On the other side of the partition, George Meredith, a small,
unimposing-looking man, sat at a desk marked: MR. MEREDITH--ACCOUNTING
DEPT. He looked as though he were paying no attention whatever to
anything going on at the various windows, but he, too, had a microphone
at his throat and a hidden pickup in his ear.
At Houston's question, he whispered: "That's Sir Lewis Huntley. The
check's good, of course. Poor fellow."
"Yeah," whispered Houston, "if he is what we think he is."
"I'm fairly certain," Meredith replied. "Sir Lewis isn't the type of
fellow to draw that much in cash. At the present rate of exchange,
that's worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars American.
Sir Lewis might carry a hundred pounds as pocket-money, but never a
thousand."
Houston and Meredith were a good thirty feet from each other, and
neither looked at the other. Unless a bystander had equipment to tune in
on the special scrambled wavelength they were using, that bystander
would never know they were holding a conversation.
"... nine-fifty, nine-sixty, nine-seventy, nine-eighty, nine-ninety, a
thousand pounds," said the clerk who was taking care of Sir Lewis's
check. "Would you count that to make sure, sir?"
"Certainly. Ten, twenty, thirty, ..."
While the baronet was double-checking the amount, David Houston glanced
at him. Sir Lewis looked perfectly calm and unhurried, as though he were
doing something perfectly legal--which, in a way, he was. And, in
another way, he most definitely was not, if George Meredith's suspicions
were correct.
"Your receipt, sir." It was the teller at Houston's own window.
Houston took the receipt, thanked the teller, and walked toward the
broad front doors of the bank.
"George," he whispered into the throat mike, "has Sir Lewis noticed me?"
"Hasn't so much as looked at you," Meredith answered. "Good hunting."
"Thanks."
* * * * *
As Houston stepped outside the bank, he casually dropped one hand into a
coat pocket and turned a small knob on his radio control box. "Houston
to HQ," he whispered.
"London HQ; what is it, Houston?" asked the earpiece.
"Leadenhall Street Post. Meredith thinks he's spotted one. Sir Lewis
Huntley."
"Righto. We've got men in that part of the city now. We'll have a
network posted within five minutes. Can you hold onto him that long?"
Houston looked around. Leadenhall Street was full of people, and the
visibility was low. "I'll have to tail him pretty closely," Houston
said. "Your damned English fogs don't give a man much chance to see
anything."
There was a chuckle from the earphone. "Cheer up, Yank; you should have
seen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, our
fogs became a devil of a lot cleaner."
The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UN
Psychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which had
a tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the Statistical
Information-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speech
coming through them.
"What do you know about 1968?" Houston asked sardonically. "Your mother
was still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then."
"In a pram," corrected the Headquarters operator. "That is true, but my
dear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was--"
"The hell with your Aunt Jennifer," Houston interrupted suddenly. "Here
comes Sir Lewis. Get me cover--fast!"
"Right. Keep us posted."
Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turned
left. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn't look around; he
simply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, and
lit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate near
the door which said: _An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd._
Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode on
down the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained a
thousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.
Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wished
he could probe the man's mind to make sure, but he knew that would be
fatal. He'd have to play the game and hope for the best.
"He's heading east," Houston whispered. "Doesn't look as if he's going
to get a cab."
"Check," said the earphone.
Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though he
had a definite destination in mind.
After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Street
and kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be above
suspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.
"He's turning south on Fenchurch," Houston said a little later. "I
wonder where he's going."
"Keep after him," said Headquarters. "Our net men haven't spotted either
of you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog."
Houston kept going.
"What the hell?" he whispered a few minutes later. "He's still following
Fenchurch Street! He's doubling back!"
Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almost
due east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle with
it at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curving
toward the west, toward Lombard.
"Houston," said HQ, "touch your left ear."
Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.
"Okay," said HQ. "Bogart's spotted you, but he hasn't spotted Sir Lewis.
Bogart's across the street."
"He can't miss Sir Lewis," whispered Houston. "Conservatively
dressed--matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed--royal blue
half-brim bowler--carrying a blue brief case."
There was a pause, then: "Yeah. Bogart's spotted him, and so has
MacGruder. Mac's on your side, a few yards ahead."
"Check. How about the rest of the net?"
"Coming, coming. Be patient, old man."
"I _am_ patient," growled Houston. _I have to be_, he thought to
himself, _otherwise I'd never stay alive_.
"We've got him bracketed now," HQ said. "If we lose him now, he's a
magician."
Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who had
surrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked to his
left, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.
"I think he's looking for a cab," Houston whispered.
"That's what MacGruder says," came the reply. "We've got Arthmore in a
cab behind you; he'll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, and
we have a private car for Bogart."
Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver.
Houston didn't hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man,
was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given to
the driver.
* * * * *
A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.
Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who could
have played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for a
part, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, he
was a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.
"Where to, guv'nor?" he asked innocently.
"Buckingham Palace," said Houston. "I've got a poker appointment with
Prince Charles."
"Blimey, guv'nor," said Arthmore. "You _are_ movin' in 'igh circles!
'Ow's 'Er Majesty these days?"
The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic.
"According to the report I get on the blinkin' wireless," he continued,
"a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis 'Untley is
'eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews."
"One of these days," said Houston, "all those _H_'s you drop is going to
bounce back and hit you in the face."
"Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?" Arthmore asked blankly.
Houston grinned. "Nothing, cabbie; it's just that you remind me of a
cultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference is
that Jack speaks the Queen's English."
"Crikey!" said Arthmore. "Wot a coincidence!" He paused, then: "The
Queen's English, you say? She _'as_ to be, don't she?"
"Shut up," said Houston conversationally. "And give me a cigarette," he
added.
"There's a package of Players in my shirt pocket," Arthmore said,
keeping his hands on the wheel.
* * * * *
Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.
Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: "Reminds me of the time I was workin'
for a printer, see? We 'ad to print up a bunch of 'andbills advertisin'
a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed
'Under the auspices of St. Bede's-on-Thames.' So I--"
He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printing
the handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence,
keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.
Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardened
veterans of the Psychodeviant Police don't look forward to the
possibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outside
force.
It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had been
through the experience once. It evidently wasn't pleasant.
"--and the boss was 'oppin' mad," Arthmore was saying, "but, crikey, 'ow
was I to know that _auspice_ was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?"