Dance With a Stranger [antikvár]

London, Spring 1954 Knightsbridge lay cold and silent beneath a dark and hostile sky. Poised and elegant in their expensive winter fashions, the models in the shop windows looked out through sightless eyes at empty streets that were swept by an insistent breeze. A large black cat loped soundles-sly along the pavement, its ears pricked, its tail erect. Sensing danger, it froze for a second, listened intently, then darted off into the shadows. It reached safety only just in time. Out of the night came an explosion of nőise and colour. With rasping engines and raking headlights, a cluster of sports cars tore along the road as if it were a race track. They battled for the lead, took frightening risks, tempted fate time and again. The drivers were professionals out on a spree, handling their vehicles with an expert skill and daredevil confidence that had their female passengers screaming in excitement. When one car surged to the front and zigzagged crazily to keep the others at bay, a second machine mounted the pavement in order to overtake and almost collided with a lamppost as it rejoined the road. A symphony of horns acknowledged the new leader then the chase continued in earnest. In the middle of the pack, at once part of the race and separate from it, was a gleaming Ford Zephyr Zodiac. Beside the other, smaller cars it looked flashily American with its chrome bumpers and trim, its white-edged tyres, its battery of lights and its spotless two-tone bodywork. Crouched behind its driving wheel was a short, stocky