E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Susan Carr,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
()
He was already a thief, prepared to steal again. He didn't know that hehimself was only booty!
Phil Garfield was thirty miles south of the little town of Redmon onRoute Twelve when he was startled by a series of sharp, clanking noises.They came from under the Packard's hood.
The car immediately began to lose speed. Garfield jammed down theaccelerator, had a sense of sick helplessness at the complete lack ofresponse from the motor. The Packard rolled on, getting rid of itsmomentum, and came to a stop.
Phil Garfield swore shakily. He checked his watch, switched off theheadlights and climbed out into the dark road. A delay of even half anhour here might be disastrous. It was past midnight, and he had anotherhundred and ten miles to cover to reach the small private airfield whereMadge waited for him and the thirty thousand dollars in the suitcase onthe Packard's front seat.
If he didn't make it before daylight....
He thought of the bank guard. The man had made a clumsy play at being ahero, and that had set off the fool woman who'd run screaming into theirline of fire. One dead. Perhaps two. Garfield hadn't stopped to look atan evening paper.
But he knew they were hunting for him.
He glanced up and down the road. No other headlights in sight at themoment, no light from a building showing on the forested hills. Hereached back into the car and brought out the suitcase, his gun, a bigflashlight and the box of shells which had been standing beside thesuitcase. He broke the box open, shoved a handful of shells and the .38into his coat pocket, then took suitcase and flashlight over to theshoulder of the road and set them down.
There was no point in groping about under the Packard's hood. When itcame to mechanics, Phil Garfield was a moron and well aware of it. Thecar was useless to him now ... except as bait.
But as bait it might be very useful.
Should he leave it standing where it was? No, Garfield decided. Toanybody driving past it would merely suggest a necking party, or a drunksleeping off his load before continuing home. He might have to wait anhour or more before someone decided to stop. He didn't have the time. Hereached in through the window, hauled the top of the steering wheeltowards him and put his weight against the rear window frame.
The Packard began to move slowly backwards at a slant across the road.In a minute or two he had it in position. Not blocking the roadentirely, which would arouse immediate suspicion, but angled across it,lights out, empty, both front doors open and inviting a passerby'sinvestigation.
Garfield carried the suitcase and flashlight across the right-handshoulder of the road and moved up among the trees and undergrowth of theslope above the shoulder. Placing the suitcase between the bushes, hebrought out the .38, clicked the safety off and stood waiting.
Some ten minutes later, a set of headlights appeared speeding up RouteTwelve from the direction of Redmon. Phil Garfield went down on one kneebefore he came within range of the lights. Now he was completelyconcealed by the vegetation.
The car slowed as it approached, braking nearly to a stop sixty feetfrom the stalled Packard. There were several people inside it; Garfieldheard voices, then a woman's loud laugh. The driver tapped his horninquiringly twice, moved the car slowly forward. As the headlights wentpast him, Garfield got to his feet among the bushes, took a step downtowards the road, raising the gun.
Then he c