records, no income tax, no lawyers. She promised to reap a tenfold return. That’s all I know.”
“Interesting,” Sam said.
“Monsieur, I’m late for an appointment at the proving grounds. I must test the installation of our new titanium cam rotors.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful.”
“Monsieur, I know that you may find this request unusual. But I feel that you have brought me luck. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the racetrack. I would enjoy showing you my racer.”
“I’d be honored, Henri.”
The proving grounds were nearly forty kilometers outside of Monaco-Ville, in Vielle. Gateau drove his black Chevy Corvette through the winding mountain roads with expert precision. Sam found it amusing that the great French driver preferred an American sports car to a Porsche-Peugeot, but chose not to comment on it. “You’re a fantastic driver, Henri,” Sam said.
“Knowing the road is the key to driving,” Gateau replied.
“Henri, you said that Eleanor was constructing a crossword puzzle on a computer. Where was that computer?”
“It was a laptop. But Sam, as I recall, she left it at my beach house in Nice. I will have it sent here for you to inspect tomorrow.”
The racetrack at Vielle was a marvelous facility; the track was newly paved, the lane lines were recently painted and the pits were among the most modern on the circuit. The crews were making last minute adjustments to the racers. Henri drove his black ‘Vette onto the track and into pit quatorze where his crew was working.
“Jacques this is Samuel Sonn, a friend of mine. He knows cars—an ex- driver. So tell us what you have been doing.”
Jacques, Henri’s pit boss was about 40, portly appearance and bald. “My pleasure Monsieur Sonn. Were you a formula-one driver, Monsieur?”
“No, stock cars—on the Nascar circuit,” Sam replied.
“I have worked on stock cars . . .” Jacques began.
“Jacques, the car,” Henri interrupted impatiently.
Jacques quickly turned his attention back to Henri. “We have checked the timing, the fuel injection, the hyper-drive gears, the turbo and we finished installing the titanium cams. The seating is perfect, but it has to be road tested. If it meets your approval we’ll clean out the fuel tanks and spray the interior with an acrylic insulation.”
“Tres bien, Jacques. I’ll do ten laps.” Gateau put on a racing helmet and strapped himself into the Formula One racer. He roared out of the pit and onto the track bringing the Porsche up to max speed before the first turn. Gateau made it back to the pit in less than five minutes, emerging from the car with a look of frustration. “The high gear is sticking. It’s the linkage, I’m certain.”
Jacques slid under the car and made some adjustments. “The tie rod was bent, but only slightly. When you brought the car to max speed before the first turn it might have limited the gear ratio. I’ll get another rod.” The car was pumped two feet off of the ground by an electronic jack and the rod was installed in what seemed like nanoseconds.”
“Would you like, as you Americans say, to give it a spin, Sam?” Gateau asked after the repair was made.
“I’d love to,” Sam replied.
Gateau handed Sam his racing helmet. “Remember, shift into third before the first turn. Unlike stock cars that have four gears, Formula One cars have five gears. Do you think you can handle it, Sam?”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam replied.
Sam cruised out of the pit in second, eyes glued to the tachometer. When it read 10 thousand rpms, he shifted into third just before the first turn. As he straightened out, the gas pedal had reached the floor; the only way to increase the rpms was to switch on the afterburners. But when he turned on the fourth and final afterburner to drive the engine to 25 thousand rpms, he felt a vibration before locking in gear. When he approached the second turn, he downshifted. Once around the turn he flicked the switch to ignite the fifth and final afterburner. The car jolted ever so slightly before engaging the gear. He pulled back into the pit after only one lap.
“What’s wrong, Sam?” Gateau asked.
“There’s a crack in the vacuum seal of the fuel injector.”
“That’s impossible,” Jacques said.
“I guarantee you there’s a fuel leak above the transmission housing that has burned out the gear. If I kicked that car into gear one more time, the engine would have imploded.”
Jacques motioned to the pit crew to raise the car on the electronic jacks. Then both he and Gateau looked under the car and came to the same conclusion.
“C’est incroyable, mon ami. The engine housing has a leak above the transmission, just as you said. If you had gone one more lap the engine would have seized —— you could have been killed!”
“I knew it,” Sam said.
“There’s more,” Gateau said.” It was done intentionally. The casing was punctured with a sharp instrument.”
“It’s more than likely that whoever sabotaged your race car was trying to kill you, Henri.”
“Oui, Monsieur Sonn, but who?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam replied. Sam descended beneath the car to examine the fuel casing. It had been punctured; there was no doubt about it. Gateau was right: Sam was his good luck charm.
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