The man who sold death

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In April 1961, on a cold, clear Sunday morning, Charlie Green went to start his brother-in-law's car. The idea pleased Charlie, who owned but had not finished paying for a motor scooter. His brother-in-law's car was a Bristol; it had eight cylinders and disk brakes. To hold its wheel, to put your foot on its accelerator, was to know power; to deal, if the fates willed it, in death. Charlie, opulent in a fifty-guinea suit and hand-made shoes that his brother-in-law had grown tired of, opened the back door of the house and stepped into the garden. This was the northeast of England, and it was cold. The wind blew bitterly and persistently, retaining still the spiteful zest it had picked up in Siberia, and overhead a seagull planed and screeched complaint to the skies. Charlie shivered, and hurried to the garage.

Its door swung open easily, and for the thousandth time Charlie admired what he saw inside; the car, gleaming with wax, the neat tool racks, the workbench, even the inspection pit. It all meant money. His sister had done all right for herself, he thought, and so, in his modest way, had Charlie. With a brother-in-law like his, you need lack for nothing. Rich-and generous with it. A rare combination, very rare. The garage was warm-a small spirit stove glowed in the corner-and Charlie decided to leave it on. It was nice to be warm, and comfortable, and secure. He opened the car door and got inside, then fussed in his pockets until he found the key on its thin silver chain. He put the key in the ignition and sat happily, imagining with what grace and skill he would drive the big, warm, beautiful car. Life, he thought, is good. Then he switched on.

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