A Study in Viscosity
The continuing adventures of Knowluck Jones and his faithful chronicler Dr. Piston
I would have much preferred to be drawing on the amber stem of my meerschaum rather than chewing a cud-like lump of chickle-tree gum laced with nicotine but I had recently taken the pledge and sworn off smoke for good. My friend, the famous consulting detective Mr. Knowluck Jones, was with me in the library of our Damon Park rooms in Hull, Massachusetts. He had also given up the weed but his glassy half closed eyes and vacant stare made me suspect that he was treating withdrawal with a double dose of another addiction. The headlines of the Hull Times offered little of interest and I wondered how an editor could justify leading with drivel about some hapless fools going for a charity swim in February.
“I say Knowluck”, I said receiving no reply or acknowledgement from my friend who continued to sit mesmerized at the grate. “Can you imagine ! I started just as the phone rang. I answered as my companion has an uncommon dislike for telephones.
“A Mr. Soworthy”, I said after hanging up. “It seems his entry in the Dipless Estate Annual Concours d' Elegance may be disqualified. Something about oil soiling the terrazzo”.
Knowluck Jones's revelry ceased upon the instant, “Mr. Soworthy, you say Piston!” he said rising from his chair. “That would be Mr. Reginald Soworthy of the Brockton Soworthy's and a dear friend of mine from University. It was he in fact that provided transport for an early adventure in the development of my methods that you no doubt have heard me speak.”
“Ah yes”, I recalled, “that would be the Disturbance in the Ladies Locker Room. I seem to recall that you and Soworthy were arrested for purloining undergarments and that a cyclecar was somehow involved.”
“An early study of scents, my dear Piston, an area of study in which I have become quite renowned and the cyclecar, a Morgan three wheeler to be exact, was an essential ruse drawing attention while I collected my specimens.”
“But still, it is unfortunate that they chose that picture of you in a bra to hang in the post office.”
“Tut tut Piston; Fire up the outfit!” he shouted flinging off his dressing gown. “This must be the very same trike and my instincts tell me my services are needed.”
“I should think the MINI would be more comfortable.&rdquo I replied.
“The OUTFIT Piston!” He said, “Today is a three wheeler day.” And he made for the hat rack where he selected neither the deerstalker nor fedora but rather a flat driving cap that I had never before seen him affect.
We arrived at the Dipless estate in short order. Mrs. Dipless, we were advised, was on tour but would return in time for the event on Sunday. Her curator, a Latin fellow introduced as Mr. A. S. Ole, showed us round to the patio where more than a dozen vintage automobiles were arraigned like sculptures in a museum foyer. The Morgan trike, by far the smallest of the group, was near the center opposite another Morgan of the four wheeled variety. A simple primrose sign in each windshield displayed the owner's name.
Mr. Ole explained that this concours collection was selected by
the Los Angeles consultancy of
Ole wiped his brow with a damask hanky and was about to continue when two men approached. A shortish fellow wearing a cap decidedly similar to my friend's, came on first. I couldn't help but contrast the dark, Brooks Brother's three-button ensemble of Mr. Knowluck Jones to the jeans and denim shirt of the newcomer. Their caps seemed a bit rakish but with natural hues inspired no doubt by autumn in New England, and in each case seemed a perfect complement to their quite different sartorial selections. While I was reconciling this apparent inconsistency Ole turned to the newcomer: “Soworthy! I trust you have come to collect that 'thing' of yours?”
“Quite the contrary A. S. Ole, I have come to clear up these accusations and Mr. Knowluck Jones is here at my request. Knowluck,” he said to my companion, “I am so glad that you could come. I was really upset and had in fact gone to the post office to mail an official letter of withdrawal when I saw your, ah, picture and decided on the spot to give you a call. Oh but I'm sorry I haven't introduced my friend...”
“Mr. Bill Pepperocini; how nice to make your acquaintance”, Knowluck interupted turning to Soworthy's companion. “You are no doubt the owner of the other Morgan. I couldn't help but observe that the windbreaker you are wearing has several spots which I am sure from their straw yellow colour and disposition on your right sleeve and shoulder must be a 50-50 mixture of Prestone coolant and water. That they are only on your right sleeve is in agreement with the Right Hand drive on the 1953 Plus Four, Four-Seater displayed next to Soworthy's Super Aero. Also your six-plus foot, 220 pound frame would be a tight fit in any Morgan and would normally advise against one but for the fact that the driver's seat of the four-seater touring model has extra travel. I further took notice of those New Balance running shoes strung over your shoulder. They are very light and from a particularly narrow last and designed for marathon running, a task for which your physique is notably unsuited. They are instead used to replace your wingtip broughams when you drive the Morgan. Observe the peculiar 1” wide black track on the sole of the right shoe. Only the roller accelerator pedal of the four-wheel Morgan would produce such marking.”
“That's amazing Mr. Jones”, responded Pepperocini. “You mean the Morgan Wings logo on my jacket, the 3/4 group patch on my shirt and club nametag didn't tip you off?”
“Heavens no; The Morgan paraphernalia could be assumed by any Ferrari owner trying to appear upscale. The name tag....well, perhaps a little.”
“If I may, “Soworthy interrupted, “the issue is that this Ole claims that our Morgans leaked oil on the terrazzo. While leaks do occur on occasion”, he paused, “we both took particular effort to tidy everything before leaving the cars last evening.”
“Yet there, under your cars it is!” Ole pointed.
Knowluck Jones flung himself upon the terrazzo floor and with glass in hand examined a puddle of amber colored viscous fluid several inches in diameter directly in front of the trike rear tire. He also looked at the front of the Plus Four before returning to the trike where with his bare index finger he wiped up a spoon-sized gob of the offending substance. He sat with his back on the trike, passed the laden finger under his nose and then plunged it into his mouth.
“HHmmm, ah yes. Unmistakable aroma, Full bouquet and overtones of current; a hint of black-berry and clean finish with no sulfur afterglow. Castrol R!”
“Well that is the type of gearoil I use”, said Soworthy.
“Of course it is”, Jones said, “it could be no other because this is an early version of the three speed gear box and only R is suitable.”
“So it is from my car.” Soworthy concluded sadly.
“From your car yes but it did not come from your gearbox. Whomever planted this, and I do mean that was planted, knew enough of three wheelers to know that any oil other than R would have been immediately suspect. The villain would also have to know that because of its scarcity a container of R would be carried behind the squab. I am certain that if you check that container you will find that it is precisely one half pint low.”
And so it was.
“But what made you suspect the spare oil and not just a leaky seal?”
“I observed the croquette balls nested near the garden wall and inferred that the patio was not exactly level. In fact I would calculate that it slopes nearly 5 degrees toward the East. The Trike is facing East as you can see. If there had been sufficient oil in the gearbox it would have leaked past the leather front seal, run the length of the chassis torque tube and dripped out behind the engine. I suggest you top up the R before doing any motoring Soworthy. The culprit, quite obviously, is A.S Ole!”
We looked only to find that Ole had slipped away.
“You see Ole emigrated from a Spanish speaking district south of Paris where he once owned a Morgan/Darmont. He was forced to sell the Morgan at a give-away price to finance his emigration and has been bitter toward the Marque ever since.”
“How did you conjure all that?” I asked, to complete the notes I have been compiling.
“His accent was Castillian but I detected the French influence. The French pronounce only 5% of their vowels and fewer of their consonants. The Spanish, to be contrary pronounce virtually all of their letters but do so differently; E sounds like A and so forth. He was particularly troubled with the Boston R which is only pronounced at the end of words like idea-r and Cuba-r and certainly never at the end of words like car. And as we agree only a Trike owner would have known of the special oil required by early three speeders, however two speeders used grease and so did not drip from the torque tube. The French Morgans , of which Ole was familiar, were made by the Darmont company and were all two-speeders.”
“But you have said nothing about Pepperocini's four wheel Morgan?”
“I didn't think there was much mystery there Piston. The puddle was obviously straight 30 weight motor oil but it was placed under the engine. A leaky TR engine is considered by some to be a Morgan survival trait. Had this engine been leaking at that rate there would not have been the telltale bubble where rust is just starting on the cross-member. A more knowledgeable villain would have placed his puddles just inside the front wheels.
“It is quite elementary my dear Piston.” he concluded as he picked up the hanky dropped by the hastily escaped Ole.
“Piston, to the MINI with haste!” He sniffed the hanky again, “There is a Victoria's Secret nearby.”