He adjusted himself behind the steering wheel, slammed the car door, turned to me and said, “Damn it, Lam, there are times when I could knock your teeth right down your throat.”
I looked at him innocently. “Why?” I asked.
“I’m damned if I know,” Sellers said angrily, “and that’s what makes it so damned irritating.”
Seven
Sellers turned on the siren when he was half-way to town and we started speeding again.
“You can take me back to the office,” I told him. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“Where to now?”
He said, “You’ll find out,” and pushed down harder on the throttle.
We screamed through the Sunday traffic, pulled up at length in front of the Beaverbrook Hotel.
A plain-clothes officer gave a nod of his head as Sellers stalked in.