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means.”
    â€œGrandfather made it all in Malaya, you know,” he said, as if everyone else did. “Tin mostly. When he came back to London to retire he couldn’t abide the climate and died within a fortnight. My father, who knew absolutely nothing about business and had no intention of learning, simply looked up the most conservative bankers he could find in the City and told them to take care of things. They still do. Barbara’s also rich.”
    â€œWheat,” she said. “Thousands of acres of Kansas wheat.”
    â€œI feel like Tacky Tom at Rich Rollo’s party,” I said.
    â€œNot to worry,” Trippet said. “It’s just that when we get to my perfectly marvelous idea, I want you to rest assured that we can handle the necessary financing.”
    That brought us up to the coffee and brandy, but it still took a while to get to the point.
    â€œThat chap at the party with the Plymouth,” he said.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œPathetic case really. Yet typical.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œMost middle-aged Americans, I’ve noticed, attach an inordinate amount of sentiment to the first car that they owned. They may not remember their children’s birthdays, but they can tell you that first car’s year, model, color, even date of purchase, and exactly what they paid for it down to a dime.”
    â€œProbably,” I said.
    Trippet took a sip of his brandy. “My point is that there is scarcely an American over thirty whose life hasn’t been touched in some meaningful way by a particular make and model of car—even if he only lost his virginity in it despite an awkwardly located gear lever.”
    â€œIt was a 1950 Ford convertible and the gear shift didn’t seem to bother anything,” Trippet’s wife said. “In Topeka.”
    Trippet ignored her. “Snobbery, greed and status play an important role, too. I know of a lawyer in Anaheim who is actually hoarding five 1958 Edsels. Hoarding, mind you, waiting for their price to rise. Another chap I heard of retired at thirty-five from whatever he was doing, something profitable, I’d venture, and began to collect Rolls-Royce. Why? Because he liked ‘big things,’ big houses, big dogs, big cars. Such temperaments are perfect for exploitation.”
    â€œHere it comes,” his wife warned me.
    â€œI’m braced,” I said.
    â€œWhat I propose,” Trippet went on, not in the least perturbed, “is that we establish one of the nation’s most useless, unneeded businesses.”
    â€œSomething like the ski lodge?” his wife said.
    â€œTo the young,” he continued, “we become vendors of snobbery and status. To the old and middle-aged we cater (or rather pander, don’t you think?) to their nostalgic yearning for the past. We provide them a tangible link with yesterday, with that time when not only their cars were simpler, but also their world.”
    â€œHe does talk pretty,” I said to Barbara.
    â€œHe’s just warming up.”
    â€œHow do you like the proposition?” Trippet asked.
    â€œInteresting, I suppose. But why me?”
    â€œObviously, Mr. Cauthorne, you don’t care a fig about cars—no more than I. You have a most presentable appearance and you also have twenty-one sturdy relics safely garaged in East Los Angeles which we can use for bait.”
    â€œBait for what?”
    â€œFor suckers,” his wife said.
    â€œFor future clients,” Trippet said. “My idea is that we establish a garage—no, not a garage. That’s too plebeian a word. We establish a clinic. Yes! We establish a clinic that specializes in restoring junkers to their original, pristine condition. Note that I stress the word ‘original.’ For instance, if a microphone to the chauffeur’s speaker were needed for a 1931 Rolls, we would not settle for a microphone that was used in—say—a