Car Theft, Montreal — 1960

In 1960, Tom traded Blue Beauty for a ’57 Chevrolet convertible.

Car Theft

Two days before vacation, I came downstairs from my apartment and discovered that my car was gone. I reported the case to the police and hoped for the slim chance of finding the car within forty-eight hours. That night, I had supper with the Swiss family in the apartment below ours. The man of the family said he heard that teenagers take a car for a night and then drive it back to near where they had stolen it. He offered me his VW Beetle to zig-zag through the streets in the neighborhood in the hopes of finding my car.

It was early the next morning when I started out, and to my delight, I found the car a few blocks from my home. The top was slashed above the inner door handle.  It was parked under the balcony of the home of an elderly couple who were sitting in the sun sipping their morning coffee. I asked them to call the police if someone began to get into the car. I drove to the police station to report the good news.

At the station, eight officers were having a great time playing cards and drinking Coke. I spotted the detective who had taken the data when I had reported the incident. He was immersed in the fun, and it took some effort to get his attention. When he finally turned to me, I told him that I had come in reference to the stolen ‘57 convertible.

“The Chevy? No news yet! We are on top of the case!” he said. “Just relax. We’ll let you know if it turns up.”

“Do you want me to show you where it is?” I asked.

“Just relax,” he said, without listening to me. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“Look! I found it. Get it? I FOUND the car! Help me to take possession of it. NOW!”

He stared at me, then finally realized the situation and jumped up. “Let’s go. I will follow you.”

When we got to the car, he grabbed the door. “Hold it!” I yelled. “Shouldn’t you take fingerprints first?”

“Good idea!” he said. He called his headquarters and asked them to send out the fingerprint specialist. The man arrived shortly and surveyed the surface of the car.

“Unfortunately, most of the prints are old and dry,” he said. He investigated around the slit in the top. “Oops. Here is a real good one!”

With that, he took the little box of special metallic powder and the brush and dubbed it on the fresh fingerprints. I let him finish the job while my detective walked around the car, visibly ill at ease. Once the fingerprint was obtained, I suggested that we compare it to the thumb of the detective. The poor fellow had a red face when the two turned out to be identical. The fingerprint expert left without a word, probably in order to not embarrass his buddy.

The detective was happy that “we” had found the car and wished me good luck.

“Thanks for your help,” I grinned, without comment on his performance. I was too happy to have the car back than to make a case of it.

I repaired the slash on the roof using masking tape of matching color both on the outside and on the inside, leaving the professional repair to my insurance company once I came back from vacation.