Around the World in 100 Days (16 page)

“Thank goodness,” said Elizabeth. “I'm not the only one who's cold. I've been freezing for half an hour.”

“Why didn't you say something?” asked Charles.

“I didn't want to be thought a delicate Miss Mollycoddle.” She dug a Mother Hubbard cloak from her carpetbag and wrapped it around her shivering frame.

“The cold doesn't usually faze me much,” said Harry. “Perhaps I'm coming down with something.”

“Or perhaps you're just human,” said Elizabeth, “like the rest of us, and not some clever mechanical invention, like What-His-Name's Steam Man.”

“I wish I did run on steam,” said Harry. “At least I'd be warm.” Though he had packed a heavy woolen overcoat, it didn't help much. It seemed only to weigh him down; after a time, he could barely keep his grip on the steering wheel. With an effort, he reached for the gear stick. “You'll have to drive, Johnny.” His words sounded faint and slurred.

“What's wrong?” asked Johnny. He had never known his friend to look anything but hale and hearty; certainly he had never seen him so drooping and pale.

“I'm not . . . I don't ...” Harry slumped down in the seat.

“I say,” put in Charles. “Is he all right?”

“I think he's sick,” said Johnny helplessly.

TWENTY
In which

A
fter only a moment's hesitation, Elizabeth sized up the situation and took command. “Well, we can't sit here and wait to be run over by a train. Can you drive the
Flash
, Johnny?”

“If I have to.”

“All right, then. Put Harry back here. Charles, you go up front.”

Johnny lifted his friend effortlessly and laid him in the backseat with his head in Elizabeth's lap. Then he got them rolling again. Elizabeth put a hand on Harry's forehead. “He's burning with fever. We'd better get him to a doctor. What's the nearest town?”

Charles unfolded his map. “Rawlins, I believe.”

Rawlins didn't amount to much. The town owed its whole existence to the coal mines in the area. The roads, which had to carry heavy mine carts, were well made. The buildings were not; in addition, they were weathered and grimy.

But one of them housed a company doctor, who was also rather weathered and grimy. After examining Harry for thirty seconds or so, he delivered his diagnosis: “Rocky Mountain fever. See it all the time. Nothing I can do for him. Just keep him comfortable until it runs its course.”

The town did boast a respectable hotel, built for the benefit of visiting railway and mining magnates. “We'll put him up there,” said Elizabeth.

Ordinarily, Johnny would not have dreamed of disagreeing with her, but he felt he had to speak for Harry, since his friend couldn't speak for himself. “He won't want that,” he murmured. “He'll want to go on.”

She patted Johnny's hand. “Of course he will. But we both know that Harry does not always do the most sensible thing. You'd like him to get well, wouldn't you?”

Johnny nodded.

“In order to do that,” said Elizabeth, “he needs rest; he needs to be kept warm; he needs nourishing food. We can't provide any of those things properly on the road. The doctor said he would recover in a few days; surely we can spare a day or two?”

“I suppose,” said Johnny uncertainly.

He parked the
Flash
behind the hotel and set about checking every square inch of the motorcar for signs of wear or trouble. It was holding up remarkably well, considering the rough ride it had had over the railroad ties.

Since he could do nothing to help Harry, he did his best to find something on the car that needed work, so he wouldn't feel so useless. He replaced a few questionable-looking bolts and a brake cable, greased the wheel bearings—though they didn't need it—flushed out the water tank, and changed the filter in the water line. That should have satisfied him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was still something amiss.

That evening, as Johnny cleaned several days' worth of dirt off the
Flash
, Elizabeth turned up with sandwiches and a cold bottle of beer. Too self-conscious to eat in front of her, Johnny set the food aside and went on with the washing.

“I thought you'd be hungry,” said Elizabeth.

He shrugged. “How's Harry?”

“Sleeping peacefully at the moment. An hour ago, he was tossing about like a dervish and babbling all sorts of nonsense about keeping the car afloat. Apparently he thinks we're going to drive across the ocean, instead of taking a ship. It's just the fever, of course.” She moved up next to him, making him shift about uncomfortably. “Listen, Johnny,” she said, softly. “There's something I need to tell you. It's about Charles.”

“What?”

“Well, I—I hesitate to say this, because I don't want to accuse him without good reason. But if I were you, I'd keep an eye on him. I have a feeling he may be planning to . . . to do something to the
Flash
.”

Johnny glanced at her in alarm. “Damage her, you mean?”

“I don't have any proof, really, just something I overheard. I left him with Harry while I went to supper; as I was returning to the room, I heard him speaking to Harry. I couldn't make it all out, but it sounded as though he said, ‘You may think I know nothing about motorcars, old chap, but I know how to fix one, and fix it properly.' I'm sure he did not mean ‘fix' as in ‘repair.' Harry didn't hear a word of it, of course.”

She leaned in even closer. “I slipped into Charles's room, then, and took a quick look through his diary, to see whether he'd written anything incriminating.”

“Did he?”

“Only one line. I copied it down: ‘I suppose it is in my best interests—or at least my father's best interests—to see this venture fail.'”

“Harry don't trust him. He said that all along.” Johnny twisted his cleaning rag nervously in his huge hands. “Wish Harry wasn't sick. He'd know what to do.”

“I don't think there's much we can do at this point. We can't prove anything unless we catch Charles red-handed. But I wouldn't let him near the car.” Elizabeth put a hand on his sleeve. “You know, as a reporter, I've become rather good at getting the truth out of people. And I think Charles likes me. Perhaps if I play my cards right, I can get him to confess. I'll go now and let you have your supper.”

Ever since the accident, Johnny's mind had worked differently. For days at a time he might go about in a sort of fog, doing things by rote like a mechanical man; then, as though a switch had been turned on, some unanticipated thought or idea would appear, fully formed, in his brain.

Sometimes it was a solution to a problem he had been grappling with. Other times it bore no relation to anything else; it was as though, like Newton's famous apple, it simply dropped on him from above. The idea for wrapping the boiler with piano wire had come to him in that fashion.

Not all these flashes of inspiration were so useful. He had also been struck by the notion that, if you could take the wetness out of water, it could be burned as a fuel. He hadn't worked out the details of that one yet.

As he made a bed for himself in the
Flash
, one of these insights occurred to him. Elizabeth had said they must catch Charles red-handed. Well, if Hardiman really was up to no good, all they had to do was make him think they'd left the
Flash
unguarded and he'd show his hand.

Johnny glanced up at the window of Charles's room. The curtains were drawn. Snatching up his bedding, Johnny slipped inside a dilapidated storage shed. Leaving the door ajar, he folded one of his blankets into a pad and sat down to wait.

He sank into one of his fogs and had no concept of how much time passed before he heard someone call his name. He shook his head hard; the pain brought him wide awake.

“Johnny?” There it was again.

He peered through the crack of the shed door. It was fully dark outside, but Johnny could make out a figure coming down the alley, carrying a lantern. Johnny couldn't see the face, but he recognized the voice. “Hardiman!” he breathed.

“I say, Johnny. Are you here?” To himself, Charles muttered, “Wonder where the deuce he is. It's not like him to leave the
Flash
unguarded.” Holding the lantern aloft, he peered into the front and rear seats. “Not there.”

Johnny heard the click and creak of the door to the boiler compartment, followed by a clank of metal against metal. He rose and crept into the alley. Charles held the lantern in one hand; the other was stuck in the innards of the car, groping about.

“What are you doing?” Johnny demanded.

Charles jumped in surprise, banging his head against the compartment door. “Ouch! What are
you
doing, creeping up on a fellow that way?” He withdrew his hand and rubbed the back of his head. “I was trying to find my fountain pen, actually. It must have fallen through a crack or something.”

“You're lying!”

Charles held up the lantern to get a look at Johnny's face, which was set in a menacing scowl. “Why would I lie? What other possible reason could I have for stumbling about in the dark?” Then, anticipating the answer, he groaned. “Oh, no, not you as well. Look, I'm tired. I'll just search for it in the morning, all right?” He tried to detour around Johnny's imposing frame, but was seized by the lapels.

“No,” growled Johnny. “I caught you red-handed. You might as well confess.”

Charles pushed ineffectually at the hand that was nearly lifting him off the ground. “There's nothing
to
confess. I lost my pen. I was trying to find it. That's all.”

“Tell the truth!” said Johnny. “Or I'll knock it out of you!”

It was clear that Johnny was deadly serious and that there was no reasoning with him. Feeling a sudden flush of panic, Charles swung the lantern at his captor's head. Johnny deflected it easily with his free arm; it crashed to the ground, casting them into near-total darkness.

Charles was not nearly as helpless as he sometimes seemed. He had studied more than just the classics at Eton; he had also learned a bit about the science of boxing. In fact he had fought a few bouts with fellow students and acquitted himself pretty well. He called upon that expertise now, to deliver a nasty uppercut to Johnny's chin. The bigger boy loosed his grip and staggered backward, as much with surprise as with pain.

Charles took the prescribed boxing stance: feet wide apart, fists curled. He landed a few telling blows but they had little effect, except to make his opponent even angrier. There was nothing scientific about Johnny's stance or his punches. He relied solely on strength, and there was no way Charles could hold him off. A fist like a blacksmith's hammer smashed into his chest and he went down, gasping for breath.

For a moment Charles feared the fellow might finish him off with a kick or two. But all Johnny gave him was an ultimatum: “In the morning, you be gone.”

Johnny spent the rest of the night in the rear seat of the
Flash
. If he hung his feet over the side, he could get almost comfortable. Just before he fell asleep, another of those notions came from out of the blue; if he built seats that folded down, they could be transformed into satisfactory beds—something to keep in mind if they ever drove around the world again.

When Johnny looked in on Harry the next morning, Elizabeth was sitting at the patient's bedside, spooning runny porridge into his mouth. “Hullo,” said Harry, with a feeble grin.

Tongue-tied as always in Elizabeth's presence, Johnny merely nodded, then adjusted his cap.

“Have you seen Charles?” Elizabeth asked him. “He wasn't at breakfast.”

“I think he's gone.”

“Gone?” echoed Harry.

“I caught him red-handed. I told him to leave.”

“He was trying to sabotage the
Flash
, then,” said Elizabeth.

Johnny nodded again.

“Hang me,” said Harry weakly. “Just when I was beginning to think he was all right.”

“Stop talking, now,” said Elizabeth. “Just rest.”

“I can't.” Harry struggled to sit up. “We've got to get going.”

“You're not going anywhere for another day at least, if I have to sabotage the
Flash
myself.”

Harry sighed. “What day is it?”

“The twenty-sixth, I think. I was depending upon Charles to keep track.”

“That leaves us . . . what, ten days before the steamer leaves for Hong Kong? How many miles to San Francisco?”

“I don't know. Charles has the maps, as well.”

According to the desk clerk, Charles had checked out early that morning and caught the eight o'clock train to San Francisco. “Well, Johnny,” said Elizabeth, “you certainly scared him off. What did you do to him?”

“Not much.”

Elizabeth turned Johnny's face to the light. A sizable bruise decorated his jaw. “He didn't do much to you, either, I see.”

Johnny smiled slightly, lopsidedly. “More than I expected.”

“Why do you suppose he went on to San Francisco, and not back to New York?”

Johnny shrugged.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “he'll have to face his father when he gets home; perhaps he wants to postpone it as long as possible.”

TWENTY-ONE
Showing that

H
arry spent half the day sleeping and the other half fretting about the time they were wasting. He didn't mind facing any obstacle or danger, as long as he could
do
something about it. But simply lying about this way, waiting for the problem to pass, was maddening.