“Where’s your permit?... Doctor’s car, is it? We’ve been taken in by that once before. Never again, thank you. Out with that permit if you have it, or it will be the worse for you.”
The armed group covered us with their rifles while Glendyne searched in his pocket. At last he produced a paper which the leader of the patrol examined.
“Oh, it’s you, Glendyne? Sorry to trouble you, but we can’t help it. A medical car came through the other night and played Old Harry with a patrol at Park Square; so we have to be careful, you see. I think it was some of Johansen’s little lot who had stolen a Red Cross car. Stephen got them with a bomb at Hanover Gate later in the evening and there wasn’t enough left to be sure who they were. Why they can’t leave this district alone beats me. They have most of London left to rollic in; and yet they must come here where no one wants them. By the way, where are you going?”
“Leaving the car at Wood’s Garage. Going down to the Circus on foot after that, I think; probably via Euston, though.”
“All right. I’ll telephone down. Sanderson’s patrol is out there in Portland Place and he might shoot you by accident. I’ll get him to look out for you on your way back.”
“Thanks. Very good of you, I’m sure.”
Our car ran forward again to the foot of Albany Street, where we turned in to a large public garage.
“What was that patrol?” I asked Glendyne.
“Local Vigilance Committee. Some districts have them. Trying to keep out the scum and looters.”
“But what about this being a medical car?”