Free Run! by Patricia Wentworth

them.
    Suppose it wasn’t anything at all.
    Suppose it was.
    He heard Sally’s voice saying slowly and distinctly, “Anyone who wanted to—could find out—who was driving that car—couldn’t they?”
    She had said that. And he had said,
    â€œI suppose they could if they chose to take the trouble, but I don’t know why they should.”
    And Sally had said softly, “They mightn’t know—how much—you had seen.”
    James shook himself. Hang it all, what on earth had all this got to do with Jackson going off on a binge? The thing that talked in the dark corner of his mind said, “Hazeby wanted to know who had been driving the car, and Jackson butted in and said that he had.” So someone did want to find out who had been driving the Rolls. And they thought they had found Jackson. They thought they had found Jackson. And where is Jackson now?
    â€œSleeping off his binge, I should think,” said James with furious common sense.
    He got back just before six. There was no word about Jackson. Mr. Parkinson, the manager, was being stuffy about it in a superior, high-hat sort of way. He really could not imagine—he could not conceive—he was at a loss to understand—he had been obliged to send Smiles out with an American client, a thing that should really never have been allowed to happen. “I really am entirely at a loss to understand what has become of Jackson.”
    Next day there was still no Jackson. James had to go down to Chislehurst again. The Misses Palmer wished to see a smaller car. They had both rung up about it, one at nine o’clock, and the other at five minutes past. Each hoped separately that it would be Mr. Elliot who would bring the car down—such a good driver and so reliable.
    Miss Callender, rather paler than usual, attempted a rallying smile.
    â€œLooks as if you’d got off too, Mr. Elliot—doesn’t it?”
    James made a face.
    â€œToo?” he enquired.
    â€œMr. Jackson,” said Miss Callender, and the smile faded out. “You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?”
    â€œRubbish! What is there to happen?” said James, and went to pick a mild, well-mannered car for the Misses Palmer.
    He found the large Miss Palmer waiting for him at the corner of their road. When he drew up she came up to the window and told him in a brisk, domineering manner that he was to discourage her sister from attempting to drive.
    â€œShe is very highly strung, Mr. Elliot, and not at all fitted to handle machinery. I shall be obliged if you will tell her so. It will be more acceptable from a stranger and an expert. I do not wish to have to tell her that nothing will induce me to enter the car if she insists upon driving it.”
    James felt a certain amount of sympathy for the large Miss Palmer.
    â€œWell,” he said, “she would have to pass a driving test.”
    â€œI believe not. Unfortunately she took some driving lessons a few-years ago. I am informed that anyone possessing a licence before the new regulations came in is not obliged to pass the test.”
    James said, “I see.” And then, “Well, I’ll do my best, Miss Palmer. I don’t think she would be very safe on the road.”
    She shook her head gloomily.
    â€œI shall refuse to enter the car. Drive on to the house, Mr. Elliot. I do not wish her to know that I have spoken to you.”
    James drew up at the rustic gate. Half way down the pergola which led to the front door he encountered the little Miss Palmer in a state of considerable agitation.
    â€œOh, Mr. Elliot—good morning! You haven’t seen my sister? I did want if possible to have a word with you, but I shouldn’t like her to think—I don’t know if you are a gardener, but perhaps I might be showing you the new rockery.”
    She took him round the house and down another pergola. The new rockery was very new