Angela Pearson

There_s a whip in my valise

PART ONE

1

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller shook his head apologetically at the three hitch-hikers who waved their hands dejectedly at him, as they stood beside their rucksacks on the verge of the road. He felt a little guilty. He was alone in his car, which was a large Rolls-Royce, and there was plenty of room for them, ruck-sacks and all. And they did look quite decent, quite safe. They were probably university students. They were English, too. There was an English flag sewn to one of the ruck-sacks.

He put his foot tentatively to the brake pedal. Perhaps, he thought, he ought to stop for them, after all. Then he remembered some of the chilling stories that appeared constantly in the newspapers about robberies, beatings, even murders, by hitchhikers who had looked decent and safe to the drivers who picked them up. He moved his foot back to the accelerator.

The Rolls swept up the road with the gentle swish of an approaching gale. In his driving-mirror he watched them sit down on their ruck-sacks.

If they are English university students, he thought to himself, it's a great pity. But how can one be certain of hitchhikers these days? That flag doesn't prove they are English. An English flag-or any other flag, for that matter-can be bought in almost every tourist souvenir-shop all over Europe. And what is to prove they are university students? They may just as easily be thugs.

He recalled, with a shiver, a story he had read only a few weeks ago. A Swiss business-man had picked up two young men on the outskirts of Kiel. They looked like university students. For the first hour or so they were pleasant and stimulating companions, and the Swiss began to congratulate himself for having picked them up. But then one of them drew a gun and ordered him to drive into the first quiet side-road. With a sick feeling of fear he obeyed, and stopped the car immediately he was ordered to do so. As he sat, with pounding heart, wondering what was going to happen next, he was hit hard under his right ear with the butt of the gun.

The two men bundled him, unconscious, out of the driving seat, and one of them took his place. The car was driven into a clearing in some nearby woods. It was parked carefully in a position in which it was screened by bushes and trees from the sight of anyone driving along the road below. The two men dragged the Swiss from the car and emptied his pockets of all his money and valuables. Then they stripped him naked. They picked him up and laid him face downwards over the front of his car. With some cord that they took from their rucksacks they tied him securely in this position, with his legs wide open. They found a tin of water in the luggage-boot and poured it over his head to help him to regain consciousness. When he finally came to his senses, they opened the fronts of their trousers and, one after the other, savaged him brutally. Satiated, they sat beside the car, smoking, listening to his moans, and waiting for their virility to return. Then they savaged him again.

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller shivered again. No, he thought. Let other people pick up hitch-hikers, if they want to. A sensible person doesn't take chances.

He looked at the dashboard clock. Six-twenty. With any luck he would be home before midnight.