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“We’ve got him bracketed now,” HQ said. “If we lose him now, he’s a magician.”

Sir Lewis walked on, seemingly oblivious to the group of men who had surrounded him. He came to the end of Fenchurch Street and looked to his left, towards London Bridge. Then he glanced to his right.

“I think he’s looking for a cab,” Houston whispered.

“That’s what MacGruder says,” came the reply. “We’ve got Arthmore in a cab behind you; he’ll pick you up. MacGruder will get another cab, and we have a private car for Bogart.”

Sir Lewis flagged a cab, climbed in, and gave an address to the driver. Houston didn’t hear it, but MacGruder, a heavy-set, short, balding man, was standing near enough to get the instructions Sir Lewis had given to the driver.

* * * * *

A cab pulled up to the curb near Houston, and he got in.

Arthmore, the driver, was a thin, tall, hawknosed individual who could have played Sherlock Holmes on TV. Once he got into character for a part, he never got out of it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, he was a Cockney cab-driver, and he would play the part to the hilt.

“Where to, guv’nor?” he asked innocently.

“Buckingham Palace,” said Houston. “I’ve got a poker appointment with Prince Charles.”

“Blimey, guv’nor,” said Arthmore. “You are movin’ in ‘igh circles! ‘Ow’s ‘Er Majesty these days?”

The turboelectric motor hummed, and the cab shot off into traffic. “According to the report I get on the blinkin’ wireless,” he continued, “a chap named MacGruder claims that the eminent Sir Lewis ‘Untley is ‘eaded for Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews.”

“One of these days,” said Houston, “all those H‘s you drop is going to bounce back and hit you in the face.”

“Beg pardon, Mr. Yewston?” Arthmore asked blankly.

Houston grinned. “Nothing, cabbie; it’s just that you remind me of a cultured, intelligent fellow named Jack Arthmore. The only difference is that Jack speaks the Queen’s English.”

“Crikey!” said Arthmore. “Wot a coincidence!” He paused, then: “The Queen’s English, you say? She ‘as to be, don’t she?”

“Shut up,” said Houston conversationally. “And give me a cigarette,” he added.

“There’s a package of Players in my shirt pocket,” Arthmore said, keeping his hands on the wheel.

* * * * *

Houston fished out a cigarette, lit it, and returned the pack.

Apropos of nothing, Arthmore said: “Reminds me of the time I was workin’ for a printer, see? We ‘ad to print up a bunch of ‘andbills advertisin’ a church charity bazaar. Down at the bottom was supposed to be printed ‘Under the auspices of St. Bede’s-on-Thames.’ So I–“

He went on with a long, rambling tale about making a mistake in printing the handbill. Houston paid little attention. He smoked in silence, keeping his eyes on the red glow of the taillight ahead of them.

Neither man mentioned the approaching climax of the chase. Even hardened veterans of the Psychodeviant Police don’t look forward to the possibility of having their minds taken over, controlled by some outside force.

It had never happened to Houston, but he knew that Arthmore had been through the experience once. It evidently wasn’t pleasant.

“–and the boss was ‘oppin’ mad,” Arthmore was saying, “but, crikey, ‘ow was I to know that auspice was spelled A-U-S-P-I-C-E?”

Houston grinned. “Yeah, sure. How’re we doing with Sir Lewis?”

“Seems to be headed in the right direction,” Arthmore said, suddenly dropping the Cockney accent. “This is the route I’d take if I were headed for Upper Berkeley Mews. He probably hasn’t told the driver to change addresses–maybe he won’t.”

“The victims never do,” Houston said. “He probably is actually headed toward Number 37 Upper Berkeley Mews.”

“Yeah. Nobody’s perfect,” said Arthmore.