right. He started the engine and released the hand brake, readying himself to set off.
Only then did he see the motorcycle â not flashing past before him as had Charlesâs Bentley, but coming across the crown of the field down below and approaching the open gate from the north. At the far end of the field was a copse, and Langham wondered how long the blackmailer had lain in wait. Had he seen the two cars stationed suspiciously at either end of the lane?
The motorcyclist stopped as he came to the gate, reached over and plucked up the envelope. Langham tried to get a view of his face through the binoculars, but the rider was wearing goggles and the lower half of his face was concealed by a scarf. He caught sight of the motorcycleâs logo on the fuel tank â Triumph â and recognized the model as a Thunderbird.
As he watched, the blackmailer tucked the envelope beneath his khaki-coloured greatcoat, then steered the bike from the field and turned right, heading towards Langham.
Maria was already in pursuit, perhaps a hundred yards behind the motorcyclist. Langham would have insufficient room to pull out between the blackmailer and Maria, so he elected to let her pass and then give chase.
Seconds later the motorcyclist sped past in a dazzle of flashing spokes, and ten seconds later Mariaâs Sunbeam roared by. Langham eased the Austin out into the lane, turned right and followed.
He kept a couple of hundred yards between himself and Mariaâs car. He had no idea what kind of rear view the motorcyclist might have, but he didnât want to alert him to the fact that there were two cars on his tail. For her part, Maria was likewise hanging back, maintaining two hundred yards between herself and the rider. Langham just hoped he wouldnât suddenly accelerate and give her the slip.
Langham had assumed that the blackmailer was resident in London, but he had no definite evidence that this was so. The Streatham postmark meant nothing, he knew, unless the blackmailer was supremely stupid, and something about his modus operandisofar suggested that that was far from the case.
If he did live in London, then that might pose something of a problem when they reached the capital. It was all very well following a motorcyclist out in the uninhabited wilds of the Sussex Downs, but trailing him through the streets of London, keeping the rider in sight while negotiating busy traffic, might be their undoing.
He found himself wishing an accident upon the blackmailer: a slick of oil on the road or a tight bend ⦠anything which might unseat the rider. And then what? If the man survived, would Langham be up to the task of confronting him, disarming him, and threatening him sufficiently to get the details of where the photographs and the negatives were concealed?
Perhaps if the imaginary accident were to prove fatal, then that would solve all their problems â¦
He realized he was spinning fantasies and told himself to concentrate on the road.
Ahead, he made out the tiny shape of the motorcyclist as he slowed and turned north on the London road. Fortunately the traffic was light here too, and Maria managed to turn right without another vehicle interposing itself between her car and the motorbike rider.
Langham was not so lucky.
A dawdling charabanc passed from left to right on Mariaâs tail. Langham pulled out behind the coach and waited for a stretch of straight road that would allow him to overtake in safety.
Minutes seemed to crawl by before the opportunity arose. The bend unwound and he sighted a long, up-curving stretch of road ahead. The motorcyclist was a distant figure, having put perhaps a mile between himself and Langham. Maria was three hundred yards behind the blackmailer.
Langham indicated, pulled out and accelerated.
He sped past the coach and tucked himself in behind Mariaâs car. The rider seemed to be increasing his speed and Langham wondered if he was becoming suspicious.
Only then did he see the motorcycle â not flashing past before him as had Charlesâs Bentley, but coming across the crown of the field down below and approaching the open gate from the north. At the far end of the field was a copse, and Langham wondered how long the blackmailer had lain in wait. Had he seen the two cars stationed suspiciously at either end of the lane?
The motorcyclist stopped as he came to the gate, reached over and plucked up the envelope. Langham tried to get a view of his face through the binoculars, but the rider was wearing goggles and the lower half of his face was concealed by a scarf. He caught sight of the motorcycleâs logo on the fuel tank â Triumph â and recognized the model as a Thunderbird.
As he watched, the blackmailer tucked the envelope beneath his khaki-coloured greatcoat, then steered the bike from the field and turned right, heading towards Langham.
Maria was already in pursuit, perhaps a hundred yards behind the motorcyclist. Langham would have insufficient room to pull out between the blackmailer and Maria, so he elected to let her pass and then give chase.
Seconds later the motorcyclist sped past in a dazzle of flashing spokes, and ten seconds later Mariaâs Sunbeam roared by. Langham eased the Austin out into the lane, turned right and followed.
He kept a couple of hundred yards between himself and Mariaâs car. He had no idea what kind of rear view the motorcyclist might have, but he didnât want to alert him to the fact that there were two cars on his tail. For her part, Maria was likewise hanging back, maintaining two hundred yards between herself and the rider. Langham just hoped he wouldnât suddenly accelerate and give her the slip.
Langham had assumed that the blackmailer was resident in London, but he had no definite evidence that this was so. The Streatham postmark meant nothing, he knew, unless the blackmailer was supremely stupid, and something about his modus operandisofar suggested that that was far from the case.
If he did live in London, then that might pose something of a problem when they reached the capital. It was all very well following a motorcyclist out in the uninhabited wilds of the Sussex Downs, but trailing him through the streets of London, keeping the rider in sight while negotiating busy traffic, might be their undoing.
He found himself wishing an accident upon the blackmailer: a slick of oil on the road or a tight bend ⦠anything which might unseat the rider. And then what? If the man survived, would Langham be up to the task of confronting him, disarming him, and threatening him sufficiently to get the details of where the photographs and the negatives were concealed?
Perhaps if the imaginary accident were to prove fatal, then that would solve all their problems â¦
He realized he was spinning fantasies and told himself to concentrate on the road.
Ahead, he made out the tiny shape of the motorcyclist as he slowed and turned north on the London road. Fortunately the traffic was light here too, and Maria managed to turn right without another vehicle interposing itself between her car and the motorbike rider.
Langham was not so lucky.
A dawdling charabanc passed from left to right on Mariaâs tail. Langham pulled out behind the coach and waited for a stretch of straight road that would allow him to overtake in safety.
Minutes seemed to crawl by before the opportunity arose. The bend unwound and he sighted a long, up-curving stretch of road ahead. The motorcyclist was a distant figure, having put perhaps a mile between himself and Langham. Maria was three hundred yards behind the blackmailer.
Langham indicated, pulled out and accelerated.
He sped past the coach and tucked himself in behind Mariaâs car. The rider seemed to be increasing his speed and Langham wondered if he was becoming suspicious.
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