the window.
It hurt. It hurt even more than he thought it would hurt and, from the blood in his eyes, he knew he’d gashed his forehead, but the window broke and, thank God, some of the glass ended up on the concrete floor.
Anthony sat with his shoulder to the doors, picked up a shard of glass and gingerly began to cut through the rope round his wrists. He couldn’t see what he was doing. The glass slipped, cutting his fingers, but he managed to bring the shard between the heels of his hands.
The relief when he finally felt the bonds go was indescribable. He sat for a couple of seconds, feeling life pulse back into his arms before he wiped the blood away from his forehead and got to work on his ankles.
After rubbing life into his cramped feet, he stood up and looked at the window critically. If he cleared away the rest of the broken glass he could possibly fit through the window. He took off his jacket and wrapped it round his hand to protect it from the glass when he had a thought. The car.
Were there papers in the car? He’d better check. He opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. There were maps, a torch and a flask in the pocket of the door. He was about to look in the pocket of the passenger seat, when he heard footsteps outside.
Anthony froze in his seat. There was a gasp as the man saw the smashed window. If Anthony could open the boot, he could probably get a wrench or a jack to use as weapon – the chauffeur must have tools somewhere – but he had no time. The heavy torch could be a weapon but . . .
It was the chance of finding papers which spurred him on. As the key sounded in the lock of the garage, Anthony closed the throttle, checked the ignition and air control, pressed the self-starter and kicked down on the accelerator.
The Daimler, still warm from its journey, roared into life at the first attempt. He knocked the throttle and the air control into the right position, put his foot on the clutch, engaged first gear, released the handbrake and crashed through the doors, busting them open in a splintering explosion.
The chauffeur leapt for dear life. Anthony had a brief glimpse of a shocked white face before he wrestled the steering wheel to bring the heavy car round.
There was a ghastly screech as the side of the car scraped along the stable yard wall and then he was out onto the road.
It might have been sheer foolhardiness, but he nearly crashed the car into the line of trees on the opposite side of the street with sheer exhilaration. He knew he was laughing.
He straightened up the car and in the mirror caught sight of a black-clad figure standing in the middle of the road, silhouetted in the brilliant light. Although he only had fractions of a second to take it in, Anthony could see the sun strike steel light off something in the man’s hand.
It was a gun. The silhouette raised the pistol very deliberately, cradling his right hand in his left in a trained marksman’s aim, and fired twice. The first bullet smashed through the fabric hood of the Daimler, creased past Anthony’s temple and shattered the windscreen. He didn’t see the second bullet but felt a thump in his left shoulder and knew he’d been hit. There wasn’t any pain; Anthony knew there often wasn’t for the first twenty minutes or so in an injury, but his arm felt like a lead weight.
As he squealed the car round the corner, he saw the marksman drop his arm and walk purposefully back into the yard. Anthony tried to catch the street name but all he saw was an L and a B and a collection of other letters on the road sign as he whipped past.
He came out onto the Embankment. He was in London and the stable yard must have been an old mews. He drove a few hundred yards down the Embankment like a maniac, aware at the back of his mind that it was just as well there was no traffic in this first flush of dawn.
His arm was beginning to bother him. He tried to turn the wheel and yelped with pain. Intense lights danced in front of his eyes and the lamp posts on either side of the road seemed to