The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK® by James Hay & Dorothy Cameron Disney & Stephen McKenna

Author:James Hay & Dorothy Cameron Disney & Stephen McKenna [Hay, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: mystery, detective, murder, golden age, sleuth
ISBN: 9781479423385
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2020-07-21T16:00:00+00:00

My orders called forth not so much as the lift of an eyebrow. The difference between eccentricity and madness may be measured in pounds sterling. A rich man is never mad in England, unless, of course, his heirs-at-law cast wistful glances at the pounds sterling. In that case there will be an Inquisition and a report to the Masters.… My driver left me to slumber undisturbed.

I slept only in snatches. The car would run a mile, pass the Seraph, pull up, wait, start forward and stop again. Once I invited him to come aboard, but he shook his head. I dozed, and dreamed, and woke, asking the driver what had come of our quarry.

“He’s following, sir,” he told me.

I was struck with an ingenious idea.

“At the next cross-roads,” I said, “turn off to the right or left, drive a hundred yards and pull up. If he follows, we’ll lead him round in a circle and draw him back to London.”

We shot ahead, turned and waited. In time a dusty figure came in sight trudging wearily on. At the cross-roads he came for a moment into full view, and then passed out of sight along the Bath Road without so much as throwing a glance in the direction of the car.

“Damn you, damn you, damn you, Seraph!” I said, as I ordered the driver to start once more in pursuit.

At Taplow the dragging feet tripped and brought him down. Through a three-cornered tear in the leg of his trousers I could see blood flowing freely; his hands were cut and his forehead bruised, but he once more rejected my offer of a seat in the car. Opposite Skindles he stumbled again, but recovered himself and tramped on over the bridge, into Maidenhead, and through the crowded, narrow High Street. Passers-by stared at the strange, dusty apparition; he was too absorbed to notice, I too angry to be resentful.

It was as we mounted Castle Hill and worked forward towards Maidenhead Thicket that I noticed his pace increasing. A steady four miles an hour gave way to intermittent spells of running. I heard him panting as he came alongside the car, and the rays of a July afternoon sun brought beads of sweat to glisten dustily on his lips and forehead.

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