Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

He advanced until the uptilted muzzle almost touched Calhoun’s chest. With the light directly in his eyes, Calhoun could get only a dim impression of the man holding it. He couldn’t see the face at all, but the figure seemed lean and spry. By the man’s voice Calhoun judged him to be elderly.

“How long you fellers think you could get away with this?” the man demanded. “Three times in one week is plain dumb. You might of knowed I’d set a trap if you kept it up.”

Calhoun said nothing. The man’s face came into view as he thrust it beyond the source of light to peer up at Calhoun’s. It was the lined, weathered face of a man in his late sixties who has spent most of his life outdoors. Calhoun guessed him to be a retired farmer.

“You’re no local feller,” the man said. “Where you from, boy?”

“Syracuse,” Calhoun said. “I was just hitchhiking through. May I take my hands down?”

“You keep ’em up there,” the elderly man said. “Hitchhiking, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” Calhoun said. “I don’t know who the guy driving was. You caught the wrong man. The other guy has your gas.

The man with the gun grunted. “How come you was stealing gas for him?”

“He was running out. I had a choice of going along with it when he suggested it, or walking. I didn’t figure I could find another ride this time of night.”

There was another grunt. “Easy conscience you got, boy. Me, I’d of walked. Well, all we can do is let you describe him and the car to the state police. Know the license number?”

Calhoun shook his head. “I don’t even know the make of car. I can’t tell one car from another. And I didn’t see his face very well. It was dark in the car.”

The elderly man chuckled dryly. “Maybe your memory will improve after you talk to the law.”

“Why can’t we settle it out of court?” Calhoun inquired. “It’s only four gallons of gas, and you gained a can and a hose. Would five bucks fix it?”

“If you got money,” the old man said shrewdly, “why didn’t you offer to buy your friend gas, ‘stead of stealing it?”

Calhoun shrugged. “Easy conscience, like you said, I guess. How about it? Will you take five and call it even?”

“Don’t believe I will, mister. Think I’d rather catch the feller’s been stealing my gas. And I think maybe you’d remember who he is after a while in jail.”

“I couldn’t describe him if I rotted in jail,” Calhoun said earnestly. “If you turn me in, you’ll get nothing for your trouble. I’ll make it ten.”

“Hmm. Going up, huh? Well, now, I like a horse trade. What you say to fifty?”

Calhoun felt relieved enough to accept the terms on the spot. But he sensed that immediate capitulation would only bring a further jump in price.

“Twenty,” he temporized.

“Nope,” the man with the gun said. “Guess we’d better phone the police barracks.” After a pause, he said. “Make it forty-five.”

They haggled for another five minutes, and settled for thirty-five. Agreement reached, Calhoun slowly lowered his arms, careful to make no sudden movements. He drew out his wallet and counted out the money. The elderly man kept him covered throughout.

After backing up and checking the denominations of the bills by flashlight, the elderly man said, “Okay, boy, guess you can go. Next time just remember that crime don’t pay.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” Calhoun muttered as he walked off.

He wasn’t far from the west edge of town. He made his way to Route Twenty, and trudged along it toward the village line, intending to take up position there and try to hitch a truck ride to Ripley.

As he neared the village-line marker, he saw the taillights of a car parked just beyond it. As he drew nearer, he recognized it as the Buick.

Coming alongside, he found Helena calmly smoking a cigarette.

“I told you the next town,” he greeted her in a growling voice.

“I knew you’d get away,” she said serenely. “I have full confidence in your ingenuity. I thought you might need a getaway car, though. Are the police after you?”

“No,” he said. “I bought him off. It’ll be on the expense account.”

He walked to the back of the car and replaced the gas cap, which had been hanging by its chain when Helena drove off. Then Helena slid over and he slipped under the wheel.

“We may just about make it,” he said as he started the car. “Let’s hope your estimate of how much gas we had when we started was conservative. If we had two gallons more than that, we should make Cleveland if this thing gets any kind of mileage.”

“It gets fine mileage,” she assured him. “But why take the chance of running out of gas? Can’t we try the same trick again? It’s a pretty remote chance that we’d run into another trap.”

“No hose,” he said. “Our friend kept it and the can as part of the deal.”

The delay in Westfield had consumed nearly an hour. At their conservative speed they had averaged only thirty miles an hour since leaving Helena’s house. It was now past one thirty in the morning, with approximately a hundred and thirty-five miles still to go.

They didn’t stop again until they hit the outskirts of Cleveland. Ordinarily Calhoun would have driven the remaining distance in three hours at most, but now he took no chances of being stopped for anything at all. On the open highway he stayed well below fifty; in the towns he kept five miles below the posted speed limits. It was just six P.M. when Calhoun drove the Buick into a truck stop at the edge of Cleveland.

Helena said, “What do we want here?”

“Breakfast,” Calhoun told her.

“Shouldn’t we rent a couple of cabins before we do anything else?”

“No,” he said. “We’ve got several more important things to do first.”

They finished breakfast by seven, but Calhoun insisted on dawdling over his coffee for another full hour. When Helena exhibited signs of impatience at the delay, all he said was, “There’s no point in going into town until places open.”

It was eight when they left the truck stop, and by the time they got far enough into town to pass small neighborhood businesses, barber shops were open. Calhoun accomplished the second of the more important things he had mentioned by getting a shave.

“Couldn’t that have waited?” Helena complained when he rejoined her.

“I have to look respectable for the next stop,” he told her.

Heading in the general direction of downtown, he drove until he spotted a sign reading CAR RENTALS. He parked half a block beyond it.

“Just wait here,” he instructed Helena. “When I come by in another car, follow me.”

As usual she showed no surprise. As he got out of the car, she slid over into the driver’s seat.

The car-rental place didn’t have exactly what Calhoun wanted, but it was close enough. He would have preferred a Buick coupe or convertible the same color as Helena’s, but the rental service didn’t have any Buicks. He settled for a green Dodge coupe a shade darker than the convertible. The rate was nine dollars a day plus eight cents a mile, and he told the proprietor he wanted the car for a week. He gave the name Henry Draves, a Detroit address, and left a hundred-dollar deposit.

Only minutes after Calhoun had left her, he pulled up alongside Helena in the Dodge, honked the horn, and pulled away again. In the rear-view mirror he saw her pull out to follow.

He led her back to the eastern edge of town, found a street which seemed relatively deserted, and parked. Helena parked behind him.

In the trunk of the rented car Calhoun found a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. Helena watched with her customary lack of expression as he switched plates on the two cars.