A Note from the Accused? by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

CHAPTER XII

NIGHT RIDE

Rollison pulled out, to round a huge double-decker bus which glowed red in the headlights of a car behind him, and saw Waleski’s two-seater, not far ahead.

They were approaching Fulham Palace Road; it was the first time he had seen the other car since it had come out of Wilson Street and turned left into King’s Road.

He slowed down.

When the two-seater passed beneath tall street-lamps he saw that Waleski was at the wheel. Waleski seemed intent on his driving and neither he nor his companion looked round. But that didn’t mean that they had no idea that they were being followed.

Waleski turned left again, towards Putney.

Rollison looked at his petrol-gauge and silently blessed Jolly, who must have had the tank filled during the day. He could drive through the night if necessary. He sat back, relaxed and comfortable, letting his mind dwell on 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 by-pass.

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.

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