The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More Read Online Free PDF

was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were
skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on the helmet,
showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.

    We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.

    "Watch out for this man," my passenger whispered. "
' Ee looks mean as the devil."

    The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the
sill. "What's the hurry?" he said.

    "No hurry, officer," I answered.

    "Perhaps there's a woman in the back having a baby and you're rushing her
to hospital? Is that it?"

    "No, officer."

    "Or perhaps your house is on fire and you're dashing home to rescue the
family from upstairs?" His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.

    "My house isn't on fire, officer."

    "In that case," he said, "you've got yourself into a nasty mess,
haven't you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?"

    "Seventy," I said.

    "And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just
now?"

    I shrugged and didn't say anything.

    When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. "One hundred and twenty miles per
hour!" he barked. 'That's fifty miles
an hour over the limit!"

    He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my
car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back
again and stared hard at my passenger. "And who are you?" he asked
sharply.

    "He's a hitch-hiker," I said. "I'm giving him a lift."

    "I didn't ask you," he said. "I asked him."

    " 'Ave I done somethin '
wrong?" my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream .

    "That's more than likely," the policeman answered. "Anyway,
you're a witness. I'll deal with you in a minute. Driving- licence ,"
he snapped, holding out his hand.

    I gave him my driving- licence .

    He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the
dreaded books of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence . Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to
the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that
down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence.
Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he
checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon
copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the
button.

    "Now you," he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other
side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black
notebook. "Name?" he snapped.

    "Michael Fish," my passenger said.

    "Address?"

    "Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton ."

    "Show me something to prove this is your real name and address." the
policeman said.

    My passenger fished in his pockets and came out with a driving- licence of his own. The policeman checked the name and
address and handed it back to him. "What's your job?" he asked
sharply.

    "I'm an ' od carrier."

    "A what?"

    "An ' od carrier."

    "Spell it."

    "H-O-D C-A-. . ."

    "That'll do. And what's a hod carrier, may I
ask?"

    " 'An ' od carrier,
officer, is a person ' oo carries the cement up the
ladder to the bricklayer. And the ' od is what ' ee carries it in. It's got a long ' andle and on the top you've got two bits of wood set at an angle. . ."

    "All right, all right. Who's your employer?"

    "Don't ' ave one. I'm unemployed."

    The policeman wrote all this down in the black notebook. Then he returned the
book to its pocket and did up the button.

    "When I get back to the station I'm going to do a little checking up on
you," he said to my passenger.

    "Me? What've I done wrong?" the rat-faced man asked.

    "I don't like your face, that's all," the policeman said. "And
we just might have a picture of it somewhere in our files." He strolled
round the car and returned to my window.

    "I suppose you know you 're in serious
trouble," he said to me.

    "Yes,