Dick Barton and the Great Tobacco Conspiracy by Mike Dorrell

Author:Mike Dorrell [Dorrell, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471310232
Publisher: AudioGO

Chapter Six

Dick Barton, in a bid to rescue the crooner Rex Marley, and his sister Virginia, gives chase to Charles Hetherington, renegade politician. What Barton does not know is that his car is booby trapped to explode as soon as he reaches fifty miles per hour.

Now read on...

Dick Barton had to slow the Riley Monaco as they came to a junction. Hetherington, the renegade ex-M.P. driving the Rolls Royce 20/25, had turned and was now speeding up again.

‘Yes, I thought as much,’ Dick Barton remarked. ‘He’s turning on to the Great North Road.’

From the back of the car, Jock Anderson was keeping an eye on the speedometer, it had risen to forty-three miles per hour, there was a worried look on his face.

‘I don’t like the sound of that engine, Mr Barton,’ Jock said after a while.

The needle on the speedometer now read forty-five.

‘Sounds all right to me,’ Dick Barton replied. He kept watching Hetherington up ahead.

Forty-eight was now showing on the speedo.

‘He’ll show us a clean pair of heels unless we overtake him before the open road,’ Barton stated. He was preparing to accelerate.

‘Stop!’ Jock Anderson’s voice was filled with alarm.

‘What the dickens are you talking about, Jock?’ Though he questioned Jock’s decision, Dick Barton had slowed down nevertheless.

Jock Anderson leant over the front seat. The urgency in his voice had increased. ‘Will you stop the car, Mr Barton! Yon engine’s been tampered with – I’d stake my life on it.’

‘But we’ll lose him,’ Dick Barton protested.

‘Never you mind that, sir,’ Jock assured him. ‘There’s something going on under that bonnet I dinna like the sound of.’

Reluctantly, Dick Barton started to apply the brakes. ‘Well, you’re the boss in the engineering department,’ he said.

The speedometer, which at its peak, had been touching forty-nine miles per hour, gradually dropped back.

The Riley stopped in the suburban street. Up ahead, the Rolls continued on its way. Barton, Jock and Snowey got out of the car. Immediately, Jock hurried round to the front of the car, and flung the bonnet open.

‘There!’

Barton and Snowey followed the direction in which Jock Anderson was pointing. They could hardly miss what he was showing them. Strapped to the engine of the Riley were four sticks of dynamite.

‘Well, well, well,’ Dick Barton said grimly. ‘Some sticks of rock. A present from Blackpool, no doubt.’

Snowey looked up at the special agent. ‘More like a present from that Hetherington, if you ask me.’

‘And with death printed all the way through,’ Barton replied.

Jock looked up from where he was still examining the engine. ‘It’s wired up to the speedo, sir,’ he told Dick Barton. ‘As soon as you reached fifty ...’

Dick Barton needed no help to reach the conclusion: ‘Goodbye the old firm of Barton, White and Anderson.’

Jock had to admit that whoever had done the job had been of an ingenious turn of mind. ‘It’s neatly done,’ he remarked to the other two. ,

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Dick Barton said drily. Then he paused. ‘Thank heavens for your Rolls Royce ear, Jock.

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