A Spoonful of Luger (42 page)

“But
not
now?
You’ve
solved
it
then?”

“They’re
still
there,
George.
You
wouldn’t
be
trying
a
bit
more
obstruction,
would
you?
Because
if
you
are,
I’ll
get
you
this
time.
You
wouldn’t,
perhaps,
have
been
afraid
to
leave
that
Victor
in
the
yard!”
He
raised
his
eyebrows,
trying
to
stare
me
down.

But
better
people
have
tried
that.
I
smiled.
“The
Victor
—
the
Saab.
It’s
all
the
same
to
me.”

“Perhaps
it
is.
So
why
don’t
you
leave
this
one
here
for
an
hour,
while
you
get
something
to
eat.”

I
could
have
protested,
and
cemented
his
suspicions.
But
I
laughed
easily.

“I
was
leaving
it
here
anyway.”

“You’re
a
civilian,”
he
said
severely.

“Then
I’ll
take
it
away.”

But
he
was
too
exhausted
to
play
word
games
with
me.
“You’re
flippant,
George.
It’s
not
in
good
taste.
I
haven’t
liked
your
attitude
all
the
way
through.”

“But
I
found
Dulcie
for
you.”

He
took
that
as
a
criticism.
“Do
you
think
we
sat
around?”
he
demanded.
“Let
me
tell
you ... ”
He
paused,
then
slapped
the
top
of
the
crashed
car.
“There’s
a
driver
in
hospital
—
Sprague
was
lucky.
Last
Friday
they
drove
too
fast
on
a
false
tip-off
about
Dulcie,
and
ran
this
into
a
tree.
Don’t
try
and
tell
me
we
weren’t
trying,
George.”

“I
didn’t
say
that.
Easy,
man,
And
give
Sprague
my
best
wishes.
He
could’ve
taken
time
off.”

“A
good
man,”
he
growled.

I
left
him,
still
grumbling
to
himself,
and
went
for
my
lunch.
Sprague
was
a
good
man,
I
decided,
persuading
myself.
Not
a
complaint,
still
fiercely
on
the
job.
Dedicated
—
but
to
what?
His
own
promotion?

Then
I
forgot
him.
Perhaps
the
Saab
hadn’t
been
stolen.
I
prayed
not,
because
it
would
be
detectable.
The
manufacturers
put
a
little
metal
plate
inside
the
bonnet
with
chassis
and
engine
numbers
stamped
on
it.
The advantage
of
using
a
crashed
wreck
as
a
substitute
is
that
you
have
a
valid
log
book
and
the
number
plates,
and
you
can
switch
that
little
plate
to
the
stolen
car.
But
if
you’re
really
interested
you
can
check
the
engine
number
on
the
metal
tab
against
the
one
die-stamped
on
the
engine
block.
And
Bycroft
was
interested
enough
to
have
returned
to
his
office
to
fix
that
up.

Maybe
the
Saab
was
clean.
I’d
know
after
lunch.

An
hour
is
a
long
time
to
use
over
a
meal,
even
with
half
a
dozen
coffees.
Bycroft
had
said
an
hour,
so
I
didn’t
want
to
appear
anxious.
Sixty-two
minutes
by
my
watch,
and
I
was
strolling
into
the
yard,
my
stomach
sloshing
away
with
every
step.
There
was
nobody
near
the
car.

I
went
in
the
back
way,
tried
a
corridor,
and
came
out
at
the
desk,
on
the
official
side
of
the
sliding
glass.
Sprague
was
chatting
with
the
woman
sergeant.

“Mind
if
I
take
the
car?”
I
asked.

He
turned
and
considered
me,
his
jaws
moving.
He
seemed
pleased.

“You
take
it.
You
just
drive
away
and
keep
going.”

“Find
anything?
Treads
worn,
brake
cable
rusty?”

He
looked
round
at
the
duty
sergeant
as
though
I
was
insane.
“Did
we
find
anything?”

“Not
that
I’ve
heard,”
she
said.

“There
you
are
then,”
he
told
me.
“Nothing
to
stop
you
leaving.”

“I’m
not
in
a
hurry.”

“Better
be
clear
of
the
district
by
tomorrow,”
he
advised.
“They’re
sending
up
a
squad
from
HQ.
And
they
won’t
like
you
around.
Oh
no.”

Ten
years
earlier
I’d
have
been
in
that
squad.
I
knew
what
the
attitude
would
be,
and
felt
a
brief,
sharp
tug
of
nostalgia.

“Oh,
today
should
do
it,”
I
said
easily.

But
all
the
same
I
drove
away
from
there
with
a
feeling
of
eyes
observing
me.
I
drove
steadily
for
ten
minutes — oh,
any
old
where —
and
found
a car
park.
Then
I
had
the
bonnet
up
for
myself,
and
checked.

The
number
on
the
engine
block
didn’t
tally
with
the
one
on
the
metal
tab.