Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Buried Clock

Harley saw that Beaton was some ten years older than Burt Strague. He was tall, powerful, loose-jointed, not fat, but thick. He had a smiling mouth, a firm jaw, and was wearing a western hat of the type generally referred to as a “five gallon.”

In the light reflected from the beam of the five-cell flashlight Rod Beaton was holding, Harley had a chance to get a better look at Lola Strague. She was blonde, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three, attired in a heavy checkered woolen shirt, open low at the throat, a plaid woolen jacket, trousers and laced boots. She gave the impression of being quite competently a part of the outdoors, of wearing clothes that were warm, strong, and made for service.

The beam of the flashlight darted down into the black canyon, licked over boulders and fallen trees, then came to rest on the overturned car.

Rod Beaton seemed thoroughly at home, thoroughly capable of handling a situation such as that. He said, “We won’t try any salvage work, just make sure there’s no one in the car and then quit... I think we can cut down the tree, Burt. If you’ll hold the flashlight, I’ll swing the ax. We’ll use it as a lever and raise the car so we can see the interior.”

Strague held the flashlight. Beaton swung the light ax with a smooth rhythm of powerful shoulders, the gleaming blade biting deep into the wood with every swing. It seemed to Harley that it took no more than four or five swinging blows to sever the tree neatly through. Then Beaton trimmed off the little limbs and the top, and had a pole some fifteen feet long and ten inches in diameter at the butt.

Calmly, competently, he assumed command, issuing quiet instructions, treating Harley Raymand with the same assurance he displayed toward Burt and Lola Strague.

“Now, Raymand, if you’ll get out on the far end of that pole. Just sit on it. Don’t try to use that bad elbow... Burt, you and Lola get on each side as near the end as you can. Let me guide this end of it... All right, now put a little pressure on it.”

They came down on the end of the pole. The car groaned and scraped, then raised up. Beaton blocked it with rocks, said, “All right. Take the pressure off the pole. Let me give you a new purchase... Okay, here we go again.”

Once more the car moved.

Beaton said, “We can see in it now,” and the beam of his spotlight showed windows that were cobwebbed with glass fractures and illuminated an empty interior.

“No one in here,” Beaton said. “Let’s take a look and see if he was thrown clear.”

The flashlight swung around in ever widening circles.

“No sign of him,” Beaton said.

Abruptly Harley asked, “Can you get a good look at the interior of that car, Beaton, and see if there’s a spade in there?”

At the sudden, complete silence which greeted his request, Harley realized how peculiar it sounded.

“You see,” he added, by way of explanation, “I think I know that car. If it’s the one I think it is, there should be a spade in back of the front seat.”

“Okay, I’ll take a look,” Beaton said. “You don’t know the license number?”

“No,” Raymand added somewhat lamely. “It was a car that was up at the cabin this afternoon.”

“I see... No, there doesn’t seem to be any spade in it.”

Lola Strague said, “Well, we’ve discharged our duties as Good Samaritans. I guess there’s nothing to do now except get back to the road.”

Rodney Beaton climbed up the steep slope as far as he could, then, coiling the rope, said to Myrna Payson, “Catch an end of this and loop it around that tree, will you, Myrna?”

With a heave of his powerful shoulders, Beaton sent the rope snaking up against the glow of the headlights, and as Myrna Payson caught the end and doubled it around the tree, she moved with a certain lithe grace, a deft co-ordination of arms and legs that accomplished her task and sent the loose end of the rope back down to Rodney Beaton in a surprisingly short time.

With the aid of the rope, they went up the steep incline to the road with relative ease.

Harley Raymand was left until last. He called up, “I’m afraid to trust this arm. I think I’d better—”

“Not at all,” Beaton interrupted heartily. “Just loop the rope around your waist and knot it with a bowline... Can you tie a bowline?”

“I think so,” Harley said.

“Wait a minute. I’ll tie one and toss it down to you.”

Beaton’s hands made two or three swift passes over the rope, then a loop came down to Raymand. He stepped inside it, raised it to his waist, took hold with his right hand, and leaning against the rope and using his legs, was pulled up the steep pitch.

At the top he was presented to Myrna Payson, who was, as Rodney Beaton gravely explained, a neighboring cattle rancher. One look at Myrna Payson’s wide-spaced, laughing eyes, her full, vivid-red lips, and Harley knew why Rodney Beaton and Burt Strague had been so preoccupied up there on the road. Her skin showed the result of care. Her clothes followed the lines of her figure with a well-fitting grace that to a woman would mean she “could wear anything.” Men would see only the effect As Harley studied her, Myrna Payson’s eyes in turn took him in from head to toe and made a careful and frankly personal appraisal of him.

In the quick burst of general conversation which followed the introduction, Harley gathered that the car, an old model coupe, belonged to Rodney Beaton; that, in the interest of “conserving rubber and gas,” he had “picked up his neighbor” in the early evening for a trip to town. Harley also gathered that Lola Strague definitely resented this... Then of a sudden, Harley felt too utterly wearied to remain interested in the affairs of this little group.

“I’m going to say good night, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve had rather a trying day.”

“Oh, but let me drive you up to your cabin,” Burt Strague said quickly.

Harley didn’t look forward to the walk with any degree of pleasure, yet he said, “Oh that’s all right. I’d just as soon walk.”

“Nonsense,” Lola said firmly. “Burt will drive you up. Come on. Get in.”

Lola Strague jumped into the car in the middle of the front seat. Harley climbed in beside her, and Burt twisted himself in behind the steering wheel. Rodney Beaton seemed, for a moment, ill at ease. It was as though he had hoped to get Lola Strague off to one side for a word in private before leaving. But Myrna Payson called out, “Come on, Rod. We’ve got to get our car out of the way so they can turn around.”

Beaton still hesitated.

Burt Strague said, “The nearest telephone is at the ranger station three miles up that road, Rod. I’ll drive Raymand up to his cabin. You might go on up to the ranger station and notify the sheriff.”

After that it seemed a good five seconds before Beaton said, “I guess that’s the thing to do. Good night, everyone.”

No one tried to make conversation as Burt Strague piloted the car up to the cabin. And Harley was glad of it. He felt too tired even to talk.

They deposited him in front of the cabin. Burt said good night, and added something about hoping to see more of him and trusting the experience hadn’t been too much for him. Lola Strague gave him her hand, said, “Hope you’ll be all right, and we’ll be seeing you again.”

There was something of finality in her comments, but Burt waited for two or three seconds, then said, “Well, good night,” and turned the car.

Harley felt positive that Burt had been hoping for an invitation to come in.

Harley, climbing the three steps to the porch, realized that once more he was completely exhausted. He had intended to look for the buried clock, but felt able to do no more than crawl into the bed he had made out on the porch. He fell asleep almost instantly.