There's a whip in my valise

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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.

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