Джорджетт Хейер - Why Shoot a Butler

"What sort of a car? Did you see the number plate?"

"No. No, I only got a glimpse as it passed the gate. I think it was a closed car. It was a big one."

"Colour?"

"I couldn't see, sir. It was too dark to see."

"Listen to me!" Amberley said. "There's a cake of mud on the table in the living room. You've got to take that to the police station. There's an imprint on it. Understand?"

Tucker nodded and managed to get up. Mr. Amberley turned and strode towards the gate. Bill's desperate whines made him look over his shoulder. "Look after the dog. There's a leash in the kitchen."

He was gone. Tucker heard the car start and sat down on the seat to recover his equilibrium.

Amberley drove the car into Upper Nettlefold and through the High Street to the Market Square. There was a garage at the corner with petrol pumps displaying globes lit by electricity. He ran the car under one of these, said curtly to the man in attendance: "Fill her up!" and got out, slamming the door behind him.

The police station was on the opposite side of the square. Sergeant Gubbins was behind the door marked PRIVATE, and Mr. Amberley walked in without troubling the constable on duty to announce him.

The sergeant looked up austerely but broke into a smile when he saw who was his visitor. "Evening, Mr. Amberley. Anything new?"

Amberley had no answering smile for him. "Sergeant, instruct that constable outside to ring up all surrounding police stations to stop and search a blue Vauxhall limousine, number PV 80496."

The sergeant knew his Mr. Amberley. He did not stop to ask questions, but got up and went to the door and repeated the order to the constable in the outer room. Then he turned and said: "What's happened, sir?"

"The girl's been kidnapped. Can you come with me at once?"

The sergeant stared. "Good Lord, sir!" he ejaculated. "Kidnapped? Where's Tucker?"

"At the cottage. Someone knocked him out. He saw nothing, heard nothing. My only consolation is that he's feeling something. Are you coming:

"Half a moment, sir, and I'm with you," said the sergeant, and pushed through into the outer room and conferred briefly with the constable, who was already sending out the message. By the time he had finished and had got his helmet and a revolver, Amberley had left the station and recrossed the square to the garage.

The sergeant followed him and climbed into the car while Amberley was paying for his petrol. As Amberley put his foot on the self-starter he asked where they were going.

"I don't know," replied Amberley, and swept round the square and out of it to the crossroads above the Boar's Head.

The constable on point duty, who had taken his number half an hour earlier, saw the Bentley coming and held up his hand to stop it. It drew up alongside him, and Amberley leaned out to speak to him.

"Has a dark blue Vauxhall, five-water limousine passed during the last hour? Number PV 80496. Think, man!"

The constable said grimly: "I don't need to think for what I'm going to do. I'll trouble you for your name and address."

Amberley sat back. "Speak to the fool," he said.

The sergeant was already preparing to do so. He spoke a language the constable could easily understand and had heard before.

"But - but, Sergeant, I 'ad my hand up, and he went past me like a streak of lightning. He must 'ave seen it, but he never took no notice. He went…'

"The wonder to me is he could see what was behind it," said the sergeant unflatteringly. "You answer him and be quick about it. He's Mr. Frank Amberley, that's who he is."

"I didn't know who 'e was," said the constable resentfully. "All I know was he disregarded my signal to him to stop."

"Get on with it! You can charge me some other time," said Amberley. "A Vauxhall limousine, PV 80496."

The constable scratched his chin. "There was a Morris Oxford went down the Lumsden Road," he said. "That wouldn't be it."

"Oh, my God!" said Amberley. "A large car, man! Bonnet with two scoops out of it."

"No, I haven't seen it," said the constable as though he were glad to be able to say so. "I seen Mr. Purvis' Daimler, but I haven't seen no other big car, not during the past hour I haven't."

Mr. Amberley's hand found the gear-lever. "Hold up that cart; I'm going to turn," he said.

"Don't stand there goggling, hold it up!" commanded the sergeant. "Lor' I never see such a fat-headed lout!

Right away, Mr. Amberley, sir, and for Gawd's sake mind that perishing cyclist!"

The Bentley went round the constable with a growl and shot off down the High Street. The constable, still holding up the horse and cart like a man in a trance, heard the infinitesimal check of the gears changing, then the hum of a high-powered car travelling at speed away into the distance, and came back to earth to hear himself being rudely addressed by the Carter.

"Where's the nearest constable on point duty past Ivy Cottage, Sergeant?" asked Amberley.

"There ain't one. There's an AA man about a mile on, at the Brighton Road crossing, but he won't be on duty now. It's too late."

"Damn. What are the turnings?"

"None, till you get to the Brighton crossing, if you don't count the lane leading to Furze Hall. I'll tell you what, sir! They're widening the bridge at Griffin's corner, before you reach the crossing. There'll be a man there directing the traffic."

"Well, pray God he's not a fool," said Amberley, swerving to avoid a careless pedestrian.

The sergeant clutched the door and righted himself. He refrained from comment but said: "I dunno, sir, but if you ask me it ain't what you'd call a brainy job, turning a signboard round and waving a lantern. Look out, sir, there's a bend coming!"

"You leave me to drive this car my own way," said Mr. Amberley.

The sergeant held his breath as the car swung round the bend, and ventured to relax again. "I've been in this district some years now, sir," he said slowly.

"You won't be here much longer," said Amberley.

"Not if you're going to drive at this pace, I won't," retorted the sergeant. "But what I was going to say was, I know a good few of the cars about here."

"Bright of you."

The sergeant ignored this. "And I know who owns a blue Vauxhall limousine, Number PV 80496. And I can tell you this, Mr. Amberley, you've got me fair gasping. That's the bridge ahead, sir! Go easy!"

The youth on duty there was moodily swinging a green lamp, but Amberley pulled the car up. The sergeant was nearest the youth, and he leaned out and inquired whether the Vauxhall had passed over the bridge.

The youth turned out to be typical of his generation. Very few cars passed him which he did not closely inspect and appraise. He was not interested in numberplates, but he had held up a big Vauxhall about three quarters of an hour earlier to let a lorry come over the bridge from the other side. He began to enter into a detailed description of the horsepower and year of the car, but was cut short.

"I don't want to buy the car," said the sergeant. "Which way did it go?"

The youth was looking admiringly at the Bentley. His lips moved in a silent enumeration of her points, but being in awe of policemen, he dragged his gaze away from it and answered Sergeant Gubbins. "It went over the bridge, first, then I seen it turn off at the crossing."

Amberley spoke. "Who was in it?"

The youth shook his head. "I dunno, sir."

"I mean, a man, or a woman, more than one person?"

"I dunno, sir."

"It's no good talking to him, sir," said the sergeant. "I got a nephew like him. If a kangaroo happened to be driving the car he wouldn't notice. Sickening, I call it. jabber about differentials all day long that sort do, but take a bit of interest in something that don't move on wheels, oh no! Not them!"

The Bentley moved forward. "The Brighton crossing," Amberley said. "Heading south. I think — I very much think - I've got you, my friend. Sergeant, we shall have to travel rather quickly."