Mystery at Olympia. John Rhode

On the very first day of the show it was found impossible to conduct any business whatever on the overcrowded stand. Every inch of space was invaded by people anxious to see. Dealers wishing to place contracts and individual buyers were extricated from the mob and carried to the London show-rooms by a fleet of cars provided for the purpose. There, in comparative calm, they were enabled to place their orders.

      On Monday, October 8th, Doctor Oldland, that prosperous Kensington practitioner, visited the Motor Show. He did so every year, and would not have missed the occasion for the world. He had a mechanical mind, to which the development of the motor car was an unfailing source of interest. But that was by no means the only attraction which the show held for him. He was not at all gregarious, preferring the company of one or two special friends to a larger assembly. But he liked to watch a crowd, to see a vast concourse of human beings obeying the same laws, flowing together in the same slow streams like so many particles of inert matter. Perhaps it satisfied his sardonic ideas upon the general futility of things. However this may be, he usually spent a good part of his time in one of the corners of the gallery, whence he could look down upon the busy scene below.

      This year, though, his visit had a more immediate purpose. He had come to the conclusion that it was nearly time he bought a new car. It had taken him a long time to become reconciled to the idea. It was not the expense which had given him pause. He could have afforded a couple or more, had they been necessary. But he hated change, unless it could be proved to him that it brought with it some definite advantage. He had to be convinced, for instance, that a new drug or a new method of treatment were definite improvements upon their predecessors before he could be persuaded to adopt them himself.

      Even as he paid for his admission at the turnstile, and mingled with the stream pouring into the great hall, his misgivings returned. There was nothing in the world the matter with his present car. It was only three years old, and still good for years of faithful service. True, his chauffeur had been hinting lately that it was more difficult than it used to be to keep it looking really smart. But what did that matter? Oldland told himself, with one of his queer wry smiles, that it was the same with cars as with men. A man like himself, rising fifty, must necessarily expend more energy on keeping himself smart than a spruce young fellow barely out of his teens. Like his own son Bill, for instance.

      Dash it all, why hadn’t he got Bill to come down from Yorkshire to go round the stands with him? Bill was an engineer, and knew as much about the insides of motor cars as his father did of the insides of humans. Bill would be sympathetic, perhaps even enthusiastic, whatever make the old man decided upon. They were far too good friends ever to adopt an attitude of superiority to one another. But would Bill be able to refrain from saying, ‘I wish I’d known you were going to buy a new car, Dad! I could have put you on to something …’

      With a short laugh, Oldland put these forebodings aside. He had come to the show to order a new car, and he was not going home until the order had been placed. He could not face his chauffeur, waiting outside with the old car, until this had been done. The man was quite right, confound him! A doctor’s turnout must be above suspicion of age or decay. It must be bright, new, and sparkling, in order to inspire trust in the breasts of misanthropic patients.

      Oldland allowed himself to be carried forward by the stream, glancing without any great interest at the stands as he drifted slowly past them. Hawk-faced salesmen, detecting by some sixth sense a potential buyer, endeavoured to catch his eye. But he was too old a bird to be entangled in that snare. He knew the dangers of listening to the voice of the siren. ‘May I show you our new thirty horsepower model, sir? The very last word in luxury and efficiency!’ As though luxury could ever be efficient, or efficiency luxurious! The less wary might listen, lulled to their fate by a flow of smooth and seductive verbiage, until, conquered by the mesmeric powers of salesmanship, they placed an order. Not so the experienced Oldland. He would see for himself, and make his own decision.

      The stream swept him unresisting towards Stand 1001. The Comet advertisement had not escaped his attention. His first reaction to it had been one of irritation. Why couldn’t the confounded people give particulars? What would be thought of a doctor who said, ‘I can dispense with drugs and bandages and splints. I’m not going to tell you how. If you want to know, you’ll have to come to my surgery and see.’ Yet that, in effect, was what these people said.

      But his mechanical curiosity struggled with his annoyance, and eventually won the day. He would visit Stand 1001, and see what new-fangled stunt the Comet people had got hold of now. But only to satisfy his own inquisitiveness. Most certainly not with any intention to purchase. The Lovell Transmission might be all right for people who could find no better use for their money than to try out other people’s ideas with it. He wanted something that had years of experience on the road behind it.

      The stream, of which Oldland was an unconsidered drop, slackened and came to rest as it approached Stand 1001. But it was still early in the afternoon, barely half-past two, and the crowd was not so dense as at other times. Some visitors had gone to lunch, others had not yet arrived from that meal. Oldland patiently edged his way towards the centre of attraction. In less time than he had any right to expect, he found himself standing within a few feet of one of the chassis which had given rise to so much speculation.

      Within a few feet of it. By standing on tiptoe, he could manage to catch a glimpse of polished metal. But in between was a serried mass of humanity, so tightly packed together that it was impossible for any single individual to move or turn. Periodically, however, this mass surged and erupted, throwing off perhaps a dozen of its human particles. Others immediately took their places, and the mass coalesced as tightly as before.

      Oldland, taking advantage of these periodical eruptions, gradually wormed his way to the front of the mass. Separated from his audience by the width of a stripped chassis, one of the Comet salesmen was explaining the principles of the Lovell Transmission to all who could press within earshot.

      ‘We claim that the control is the simplest that has yet been devised,’ he was saying. ‘There is, as you can see, no gear lever, since the car has no gears. Nor is there a self-starter button, since the engine is started by a method which I shall hope to explain later. In fact, the only controls are the hand brake lever, and these two pedals which you see, one on either side of the steering column.

      ‘The principle upon which the transmission works is entirely novel. The car is driven, not directly by the engine, but by a turbine, which gives a smoother motion than any reciprocating engine, however many cylinders it might have. This turbine is bolted to the back axle, immediately in front of the differential, thus doing away with the necessity for a long propeller shaft. The space between the turbine and the engine is taken up by this series of steel cylinders.’

      The salesman had evidently learnt his lesson well, Oldland thought. If one were to interrupt him by an ill-timed question, he would probably have to begin all over again at the beginning. But none of his audience seemed inclined to ask such a question. All eyes were concentrated upon the various parts of the chassis, as the demonstrator pointed them out.

      ‘The engine drives a pump, of a new and highly efficient type. The inlet side of this pump is connected by this copper pipe of large bore to the exhaust end of the turbine. The delivery side of the pump is connected by this smaller steel pipe to the steel cylinders, which are interconnected. When the car is delivered, these cylinders are full or nearly full, of liquid sulphur dioxide.

      ‘The turbine is driven by this sulphur dioxide. When the connection between the cylinders and the turbine is opened, the liquid vaporises, and produces a rush of gas through the turbine, which revolves, and this drives the car. The gas, after doing its work, goes to the pump, where it is once more liquefied by pressure and returned to the cylinders.

      ‘You will observe that both pump and turbine are jacketted. The compression of the gas in the pump produces heat, and this is utilised in the following way. The pump jacket contains oil, and in this is immersed a carburettor of special design. The mixture, before reaching the engine, is thus heated to such a degree that the petrol is completely vaporised, thus giving ideal combustion in the engine cylinders.

      ‘The turbine jacket is similarly filled with oil. But here the effect produced is exactly the reverse of