The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [220]
Some early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading toward the station for the first commuter train to London. The paperboy turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily laden bicycle slowly around the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering along in his electric van—two pints here, a pint there, the occasional half-dozen eggs or container of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of redtop milk and a copy of The Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,” said Donald.
People had emerged from the houses on either side of Number 47 before a light appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had been switched on, Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house.
I became bored, and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn’t seem to worry the two professionals in the front. They continued to concentrate on any movement that took place around Number 47, and hardly exchanged a word.
At 10:19 a thin, elderly man, dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket and gray flannels, emerged from Number 47 and marched briskly down the path. All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked almost as if his whole body had been designed around it. Donald kept the glasses trained on him.
“Ever seen him before?” he asked, passing the binoculars back to me.
I focused the glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. “Never,” I said as he came to a halt by the side of a battered old Austin Allegro. “How could anyone forget that mustache?”
“It certainly wasn’t grown last week,” said Donald, as Danvers-Smith eased his car out onto the main road.
Jenny cursed. “I thought that if he used his car, the odds would be on him heading into Cambridge.” She deftly performed a three-point turn and accelerated quickly after the wing commander. Within a few minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him.
Danvers-Smith was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit. “His days as a test pilot are obviously long behind him,” Donald said, as we trailed the Allegro at a safe distance into the next village. About half a mile later he pulled into a petrol station.
“Stay with him,” said Donald. Jenny followed the Allegro into the forecourt and came to a halt at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith.
“Keep your head down, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don, opening his door. “We don’t want him seeing you.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, peering between the front seats.
“Risk an old con’s trick,” Donald replied.
He stepped out of the front seat, walked around to the back of the car, and unscrewed the gas cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a gas pump into the tank of his Allegro. Donald began slowly topping up our already full tank, then suddenly turned to face the old man.
“Wing Commander Danvers-Smith?” he asked in a plummy voice.
The wing commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his weather-beaten face.
“Baker, sir,” said Donald. “Flight Lieutenant Baker. You lectured me at RAF Locking. Vulcans, if I remember.”
“Bloody good memory, Baker. Good show,” said Danvers-Smith. “Delighted to see you, old chap,” he said, taking the nozzle out of his car and replacing it in the pump. “What are you up to nowadays?”
Jenny stifled a laugh.
“Work for BA, sir. Grounded after I failed my eye test. Bloody desk job, I’m afraid, but it was the only offer I got.”
“Bad luck, old chap,” said the wing commander, as they headed off toward the pay booth, and out of earshot.
When they came back a few minutes later,