In the grey coupe Marc was driving with a suicidal brilliance such as he had never before displayed. Some sainted sixth sense took him safely in and out and around cars at times when it seemed that sudden death would surely be the result. All the while, Toffee busied himself with the diverting task of observing and reporting the progress of their pursuers from the rear window. The green sedan appeared to be doing dishearteningly well, probably because of its driver's hair-raising disregard for any and all traffic laws. George, with a splendid lack of prejudice, was using both sides of the street indiscriminately. On the other hand, the taxi wasn't faring nearly so well. Actually, it didn't seem to be really trying. According to Toffee's lights, it showed a distressing, sissy tendency to play strictly according to the rules.
Probably the only thing that prevented this lunatic chase from strewing the streets with death and tragedy was its early and untimely end. Allowed to continue to its ultimate conclusion, unrestrained, heaven only knows what madness might have ensued. The beginning of the end came swiftly when Marc cut the coupe screamingly through an alley and onto a side street.
Emerging from the alley, full speed ahead, he suddenly rocked the car to a jouncing stop that sent Toffee flying into his lap. Ahead and behind, the street was jammed to its curbs with automobiles of all descriptions, their horns bewailing their predicament in no uncertain terms. It was the worst traffic jam Marc had ever seen, and by some miraculous maneuver that even he, himself, couldn't believe, he had managed to wedge the grey coupe very nearly into its center.
From Marc's lap, Toffee reached slender arms toward his neck. "You impetuous boy," she giggled. "We love in the midst of danger."
Marc shoved her rudely back onto the seat. "We'll languish in the midst of Sing Sing, if we don't look out," he growled. "Where is that green sedan?"
Toffee peered out the window. "Good grief!" she cried. "It just pulled up in the alley. It's so close I could hit it with a pebble."
"Hit it with a bomb." Marc moved to Toffee's side just in time to witness the arrival of the cop-laden taxi behind the green sedan. The sight of the policemen was not reassuring; and neither was the sudden appearance of the money bags, darting stealthily toward them from the door of the sedan.
"Trapped!" Marc groaned. "What'll we do?"
Of course, the only answer was flight. Opening the car door, Toffee tugged at Marc's sleeve. "Come on," she urged.