Free Get a Load of This by James Hadley Chase

postponed.
     His rise to fame in the speed world was remarkable. Soon no motor-race was considered anything at all unless he was a competitor. In fact, he began to win so consistently that his name rapidly became a household word. He apparently had no nerves. It was not that he was more skilful than the other drivers, but that he attained a maximum speed and kept to it. Cornering rough roads and dangerous hills meant nothing to him. He sent the machine he was driving forward like a bullet, and by some miracle finished in one piece. So great was the enthusiasm and talk about his daring that one Saturday afternoon I made an effort and attended one of the races in which he was competing.
     I shall never forget that afternoon. And when his car hurtled past the flag a good quarter of a mile ahead of the next man, I found that my legs were almost too weak to support me to the Club bar, and that my shirt was sticking to my back in a most unpleasant manner as I sweated with fear for him and morbid excitement.
     I knew it was quite hopeless to get near George until the admiring crowd had moved away, so I fortified myself in the meantime with some very excellent bourbon.
     About half an hour after the race George came into the bar, followed by a large crowd of people. One glance was sufficient to tell me that his company was the usual hard-drinking, empty-headed lot. As I hadn't seen him for over six months, I regarded him with interest. I thought he looked a lot thinner and a lot older. I was rather astonished to see that he was drinking ginger ale, whilst the crowd was belting neat Scotch.
     I hesitated to approach him, surrounded by so many obviously ardent admirers; and while I was making up my mind what to do, he happened to glance up and see me. For a moment he looked puzzled, then his face lit up, and with an abrupt excuse he left his party and hurried over to me.
     He shook my hand almost feverishly. “This is marvellous,” he said; “for God's sake where have you been all this time?”
     I told him about my business engagements, but I could see he was only giving me half his attention. In fact, he broke in to say: “I must talk to you. I've got to get rid of this crowd first. Will you meet me outside and have dinner with me?”
     I readily agreed, and he returned to his party, who had been watching us with curious attention, no doubt wondering who I was.
     He didn't keep me waiting long. It was really quite astonishing how quickly he got rid of so many people, but in less than fifteen minutes he joined me outside the Club. Grabbing my arm, he hurried me across the road to where his Bugatti was standing.
     “Still got the old bus, I see,” I said, climbing in rather gingerly.
     “Yes, she's been overhauled from time to time, but I wouldn't part with her.” He settled himself in the driving-seat. “It's grand to see you again. Where shall we go? How about Max's? They give you a good dinner there.”
     “Sure, any place. Only take it easy,” I pleaded. “I'm not used to high speeds.”
     George laughed and engaged the gears. He drove at quite a reasonable speed. He wanted to know the fullest details about my trip to Washington, and so insistent was he that I suspected he was anxious not to talk about himself until we had settled down from our sudden meeting.
     We got a quiet table at Max's, which was not overcrowded, and ordered a light meal. I asked him what he would drink, but he shook his head. “I've given it up,” he said. “It wanted a lot of doing, but in my game it just doesn't pay.”
     I ordered a bottle of light wine for myself. “You certainly have jumped into fame, George,” I said. “What on earth made you take up racing so seriously?”
     He looked at me in an odd way. “Why shouldn't I? You know how keen I am on speed.”
     “I know, but I didn't think you were