Clarissa; and he smiled. Had he been told three hours ago that he would come to like her before the night was out, he would have laughed. Something in her manner when she had come round had touched a spark in him. He hoped he’d startled her by this swift move; and wondered whether she would stay at the hotel.
He doubted it.
Waleski drove straight up Putney Hill.
He knew the green Rolls-Bentley; he could hardly forget it after that morning. But it was difficult to judge colours by night and Rollison kept a hundred yards behind him. But he needed another car. He couldn’t be sure of escaping notice while he remained in this one. There wasn’t a chance of getting one but it was good to dream. Any old crock would do; the two-seater seemed to be going all out and didn’t pass forty-five miles an / hour. For Rollison it was snail’s pace on an empty road.
They turned right at Putney Heath, towards Roehampton and the Kingston Bypass.
Woking—and Surrey—lay ahead.
If Waleski recognised the Bentley, he would probably go anywhere but to his real destination.
A taxi-horn honked behind him. There was nothing on the road except one of London’s cabs, so antediluvian as to have an old-fashioned rubber and brass horn. Rollison pulled over and the taxi-driver honked again. He glanced round as it overtook him then saw a man in the back of the cab, pressing close to the window. There was a pale face and a pair of bright eyes and a waving hand.
Jolly!
Rollison exclaimed: “Wonderful!”
There was open land on either side: Wimbledon Common lay under the stars. In the headlights of cars coming each way, couples showed up, arms linked; two couples sat on a seat near the road. Rollison pulled in just beyond them and the taxi stopped a few yards ahead. Rollison jumped out and Jolly came to meet him.
“Do you need me, sir? Or shall I take the car?”
“Go back to the flat in it,” said Rollison. “And make yourself a medal.”
“Very good, sir. The driver has been well paid and I think he will be satisfactory.”
Rollison was already climbing in.
“He’ll do,” he said. “Everything’s wonderful and you’re a gem. Off we go, George!”
The driver let in the clutch and jolted Rollison forward; and Rollison thought he grinned. The rear light of Waleski’s car was nearly two hundred yards ahead now but the taxi had a fine burst of speed. Rollison leaned forward and opened the partition between him and the driver.
“All set for a night out?”
“Sure.”
“Petrol?”
“Plenty.”
“Have you seen the two-seater?”
“Yep.”
“You wouldn’t like to trust me at the wheel, would you?”
“I wouldn’t mind but it would be against the law, guv’nor.” The driver grinned again. “You just give me your orders and behave like a real toff.”
Rollison laughed. “You’ll do. I don’t want to get too close to the two-seater; I just want to know where it’s going.”
“And the rest, guv’nor!” The taxi-driver took a hand off the wheel and raised it. “I can use my mitts. Glad to, if there’s any trouble. Life’s pretty dull these days. Sure you wouldn’t like to pass ‘em and force ‘em into the side of the road?”
“You calm down and get ready to be disappointed in me.”
The driver chuckled.
They were speeding along the bypass and Rollison judged that they were travelling at fifty miles an hour. He smoked and watched. Now and again the two-seater was held up at traffic lights but the driver of the cab always slowed down in time to avoid getting too close. Sometimes three or four cars were between them and their quarry, sometimes none at all. They were too far away for Rollison to guess whether the men in the two-seater were paying them any attention.
At the end of the bypass they took the Guildford Road. By then Rollison was frowning, trying to guess where Waleski was going. Five miles farther along they turned off the main road along a narrower one. Rollison told his driver to switch off his lights; he no longer had to guess where they were going— he knew: Waleski was heading for Sir
Frederick Arden’s country home.
* * *
Arden Lodge stood on the brow of a hill, a large, gabled house, no more than a dark shape against the sky except where yellow lights shone at long, narrow windows. The cab, still without lights, passed the end of the drive and Rollison could see the two-seater, standing outside the front door.
The cabby slowed down.
“Going in, Guv’nor?”
“No, going home.”
