'No why?'
'Orders to stop any supplies leaving London d'you mind getting out?'
'Look here!'
'Sorry to trouble you, but I've got to search your car.' The man was polite, but firm. Obviously the only thing to do was to look cheerful and obey.
They climbed out and a swarm of lusty Greyshirts began to rummage in the car. Out of the back came the picnic basket.
'Here what's this?' exclaimed the officer.
'Supper,' said Kenyon. 'You're not going to pinch that are you we've had no dinner as it is!'
The basket was opened up, and it was obvious that Carter had done his job thoroughly. He had removed all the gadgets for picnic teas and stuffed every available inch of space with provender.
'Take it inside.' The officer jerked his head towards the Bridge House Hotel, which had been converted into a depot. The hamper was carried off and the search renewed with vigour.
Under the seat the Greyshirts discovered Kenyon's cigarettes, two bottles of hock and one each of Port and Brandy.
'Here! that's not food!' Kenyon protested as he saw these items about to follow the picnic basket.
The officer grinned. 'Sorry but I'm afraid they come under the heading of supplies. You can have your hamper back when it's empty if you like.'
'No, you can keep the damned thing,' Kenyon said angrily as he climbed back into his seat. 'How are things further South down in the Old Kent Road, I mean?'
'Might be worse they were making a bonfire of a big Rolls just past the Elephant and Castle half an hour ago, but they are more playful than vicious only took the gold watch off the old boy that owned it and let him go. He's back here in the Bridge House now.'
'That doesn't seem too good.'
'No, I should take the side turnings if I were you down Tooley Street and then strike into the main road further along.'
Veronica leant out. Her smile was seraphic enchanting. 'You don't think really that we shall all be murdered, do you?'
The officer smiled. 'I er sincerely trust not!'
'But it is rather shattering isn't it for a woman I mean if only we had you with us I should feel absolutely safe.'
'I'd love to see you through.' The young man's chest broadened perceptibly under Veronica's gaze, 'but I can't possibly leave my job be here all night I expect!'
Veronica had noticed the long line of cars parked outside the Bridge House. She glanced towards them now. 'Haven't you someone you could leave in charge?' she wheedled, 'just for ten minutes, while you took us through the worst part by the docks?'
'Well,' he hesitated. 'I couldn't go myself, of course, but I've got dozens more men than I actually need and I could send a car load to convoy you as far as Greenwich Park that would get you through the most troublesome area anyhow.'
'Oh, how perfectly splendid!' she loosed again the battery of her seductive smile.
With sudden embarrassment, cursing the presence of Kenyon and Ann, both interested spectators, he turned away and blew his whistle. The Greyshirts came tumbling out of the hotel, and he hurried over to them.
'How clever of you,' murmured Ann.
'Easy dearie!' chuckled Veronica. 'The conceit of women is nothing compared with that of men!'
The officer was calling for volunteers and there was no lack of them. Ten minutes later a dozen Greyshirts had clambered into an open car and Veronica's new friend returned with another officer.,
"This is Mr. Harker,' he said, by way of introduction.
'Silas Gonderport Harker,' corrected the lieutenant of Greyshirts with the faintest intonation that declared an American origin.
Ann gazed at him almost in awe. He was a good head taller than his senior, broad of shoulder, and magnificent in girth. Yet on that vast body he displayed no trace of superfluous fat. His face was round, flat nosed and cheerful. There was an undeniable hint of humour about Mr. Harker's tight shut mouth and twinkling eyes. 'If you'll stick as close as you can behind my car,' he said slowly, 'I'll see you through.'
'Thank you thank you a thousand times. And you!'
Veronica momentarily dazzled the Captain again with her bewitching smile.
Harker squeezed his elephantine bulk into the Grey shirts' car and moved off into the darkness with Kenyon following.
'All the luck!' shouted the slim Captain, and the last they saw of him was a saluting figure silhouetted against the light which streamed from the open door of the Bridge House Hotel.
Tooley Street was a cavern of silent blackness. They raced down it and into the gloom beyond. At the crossing by Tower Bridge they met the first sign of trouble; it was a still warm night, and a hundred and fifty people were standing out in the open road in front of a public house. Immediately they saw the Greyshirts an angry murmur ran through the throng and one man hurled an empty beer bottle. The leading car tore on and hurtled round the bend into Dockland, they young Greyshirts cheering derisively at the mob.
'Good thing I've got you an escort, lovie!' said Veronica quietly.
'I'm not so certain,' Kenyon muttered. 'The people down here hate these Greyshirts like hell. I've a good mind to catch them up and send them back we'd probably be safer on our own.'
Ann shook her head. 'It's too late now. If you try and overtake them at the speed they're going you will probably knock someone down.'
'That's the devil of it,' Kenyon agreed.
Through ill lit Dockland the cars roared on, past more public houses, then swerving sharply entered Parker's Row. Every hundred yards or so a fresh crowd surged out into the roadway, yelling abuse and throwing missiles. A rotten tomato thumped and spluttered on the windscreen of Kenyon's car. He thanked his gods that the glass was shatterproof, the next bull's eye might be with half a brick.
In Jamaica Road the crowd grew thicker, even the Greyshirts were afraid to rush it, and pulling up, signalled to Kenyon to turn back.
As he reversed his car up a turning they passed him again and sped down a side street lined with small, grim, poverty stricken houses. A moment later he was after them. The headlights of the cars threw the women and children huddled in the doorways into sharp relief. One harridan shrieked foul epithets as they rushed past another hurled a flower pot. Ann shuddered, realising suddenly that if the car stopped for a moment she would be at the mercy of these harpies.
The Greyshirts' car turned again and Kenyon followed through another dark canyon of decaying dwellings, where squalid garbage littered the gutters, and another contingent of frail, half starved, wolfish humanity lifted shrill voices against the flagrant opulence suggested by the powerful private car. Another turn and they were back in the main street once more, but forced to slow down by the stream of people who overlapped the narrow pavements. Ahead, in the uncertain light which flickered from a public house, the crush was denser, and in an open space before it they caught a glimpse of serried rows of people. Perched on a barrow above his head, a short squat bare headed man was gesticulating violently; they could not catch a word he said, but as he struck his open palm with his clenched fist a moan went up from the crowd. The Greyshirts had been forced to halt again; a black haired boy perched on the back of their car was making violent signals to Kenyon, who stopped and put his car into reverse.
'Hi! Where yer goin' blast yer came angry cries from the pavement. An empty egg box hurtled into the body of the car. It caught Ann on the head, but it was light and fortunately did no serious damage. With admirable presence of mind she turned, made a wry grimace in the direction whence it had come, and smiled. The man who had thrown it saw her, and the result was electric. He looked astonished crestfallen then all at once he grinned.
'Sorry lidy I didn't mean to 'urt yer.' He was a big burly chap, and forcing his way to the front of the crowd he pushed the onlookers right and left from in front of the bonnet.