Free The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey

deep, sardonic voice. “You’re going to give me a nice ride.”
    â€œI’m damned well not! Get out, or I’ll push you out.”
    â€œWell, well, what vigour for an old man!” said the stranger, and put his left hand to his pocket – a movement which Bennett did not notice. “Drive on.”
    Bennett put on his handbrake again. “Get out!” He was almost incoherent with rage. “Get out before I—”
    â€œBefore you what?” asked the stranger, and showed his gun.
    Bennett gaped.
    The gun rested on the stranger’s knee, pointing towards the dashboard. The car was wide enough for there to be plenty of room between driver and passenger, and Bennett couldn’t get at it, even if he’d had the impulse. He felt shivery; and shivered more violently when the stranger gave a little laugh. Bennett saw his face only vaguely.
    â€œLet’s go,” said the stranger.
    Bennett muttered: “What—what do you want? I haven’t any money with me—not much; I—”
    â€œNever mind that. I want a nice ride. Turn right at the next corner; you know the road, don’t you?”
    â€œI—I have an urgent appointment at home, I can’t be too long.”
    â€œThey’ll wait for you, won’t they?” asked the stranger. “You’ve a nice little wife. What a lucky man you are! Have you ever realised that? What a very lucky man, with your lovely home and your family—”
    â€œDo—you know me?”
    â€œPerhaps I’m just guessing. Isn’t it time you started to drive?”
    Bennett moistened his lips, then let in the clutch. The car moved off slowly. The road to the right was half a mile farther along. He didn’t want to take it. He couldn’t safely put on speed along this lane; oncoming traffic was often careless here, and there were sometimes cyclists. His mouth was dry, but the shivering fit had passed. He was not without physical courage, but was getting on in years. He thought of grappling with the man, who looked strong.
    The gun still showed.
    The grass verge and the hedge showed up in the headlamps, and the signpost appeared; the right hand turn led to a hamlet several miles away, and to one or two isolated farmhouses.
    He slowed down.
    â€œYou’ve remembered,” said the man with the gun. “That’s good. Be careful you don’t scratch your wings, won’t you?”
    Bennett gulped.
    â€œI—I’ve fifteen pounds in my pocket, take that and—”
    â€œBut I don’t want your fifteen pounds,” said the stranger. “At least, that’s not all I want. You’re a happy man, aren’t you, Mr. Bennett? You’ve led a good life. A very good life.”
    The sneer was all too evident.
    â€œI—I’ve done everything I could to help others. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if you’d tell me what you want.”
    He had turned the corner. Here the hedges were high and the road narrower. It was much darker. The young leaves of hawthorn and bramble showed up pale in the light, and here and there a tall tree was thrown up in dark relief. A few stars now powdered the sky, and the red light of an aircraft moved overhead.
    â€œSo you’ve done everything you could to help others,” said the stranger. “And you’ve got yourself a plump little wife and two children and a fine home, haven’t you? You’ve retired on a big income and you’ve plenty of money—everything you need in life.”
    â€œI—I get along.”
    â€œWhat a fine understatement!” said the stranger. “You get along! You’ll get along all right, Mr. Bennett.” He leaned forward, and Bennett slowed down. “Be very careful, and look at me.”
    Bennett obeyed. The man’s lips were parted, and his eyes were glowing; they looked as if there was fire in them, in spite of the gloom. Bennett started