The Phantom Car by Fred M. White — Read

Meanwhile, Vincent had been steadily pursuing the yellow car in front of him all the way from Lincombe to London. His own two-seater was faster than the one in front, so that it was an easy matter to lie back a couple of hundred yards or so and keep Ebbsmith in sight. They went on and on, right into the heart of London, until Ebbsmith steered his way into one of the narrow streets close to the British Museum. There he pulled up and, jumping out of the car, entered a tall, shabby-looking house in front of him with the aid of a latchkey which he took from his pocket for that purpose. Evidently, Ebbsmith had a sort of pied-a-terre here, for he bustled up the steps with the air of a man who is thoroughly at home and never so much as looked over his shoulder when he slipped the key in the lock. The front door closed behind him and, as Vincent slid leisurely by, he saw that the number of the house was six, for a shabby figure to that effect showed on the fanlight in front of a dingy card containing the one word "Apartments." Vincent smiled as he noted the placard, then he drew up his car against the pavement a few doors away and sat at the wheel with the air of one who is waiting the coming of another.

At the expiration of half an hour, Ebbsmith left No. 6, Cannon Street, and bustled along in the direction of the Museum. As he faded out of sight, Vincent pushed in the clutch and, in a short time, reached his own office. There he handed over the car to the office boy with instructions to garage it and, after that, went up to his own private room, from which he emerged a few moments later changed beyond recognition.