Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Buried Clock

Harley remained silent.

“Jack Hardisty,” Adele went on, “has been reading books on salesmanship and on influencing people. He hides his half-starved, whimpering soul behind the mask of a big, bluff, backslapping paragon of pep... It’s all I can do to keep my hands off of him.”

“The shortage known?” Harley asked.

“Only the bank directors and the bonding company. Dad had guaranteed the bonding company against loss on Jack’s policy. They didn’t want to write it — something in Jack’s past. I suppose Dad’s got to make it good and hush it up and — I shouldn’t have shot off steam about this, Harley. Forget it, will you?”

Harley smiled at her. “It’s forgotten.”

She realized that a year ago this would have absorbed his thoughts and dominated their conversation. Now he apparently dismissed it from his mind as a minor matter. She said, “That’s why Dad needs someone he can trust.”

He might not have heard her, or hearing, might not have realized the implications to himself. He merely asked, “Why did Jack bury that clock up at the cabin?”

“Do you think he did?”

“He certainly was starting over toward that granite outcropping, and he’d taken a shovel from the car.”

She said, “I’ve been trying to think that out. I can’t understand it. I — why, here comes Milicent’s car! She—”

Adele broke off talking, to wave frantically at an approaching light convertible. The car slowed to a stop. Milicent Blane’s eyes regarded them from behind neat-fitting, rimless spectacles. Impatient with the life of idleness which was open to her as the daughter of Vincent Blane, she had studied to become a registered nurse. Her marriage had interrupted her career, filling her at first with a radiant happiness which had withered almost as it bloomed. Her face, never very expressive, had become a mask of grave immobility.

“Hello! Been up to the cabin? Why, hello, Harley! I didn’t recognize you for a minute! Well, how are you?”

Harley Raymand opened the door of Adele’s car, walked around to shake hands with Milicent.

“It certainly is good to see you. They told us you were pretty well shot up... Are you feeling all right now?”

“Tough as taxes. I’m glad to see you again.”

She turned to Adele. “Been up to the cabin?”

Adele nodded.

“Did you — I mean — was...?”

“Yes,” Adele interrupted, reading her thoughts. “He came up just as we were leaving.”

Milicent’s attempt to be courteous, to show a polite interest in Harley’s return yet get started for the cabin without so much as a minute’s delay, made her rather confused.

“Well, it’s nice to have seen you,” she said, slipping the car into gear and holding out the clutch. “I hope we’ll be seeing you. Hope you see us — I mean I hope you’ll — oh, we’ll get together.”

Her foot slid back. The car lurched ahead.

Adele watched her dubiously for a few moments, then started on toward Kenvale. “The rat,” she muttered savagely under her breath, “isn’t good enough to be her doormat.”

“She knows about what’s happened?”

“I don’t think so. I certainly hope not.”

“Then why was she in such a dither to locate her husband?” Harley asked.

“Because there are — domestic troubles, too. Let’s not talk about Jack... Where are you staying, Harley?”

“At the hotel.”

Adele’s foot pushed down on the throttle. After the tire-conserving pace at which she had been operating the car, the new speed seemed terrific, although the speedometer showed it as only fifty-five miles an hour.

She laughed apologetically. “I just thought of an appointment I had. I’m going to be late... That’s the trouble with you, Harley: you make me forget things. And here it is almost sunset.”

Harley Raymand showered, stretched out on the bed, and almost instantly sank into exhausted lethargy. The speech at the luncheon club, his trip to the cabin, had used up energy, and he was being forced to a realization that his available store of energy was limited. Those bullets had sapped more of his strength than he had thought possible.

The telephone rang sharply, and the convulsive start with which he regained wakefulness made him realize just how nervous he was. He switched on the lights, answered the phone.

The voice of the switchboard operator advised him that a Mr. Vincent P. Blane was waiting in the lobby.

“Blane!” Harley repeated, in surprise. “Tell him — Tell him I’m dressing. It’ll be ten minutes before I can join him in the lobby. If he’s in a hurry, he can come on up here.”

Harley dropped the receiver into place, put on his shirt and trousers, and was just putting on his shoes when he heard Blane’s knock at the door.

It had been but little more than a year since Harley had last seen Adele’s father, yet he was shocked at the change in the man. Definitely, he was older, more worried. There was still the same charm of manner — that courteous interest in others which was neither effusive on the one hand, nor patronizing on the other, but had the graciousness of dignity about it.

Harley knew that Blane’s errand was important, could see that he was under a great strain, yet the man wouldn’t think of mentioning his problem until after he had done those things which were demanded by courtesy: an apology for his intrusion, a solicitous inquiry after Harley’s health.

“I’m sorry,” Blane began, “if I wakened—”

“It’s all right,” Harley interposed, trying to make things easier. “I’m just a little lazy these days. Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Blane?”

Under the bushy eyebrows, Blane’s keen gray eyes showed gratitude. “Mighty nice of you to make such a suggestion, Harley... As a matter of fact I’m a little worried about Adele.”

“What about her?”

“You were with her this afternoon?”

“Yes. We went up to the cabin.”

“What time did you come back?”

Harley looked at his watch. “Why, I’ve been here in the hotel for about an hour and a half, I guess, perhaps two hours.”

“She hasn’t been home. I was rather expecting her.”

“She said she had an appointment she’d forgotten about,” Harley explained reassuringly. “She was speeding up a bit to get me here... Won’t you sit down, Mr. Blane?”

“I feel that I’ve put you to a lot of trouble,” Blane apologized. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I—”

Harley laughed. “I was just digesting some of the health I absorbed up at your cabin this afternoon. I think it’s the first time I’ve really relaxed.”

Blane nodded in mechanical acquiescence, his mind apparently occupied with something else. Then suddenly he shot a quick glance at Harley. “How’d you like to stay up there for a few days?”

“At the cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Why — wouldn’t that inconvenience you?”

“Not at all.”

“I understood you had a meeting—”

“I’d prefer to hold it at my house. I’d like to have you up there, Harley. Of course, you’d have to do your own cooking, but—”

Harley smiled as Blane hesitated. “If you’re really serious, there’s nothing I’d like better.”

“See anyone up at the cabin this afternoon?” Blane asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

“Why, yes. Jack Hardisty came up there.”

Blane gnawed at his close-clipped, gray moustache. “Notice anything strange about him?” he asked abruptly.

Harley said, “His manner seemed to be much the same as usual.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Blane said. “Reminds you of a firecracker trying to pretend it’s a cannon. I want you to do something for me. You’ll be well paid, and a little later on, we can talk about something permanent. I want you to go up to that cabin now, tonight. Keep an eye on anything that goes on up there.”