More Deadly Than The Male

This begins it, he thought, his heart thumping against his side, and he pressed the starter. The engine growled, but nothing else happened. He caught his breath sharply, and stabbed at the starter again. The whirring, frustrated sound of the engine trying to start made a tremendous racket in the silent street.

His nerve wilted. In a few seconds they would be out after him. He cursed the engine feverishly as he stabbed at the starter again. Then he cursed himself. He hadn't switched on! What a damn, stupid, frightened clod he was! He turned on the ignition with fumbling fingers, pressed the starter and immediately the engine sprang to life.

Somehow he got the cab moving, and turned the corner. He was now in such a fever that he clamped down on the accelerator, yet the cab moved slowly, making a terrific din. He clung to the wheel, his eyes bolting out of his head, terrified, wild. Then, as no one shouted after him, he gained control of his nerves and managed to change into second and then into top.

The cab went on. Ahead was Oxford Street. George swung blindly into the busy thoroughfare. He nearly collided with a bus, and he realized with alarm that he had crossed against the red traffic light. The bus driver shouted at him, but he accelerated and left the bus behind.

He was coming to Oxford Circus now. The lights changed to red when he was a few yards away, and he pulled up so sharply that he stalled the engine.

He sat in a heap, sweat running down his face, his ears pricked. He felt he was experiencing some horrible nightmare.

He became aware that cars behind him were blaring with their horns and klaxons. Without his noticing it, the traffic light had changed to green. Hurriedly he started the engine, forgetting he was still in gear. The taxi jumped forward and went hounding down the street like a startled frog.

People were staring at him from the pavement. Another taxi overtook him, and the driver leaned out: "Make it waltz, mate," he pleaded as he passed. "You've done everything else."

Gritting his teeth, George changed down. He turned right and drove on, past the BBC, up Portland Place and into Regent's Park.

There was scarcely any traffic in the Park, and he became calmer. He must get used to this cab, he thought, before he ventured again into the wilderness of traffic lights and heavy traffic. He drove round the inner circle several times, stopping and starting, changing up and down, until he had regained some of his confidence. Then he stopped and lit a cigarette and tried to make a plan. He decided that he would go down Park Lane, along Piccadilly to Berkeley Square, up the square to Bruton Street, into New Bond Street and down into Piccadilly again. It was getting late, and his best chance was to catch some girl coming from a nightclub.

He would have to be quick, because the theft of the cab would be reported very soon and the police would be looking for it. He had, at the best, a half an hour in which to find the girl and get her out of the West End.

He started the cab again and headed for Park Lane. A number of people hailed him, as he drove along, hugging the kerb, but after a quick glance in their direction and seeing that they were all in parties, he kept on.

Without stopping, he drove along the route he had planned. His nerves began to ease as he went on. There seemed to be no unescorted girls waiting for a taxi, and he began to hope that the plan would fizzle out.

But as he drove down New Bond Street for a second time, he saw a girl standing on the kerb, and she waved to him.

One look was enough. She was about Cora's build, and she was wearing a dark coat and skirt; a smart little hat was perched on her head, and as she waved at George a gold bangle glittered in the street light.

George pulled up, eyeing the girl, his mouth suddenly dry, his nerves tingling. The girl was a typical Mayfair deb—the kind of girl whose picture appeared regularly in the Bystander and Tatler, and who seemed to spend their lives either smiling vacantly at some sleek young man in tails and white tie at Lady Someone or other's ball, or resting their hard little sterns on shooting- sticks while attending a shoot in Scotland.

"Chunks!" she shouted excitedly. "I've got one. Chunks, do come on!"

Oh, hell! George thought in a fever, she's not alone! He wanted to engage gear and drive away, but the girl had already jerked open the cab door, and was standing looking over her shoulder at the open door of a building, partly obscured by the darkness.

"Do come on, Chunks," she called again. She turned to George. "He won't be a minute. I want to go to Highgate Village."

At this moment a tall young man came running down the steps. "You are marvellous, Babs," he said. "I don't know how you do it. You're just too nauseatingly efficient. Why couldn't you let the porter find you a taxi?"

"I like doing things for myself," the girl said.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" the young man asked. "I don't mind. I don't mind a hit."