The Trail of Fear by Anthony Armstrong Page B

this way. There are a couple more in the chase now. Damn! A bunch of ’em have got in that taxi that nearly ran into us. Knock as much as you can out of her, for Heaven’s sake.”
    â€œI can beat a taxi all right,” returned Rezaire through set teeth, “if only I can get a clear road.” He charged at the Waterloo Bridge crossing, hooting wildly. The car swayed and bounced from side to side. Something loose in the off-side, where they had graced the lamp-post, was rattling loudly.
    â€œThe taxi is out of sight now, behind a bus,” resumed Sam. “There it is again.”
    They whizzed through the crossing, people scattering to right and left, and narrowly missed another collision with a private car. The chauffeur and the policeman on point duty both shouted at them to stop as they flashed past.
    â€œHe’s taking the number,” chuckled Sam. “If that’s all they can do, they have my permission to go right ahead.”
    The traffic problem became more complicated as they sped on westward. Though the streets were not crowded, there were quite enough vehicles and pedestrians about to make fast driving really difficult, if not at times almost impossible. Rezaire saw that his only chance was to get as far ahead of his pursuers as possible. By so doing he was outdistancing the hue and cry, and would not be held up, since the various policemen on point duty he was passing did not realize that he was a fugitive from justice till after he had passed. Also, he was bound to be caught in a traffic block sooner or later and the more distance he could gain before then the better chance would they have of escaping in the crowd. The traffic became thicker as they approached Trafalgar Square, and they were forced to slow down. The taxi from behind, which Sam could pick out because of a policeman standing on the step, began to gain slightly.
    â€œThey’re coming up a bit,” he said.
    â€œHow far are they?”
    â€œA good way still… Curse! I believe some of them have got another car—a private one. Yes, there’s a ’tec in it. They’re coming up fast.”
    In a few seconds a powerful two-seater car was at their heels, driven by a young man in an opera hat. At his side, door held open, ready to jump out, was, as Sam had said, two detectives, who had evidently commandeered the car from somewhere outside the Savoy. The car hung behind them a moment, then seizing its opportunity, dashed forward, overtook them, cut in, and applied all brakes just in front.
    Rezaire’s brain, however, had not been idle. He had guessed that, if overtaken, this would be the means adopted to bring them to a standstill. As the car cut in, he also applied both brakes and swung the wheel over to the right. Their near front mudguard scraped past the rear mudguard of the two-seater, and then they had shot across the road to the right even as the detectives sprang to the ground. Rezaire passed at a good speed just in front of a bus coming in the opposite direction, and shot up a side turning on the north side of the Strand. Before the detectives had time to look round, the Rover was out of the street going northward.
    â€œGee!” muttered Sam. “You certainly are a wonder. That was quick work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “They haven’t even turned again yet… Ah! There comes the taxi! They’re waving it up here.”
    But Rezaire did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead. He was wondering what would be best to do when they had to abandon the car. For though he had turned aside from Trafalgar Square, all the crowded thoroughfares of St. Martin’s Lane, and Charing Cross Road, lay ahead of him.
    He swept on past St. Martin’s Lane and managed to turn into Cranbourn Street without mishap just before the policeman’s hand went up.
    â€œJust through in time,” muttered Sam with satisfaction. “He’s holding up the