TWENTY yards wasn’t far.
Unwarned, Sloan wouldn’t have stood a chance. The driver of another car, who was just pulling out to pass the Morris, jammed on his brakes and started to skid. The muddy grey Morris turned towards Sloan, but couldn’t touch him without causing a crash. The driver straightened the wheel. The car didn’t slow down. It flashed past Sloan, who was in front of the other car, which had stopped inches away from him. The driver, opening his door, was white with fright.
Peel’s dark car flashed by.
The man in the navy-blue suit stood on the kerb for a few minutes, then suddenly turned and hurried back towards Hyde Park Corner. All he’d done was walk along the pavement, there was nothing Sloan could do about him. The driver of the car which had nearly touched Sloan shouted:
“You ruddy fool! Serve you right if you’d caught a packet. How I stopped I don’t know. It’s idiots like you that cause the trouble. You’re lucky to be alive.” The words came out in a furious spate, and Sloan straightened his coat and tried to speak, but wasn’t given a chance. Passers-by joined in, all on the side of the driver.
“. . . ought to be given in charge, walking across the road like that. I’ve a good mind——”
“Yes, sorry,” said Sloan. “It was my fault.” He took out his card.
“I should damn well think it was your fault. Only a fool or a drunk would do that! Don’t stick your card in front of my nose.” The driver waved it away.
“I thought I saw a man I was after,” Sloan said. “I’m from the Yard.”
“I don’t care where you come from, if—where did you say?” The scared blue eyes dropped to the card, everyone else stopped talking. “Oh, the Yard.”
“Yes, I’m after a man and thought he was over here. I didn’t see you coming. Sorry.”
“Well——”
It was ten minutes before Sloan, transformed from villain to hero in the space of seconds, was able to get away. He took a taxi back to the Yard, and the first job he did was to write an official report of the incident, a description of the man who had left the car, and of the car itself. He made a special note: “Check with Brixton job”, and then went on with routine work, on edge for a call from Peel.
The telephone bell rang.
He snatched off the receiver. “Yes?”
“Peel here,” said Peel. “I’m glad you’re all right, I thought you’d gone bang into the other car.”
“Trail him home?”
“Yes,” said Peel. “A boarding-house in Chelsea. I’m at the Chelsea Station. Better just have him watched, hadn’t we?”
“Your job,” said Sloan, “and keep it quiet.”
“After this morning’s dose, you oughtn’t to travel much on your own.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Sloan. “You just concentrate on that man. Where’s the car?”
“Outside the boarding-house.”
“Ask the Chelsea people to find out where it was last night—trace the garage, everything. Muddy and grey— does that mean anything?”
“Crikey! Brixton!”
Sloan laughed; he felt on top of the world.
He was still feeling on top of the world when the telephone bell rang again. He let it ring, but it wouldn’t stop. He finished a note and lifted the receiver. “Hallo . . . oh, hallo, Mark.”
His voice changed, and he came off the top with a bump. Mark Lessing made him think immediately of Janet West.
“Anything?” asked Mark briefly.
“I wish there were.” It was all right to use Lessing unofficially, impossible to tell him anything on this telephone, unwise to say anything that would raise Janet’s hopes. “How is she?”
“Not too good,” said Mark Lessing. “She’s convinced that the Yard has completely forgotten about it. Anything you can do to cheer her up a bit?”
“I’ll try to look in to-day,” Sloan promised.
He couldn’t settle to work for the next ten minutes. Visiting Janet West always hurt. He was back at the old question, too—whether to say or hint at anything that might raise her hopes.
He had lunch in the canteen. Banister sat on his own at a small table: Banister always sat on his own. He looked morose: he always looked morose. Sloan forgot him.
It was just after four o’clock when he turned into Bell Street, Chelsea. He hadn’t been followed; he didn’t think there was any danger for the rest of the day, they wouldn’t try again so quickly; one accident was an accident, two would make coincidence: coincidences made policemen thoughtful.
He saw two small boys, racing along the street towards him, one hefty and plump and red-faced, the other smaller, thinner, with wavy hair; even from this distance the smaller child’s huge blue eyes were noticeable. Both were laughing fit to burst. A young woman stood at a gate—West’s gate— calling them. They ignored her. They passed the car without looking towards Sloan, the larger boy nearly up to the first and stretching out to grab his grey jersey.
