Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
The constantly recurring question, “Was he a killer?” destroyed this one moment that should have meant peace. He realized dimly that never in life could he enjoy the well being of quiet places. Too long had the Wolf been dedicated to violence.
He turned back; his father had already retired. He undressed slowly and got into bed. For hours the glow of his cigarettes burned against the darkness as he planned a get-away that this time should actually lead to Mexico.
Sunday morning dawned at the ranch like any other day. No church bells rang in the valley, nor well dressed idlers loitered through the holiday. Chickens and rabbits must be fed, and as Harris backed the Ford out of the leanto garage he observed the scattering of farmers in the little community already at work.
His father came out of the house and stood bareheaded in the sunshine watching him.
Wolf leaned out of the car.
“The express office is supposed to be closed to-day, but the guy promised he’d be there to let me have them rabbits. I’ll be back before noon.”
The old man nodded.
“I’m crazy for to see ’em,” he admitted with a gleam of anticipation.
“You understand how things is with me, pop.” said Harris slowly. “If anything should happen, like I got a wire, I might pull out, see? You want to cross this new buck with them other rabbits you got, but keep the new strain unmixed.”
His father opened his mouth as though suddenly deprived of speech.
“I’m just tellin’ you what to do if I have to send ’em out by somebody else, that’s all. I expect I’ll be back like I said. So long.”
He spun the little car around and turned it down the newly made driveway. When he reached the main road he looked back. The old man was still standing, bareheaded, watching.
Harris leaned out of the window and waved. He saw the other answer uncertainly.
Surprised at his own action, he stepped on the throttle viciously. In his pocket was a note already prepared to send back by the driver he would presently arrange for. For the last time he said good-by to his father.
The nearest railroad station was Gleason, fourteen miles away. Not more than a score of houses comprised the village. It lay on the main boulevard to Los Angeles, and on Sunday was apt to be crowded with automobiles.
By going early Harris hoped to avoid most of this traffic. He had previously received, through the services of Svensen, who had been in to Gleason for supplies, the express agent’s consent to meet the morning train. As he approached, Harris observed that the State highway was still nearly deserted; hardly a soul seemed astir in the town.
He drove boldly to the express office, where he found the agent and his son awaiting him.
“Train got in fifteen minutes ago and left some of the prettiest bunnies I ever laid eyes on,” admired the former as Harris pulled up. “My boy here has some rabbits, but they’re nothing to these.”
The Wolf glanced incuriously at the crates and then turned to the youth.
“Can you drive a Ford, kid?” he asked.
“Sure can, mister,” answered the other.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” offered Harris. “If you’ll take this outfit out to the ranch an’ leave the car you can have one of the does. I’ll give you a note to the old man explaining.”
“Oh, will I!” exclaimed the boy.
“It’ll save me a trip in and back. I’ve got to get to Los Angeles on the next stage an’ I may be gone a week or two.”
“I can tie my bike behind and ride back on it,” the boy told his father.
This being satisfactorily concluded. Harris moved up the street to the main garage where the auto stages stopped. He bought a Sunday paper from a soft drink establishment near-by and withdrew around the corner of the building to discover in seclusion the answer to the question that burned like a fever in his blood.
On the second inside page he found it:
Further along he read a wholly erroneous description of himself. At the end was appended a paragraph to the effect that Patrolman Roney was the father of three small children.
Harris crumpled the paper with an oath. He sat for a time chin in hand, thinking, fighting against the panic that threatened his already ragged nerves.
One thought above all churned through the turmoil in his mind: He must put as much distance as possible between himself and Gleason. There must be nothing to connect him with the ranch and “the old man.”
He got up.
A huge truck returning empty from the city had stopped to take on gas and oil.
The weary driver was getting a drink at the stand next door.
Harris approached affably.
“I’ll take the wheel fer awhile if you’ll give me a lift,” he offered.
“How far are you going?” asked the other.
“Oh, up the line,” answered the Wolf vaguely.
“I turn off about thirty miles above here, if that’ll do you any good,” said the driver.
“That’s O. K.,” agreed Harris.
He climbed to the high seat.
“I’ll get her goin’ an’ you can spell me awhile,” said the stranger as he cranked up.
Harris took the wheel.
“We been cuttin’ alfalfa at the ranch,” the young fellow informed him as they moved off. “I worked all day yesterday and started in to town at twelve o’clock last night. I ain’t had a wink of sleep since Friday night.”
“Take a nap then; I can handle her,” said Harris.
“I sure would like to, but don’t forget I turn off where we come to a rock gas station. It’s on the edge of the desert. You can get a lift from there.”
He shortly fell asleep, and the gunman, breathing easier as each succeeding mile dropped between him and “the ranch,” piloted the big machine onward.
But toward the last they seemed to drag along. As each succeeding carload of Sunday tourists flashed past, now with greater frequency as the morning drew on, he had a feeling of being held back. It was a nightmarish sensation.
Eventually they reached the turn off and Harris awoke the other and climbed down.
“Hey, Joe,” his late companion called to the gas station manager, “if anybody comes by you know, tell ’em to give this guy a lift; he’s O. K.”
“Thanks,” called Harris.
“Thanks yourself,” yelled the young fellow as he drove off.
V
Out here, on the edge of the Mohave the sun was too hot to be comfortable. The Wolf moved over to what shade was offered at the side of the gas station.
“Where you headed for?” inquired the dour-looking manager suspiciously.
“Up the line.”
“Well, stick around, there’ll be a lot of cars stop by before noon.”
He sat down in the shade and waited, but whereas it seemed that previously a continuous line of machines had darted past, now they had disappeared utterly.
He got up again and paced back and forth restlessly. He felt that something was gaining on him.
“If it wasn’t for them damn rabbits I could ’a’ been in New York by now,” he muttered.
Then his mood changed. “Gee, I bet the old man was tickled when he seen ’em. I’d like to been there. Maybe in a year, I might get back.”
“Here comes one now,” called Joe.
A big black sport roadster with red trimming and generous nickel plating was slowing down. At sight of the long hood sheltering the powerful motor, the Wolf’s heart leaped. Here was a car he could make a get-away in, if he only had the chance.