took you at your word,” the mechanic said. “At first I thought you were joking. But then I realised that you really did want one of these jobs. So I had a word with our mutual friend. Not a fancy price. Good motor. Nice and clean.”
“Our mutual friend?”
Lennie chuckled. “Yes. Monty Bismarck. As it happens, he was ready for a new model and he’ll be happy for you to take this one off his hands—through me, of course.”
Terence stood before the Porsche. He reached down and touched the bodywork, gently, with a single finger, as if to confirm the car’s existence.
“So this is the car I’ve seen Monty Bismarck driving,” he said. “The very car. Isn’t it lovely, Mr. Marchbanks?”
“It’s a nice motor all right, Mr. Moongrove. I wouldn’t have thought of you as driving one of these, you know, but where there’s life there’s hope, I suppose …”
Terence laughed. “I could cut a bit of a figure in this, couldn’t I?” He moved round to the side of the car. “And I see there are two seats. One for me and one for my sister.”
Lennie reached forward to open the driver’s door. “Exactly. And you might even find that other women would fancy getting into that passenger seat.” He turned and winked at Terence.
Terence looked surprised. “What do you mean, Mr. Marchbanks? Two women wouldn’t fit in there. Berthy’s quite large, and I don’t think she’d want another woman to sit on her lap.”
The mechanic looked at him conspiratorially. “Truth is, Mr. Moongrove, women like these cars. A Porsche does something for a woman. I was thinking of … well, other women. You know. Hey?”
Terence frowned. “We’ll see.”
“Monty Bismarck told me …” Lennie checked himself. “Well, maybe not. Perhaps I should show you what’s what and then we can take a little test drive down the road.”
“Oh, I’d like that,” said Terence appreciatively, stooping to get into the low-slung car. “My goodness, this is not a car for very tall people. Oops! My poor old head. Do you think they build these cars for short men, Mr. Marchbanks?”
Lennie thought about this. Unintentionally, Terence had displayed a real insight into the psychology of car manufacture. Who drove these very flashy, sporty cars? Short men. Yes, Terence was right. It took a tall man to drive a Morris Traveller.
Lennie showed him the instruments. “That’s a rev counter,” he said. “You don’t want the engine to strain too much. So you keep it low.”
Terence peered at the dial. “I see. And this thing here?”
“The speedometer. The one on your Morris went up to eighty, I think. Which was a bit optimistic. I think that nobody ever got more than seventy-two miles per hour out of a Morris.”
Terence pointed. “This one goes up to one-sixty, I see, Mr. Marchbanks. That’s jolly fast. Do you think we might …?”
“No,” said the mechanic firmly. “Listen, Mr. Moongrove, I’m only going to let you have this car if you promise me—and I mean promise—that you won’t go above fifty in it. That’s it. You see that mark there? That’s fifty. No more than that, please.”
Terence looked momentarily annoyed, but then nodded his assent. “All right. But what’s the point of being able to go a hundred and sixty miles per hour if you aren’t allowed to?”
“That’s for Germans,” said Lennie. “These cars are made in Germany, you see, and they’re allowed to do whatever speed they like on their autobahns.”
“That’s very unfair,” said Terence, adjusting the rear-view mirror. “What’s the point of having a European Union if there are different rules for the Germans? Tell me, Mr. Marchbanks, are there any Bulgarian cars?”
“Not that I’ve heard of,” said the mechanic.
“I just wondered,” said Terence. He gave the mirror a