Diamond Solitaire

shouting to them.

'I say! Mrs. Tanaka!'

She turned to look.

Leather-jacket also turned. He was in the act of unlocking a car door.

Diamond was still thirty yards from them.

Mrs. Tanaka said something Diamond couldn't pick up and opened a door herself and bundled Naomi into the car.

'I'd like a word,' called Diamond.

But he didn't get a word. Instead, he got the cart slammed into him as he advanced. Leather-jacket used it like a battering ram, driving it at him viciously. It had the weight of the suitcase behind it, and the full force of a large, young man.

Diamond's ankles could have suffered ugly damage if he hadn't reacted a split second before the impact and jumped six inches off the ground-about as high as a man of his size could hope to achieve. He pitched forward, making the suitcase take the main impact. His head crunched against the metal basket mounted at the top of the cart. But for the cushioning caused by the suitcase, he might have ended with his head in the basket like a victim of the guillotine.

As it was, he rolled aside, tipping the cart over and denting the wing of a car with his left shoulder. He was in no condition to spring up and fight

Leather-jacket wasn't staying. He grabbed the suitcase (now split across the center) from under the cart, swung it into the back of the car, slammed the door, and got into the front with Mrs. Tanaka.

A faceful of exhaust fumes didn't help Diamond's condition one bit. The car-a large, white Buick with red strips along the side-roared. The tires shrieked and it powered away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Extensive bruising, definitely. Some torn skin on the shoulder and left arm, which was smarting. A rapidly developing headache. Really, though, there was no serious injury, except to his confidence. He'd blundered. Blown it Gone down the tubes, as they would say in this city of fertile phrases. After flying thousands of bloody miles and actually catching up with Naomi, he'd allowed her to be snatched away again. She was being driven God knew where.

Hopeless

He hauled himself painfully upright, more stricken with self-reproach than pain. Damn it, he'd ignored even the most basic procedures. Hadn't even got the car's number.

He could imagine the reception he'd get from the New York cops if he asked mem to trace a white Buick with red trimmings and no number.

What now, then?

Was this really the end of the chase?

He glanced around, at the cart, still lying on its side in the space the car had occupied. He supposed he ought to look over the side of the car lot in the hope of seeing the Buick making its getaway, but he was damned sure his eyesight wasn't good enough to read a license plate from up here-even if he had the good fortune to spot the car.

And then it occurred to him that a vehicle making a getaway from here still had to conform to the procedures. The designers of car lots made sure everyone was obliged to check out in an orderly way. There would be a barrier downstairs and a place where you paid. Maybe, in a busy car lot like this, where you lined up to pay. Even if this place had automatic gates, you could only get out as fast as the machinery and die cars in front allowed you. Actually, he was quite sure Leather-jacket hadn't stopped at a prepayment facility. So they couldn't race out without paying. A car, however fast, took a little time to get out to the street He hobbled across to the lift at the best pace he could manage. The only point of exit from the car lot was on the basement level, and this was the quickest way down. By good fortune-and he was overdue for some-the lift door had remained open, so he stepped in and pressed the control. Each delay was mental agony-the pause before the door operated, the slow progress down-saying a silent prayer that the cage wouldn't stop at the floors between-and the hesitation before it opened. Then he was out and looking for the exit signs, trying to see the shortest way across the floor, because he didn't need to go by the same roundabout route as the cars.

He decided on a line to his left, through the ranks of cars, which meant some tight squeezes and several wing mirrors being knocked out of alignment, but it proved the quickest route.

Ahead five or six cars were curving out of sight up a ramp. He ran past four and was in time to see the barrier descend and the Buick-or at least a red-and-white car-on its way out.

He wasted no more time. The car now at the head of the queue was a pink Chevrolet He dragged open the passenger door. The woman driver was in the act of paying her charge. She swung around. 'What is mis?'

'Police.' With no credentials to show except a passport, he tugged it from his pocket and held it up like a warrant 'Do you mind? Would you kindly follow the car in front?'

'Would you say that again?' She was young, in her twenties probably, with dark hair in a mass of loose curls that stirred as she spoke.

'I'm asking you to follow the Buick.'

'Are you from England?' she asked.

He groaned inwardly. 'This is an emergency.'

'You'd better jump in, then. I can take you into Manhattan, if that's what you want'

He didn't prolong the conversation.

She moved off at a promising rate and soon got them out of the airport complex and on to the Van Wyck Expressway to Manhattan. There was no sign of the Buick.

'Can we go faster?'

'You said you're police?'

'I did.'

'You don't happen to have one of those portable sirens with you?'

He supposed she was being sarcastic.

'No.'

'Do I have police permission to break the limit?'

'It's a kid at risk, a small girl,' Diamond stressed.

She moved into the fast lane.

Two miles along, Diamond asked her to ease off a little. He could see the white Buick.

It was in the center lane doing about seventy-five. He could see the outline of Mrs. Tanaka's head above the front passenger seat.

'Not too close.'

'So you don't want me to force them off the road?'

'Not at this juncture. I'd prefer to stay inconspicuous.'

'I just love the way you say things.' She steered smoothly into a space three cars back from the Buick and they cruised in convoy. 'This kid-is she from England too?'

'Er, yes. What's your name?' he said to change the subject Telling her the little he knew about Naomi would just confuse her. He was confused.

'Ken.'

'You said Ken?'

'Mm.'

'That's a girl's name here?'

'Short for Kennedy. I was born the week the president was killed. I get tired of explaining.'

'It's nice to have an unusual name. Mine is common enough. Peter.'

'Peter the Great'

'Unfair.'