The Long Ride (15 page)

But why, he asked himself, hadn’t she started screaming? Hadn’t she told Benson what happened? He’d expected to see Benson come charging out of there. Well, maybe she hadn’t told him, he thought. Maybe she hadn’t because she hadn’t minded it so much, after all. Maybe he’d just pushed it too fast. She didn’t mind, but she’d gotten stubborn, that was all. Maybe she’d really gone for it, including that promise he’d made that he could get her anything she wanted. Yeah, he thought, maybe that was it.

He felt a little better then, more certain, stronger; and the shaking began to disappear. Okay, he thought, thinking of Harry Wells. I can handle you, friend. Reno—that’s where it’s going to count. Only that package has got to be there by the time I get there. And I’ve got to shake you, buddy.

He was thoughtful for a moment, then he walked into the bathroom and took a new razor blade from its holder. Cicely was still crying when he came back through the room and stepped outside. Once again, the lights in Wells’s cabin went out. The stupid bastard, Garwith thought. He’s too damn obvious. It’s no wonder he screwed up that bank job. He’s stupid. Well, all right.

He stood in front of the cabin for a moment, then suddenly broke to the left, away from Wells’s cabin, dodging around the corner. He moved swiftly, hearing Wells’s door flying open. Blade in hand, he went over a short fence, into an alley, then ran with a swift athletic speed half the distance down the block. There was a closed appliance shop at that point. He cut back along its wall and stopped. He could hear running behind him.

He stood very motionless and silent against that wall, out of sight in the shadows, and watched Harry Wells moving down the alley. You are really stupid, he thought.

When Wells had gone out of sight, he returned to the motel, to the front of the court, where Mrs. Landry’s car was parked.

He got the hood up quickly, then ran his hands along the engine until he found the fuel line. Carefully he sliced it thinly with the razor blade, then closed the hood.

He hurried back to his cabin and shut the door behind him. Cicely looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Allan, I—”

He smiled at her, feeling better now, much better. “So I’ve been in a lousy mood,” he said. “So it’ll all be all right pretty soon. He grinned widely, knowing that was an absolute fact. “What’s to cry about?”

“Oh, Allan,” Cicely said. She got out of bed and ran to him. She put her arms around him tightly.

In a few moments, there was a knock at their door. Garwith opened it, to face a hard-eyed Harry Wells. Wells’s forehead was wet with perspiration. He extended a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Thought maybe I was using up your last cigarettes. Went out and bought some.”

Garwith looked at him and smiled tightly and thought: The hell you say—you just about busted something until you made sure I was back in here, and you go right on being so stupid it’s astounding. “Thanks, but I’ve got plenty.”

“Sure,” Wells said. “I didn’t disturb you, did I?”

“No,” Garwith said. “You didn’t.”

Wells walked back toward his cabin. Garwith shut the door and turned around. He took Cicely in his arms once more, still smiling. Reno, he thought. Then I start again, fresh and new, without this broad to make me sick every time I look at her.

“Allan,” Cicely said, holding to him like a child, “all I want is to know you love me. You do love me, don’t you, Allan?”

“Cicely,” he said, “you know it. But listen. How about letting me carry the money, all of it, from here on? Just so I don’t forget what it feels like.”

Before they vacated the cabin at midnight, while Cicely was turned the other way, he was able to take the gun from the bag and fit it under his belt beneath his jacket.

CHAPTER

The station wagon rolled away from the motel a few minutes after midnight. After the usual shock of Mrs. Landry’s flooring the gas pedal as they left the city limits of Salt Lake City, the inside of the car became silent. John Benson sat again in his usual place in the back. Miss Kennicot, who had returned to her place up front beside Mrs. Landry, was strangely silent. She sat woodenly, John noticed, chin tilted up as though she had sniffed something foul in the air. Everyone else sat in their original places.

As they raced past the Great Salt Lake, the water reflecting the moon as a train lumbered slowly across the lake over dark pilings, Mrs. Landry started humming her favorite song, “Everyone Is Beautiful in Someone’s Eyes,” a song which Miss Kennicot had particularly liked and learned from Mrs. Landry. Tonight, however, Miss Kennicot did not join in. Instead she turned her head, gazing out at the night, and Mrs. Landry’s cheerful voice gradually died away.

They left the lake and moved onto the desert. Traffic was extremely thin. Cool air had relieved the blinding heat of the day. The station wagon sailed smoothly over the salt-flats highway.

The car began to lose power when they were nearing the far, western edge of the desert.

In sudden frustration over the loss of speed, Mrs. Landry tromped on the accelerator. The car jumped ahead, faltered, jumped ahead, then finally rolled to a stop at the edge of the highway.

“The darn thing,” Mrs. Landry said.

“Well, what’s the matter with it?” Miss Kennicot said, speaking for the first time. “Aren’t we ever going to get this trip over with?” Her voice had a note of anger, sharpness and whining distress in it.

Mrs. Landry looked at her in surprise. John Benson said quickly, “Why don’t you try it again, Mrs. Landry?”

Mrs. Landry did and shook her head. “Darn thing.”

“Well,” Allan Garwith said in a full, clear voice, “it isn’t the gas. You got a full tank in Salt Lake.”

“I’ll take a look under the hood,” Harry Wells said. “How about that flash in the compartment?” Miss Kennicot gave him the flashlight with one angry movement. Harry Wells climbed out and opened the hood. Allan Garwith followed, then John Benson also got out.

The beam of the flashlight went over the engine slowly, while the howling of coyotes echoed over the desert. John Benson saw Allan Garwith start when that howling reached their ears; he turned quickly, looking out over the moonlit flatland, his eyes flickering apprehensively. Wells shook his head. “I don’t know. I never ran a motor pool. I wouldn’t know what it is. How about you, Benson?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about cars, Sergeant.”

“Garwith?” Wells said.

“Let me take a look,” Allan Garwith said, taking the flashlight. He moved the beam around, poking and shoving at wires gingerly. “Hell, I don’t know.”

“Maybe a vapor lock,” Wells said doubtfully. He walked back to the window beside Mrs. Landry and asked, “How’s the temperature gauge?”

Mrs. Landry checked. “Normal. Right on the little line.”

Wells walked back to the opened hood. No car had passed or met them. “The car’s not overheated so it isn’t a lock in the fuel pump. Somebody’ll have to get help.”

John Benson stepped to Miss Kennicot’s window and said, “How far is the next town, Miss Kennicot?” He smiled at her, certain, somehow, that someone—probably Garwith—had tampered with the car. He hadn’t wanted to risk another telephone call in Salt Lake, or he might have found out through the report of the man the office there had placed on the motel. But it made sense that Garwith was stalling—perhaps to make certain his package arrived before the station wagon. That would mean that Garwith had sent it somewhere along the line of travel, perhaps Reno. And that, John told himself, was good news. He was, he was certain, going to get his chance to get both of them, and very shortly. But it was not, he knew, going to be easy.

Miss Kennicot flashed him a withering look. She snapped, “Ten miles. Ten miles straight down the road. What’s the matter? Can’t you fix the car? I thought men were supposed to be able to do anything. That’s a laugh, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, Miss Kennicot,” he said politely, surprised by her reaction. He returned to the front of the car. “There’s a town ten miles ahead.”

“Well,” Allan Garwith said quickly, “you fellows relax. I’ll hitch a ride and send somebody back.” He smiled engagingly and walked back along the car. “Cicely, I’m going to get help.”

“I’ll do it, Garwith,” Wells said, stopping him. “You better stay with your wife. If I had a wife, I wouldn’t want to leave her out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Garwith turned around. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. I mean, I trust you fellows to take care of things. A good Army man like you? Why would I worry? I’ll be glad to go.”

“Why,” John said, “don’t I do it? The sergeant’s right. You’d better stay with your wife. And I think you’re right—a good Army man like the sergeant here ought to be around too, just in case.”

“All right,” Wells said swiftly. “You go on, Benson. We’ll stay here, both of us.”

Allan Garwith opened his mouth, as though preparing to protest, then closed it and climbed into the station wagon, slamming the door behind him.

“Here comes a car, Benson,” Wells said thinly.

The car bore down on them, slowed slightly, then whipped on. The howling of animals across the desert continued. The fifth car going in their direction stopped. Mrs. Landry called after John, “I’m a member of the Three A’s too, Mr. Benson, just like Vera here. If there’s a Three A’s place, that’ll be the best thing.”

John got into a new Ford driven by a white-haired man with a good tan who explained, as he drove on, that he was a soup salesman. “They’ve got a tow-in service up ahead,” he said. “Both auto clubs.” Fifteen minutes later John was let out at an all-night service station and garage on the edge of a small town. A lank youth in white coveralls explained that the tow truck was on another call, that it should be back in twenty minutes. John stepped into the public telephone booth and called Reno. A man named Ryan came on with a rasping voice, after the call had been switched to his home.

“Benson? Good. Where are you?”

“West of Salt Lake on the edge of the desert. Little town ahead of Toand Range. The station wagon fluked out about ten miles back. I hitched a ride in here to get a tow truck. I think Garwith’s stalling for time. I think he jimmied the car one way or another.”

“I got the report from Salt Lake. The man on the motel there said he had the hood on the car up before you left.”

“Well, you’d better have the police alerted in both directions, just in case that station wagon can be fixed while I’m gone and Garwith or Wells tries something.”

“All right. But I think Garwith just wants to get to Reno. We located the package—it’s in the Reno post office right now. He sent it to a phony name, Raymond Jones. Either that or he’s got an accomplice by that name. I doubt that, because he hasn’t had enough time to set a partner up.”

John blinked once. “How about the money? Did you open the package?”

“We didn’t want to touch it until you checked in with us.”

“Have it opened, very carefully. I’ll check back with you in ten minutes.”

“Right.”

He hung up and stepped out. The tow truck had not arrived. The youth in the white coveralls was relining the brakes on a white 1958 Thunderbird.

In ten minutes John called Reno again. Ryan said, “Money’s there—all of it. The boys were careful opening it. We’ve got Garwith now, the minute he asks for it.”

“But not Wells.”

“We can wrap up the package again, with phony money inside.”

“Yes, and maybe tip off either Garwith or Wells. We can’t afford that.” He was silent for a moment. “There’s only one way to do it. Let Garwith get the package with the real money in it. Let Wells make his move. Once Wells gets his hands on that money, we’ve got him. There’s supposed to be identification on general delivery material, isn’t there?”

“Supposed to be. They don’t always do it. Depends on the clerk or whether they think they know the customer. Did they check him in Cheyenne?”

“Maybe I should have asked, but I didn’t. I don’t think they did, so I think he doesn’t know what the rule is supposed to be, hasn’t even thought about it. If he has, then maybe he’s got some false identification ready. Or maybe he’s got a friend involved in this. I don’t think so. But no matter what it is, I want him to get that package. If someone else asks for it, let them have it and tail them. But I don’t figure that any more than you do. I think Garwith will ask for it. When he does, have them give it to him. Make sure they rewrap it carefully.”

“You’re giving away good odds.”

“I have to.”

He closed his eyes, visualizing the post office in Reno. It was on Virginia Street, the main downtown street, on the Truckee River. The Riverside Hotel was directly across the street. He’d been there several times during his college days, a few times on the job before he went into the Washington office.

“All right,” he said. “Cover the post office. Put a man in the lobby of the Riverside. Have him ready with a gun for me. I’m going unarmed right now. I’ll be wearing the blue suit I’ve got on, a striped yellow and blue tie. If I need help, I’ll wave. Otherwise leave it alone. If Garwith picks up the package and goes out, I’m going to wait until Wells goes for it. Have a man behind me. I figure if Garwith takes the money out, Wells’ll make his move pretty fast. But maybe Garwith will mail it again. If he doesn’t, and Wells hasn’t made his try by the time we leave Reno, better put a car behind us. But nobody moves in until I signal. All right?”

“All right, Benson. Good luck.”

The tow truck had returned when John stepped outside. Minutes later he was riding in the cab with a short, swarthy man, who said nothing all the way back to the station wagon. There the mechanic lifted the hood and silently examined the engine. “Fuel line,” he said. “Shot. Have to put in a new one. Better tow you in.”

The station wagon was hitched to the truck. Thirty minutes later, after a creeping journey, the wagon and passengers arrived at the all-night station. The fuel line was replaced. The short, swarthy man held the old one in his hand. “Looks like it was cut.” Within range of his voice were John, Allan Garwith, Harry Wells, Cicely and Mrs. Landry.