He replaced the shovel and was just closing the toolbox when headlights coming along the road behind him suddenly swerved to the right, etching the little car in white brilliance. Abruptly a double red spotlight on the roof of the oncoming car sent an oscillating beam along the highway in both directions. The car drew up behind him and a uniformed state patrolman got out and walked forward.
“Having trouble?” he asked.
“Had a flat,” Rob Trenton said, “but I have it fixed now. I just put the tools away.” And then by way of confirmation, as though he might need something in the way of proof, he pounded his fist into the mushy softness of the blown-out tire which he had placed on the rack. “It certainly let go all at once,” he said.
The trooper, following Rob’s example, pounded the soft tire, nodded, said, “All right. Good luck,” and walked back to his car. He took a notebook from the front seat and started writing.
Trenton realized that with the new regulations motor patrolmen were called on to note every stop which they made on their run, and realized that the man would note the time, the place, and might well also make a note of the license number on Trenton’s automobile.
He opened the door and started to get in the car, but the patrolman, notebook in hand, was walking towards him once more. “Hate to bother you when you’re having trouble,” he said, smiling affably, “but since we’re already stopped, I’ll just make a check on your driving license. I like to make a routine check every so often.”
Wordlessly, Rob Trenton opened his pocket billfold, extracted the driving license in its plastic container and handed it to the officer who checked it carefully, nodded, handed it back, and said, “Well, good luck.”
“Thanks,” Trenton said, and jumped in behind the wheel.
“Nice dog you have there.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Vicious?”
“He’s all right... only... I wouldn’t pet him,” Trenton said.
He felt certain that if he had wanted to disclose his business, this man would know who he was. Some of the state troopers were familiar with the work that was being done with the training of their dogs and several of Rob Trenton’s “pupils” had gone to the State Police here. However, Rob was in no mood for conversation. He wanted only to get away from there.
The state trooper was at the rear of Rob’s car. As Rob climbed in the driver’s seat he felt the jar as the trooper’s fist once more thudded on the deflated tire. In the rear-view mirror he could see that the trooper was inspecting the gash in the casing.
“Okay?” Rob Trenton called.
“Okay,” the trooper said.
Rob Trenton eased the car into gear, made time down the road, keeping an eye on his speedometer, taking great pains not to exceed the legal limit, watching in the rear-view mirror to see if the lights of the state patrol car followed.
But the State Police car remained where it was parked, the red spotlight shimmering a warning in both directions up and down the road. Two other motorists came whizzing along behind and their headlights drowned out the view Rob Trenton had in the rear-view mirror of what was taking place behind him.
Trenton devoted his attention to driving the car.
After a mile or so he slowed and let the two other cars come on past.
The road behind was clear now. There were no reflections of headlights in the rear-view mirror. The State Police car at least had not followed along behind. Rob hoped nothing had happened to arouse the suspicions of the officer.
Cautiously he depressed his foot on the pedal, bringing the quivering speedometer needle up above the legal limit. It would be approximately an hour before he could turn in to his own farm, where Joe Colton, the deaf caretaker, had been caring for the dogs while Rob had been away in Europe.
Chapter 8
It was a new and disquieting experience for Rob Trenton to feel that he was dodging the law. However, he felt certain Linda could have had nothing to do with the cache of smuggled drugs and welcomed the opportunity to clear her by ascertaining the real culprit.
However, this ambition which seemed so thoroughly logical to him as he drove along began to present practical difficulties as he started planning his moves. Every mile that he covered brought new dangers to his mind. Quite obviously someone who would have used Linda Carroll as an unwitting tool in a smuggling operation running into the tens of thousands of dollars would hardly submit tamely to such amateurish outside interference as Rob Trenton could at the moment think up. A vague disquiet filled him with apprehension. He had a few hours of grace at the most. Then the smuggler would find that the cache had been disturbed. And then what?
Rob thought of several possibilities, none of which appealed to him. Quite obviously he could never go to the police. It was too late for that now. He had burnt his bridges so far as the police were concerned. Not only could he offer no adequate defense that would protect Linda, but he could never explain his actions in burying the oiled silk packages; and the date of the newspaper in which they were wrapped would be a damning link in the chain of evidence.
Rob realized that he was definitely and entirely on his own, realized also the very strong possibility that he was dealing not with one man, but a gang. There must have been more than three pounds in those oiled silk packages, and even Rob’s comparative ignorance of values was not such that he failed to recognize a well-planned operation of considerable magnitude.
It was nine-thirty when Rob Trenton picked up the lights of the little village which was so familiar to him. The T & C café was open and an oblong of light spread out from the window to splash in vivid orange on the sidewalk. A filling station was a blaze of white illumination. Aside from that the town was closed up for the night and the headlights of the little car danced along the road as Rob passed the town, went a mile and a half, turned to the right for two miles, then turned in at his little farm.
He had sent Joe Colton a wire stating that he would arrive late that night. There was a light on in the kitchen and one by the kennels.
Rob Trenton gave two rapid blasts of the horn as he turned in at the gate, and then realized that the horn would do no good because of Joe’s deafness.
However, as Trenton piloted the car around the back circle of the driveway and the lights shone on the kitchen window, old Joe came hobbling out, his face wreathed with a welcoming grin.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Joe hurried over to the car. “How’re you coming, boss?”
Knowing Joe’s deafness, Rob waited until the door was open before he shouted, “Hello, Joe, how’re you feeling?”
It was at the sound of Rob Trenton’s voice that pandemonium broke loose in the kennels. The dogs had been carefully trained not to bark, but the sound of Rob’s voice put too great a strain on their self-control and once the first bark of the younger dog broke the precedent, they were beyond all restraint.
Even Joe’s calloused old ears took cognizance of that racket. He grinned at Rob Trenton as he shook hands and said, “Reckon you’ve got to speak to ’em now they’ve heard your voice.”’
Lobo standing up in the back of the car, was growling throatily, then whining.
Trenton said to the big German Shepherd, “You wait there, Lobo, till I’ve gone over and paved the way.”
There were ten dogs in the kennels, and ten eagerly whining canines greeted their returned master. Ten moist snouts had to muzzle against his hand and then, the greetings done, Rob returned to the car, brought Lobo back with him and introduced him to the dogs, one at a time, through the wire-meshed doors of the individual kennels. He then returned with Lobo to the house and said “I hate to make the other dogs jealous, Joe, but this boy is strange and he’ll have to sleep on my bed tonight until he gets accustomed to the place and knows the other dogs, then we’ll fix a kennel for him and he can live with the others and take training.”