The Austin careered wildly along the narrow street as the driver tried to steer with one hand and point his gun at me with the other. "Stop it. Carter! Stop it, you bloody bastard."
I pushed the gun toward the roof of the car, twisted the wrist and the gun went crashing through a side window, splintering glass. I felt a sharp pain in my right cheek where a piece of flying glass stabbed me.
The driver had completely lost control of the Austin now. It skidded from one side of the street to the other, passed gaping pedestrians, finally going up over the right curb and crashing into a utility pole. The driver's head struck the windshield and he collapsed against the wheel.
Retrieving Wilhelmina from the man on my left, I reached over the agent on my right and kicked the door on that side. It sprang open and I threw myself over the man and through the door, hitting the pavement on my shoulder and rolling with the impact.
I got up and looked around at the Austin, at the two dazed men in back and the unconscious driver slumped over the steering wheel.
"Don't bother to drive me back," I said.
Three
"Since time is so important," Heather York was saying across the intimacy of a table for two, "Brutus insisted we leave for Cornwall this evening. Actually, I rather like driving at night."
She was wearing a short, very short, green dress with shoes to match and an auburn wig styled in a shoulder-length hairdo. I told her when she picked me up at the hotel, "If that wig's supposed to be a disguise, it won't work — I'd know that figure anywhere."
She laughed, shaking her head. "No disguise, a girl just likes to change her personality once in a while."
On the way to the little restaurant on the outskirts of London, where we stopped for dinner before proceeding south to the coast, I described my run-in with Novosty's boys.
She chuckled. "Brutus must have loved that… you did call him?"
"I did."
The restaurant was charming, very Old English. The waiters had just brought our order when a man approached the table. He was tall and square with blond hair and a rugged face. Along the left side of his neck, almost hidden by his shirt, was a thin scar. He had hard dark brown eyes.
"Heather — Heather York?" he said as he stopped at the table. "Yes! I almost missed you with the wig. Very flattering."
Heather responded with a strained smile. "Elmo Jupiter! Nice to see you again."
"I was going to ask you and your friend to join us," he motioned toward a dark-haired girl at a table in the corner, "but I see you've been served."
"Yes," Heather said. "This is Richard Matthews… Elmo Jupiter, Richard."
I nodded. "My pleasure."
He studied me for a moment and the hard eyes were definitely hostile. "You're an American."
"Yes."
"Heather does have exotic tastes." He grinned, turning back to her. "In men and motorcars. Well, I must get back to my black ale. I'll see you about, Heather."
"Yes, of course," she said, still wearing the tight smile. "Have a good evening."
"I always do," Jupiter said, turning away.
As he walked back to his table. Heather glanced at the girl waiting for him there. "I don't like that man," she said abruptly. "I met him through a friend who's a clerk at SOE. He thinks I work in public health. He asked me out but I made an excuse. I don't like his eyes."
"I think he's jealous," I said.
"He probably resents my turning him down. He's used to getting what he wants, I hear. Makes automobiles, I believe. He'd be surprised to learn about the girl he's with. She has a long record for selling drugs."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I worked at the Yard for almost a year before SOE offered me my job."
She said it casually, as if it were of no importance, but I was impressed. Lovely Heather, I suspected, was full of surprises.
We drove all that evening and into the night along winding, shrub-lined narrow roads at first, passing through villages with such names as Crownhill and Moorswater, then along the seacoast for a while. Heather drove her dated but custom-made S.O.C.E.M.A. Gregoire.
"It has a Ferodo type I'll clutch," she told me proudly as we roared around a tortuous curve in the blackness, the headlights scything two swaths of yellow through the night. She had abandoned the wig and her short blond hair was mussed by the wind. "And a Cotal type MK electromagnetic gearbox."
We stopped at a bed-and-breakfast inn long after midnight when Heather finally tired of driving. She asked for separate rooms. When we were given adjoining rooms and a wink by the old Scottish landlord, Heather offered no objection but no encouragement either. So I fell asleep in my own bed, trying not to think of her so close.
We arrived very early in Penzance where Novosty was reported to have been seen a couple of days before. Brutus had given us a detailed description of him and what was known of his cover. He was going under the name of John Ryder and his English was supposed to be flawless.
After some discreet inquiries at the local hotels and pubs, we learned that a man answering Novosty's description had indeed been in Penzance, at the Queens Hotel, with another man. He and his companion had checked out of the hotel the previous morning, but the desk clerk had overheard Novosty mention Land's End, the tip of Cornwall jutting into the sea.
"It's Land's End then," Heather said as we drove out of town. "A perfect place to hide and plot."
"Maybe," I said. "But we go slow from now on. Novosty probably knows we're looking for him."
"You're the boss." She smiled.
The road to Land's End was a bleak one, winding over rocky terrain dotted with heather and gorse, and passing through gray stone villages. About five miles from our destination, we stopped a fanner driving a wagon in the opposite direction and asked about visitors to the neighborhood.
He rubbed his ruddy cheeks with a thick hand. "Two gentlemen took up in the Heamoor cottage yesterday. The one chap give me a fiver for priming the well. Seemed nice enough gents."
The stench of manure rose from the wagon. Heather wrinkled her nose and gave me a smile.
"That wouldn't be our chap," I lied. "The man we're looking for is here with his family. Thanks, anyway."
The farmer flicked his horse into motion and we drove off slowly. When the wagon was out of sight, we took the first turn in the direction the farmer had indicated. About a hundred yards along the dirt road, I motioned for Heather to pull over to the side.
"The cottage can't be far," I said. "We'll walk the rest of the way."
A bird called out in irritation from the field beside us as we got out of the car. Otherwise the morning was sunny and silent. We followed the winding road for a couple hundred more yards before we saw the cottage.
I pushed Heather down behind some tall grass. "That must be it," I whispered.
The brown stone cottage squatted on a low hill covered with gorse, the yellow blossoms giving some relief to the stark scene. Parked beside the cottage was a small blue Sunbeam sedan. There had been no attempt to hide the car from the road. Apparently Novosty thought he was safe — from observation or else he wanted others to think he did.
I touched Heather's arm and indicated that we would circle around to the side of the cottage where we could approach it behind the cover of the car. I started off through the grass, Heather following.
As we crawled up to the parked Sunbeam, we could hear voices. There was a window open on that side of the cottage. I reached into my jacket for Wilhelmina and Heather took a small Sterling.380 PPL automatic out of her purse. I motioned for her to stay put and cover me. Slowly I crawled to the side of the cottage, stopped underneath the window.