Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 9

CHAPTER VII
EAVESDROPPING

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Mark settled his financial arrangements with Mrs. Jenkins when she returned with the key. He bade her goodnight, then went on downstairs to phone while the good woman retired to her back bedroom for the remainder of the night.

A deep tranquillity had settled in the house before Mark finally found the Dawson-Inland telephone number. Somehow he found the silence irritating and stood, telephone directory in hand, thinking about it. Then he grinned. People had to sleep out west as well as anywhere else. And he couldn’t expect Mrs. Jenkins to sit up and talk with him until he felt sleepy!

That was it—he wasn’t at all sleepy. He hadn’t any more desire to go to bed than if it were early evening. A restlessness pervaded his being and he was suddenly aware of being hungry. That decided him at once for he remembered the lunch wagon down at the field. He wouldn’t phone Benson; he’d take the chance of his being still at the Dawson-Inland offices. Then they could both have a hot snack together and perhaps an amiable talk over their prospects.

He acted upon the idea at once and tiptoed past the night lamp in the hall to the door. He let himself out noiselessly and went down the porch steps like a cat. Once clear of the lawn, he chuckled mirthfully, looking up the road at the few darkened bungalows that lay between Mrs. Jenkins’ house and the turn in the highway. Their architectural deformities seemed emphasized in the sickly moonlight and they looked to be staring out upon the roadway with disapproval of all things nocturnal.

Still chuckling, Mark turned his back upon them and directed his steps straight down the hill toward the airport. Mrs. Jenkins’ garden occupied about one hundred feet on this side of the slope and beyond her hedge began a convenient footpath which led directly down to the field. Mark took it, whistling softly as he went, and swung along with a reckless gaiety that defied this prosaic sequel to his visionary adventures.

As he drew nearer to the field he could hear the intermittent sound of hammering coming from one of the big hangars. Hushed talk issued from a smaller hangar on the extreme edge of the airport where some mechanics were working. Mark hurried past unseen and cut across the narrow, hubbly road until he came to the lunch wagon. He went in, glancing at his watch.

“Open all night?” he asked the inquiring proprietor.

“Uh huh. Why?” the man returned wiping his hands on his big apron.

“Nothing, except that I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t close until I could get back,” Mark explained. “I’m just going in the Dawson-Inland a second and then I’ll be here for some good hot food.”

He had a feeling that the man looked at him more closely and longer than was necessary under the circumstances. He did not wait to ascertain why, however, but hurried out and across the few feet of ground that separated the lunch wagon from the unpretentious wooden building that housed the Dawson-Inland offices.

Most of the lights had been extinguished there since the trio had arrived little more than an hour before. A dim light burned in the narrow reception hall and through the dirty glass-topped door, Mark espied a dumpy man nodding where he sat on one of the benches.

Mark opened the door and closed it behind him, instantly alert to the sound of Richie Benson’s voice coming from somewhere behind a passageway adjoining the reception hall. Offices in the rear of the building, he thought. At any rate, Richie was there.

Suddenly the dumpy man came out of his half-slumber and sat up, startled. It was obvious that he had not heard Mark enter and that he was a little alarmed.

“You were asleep, I guess,” Mark said reassuringly. “Hope I didn’t do something I shouldn’t have. I just came for my friend, Richie Benson. He’s having an interview with Mr. Rumson, I believe.”

Actual relief brightened the dumpy man’s face. “Oh er, er—that’s all right then. Thought mebbe ... wa’al, go ’long back. Young Mr. Benson must be about ready to leave, I reckon. Yeh, go right ’long back.”

Mark did as he was told, threading his way through the short passageway with that cautious step that we all unconsciously assume in unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps that is why he approached and reached the back hallway, unheard.

He did not realize it at the moment. In point of fact he had no thought at all except that he was puzzled. Two doors opening into the hallway stood slightly ajar. Mark did not know which one to enter for the talking had ceased. Both rooms seemed to have one or more occupants; he could see the shadow of a figure on each wall as he passed. Suddenly he stepped up to the nearest door, then hesitated at the sound of Benson’s voice talking within.

“Is that all, Mr. Rumson?” Richie was asking.

A thin, wheezing voice answered. “No, ’tain’t. Ain’t safe to have a contrac’ on a job like this. You’n me and Bailey understan’ what’s to be done an’ that’s all that’s necessary, eh! Wa’al, I jedge yore purty nervy from past events an’ sech so I’m trustin’ you with a big order—see! Once we git that mail contrac’ safe in this office, it’s yore turn, son. Not right away o’ course, but some stormy....”

“What about the—the pass—the....”

Richie’s voice was tremulous.

“Say listen, Benson, thar ain’t no two ways, ’bout it now,” the thin voice wheezed angrily. “Ye agreed to this unconditional, didn’t yer! Wa’al, after yer know our plans we ain’t goin’ ter let yer slide out ’count of sobby reasons on yore part. Ain’t it enough that we’ll see yer safe an’ sound if yer do as we tell yer!”

“Yes, sir,” said Benson very softly. “It’s just—you see—er, my mother....”

Mark knew that he shouldn’t have stood listening as long as he did, but somehow he seemed rooted to the spot. Now it was too late to make a graceful departure for someone—a man, as he could see by the thick-soled shoes—was standing watching him from the doorway of the next room.

He could feel the color flooding into his face like a schoolboy caught in the midst of a mischievous prank. Then he raised his brown eyes to those of his watcher and quickly stepped back so startled was he at the baleful expression upon the man’s face.

“Well?” he asked in a coarse gruff voice. “Hear all you wanted to hear?”

Mark stammered at the unjust accusation. “Why, sir,—why, I heard very little. It was mere accident, absolutely! The little chap in the reception hall said it was all right for me to come through. I—”

“That watchman send you back?” the man roared blatantly.

“Yes, why shouldn’t he have done so?” Mark gathered himself together.

The man glared at Mark through his narrow-slitted eyes. His short, rotund figure, seemed to shake convulsively and he stood for a moment with clenched fists. Then: “Nobody’s got business back here unless they’re sent for. And you weren’t sent for—you....”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir,” Mark explained. “I came for my friend, Richie Benson. That’s all.”

“Ben—Benson?” the man repeated with a low growl. “Well, well....”

A door closed quickly somewhere within the room and suddenly the half-closed door before which they were standing, swung fully open. Richie Benson stood, his hand still on the knob glaring at Mark and his face dark with anger.

“So you had to come here too, hah!” he shouted.

Mark’s attention was immediately drawn to the room in which Benson was standing. Dusty, half-broken chairs stood about and a dilapidated desk was the only other furniture it contained. Shabby, was the thought uppermost in his mind. Suddenly he remembered Richie’s conversation with Rumson. Where was the man now? He was nowhere to be seen.

Mark glanced into the room a second time to make certain. Rumson was not there.

Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer

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