Harris grunted and grabbed Roger’s wrist. Cold steel brushed his hand, and then the handcuffs clicked—he was manacled to Harris.

“Take it easy.” The man who poked the gun into the car had a smooth voice. A scarf, tied round the lower half of his face, served as a mask. “Do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”

“You’re crazy.” That was Sergeant Drayton, in a shrill voice.

“Not so crazy as you’ll be if you try to pull a fast one. We want West.”

“No one named West——” began the driver.

“Okay, forget who it is, we want your prisoner—he’s a pal of ours.” Bright eyes showed in the pale light inside the car. “Get out, pal.” He looked at Roger.

They were remarkable eyes; like silvery fire.

“We’re the police!” howled Drayton.

“We’d still want our boy friend, even if you were the Army, Navy, and Air Force rolled into one.” The gun swivelled towards Roger. “Get out.”

The door by Roger’s side opened; another man with a gun stood there. The rain hissed down until wind caught it and sent it in a wild flurry about the car.

“I can’t——” Roger began.

“You can, pal. And hurry, we haven’t got all night.”

“That’s enough of this,” said Harris heavily. Harris was good—ten times better than Drayton. “You clear off, the lot of you.” He might have been talking to a crowd of gapers gathered about a street accident. “This man’s our prisoner. Clear off.”

“I’m handcuffed to him,” Roger said. It wasn’t easy to make the words sound casual, or to try to sum this up; except to see that it was the next stage in the framing.

Why?

Harris sat back in his seat. It would be no fun trying to get him out of the car by force, he must weigh sixteen stone.