The Luck Runs Out (25 page)

“But how on earth did Flackley manage to be in so many places at once?” said Helen. “That’s what’s been puzzling Iduna and me. We knew the minute he opened his mouth, of course, that he wasn’t quite what he pretended to be.”

“You did? How?”

“His kind never is,” Iduna replied for her. “There’s a certain type of man who wouldn’t tell you the straight truth if you paid him by the word. Helen and I have both got the old snake-oil treatment often enough to know when somebody’s pouring it on.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Peter darling,” Helen expostulated, “being a liar doesn’t necessarily make one a thief and a murderer. We thought Flackley was probably just trying to make a little time with Iduna. We didn’t stop him because we wanted to find out if there was anything more to it than that before we started spreading tales about the man. It was only fair.”

“And besides, he had that sexy, smoldering quality,” snarled her husband. “I hope that’ll be a lesson to you.”

“My stars,” said Iduna, “I hope you don’t think either of us would ever have touched him with a ten-foot pole. Not when we could have the company of fine, intellectual gentlemen like you and—and some of the other professors I’ve—”

Her voice dwindled to a sigh. Shandy glanced at her interestedly, then resumed his narrative.

“Vandalizing our wagon was easy for a man who must really have had the sort of experience Flackley claimed he did. In fact, he did it much too well for credibility. He’d obviously taken inventory at the smithy, knew what replacement parts were available, and smashed the pieces that would be easy for a blacksmith with the right equipment to fix. A real vandal wouldn’t have gone for the metal as he did, but would have demolished the seats, perhaps set fire to the wooden body, knocked the spokes out of the wheels, things like that.

“Flackley did knock out a few hoops and staves, but he did it in such a way that the barrels could easily be made usable again. Once I’d seen the sort of damage that was done and remembered how adroitly he’d let us know he was an expert wagon-fixer, I finally got it through my thick skull that we’d been very neatly conned. I knew I could put the wagon right myself in a few hours, given the tools and parts, so when he made his big hoopla about its being an all-night job, I realized he must be planning to melt down the metal and pour it into the kegs. After that, the best thing to do was let the scheme go on and—er—catch them gold-handed.”

“Peter Shandy,” gasped his wife, “do you mean you knew those men were going to attack the wagon, and you deliberately let yourself and Thorkjeld be sitting ducks? What if they’d shot you?”

“My love, we were not sitting ducks. In the first place, Thorkjeld knew what was going to happen, and was looking forward to the experience with considerable zest. In the second place, he and I were both wearing bulletproof vests and helmets lent us by Lieutenant Corbin, who was right on our tails in a police cruiser. In the third place, I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any shooting, and there wasn’t. Flackley and his gang expected to have the jump on us, you see. They were carrying blackjacks, which simply bounced off our helmets.”

“Seems kind of complicated to me,” said Iduna. “Why’d they have to go through all that rigmarole?”

“Because they had to get the gold and silver past the police roadblocks. On that route, the one ticklish point was where the old county road joins the main highway. Almost any other large vehicle would have been stopped and searched, but they knew the police wouldn’t interfere with the Balaclava wagon. It would be like arresting the Bunker Hill Monument. We’d be expected to cross there at just about that time, you see, and that’s what would happen, only somebody else would be driving.

“I reasoned that Flackley and his lads would delay the attack as long as they could, rather than risk the chance that some of our students might ride out to escort us part of the way and find out the wagon had been hijacked. However, they couldn’t wait till we’d got across the highway because then we’d be on the fairgrounds road. Other teams would be coming along, and they might either be spotted or jump the wrong team in the dark and blow the whole performance. I scouted the route yesterday and decided they’d be most apt to pull their ambush from that old tannery next to the road, about a quarter of a mile from the crossing.”

“And that, I assume, is where they were,” said Helen. “Darn you, Peter, you make it sound so—so easy!”

“Well, it was, when you come right down to it. The hardest part was the waiting.”

“But did they actually intend to drive our wagon all the way to the fairgrounds? How would they have got the barrels away?”

“With ease and finesse. One of the crooks drives for a brewery in his—er—more legitimate moments. His truck was parked out behind the tannery. He’d have driven it out to the highway right in front of the wagon. He knew he’d be stopped and searched, and he wanted to be. That would keep the police busy, and they’d be even more apt to wave the wagon across.

“The driver would have explained that he was headed for the fairgrounds to supply the refreshment stand with beer for the Competition. The police would slosh all the barrels around, maybe tap a few to make sure it really was beer, which of course it was, then they’d let him through. He’d tootle on up to the fairgrounds as advertised, then he and his cohorts would switch his barrels for ours, pile into the truck with the loot, and hightail it for God knows where. Sooner or later, our bugle boys would have realized they were sitting on full kegs instead of empties, but by then Flackley and the rest would be long gone.”

“You mean that fuzzy-faced rodeo hand planned the whole stunt?” said Iduna. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m not asking you to. Flackley’s no planner. He’s not even a hundred percent perfect at doing what he’s told. For instance, he was rather careless when he burned Miss Flackley’s mohair stole out at the old forge. I found some bits of brown fuzz among the ashes while I was wandering around making a nuisance of myself there yesterday.”

“Then who—”

A County Seat Taxi stopped in front of the house. A very large man got out.

“Ah,” said Shandy, “here he comes now.”

“Professor Stott! Peter, you can’t mean—”

“Perish the thought. Our tale is not yet told. Ah, Stott, old friend, come in. Come in!”

“Shandy, my trusty comrade!”

The colleagues wrung hands. Even as he thanked the man who’d got him free, however, Stott’s eyes were elsewhere.

“Good evening, Miss Bjorklund. The prodigal, as you see, returns.”

Iduna gave him a three-hundred-candlepower smile, then dropped her eyes demurely, “Want some coffee?” she murmured.

“Later,” Shandy barked. “Grab your coats.”

“Peter Shandy,” Helen protested, “I refuse to budge till you tell us where we’re going.”

“There, naturally.” He pointed directly across the Crescent.

“To Tim’s house? Whatever for?”

“Because, damn it.”

Shandy grabbed, his wife’s elbow and hustled her over the green. Ames’s front door was standing ajar. He pushed it wide open, switched on a light, and beckoned them inside.

“Whew,” gasped Iduna. “A person could choke to death in here.”

“A person was intended to,” Shandy replied, “so that another person could gain time for a quiet getaway. Better leave that door open. Fortunately, Tim was on the alert and bopped that she-devil over the head with a bottle of Lysol while she was mixing him a bucketful of ammonia and bleach water as a farewell present.”

“Lorene McSpee!”

“None other. She wangled herself a job here, snooped around and gathered local gossip from Mirelle Feldster, searched out escape routes in Tim’s car while she was supposedly off buying more bleach water, laid her plans, lined up two confederates, then sent for Flackley. They did the real work while she took care of the odd jobs, like making those funny phone calls, planting the pigs’ feet and pork chops, and scattering sunflower seeds around to confuse the issue. By the way, her blood’s Type O, and she does have a nasty abrasion on one finger.”

“I’ll bet she did that switching the horseshoes around,” said Helen, “and I’m afraid I was the one who gave her the idea. I mentioned that discussion I’d had about horseshoes with Miss Flackley and Professor Stott the night she came to dinner.”

“As her boyfriend the blacksmith would say, don’t sweat it. Her own luck ran out, not ours. I’m delighted to inform you that Lorene McSpee is now in the steel château, charged with conspiracy, attempted murder, and grand larceny.”

“Peter, how lovely! How could they charge her with grand larceny, though? She didn’t actually take part in the robbery, did she?”

“She drove the car they transferred you to. Don’t forget, however, that there was more than one robbery, and more to her bleach water than met the nose.”

He led them to the cellar door and threw it open. On the top step sat Timothy Ames, armed to the teeth with a coal shovel and a pair of hedge clippers. Feeling the draft, Ames whirled to attack.

“Move one step closer and I’ll whang the daylights out of—Oh, hi, Pete. What the hell took you so long?”

“I was waiting for Stott. It would have been a shame for him to miss the joyful reunion.”

“Reunion?”

With a jubilant cry, Stott hurtled down the stairs. A frenzied oinking filled the air.

“Perhaps we ought to leave them alone together,” Helen murmured. “Peter, how did you ever guess she was here?”

“You told me, my love, you and the Brontë sisters. Your little japery about the apprentice keeping the books under his bed set me thinking. What if Belinda never did go anywhere in that van? What if she’d simply trotted somewhere on her own four feet, lured by a bucketful of succulent swill, or whatever, while the droppings were planted as camouflage?

“Then I got to wondering where she might be, and it hit me in the face like a gallon of Lysol that there might be a good reason why a woman would keep a house reeking of disinfectant. The McSpee creature had been—er—building up an atmosphere, as it were. It made sense. Tim never goes into his own cellar. In fact, she’d got him so terrorized he’s been staying away from the house altogether as much as possible. Also, being deaf, he wouldn’t be apt to hear Belinda if she squealed, though I expect she was kept tranquillized much of the time. So I came over and looked, and here she was, living on kennel chow left over from that time Jemima took a notion to breed grayhounds. I alerted Tim, and he rose nobly to the cause. By George, Iduna, I told you Timothy Ames was a great man in a pinch, and—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Helen interrupted
sotto voce.

Professor Stott was no longer scratching Belinda’s back. He was standing stock-still, gazing upward as Sir Percival might have gazed upon the Holy Grail.

“Miss Bjorklund,” he said tenderly, “may I have the ineffable pleasure of presenting Belinda of Balaclava?”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Iduna hastened to the bottom of the stairs. At once, Belinda waddled over and offered her back to be scratched. It was a beautiful moment, till Timothy Ames spoiled it.

“How the bloody flaming hell,” he demanded testily, “are we going to get that damned great tub of lard out of my cellar?”

“Open the bulkhead,” said Iduna. “I’ll get her out.”

Stott hastened to do his lady’s bidding. Light as a fairy taking off from a pussywillow, she tripped up the two steps and stood just outside. Her honeyed voice soared from a beguiling
pianissimo
to a rich
mezzo forte:

“Soo-ee. Soo-ee! Peeeg! Pig! Pig!”

Belinda cocked an ear, turned her roseate snout toward the open bulkhead, then, as though drawn by an invisible cord, began climbing the steps toward that siren call. So did Professor Stott.

“Miss Bjorklund,” he echoed, “That—that was the most eloquent—the most superb—the—the most—”

“Oh,” she whispered, “why don’t you just call me Iduna?”

“Iduna!” he breathed softly. Then with fervor, “Iduna! My—my own given name is Daniel.”

“There, now! I knew it would be something distinguished and high-minded. Well, Daniel, what do you say you and I walk Belinda back to her pen, then you drop over to the house for a bite of breakfast?”

Hand in hand, with Belinda waddling contentedly behind them, they strolled into the sunrise.

Readers will be glad to know that the recent happenings at Balaclava Agricultural College (Ed. Note: See pages 1,5,6, and 8 for complete details) didn’t throw our team off its stride at the Annual Draft Horse Competition. (Ed. Note: See pages 1,2,3,4, and 7 for complete details.)

As usual, President Thorkjeld Svenson captured the Senior Plowmen’s Trophy, and this year popular man-about-campus Hjalmar Olafssen managed to wrest first place in the Juniors’ event from former champion Ethelred Spinney of Lumpkin Corners. Too bad, Eth, but a little bird tells us there was more than a silver cup waiting for Hjalmar at the end of that furrow.

Special congratulations are due to dark horse Henry Purvis, who earned a surprising third in the Horseshoe Pitch, right up there with such experts as Oscar Plantagenet of West Lumpkinville and Walt Hayward of Goat Valley. Keep an eye on Henry next year, folks! Jennifer Berg and Alison Blair won all hearts and a Tricolor Award with their daredevil stunt riding on Freya and Balder.

Only fly in our local ointment was that the Balaclava Boosters’ Drum and Bugle Band had to play standing up in our historic wagon during the opening procession, since their seats, if you’ll pardon the levity, had been pinched. (Ed. Note: See page 1 for special feature story.) Nice footwork, bandspersons! We’re sorry about that bass drum, but you can’t win ’em all, Hjalmar.

Readers will be interested to know that Miss Iduna Bjorklund of Bjorklund’s Bend, South Dakota, who has been visiting Professor and Mrs. Peter Shandy of the Crescent, has been offered a position at the college. She will serve as special assistant and consultant to Mrs. Blanche Mouzouka, head of the Cookery Department.

Rumor hath it that Miss Bjorklund may soon be offered another position, perchance in the Animal Husbandry Department? Who was that lovely lady we saw you waltzing so divinely with at the Seniors’ Ball, Professor S?

By the way, we’re thrilled to report that Belinda of Balaclava (Ed. Note: See
Agricultural Happenings,
page 2, for complete details) has given birth to no fewer than seventeen prime piglets. We all knew you had it in you, Belinda! Mother and babies are doing fine.