Читать книгу Held for Ransom - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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Skippy did not know what to do. For a second he felt not a little panicky and it was only the sudden rush of people back to their cars in the passageway that made him get hold of himself. He realized that he had to think and act quickly to avert suspicion. He was even suspicious himself that the man with the mole knew of Carlton Conne’s presence on the ferryboat.

If he did—what then?

The boat, he was aware, had been moored. Engines were throbbing impatiently. Suddenly, the clang of the gates sounded throughout the boat. A klaxon sounded shrilly up ahead and he knew that the traffic was moving onto the New Jersey shore. Then he saw, as if in a dream, Conne’s big car join the procession.

He knew he could not now join his employer without being seen by the man with the mole and he remembered Conne’s orders that he must not be seen doing so by any of the Curley gang. So he ran toward the maroon-colored car and leaped inside as if some great external force had pushed him there. Somehow he felt that it was the right thing to do.

The car started almost before he had settled himself and he saw that the man with the mole was not alone. Another, rather light-complexioned man, moved over to make room for him. Skippy sensed by his drawn brows that he was not very pleased with the invited passenger.

The man with the mole, however, seemed not to notice it, but was busy guiding the powerful coupe from the boat. In the shadow Skippy thought he detected a vague smile on the man’s dark face.

After a moment’s silence the driver said, “Guess a cool ride’s got it all over a long, hot hike on a night like this, what say kiddo?”

“Er....” stammered Skippy.

The light man snorted. “Looks juss lika dumb wop kid, Mole,” he mumbled in a stage whisper that Skippy did not fail to catch.

“Shut up, Sam. We been kids and we been broke. And that we wasn’t dumb Wops was just luck. If I give the kid a lift that ain’t your business.”

Skippy leaned back against the head rest and permitted himself the luxury of a sigh. The man with the mole had not recognized him as the office boy from the International Detective Agency and the more he thought of it, the more he wondered why he did think so at all. Mole, as the man’s name seemed to be, had not given him a glance that afternoon. His worry on that score had been for nothing.

He was puzzled for a few minutes as to why the light man named Sam should mistake him for a stupid Italian boy. It was only for a few minutes, however, for suddenly it dawned on him that his natural complexion had undergone a radical change since he left the movie palace on Broadway. His already tanned face stained to a vari-colored hue by a half-hour’s contact with chocolate and flaming peppermint candies had been rubbed to a mellow smear by a none too clean handkerchief when he was in the New York ferry house. Then in his search through the boat’s vehicle passageway, he had become very warm and found it convenient to rub away with his grimy hands the great beads of perspiration that rolled down from his forehead to his chin. Yes, he decided, it must be that his face had become very dirty during this process and consequently, it wasn’t at all strange that Sam should mistake him for a Latin-skinned youngster. And, as for the man’s decision that he was plain stupid, Skippy realized that his behavior was bound to have made just that impression upon the most casual observer for the sudden turn of events and his own singular predicament had seemed to leave him incapable of speech.

But Skippy was to be thankful that his plight had brought this about. To be sure, the idea was even then taking root in his active mind that this mistaken identity might not prove to be so inconvenient after all. These hard-boiled members of Silver Curley’s gang might say or do something in his supposedly stupid presence that would later be of value to his beloved employer, Carlton Conne. Very well, he thought decisively, let them think of him as they would.

He would be dumb! He would be an Italian!

His next worry was about Mr. Conne—what that gruff but kindly gentleman would be thinking about him and if he was puzzled as to his failure to show up on the boat.

Skippy straightened up and leaned far out the open window at his side. Mr. Conne’s car was nowhere to be seen in the traffic that was moving up the runway from the ferry. Things had happened so fast he had been unable to keep track of it after it moved off the boat. Suddenly he was aware that Mole was speaking to him. “Where ’bouts we drop you, kiddo?”

Skippy could feel the blood rushing up to his scrawny neck and it took him a full second before he could bring his head around from the window. When he did he had managed to bring to his dirty face a wide, disarming smile.

“Drop-a?” he questioned, managing an accent adroitly.

“Whew!” whistled Sam disgustedly. “Mole, now ain’t this a swell little pal? They ain’t learned him United States yet.”

“Aw, cut it,” said Mole impatiently. He swerved the car out onto a dirt road and after picking up speed, leaned over and motioned to Skippy. “Your home—where?”

Skippy looked utterly blank and shrugged his shoulders. He was resolved to stick out the adventure and hope for Fate to play into his hands.

“Maybe he ain’t got no home,” Sam suggested facetiously.

“Home!” shouted Mole so vociferously that he almost lost control of the wheel. “Sleep...sleep-a...you know?”

“Ah,” said Skippy allowing himself to look a little more intelligent about the matter. He had heard an Italian barber in his aunt’s neighborhood say many profound ‘ahs’ and he rather liked the sound of it. Consequently, he again said, “Ah! Sleep-a!” Thereupon he shut his eyes and rested his head back of the seat to indicate that such was his understanding.

“No!” shouted Mole desperately. “No sleep-a here.” Then when he caught Skippy’s eye he motioned frantically westward. “Sleep-a there!”

Skippy found it difficult to suppress his mirth. But he kept up the fiction skilfully and he looked at Mole with wide-eyed understanding. “Sleep-a house,” he mumbled.

“Atta kid,” said Mole joyfully. “House— where?”

Skippy motioned ahead vaguely.

Mole was about to give up when an inspiration seized him. “House on hill-a?” he asked eagerly. “Bigga-da-hill?”

Skippy felt a little thrill running up and down his spine. He had a hunch and he answered accordingly. “House-hill-a,” he said slowly.

“Atta kid,” Mole said pleasantly. “Now we’re gettin’ somewheres. We go hill-a too.”

“Ah!” said Skippy purposely vague.

“Well, anyways,” said Mole wearily, “we can count on him pointin’ out where he oughta hop out. I got patience, but I ain’t no mind-reader. He can’t be that dumb that he won’t know that, hah?”

“Le’s hope so,” Sam said disgustedly. “But them greenhorn Eyetalians sure need nurses.”

“I’ll take a chance on the kid,” said Mole grimly.

“An’ if he ain’t a 100 to 1 shot I ain’t never seen one,” said Sam. Then thoughtfully, he added, “Now wouldn’t it be hot if he blows right into High Hills with us, hah? Many Wops live down in the town, Mole?”

“How should I know, I never had business down in that town. High Hills means just one thing with me.”

“Yeah, ’at goes double!” Sam agreed.

Skippy leaned back against the cushion again and closed his eyes. He just had to think.