Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Read Free Book Online Page B

constable was the first to appear. He came down the lane on a large black bicycle, pedaling easily. After leaning the bicycle carefully against the hedge he took out a leather-covered note pad and a stub of pencil, carefully licking the pencil tip before he spoke.
    â€œThat is a gun you have in your possession, isn’t it, sir?”
    â€œI hope so since I am holding prisoner two men who are wanted for international skyjacking of a very expensive airplane, plus extortion of the sum of two million dollars.”
    â€œAre they indeed!” The policeman nodded appreciatively and sternly. “Would you give me the gun, sir? Possession of a weapon is a crime with which I do not think you wish to be charged.” He stepped close and held out his hand. Tony passed it over.
    â€œQuite right, Officer, since they are your prisoners now.”
    â€œIndeed they are, sir.” He looked closely at the weapon, found the safety and flicked it in into place, then, before Tony’s horrified gaze, put it into his pocket.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that…”
    â€œThat’s all right, sir, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Now if I could have a statement. Time nine twenty-five A.M .” He entered this slowly and one of the skyjackers jumped to his feet and ran down the road.
    With an easy motion the constable threw his nightstick so it went between the Cuban’s legs, sending him sprawling. Before he could rise he was seized by the collar, pulled to his feet, marched back and dropped beside his companion. They both followed the loose-swinging club with their eyes and drew back.
    â€œNow you don’t want to cause any trouble, do you?”
    â€œThey don’t speak English, Officer.”
    â€œNo matter, sir, there are other forms of communication.” The nightstick spoke this language sharply as he smacked it into his palm. Bells rang cheerily down the road and a moment later a police car with four occupants braked to a stop. The constable saluted as they poured out.
    â€œWould anyone like to hear what happened?” Tony said brightly as they turned to face him. “Not half an hour ago a man was killed here and two million dollars carried away. I can attempt to describe the men who did it—if you are interested?”
    They were, and he did, and with much hurried work on the radio the forces of law and order spread wide their search. Tony noticed that one of the policemen stayed very close to him for quite some time, until confirmation came in that he really was a kidnapped FBI man, not one of the skyjackers. With this information also came the order to get him to London as soon as possible. For this purpose a police car puttered up and was put at his disposal, something smaller and a good deal humbler than the car the sergeant had arrived in—a label on the hood said it was a Morris Minor—as well as a plainclothes detective named Finch. After a few miles Tony wished that a Morris Major had been provided, if there were a car by that name, as well as a driver who could say more than “ngh.” Finch, for all his undoubted sterling worth as a law enforcement officer, could not have talked less if he had had lockjaw. He bent forward firmly, tiny steering wheel clutched in brawny hands, brows beetling fiercely in concentration, and put all of his attention to the driving. After a few attempts at conversation Tony slumped, surly and uncomfortable, in his seat, looked out at the landscape—and began to cheer up.
    He was in England! The reality finally slipped through. His first time here. An inadvertent trip, indeed, but at least the price was right. For him; the two million bucks was someone else’s concern. He had braved danger and skyjackers, kept his cool in tight situations and apprehended two of the crooks. Not bad for a small-town Indian art major turned FBI man. All of this would look good in his civil service record. Another promotion might even be in