Айзек Азимов - The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

The police whistle had followed him for less than a quarter of a mile. He had passed a policeman running toward the sound — anyway, flatties never worried Stackett. Some of his ill humour passed in the amusement which the sight of the running copper brought.

Bringing the noisy little car to a standstill by the side of the road, he got down, and, relighting the cigarette he had so carefully extinguished, he gazed glumly at the stained and battered mudguard which was shivering and shaking under the pulsations of the engine...

Through that same greasy street came a motorcyclist, muffled to the chin, his goggles dangling about his neck. He pulled up his shining wheel near the policeman on point duty and, supporting his balance with one foot in the muddy road, asked questions.

“Yes, sergeant,” said the policeman. “I saw him. He went down there. As a matter of fact, I was going to pinch him for driving to the common danger, but he hopped it.”

“That’s Joe Stackett,” nodded Sergeant Kenton of the C.I.D. “A thin-faced man with a pointed nose?”

The point-duty policeman had not seen the face behind the wind-screen, but he had seen the car, and that he described accurately.

“Stolen from Elmer’s garage. At least, Elmer will say so, but he probably provided it. Dumped stuff. Which way did you say?”

The policeman indicated, and the sergeant kicked his engine to life and went chug-chugging down the dark street.

He missed Mr. Stackett by a piece of bad luck — bad luck for everybody, including Mr. Stackett, who was at the beginning of his amazing adventure.

Switching off the engine, he had continued on foot. About fifty yards away was the wide opening of a road superior in class to any he had traversed. Even the dreariest suburb has its West End, and here were villas standing on their own acres — very sedate villas, with porches and porch lamps in wrought-iron and oddly coloured glass, and shaven lawns, and rose gardens swathed in matting, and no two villas were alike. At the far end he saw a red light, and his heart leapt with joy. Christmas — it was to be Christmas after all, with good food and lashings of drink and other manifestations of happiness and comfort peculiarly attractive to Joe Stackett.

It looked like a car worth knocking off, even in the darkness. He saw somebody near the machine and stopped. It was difficult to tell in the gloom whether the person near the car had got in or had come out. He listened. There came to him neither the slam of the driver’s door nor the whine of the self-starter. He came a little closer, walked boldly on, his restless eyes moving left and right for danger. All the houses were occupied. Bright lights illuminated the casement cloth which covered the windows. He heard the sound of revelry and two gramophones playing dance tunes. But his eyes always came back to the polished limousine at the door of the end house. There was no light there. It was completely dark, from the gabled attic to the ground floor.

He quickened his pace. It was a Spanza. His heart leapt at the recognition. For a Spanza is a car for which there is a ready sale. You can get as much as a hundred pounds for a new one. They are popular amongst Eurasians and wealthy Hindus. Binky Jones, who was the best car fence in London, would pay him cash, not less than sixty. In a week’s time that car would be crated and on its way to India, there to be resold at a handsome profit.

The driver’s door was wide open. He heard the soft purr of the engine. He slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door noiselessly, and almost without as much as a whine the Spanza moved on.

It was a new one, brand new... A hundred at least.

Gathering speed, he passed to the end of the road, came to a wide common and skirted it. Presently he was in another shopping street, but he knew too much to turn back toward London. He would take the open country for it, work round through Esher and come into London by the Portsmouth Road. The art of car-stealing is to move as quickly as possible from the police division where the machine is stolen and may be instantly reported, to a “foreign” division which will not know of the theft until hours after.

There might be all sorts of extra pickings. There was a big luggage trunk behind and possibly a few knick-knacks in the body of the car itself. At a suitable moment he would make a leisurely search. At the moment he headed for Epsom, turning back to hit the Kingston bypass. Sleet fell — snow and rain together. He set the screen-wiper working and began to hum a little tune. The Kingston by-pass was deserted. It was too unpleasant a night for much traffic.

Mr. Stackett was debating what would be the best place to make his search when he felt an unpleasant draught behind him. He had noticed there was a sliding window separating the interior of the car from the driver’s seat, which had possibly worked loose. He put up his hand to push it close.

“Drive on, don’t turn round or I’ll blow your head off!”

Involuntarily he half turned to see the gaping muzzle of an automatic, and in his agitation put his foot on the brake. The car skidded from one side of the road to the other, half turned and recovered.

“Drive on, I am telling you,” said a metallic voice. “When you reach the Portsmouth Road turn and bear toward Weybridge. If you attempt to stop I will shoot you. Is that clear?”

Joe Stackett’s teeth were chattering. He could not articulate the “yes.” All that he could do was to nod. He went on nodding for half a mile before he realized what he was doing.

No further word came from the interior of the car until they passed the race-course; then unexpectedly the voice gave a new direction:

“Turn left toward Leatherhead.”

The driver obeyed.

They came to a stretch of common. Stackett, who knew the country well, realized the complete isolation of the spot.

“Slow down, pull in to the left... There is no dip there. You can switch on your lights.”

The car slid and bumped over the uneven ground, the wheels crunched through beds of bracken...

“Stop.”

The door behind him opened. The man got out. He jerked open the driver’s door.

“Step down,” he said. “Turn out your lights first. Have you got a gun?”

“Gun? Why the hell should I have a gun?” stammered the car thief.

He was focused all the time in a ring of light from a very bright electric torch which the passenger had turned upon him.

“You are an act of Providence.”

Stackett could not see the face of the speaker. He saw only the gun in the hand, for the stranger kept this well in the light.

“Look inside the car.”

Stackett looked and almost collapsed. There was a figure huddled in one corner of the seat — the figure of a man. He saw something else — a bicycle jammed into the car, one wheel touching the roof, the other on the floor. He saw the man’s white face... Dead! A slim, rather short man, with dark hair and a dark moustache, a foreigner. There was a little red hole in his temple.

“Pull him out,” commanded the voice sharply.

Stackett shrank back, but a powerful hand pushed him toward the car.

“Pull him out!”

With his face moist with cold perspiration, the car thief obeyed; put his hands under the armpits of the inanimate figure, dragged him out and laid him on the bracken.

“He’s dead,” he whimpered.

“Completely,” said the other.

Suddenly he switched off his electric torch. Far away came a gleam of light on the road, coming swiftly toward them. It was a car moving towards Esher. It passed.

“I saw you coming just after I had got the body into the car. There wasn’t time to get back to the house. I’d hoped you were just an ordinary pedestrian. When I saw you get into the car I guessed pretty well your vocation. What is your name?”