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s clasped about his ears； nodding his head and popping his fingers。
And as for this； Pooley held up his right hand and examined the palm。 The bank had refused to give him either a receipt or a cheque…book。 With unveiled condescension they had explained that such methods of personal finance were now obsolete and that for security's sake they must insist upon the new personalized identification system。 They had then stamped his right palm with a pattern of eighteen little puter lines in three rows of six。 Six six six。 Pooley spat on to his palm and rubbed away at the marking； it would not budge。 He eased up on the moaning and groaning and took to a bit of soulful sighing。 He had bee involved in something which was very much bigger than he was。 He really should have listened to Professor Slobe and torn up the slip。
A sudden screeching of white…walled tyres upon tarmac announced the arrival of Antoine with Pooley's new car。 Jim distantly recalled a deal he had struck the night before。
'Your carriage awaits；' said the chauffeur of fortune； springing from the automobile and holding open the door。
Jim was entranced。 The car； a silver…grey Morris Minor； although of a model some fifteen years out of date； had all the makings of one fresh from the showroom。 'Where did you get it？' he asked； rising from his gloom and strolling over to the automotive gem。
'Purchased with the money you advanced； sir；' Antoine replied politely。 'Has a few tricks under the hood。'
Pooley circled the car approvingly and ran his unsoiled hand along the spanking paintwork。 'Big Boda；' said he。 'It's a corker。'
'And what about the number plates？' Antoine indicated the same； JP 1。
'Double Boda；' said Jim Pooley。
'Would sir care to be taken for a spin？'
'Absolutely。' Jim clapped his hands together and chuckled。 Maybe this being wealthy did have its pensations after all。 Antoine swung forward the driver's seat and Jim clambered aboard。 The chauffeur sat himself down before the wheel and closed the door。 'What is all that？' Pooley asked； spying out the Morris' dashboard； it was far from conventional。
'Customized；' said Antoine。 'By Lateinos and Romiith； who bought out the old Morris patent。 This car will do nought to sixty in three point four seconds。 It has weather…eye air…conditioning； fuel consumption down to near zero by merit of its improved plasma…drive system。 Are you acquainted with quantum mechanics？'
'I get by；' said Jim。
'Solar pod power…retention headlights； underpinned macro…pleasure full…glide suspension。 Sub…lift non…drift gravitational thrust plates。。。'
'Drive please；' said Jim； 'I will tell you when to stop。'
'Where to； sir？' Antoine put the preposterous vehicle into instant overdrive and tore it away at Mach ten。
Pooley slewed back in his seat； cheeks drawn up towards his ears； his face suddenly resembling the now legendary Gwynplaine； of Victor Hugo's Man who Laughs。 'Steady on；' winced Jim。
'Gravitational acclimatization auxiliary forward modifications engaged。' Antoine touched a lighted sensor on the dash and Pooley slumped forward。 'A quick tour of the parish； taking in the more desirable residences on the 〃For Sale〃 list； would it be； sir？'
'e again？'
'My previous employers always liked the grand tour。'
'I thought you worked for Bob？'
'Only at lunch times； I am a freelance。'
'Very mendable。'
The car screamed into Mafeking Avenue on two wheels； narrowly avoiding Old Pete； who raised two eloquent fingers towards its receding rear end。
'How many clients have you then？'
'Only you；' said Antoine。 'I have attended to all those who came by the big payouts。 One after another。'
The Morris roared past the Memorial Park； gathering speed。
'One after another。 How many have e up recently then？'
'Twenty…five； although they were never in your league。' The chauffeur cleared his throat with a curiously mechanical coughing sound。
Pooley scratched at his head。 He had heard of no recent big winners hereabouts。 Jim suddenly smelt the great…grandaddy of all big rats。 'Stop the car；' he demanded。
Antoine crouched low over the puterized controls； his toe edged nearer to the floor； and the modified family saloon performed another impossible feat of acceleration。
'Stop this car！' shouted Jim。 'There is a stitch…up here and I'll have no part of it。'
'Stitch…up？' leered Antoine。 Pooley could just make out his face reflected in the driving mirror。 It was not a face Jim would wish to recall in his dreams。 The chauffeur's normally amiable visage had bee contorted into a death…mask of inhuman cruelty。 The eyes glowed between hooded slits； the mouth was drawn down； exposing a row of wicked metallic…looking teeth。 The face was no longer human； it was atavistic； something beyond and before humanity； pelling and vibrant with dark evil power。 The flying Morris cannoned through the short cobbled alleyway between the Police Station and the Beehive and swerved right through the red lights and out into the High Road。 It should surely have been forced to a standstill amidst the hubbub of mid…morning traffic； but to Pooley's increasing horror the High Street was empty； the pavements deserted。
'Stop； I say！' screamed Jim。 'I will pay you anything you want； name the sum。' Antoine laughed hideously； the sounds issuing from his throat being those of sharp stones rattled in a tin can。 Pooley shook his brain into gear； 'knobble the mad driver'； it told him。 Climbing forward； Jim lashed out towards the driver's neck。 'AAAAAGH！' went Pooley； as his lunging fingers piled into a barrier of empty air； splintering nails； and dislocating thumbs。
'Safety…shield anti…whiplash modification；' sneered the demonic driver as Pooley sank back into his seat； his wounded hands jammed beneath his armpits。 The car swung into a side…road Jim did not clearly remember and thundered on towards。。。 Jim suddenly stiffened in his seat。。。 towards the rim of the old quarry。 Jim recalled that place well enough； he used to go ferreting there when a lad。 The walls were fifty…foot sheer to a man。 He was heading for an appointment with none other than good old Nemesis himself。 Now was the time to do some pretty nifty fast thinking。 Pooley thrust his brain into overdrive。 Accelerating Morris； mad driver； two doors only； invisible force…field before。 No sun…roof and Nemesis five hundred yards distant。 Jim chewed upon his lip； worry beads of perspiration upon his brow。 No way out before； above； but possibly。。。
The mighty Morris has to its credit many an endearing feature。 Ask any driver and he will mention such things as fort； luxury； fuel economy； or the obvious prestige of ownership。 But stand that man in front of his locked car to view the spectacle of his ignition keys dangling in the steering column and he will then address his praise towards the inevitably faulty boot…lock and the detachable rear seat。 Pooley had crawled into more than a few Morrises on drunken evenings past when further staggering home looked out of the question。 Now he was hardly backward in going that very direction。
Nemesis was yet two hundred and fifty yards to the fore。 As the car ploughed on relentlessly towards the yawning chasm ahead； Jim clawed at the rear seat with his maimed fingers。 With the kind of superhuman effort which would have done credit to any one of a dozen Boy's Own Paper heroes； he plunged into the boot and fought it open。
With one bound he was free。
As the car breasted the rim of the chasm and dashed itself down towards oblivion； Jim tumbled out into the roadway； bowling over and over like a rag doll； to the acpaniment of many a sickening； bone…shattering report。 He came to a final dislocated standstill a few short yards from doom。 A loud explosion beneath； a column of flame； and a rising black mushroom cloud of oily smoke signalled the sorry end of a fine car。 Pooley made a feeble attempt to rise； but to no avail。 Every bone in his body seemed broken several times over。 His head was pointing the wrong way round for a start。 A flood tide of darkness engulfed the fallen hero and Jim lapsed away into a dark oblivion of unconsciousness。
14
John Omally pressed his way through Professor Slobe's ever…open French windows。 The old scholar sat in a fireside chair earnestly conversing with the hawk…nosed man from another time。 He waved his hand in familiar fashion towards the whisky decanter。
'So where is lucky Jim？' Sherlock Holmes asked。 Tutting in his bid for the brewery？'
Omally shook his head and his face showed more than just a trace of bitterness。 'I Was to meet Jim at the bench。 We were planning a Nile cruise。' John flung the bundle of holiday brochures he had acquired the night before into the Professor's fire。 'I missed him。 No doubt he is lying even now in the arms of some avaricious female。 Oh； cruel fate。'
'Cruel fate indeed；' said Holmes darkly。 'Lucky Jim may not be quite so lucky as he thinks himself to be。'
Omally pinched at the top of his nose。 'We sank a few last night and that is a fact。 Jim wisely kept back a wheelbarrow…load for expenses。 He was more than generous。'
'So I understand。 I regret that we were unable to attend the festivities。 Tell me now； would I be right in assuming that Jim was wearing gloves last night？'
Omally nodded。 'Said that the money had given him a rash。 I didn't give it a lot of thought； you know what these millionaires are like； walking round in Kleenex boxes and drinking Campbells soup from tins； it's quite regular to those lads。'
Sherlock Holmes leant forward in his seat。 'Might I ask you to show me your hands？'
Omally thrust them hurriedly behind his back。
'As I deduced；' said the great detective。 'Both door and window was it？'
Omally bit at his lip and nodded ruefully。 'Until but a few minutes since。'
Professor Slobe cast Holmes a questioning glance。
'Purely a matter of deduction；' that man explained。 'Let me see if I can set the scene； as it were。 Mr Omally here has seen his dearest friend bee a multimillionaire in the matter of an hour and a half。 He helps him transport these riches to the bank and the two spend the night in revelry； finally returning to their respective abodes。 But our friend cannot sleep； he paces the floor； he is assailed with doubts。 Will the money change his panion； will it destroy their long and enduring friendship？ Will he turn his back upon him？ At last he can stand it no longer； his mind is made up。 He will set out at once to his friend's house and knock him up。 But this is not to be。 He tries to open his door but it will not move。 After many vain attempts to secure his freedom he tries the window； this proves similarly unrewarding； the glass cannot even be broken。'
Professor Slobe looked quizzically towards
Omally who was catching flies with his mouth。 'Is this true？' he asked。
'In most respects； it fair put the fear of the Almighty into me I can tell you。'
'We are indeed dealing with mighty forces here；' said Sherlock Holmes； springing to his feet。 'And now I think that should we wish to entertain any hope of saving your friend we had best move with some expediency。 Let us pray that the trail is not yet cold。' Without uttering another word he whisked on his tweedy jacket and plunged out through the French windows； followed by Professor Slobe。 Omally shook his head in total disbelief at it all； tossed back his drink； and followed in hot pursuit。
Holmes strode ahead up the sweeping tree…lined drive of the Butts Estate and crossed the road towards the Memorial Library。 Before Pooley's bench he halted and threw himself to his hands and knees。 'Aha；' he said； taking up the spent butt of an expensive cigarette。 'He's been here and he walked towards the kerb。' Omally and the Professor looked at one another。 Omally shrugged。 Holmes scrutinized the roadway。 'He entered a roadster here and was driven off at some speed in that direction。'
'Can you make out the licence plate number？' Omally said cynically。
Holmes looked him up and down coldly。 'I can tell you that he was helped into the car by a gentleman of foreign extraction； who parts his hair on the left side and has his shoes hand…made； size seven and a half。'
Omally's eyes widened。 'Antoine； Bob the bookie's chauffeur。'
'Such was my conclusion。 Now； unless y