Lord Peter Views the Body by Dorothy L. Sayers

Bedford. The Norton rider again glanced back; the Scott rider again sounded his horn ferociously. Flat as a chessboard, dyke and field revolved about the horizon.
        The constable at Eaton Socon was by no means an anti-motor fiend. In fact, he had just alighted from his push-bike to pass the time of day with the A.A. man on point duty at the cross-roads. But he was just and God-fearing. The sight of two maniacs careering at seventy miles an hour into his protectorate was more than he could be expected to countenance – the more, that the local magistrate happened to be passing at that very moment in a pony-trap. He advanced to the middle of the road, spreading his arms in a majestic manner. The Norton rider looked, saw the road beyond complicated by the pony-trap and a traction-engine, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He flung the throttle-lever back, stamped on his squealing brakes, and skidded to a standstill. The Scott, having had notice, came up mincingly, with a voice like a pleased kitten.
        ‘Now, then,’ said the constable, in a tone of reproof, ‘ain’t you got no more sense than to come drivin’ into the town at a ’undred miles an hour. This ain’t Brooklands, you know. I never see anything like it. ’Ave to take your names and numbers, if you please. You’ll bear witness, Mr Nadgett, as they was doin’ over eighty.’
        The A.A. man, after a swift glance over the two sets of handlebars to assure himself that the black sheep were not of his flock, said, with an air of impartial accuracy, ‘About sixty-six and a half, I should say, if you was to ask me in court.’
        ‘Look here, you blighter,’ said the Scott man indignantly to the Norton man, ‘why the hell couldn’t you stop when you heard me hoot? I’ve been chasing you with your beastly bag nearly thirty miles. Why can’t you look after your own rotten luggage?’
        He indicated a small, stout bag, tied with string to his own carrier.
        ‘That?’ said the Norton man, with scorn. ‘What do you mean? It’s not mine. Never saw it in my life.’
        This bare-faced denial threatened to render the Scott rider speechless.
        ‘Of all the –’ he gasped. ‘Why, you crimson idiot, I saw it fall off, just the other side of Hatfield. I yelled and blew like fury. I suppose that overhead gear of yours makes so much noise you can’t hear anything else. I take the trouble to pick the thing up, and go after you, and all you do is to race off like a lunatic and run me into a cop. Fat lot of thanks one gets for trying to be decent to fools on the road.’
        ‘That ain’t neither here nor there,’ said the policeman. ‘Your licence, please, sir.’
        ‘Here you are,’ said the Scott man, ferociously flapping out his pocket-book. ‘My name’s Walters, and it’s the last time I’ll try to do anybody a good turn, you can lay your shirt.’
        ‘Walters,’ said the constable, entering the particulars laboriously in his note-book, ‘and Simpkins. You’ll ’ave your summonses in doo course. It’ll be for about a week ’ence, on Monday or thereabouts, I shouldn’t wonder.’
        ‘Another forty bob gone west,’ growled Mr Simpkins, toying with his throttle. ‘Oh, well, can’t be helped, I suppose.’
        ‘Forty bob?’ snorted the constable. ‘What do you think? Furious driving to the common danger, that’s wot it is. You’ll be lucky to get off with five quid apiece.’
        ‘Oh, blast!’ said the other, stamping furiously on the kick-starter. The engine roared into life, but Mr Walters dexterously swung his machine across the Norton’s path.
        ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he said viciously. ‘You jolly well take your bleeding bag, and no nonsense. I tell you, I saw it fall off.’
        ‘Now, no language,’ began the constable, when he suddenly became aware that the A.A. man was staring in a very odd manner at the bag and making signs to him.