CHAPTER 9

DICK DROVE a six-cylinder coupé whose bodywork had seen better days, though he claimed for its engine that the world had not seen its equal. With his screen-wiper wiping furiously, he came cautiously along the Portsmouth Road, his big headlamps staring whitely ahead. The rain was pelting down, and since he must have a window open, and that window was on the weather side, one arm and part of the shoulder of his rainproof coat were soon black and shining. ‘107, Coram Street,’ said his subconscious mind; and he wonder…