From London Far by Michael Innes

some fantastic trap. As it was, the thing was either really a hallucination, in which case I had bumped up against an astounding coincidence, or it was a sober fact – in which case it was putting me on the trail again, however unaccountable it might be in itself. So what should I do? Obviously, test it out.
    ‘“It’s bad,” I said; “isn’t it? The sort of neurosis that leads straight on into something thoroughly psychotic.” Higbed fairly slavered at that; he might have been Giotto in one of his most hangdog moments. “But perhaps”, I said, “it’s not too late to pull up. Or, rather, to let yourself go. Because I suspect the trouble is some sort of inhibition. Probably you’ve been deferring too much to a narrow conventional morality. After all, there’s nothing like moral purity for slipping one into the looney-bin.” Higbed didn’t quite know how to take that. So I gave him an amorous oeillade or speaking look – one that would have utterly shocked Don Juan, if I may say so. And after a second Higbed registered it.’
    Meredith fairly groaned. ‘All this’, he said, ‘is worse than I could have supposed. Your involvement in the affair has put you to the most disagreeable necessities.’
    ‘Quite so. Well, he registered it, as I say. And then I proposed a walkabout. We were to stroll through Auld Reekie’s dusk together. Do you know Edinburgh? There is a hill just short of the village of Corstorphine which goes by the name of Rest-and-be-thankful. And through its bosky recesses there winds quite a lovers’ lane. Delicately indicating all this–’
    Meredith agitatedly stirred his tea.
    ‘Well, we were to go there. I could see that it was all much too rapid for the great, big, predatory Higgy. Still, he was quite sure that he ought to be fascinated and compelled–’
    ‘Abominable!’ said Meredith.
    ‘But, after all, the man’s bread and butter is grounded in the conviction that Rest-and-be-thankful is something the sexual man just doesn’t know. Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée right round the clock. Anyway, we set out, romantically seated side by side on the top of an electric tram. It was dusk by this time, all right, and I sat staring straight ahead of me.’
    ‘I am glad to hear it.’
    ‘I mean that I didn’t try to peer out and see if there was a great big pantechnicon following the great big amorist and me. That could wait. It waited until the tram stopped at the foot of an eminently respectable thoroughfare called Murrayfield Road. Along this lay our route to dalliance, and off we got. And there was the pantechnicon, sure enough. I was suddenly and utterly afraid.’
    ‘And not unreasonably, my dear. These people had killed one of your friends and a policeman. What you were doing was incredibly rash. But, since you must have had a certain amount of intelligent anticipation, it was extremely courageous as well.’
    ‘It was just what you might call bringing matters to a head. If pantechnicons had dogged Higbed through a couple of capital cities, it wasn’t with a view to his summary liquidation. They wanted the live – the so terribly live and vital – man. Now they were going to get him, and I was going to be the pound of tea thrown in by the way. We walked up on the left of this Murrayfield Road, with the kerb on one side of us and a high stone wall on the other. When we were about a hundred yards up, the van turned in from the main road and followed us. I think Higbed heard the engine; anyway, he turned his head and saw the thing. “I’m seeing it,” he said in a desperate voice. “It’s coming up the hill.” I looked round too and did my best to stare into empty space – which wasn’t altogether easy, for really the great bulk of the thing looked uncommonly sinister and threatening. “How very interesting,” I said. “There isn’t even a shadow on the ground to suggest such a thing. I think we’d better hurry on.”
    ‘And now the van was pretty