Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Buried Clock

Harley hesitated.

Blane, noticing that hesitancy, said, “You can rest assured that whatever compensation—”

“It isn’t that,” Harley interpolated. “I’m wondering exactly what I’m supposed to do.”

Blane said, “I’ll tell you a secret. Adele doesn’t know it. Milicent doesn’t know... Jack Hardisty is short ten thousand dollars over at the Roxbury bank. Adele probably told you that. Here’s what she doesn’t know. Jack expected, of course, I’d make his shortage good in case he was discovered, and hush the whole thing up. I fooled him. I told him I was damned if I was going to... Damned little pipsqueak! I don’t consider him one of the family. I know how it would hurt Milicent to have a scandal like that, but it’s better to have it happen now and get it over with. He’s just a cunning little adventurer who insinuated himself into the family by sweeping Milicent off her feet. Milicent hadn’t had much attention paid to her by the local boys. She’d never had any experience with what we call fortune hunters... I didn’t have the heart to tell her. No one did... You couldn’t tell her. There was just a chance Jack really was all wrapped up in her. He said he was. She thought he was. She wanted him — oh, well, you’re not interested in all this.”

Harley started to say something, but Blane held up his hand. “Here’s the low-down. I told Hardisty I wasn’t going to make good. He could face the music... Know what he did?”

Harley shook his head.

“That’s what comes of not having him thrown in jail like a common criminal. He cleaned out everything in the bank — about ninety thousand dollars in cash. Then he telephoned me and told me what he’d done; said that if I wanted to make good the ten thousand, I’d get the rest of the assets back; that if he was going to jail he’d as soon be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and he was going to make it worth his while. He’d have a stake when he came out... That’s the kind of a cur he is.

“If he went up to the cabin, he quite probably went up there to find a hiding place for the stuff. If he’s buried it there, we’ll have to find it. How about going up and—”

Harley Raymand opened the closet door, pulled out his coat.

“I’m ready to start any time, Mr. Blane.”

Blane said, “You haven’t had dinner. You go to the dining room and get yourself some dinner. Don’t hurry. It will be at least an hour or an hour and a half before I’m ready to leave. I’ll drive you up there myself. Just take your time... I’d appreciate it if you’d be waiting in the lobby so you can hop right in when I come back... And I’m deeply grateful, my boy. Having you up there will take a load off my mind.”

The cabin was more isolated than ever at night. The absolute silence out on the porch made one conscious of his ears, set up a vague ringing rhythm within the eardrums. The blazing stars seemed to hang just above the tops of the pine trees. Harley had the feeling that he could stand on the porch with a.22 rifle and shoot them down, as though they were lighted Christmas tree ornaments hanging from the dome of the sky.

The evening had turned chill, with that peculiar penetrating cold which comes at night in the high places, which gets into the blood and settles around the marrow of the bones.

Mr. Blane had left at once, and Harley laid a fire in the wood stove and lit it. The dry pine crackled into cheery flame. When the warmth touched him, Harley realized how cold he had really been, and began to shiver. He took blankets from the windowseat in the front room, and made up a bed on the spring cot on the front porch.

He had returned to the warmth of the fire, when a board on the porch creaked. Listening, he felt certain he heard the sound of cautious steps.

Harley slipped through the doorway into the kitchen, closing the connecting door to shut out the light, and stood with his face pressed against the window.

There was someone on the porch, someone who moved with catlike stealth, trying to peer through the side windows without being seen.

Harley tried in vain to recognize the figure. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to adjust them to the darkness. When he opened them again, the figure was still there peering in at the side window. Apparently the man had found a crack of visibility between the drapes, because Harley could see a very faint line of light across his face, a thread-like strip which looked as though it had been ruled with a luminous pencil.

When Harley was on the point of going out to challenge the intruder, he saw the figure move cautiously around to the front of the house.

“Halloooooo! Anybody home?”

The voice was almost instantly swallowed up in the unechoing silence.

Harley went at once to stand by the front door, but didn’t open it.

“Who is it?” he called.

“There’s been an accident.”

“Where?”

“Down the road a piece.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No, but I need your help.”

Harley flung open the door.

The man who stood facing him was twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. He had a somewhat whimsical smile, but his eyes stared with disconcerting steadiness. The mouth was well formed, the hair black and tangled, pushed back and partially held in place by a broad-brimmed, battered felt hat. He was short — not over five feet three or four inches — and slender, but he carried himself with an air, and his motions indicated a hard, muscled body.

“I didn’t know anyone was living here,” he explained apologetically.

“I haven’t been here very long,” Harley admitted, and then added quickly, “You seem familiar with the property.”

The other laughed. “I’m a next-door neighbor — in a way of speaking. My cabin’s on down the road half a mile.”

Harley extended his hand, introduced himself. The other said, “I’m Burton Strague. I’m a writer of sorts. My sister and I have rented the Brigham cabin. We’re heating it with rejection slips.”

“I think I know the place,” Harley said. “Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks, but I’m looking for help. A car went off the road down here. I was going up to see if Rod Beaton would come along and give us a hand. Then I saw your light and wondered who was in here. The cabin hasn’t been tenanted for months... Belongs to a Vincent Blane, doesn’t it?”

“Yes...Who’s this other man you mentioned?”

“Rodney Beaton, the artist, naturalist and wild-life photographer. It was through him we came up here. I became acquainted with him by correspondence. He bought one of the cabins up here not very long ago... How about coming along and giving a hand with that car?”

“How far is it,” Harley asked, and then added quickly by way of explanation, “I’m convalescing.”

The other looked at him quickly, sudden respect in his eyes.

“Army?”

“Yes.”

“Gosh, how I wanted to go, but I’m T.B. All right, I guess, as long as I stay quiet, but — a man hates to stay quiet while there’s shooting going on... That accident’s about a quarter of a mile down the road. You hadn’t better tackle it if you’re not feeling fit. It’s getting a little crimpy outside.”

“A quarter of a mile,” Harley said. “That would put it right down—”

“Just beyond where this road joins the main highway. Fellow must have been going pretty fast and missed the curve. A two-tone blue job. I don’t think anyone’s under it, but we ought to make sure. We’ll have to get help to lift the car. That’s why I’m—”

“I’ll go,” Harley said, trying to keep expression from his face as he realized the description of the car was that of the one Jack Hardisty had been driving. “You don’t think the driver’s pinned under the car?”