Trusted Like The Fox by James Hadley Chase Page A

on without looking back. She expected to feel the arresting hand of the law on her shoulder at any minute, but she ran on, her head down, her elbows into her sides, her breath laboured. She fled up the steep slope leading to the line of bunkers, skirted them and ran across the green. She was so intent on her running that she nearly cannoned into the flag, and shied away from it only just in time.
    Breathless, she looked over her shoulder. There was nothing to see except the line of bunkers, but she had no means of telling whether the policeman would appear at any moment, and she forced herself on.
    Arriving at the crest of the next slope she paused in dismay. A vast flat stretch of country without any cover lay before her. At the far end was a green with an appropriate red flag waving a warning at her. She looked desperately to the right and left, but it was all flat expanse. She was going to be caught! She felt that once she began to run across that coverless expanse the policeman would catch her, and she suddenly gave up, sinking on to the spongy grass, limp and in despair.
    A tall, lean shadow of a man fell across the grass at her feet. She looked up fearfully, too exhausted to try to escape. The young man in the canary-coloured sweater stood over her. His golf bag was slung over his shoulder and his startlingly green eyes were sympathetic.
    “You seem to have made a bit of a mess of it,” he said. There’s a policeman coming. Did you let him see you?”
    She nodded, too tired and frightened to speak.
    “Well, what are you going to do? Give in tamely?”
    She looked up. Did he mean to help her?
    “What can I do?” she asked, struggling to her feet.
    “Not much, but I might . . .” the young man looked back over his shoulder. The policeman wasn’t yet in sight. “I think I will. Now, don’t say anything when they come. Leave it all to me.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re deaf, aren’t you?”
    Grace felt a hot, crimson wave rise to her face.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I thought so. All right, you leave everything to me.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “You’d better know who I am. My name’s Richard Crane. I live over there.” He waved his hand towards the distant wood where Ellis lay hidden. “Do you play golf?”
    She shook her head.
    “Never mind; I’ll teach you. It’s not a bud game. Let’s walk over to that green. I’ll put a ball down in case the bobby is suspicious.”
    He dropped a ball on the fairway, selected an iron from the bag and hit the ball down the fairway on to the green.
    “Looks easy, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. Here, have a try.” He dropped another ball on the grass. “Don’t try to hit it hard; just swing the club. The club head will do the rest.”
    “No,” she protested, bewildered. “They’ll be here in a minute.” A thought flashed through her mind that this young man was mad.
    But the green eyes compelled her, and she took the club, feeling a strange weakness in her limbs.
    “Stand over the ball, and when you bring the club back, try to keep your left arm straight. You’ll hit it if you don’t look up.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw the policeman appear over the top of the slope. She wanted to drop the club and run, but Crane’s hands suddenly closed over hers. They were cool, fleshy hands, strong and flexible. She looked up at him beseechingly.
    “It’s your only chance,” he said. “Swing the club and keep your head down, and you’ll hit it. Don’t pay any attention to the bobby. I’ll handle him.”
    He stepped back, waving Rogers impatiently away.
    Without thinking, she swung the club at the ball. She saw the ball sail away into the air, hang for a moment and then descend fifty feet or so from the green.
    Crane turned and smiled at Rogers who was gaping at him. “Not a had shot for a beginner, was it?” he said quietly. “Do you play golf, Rogers?”
    Rogers was flummoxed. He gaped at Crane, and then at Grace, muttered