Around the World in 100 Days (11 page)

The scraping sound stopped. A moment later, a dark form slid from beneath the motorcar. Harry nearly called out, “Johnny?” But though Johnny had been known to work on the car at odd hours, he wouldn't do so without an acetylene lamp. Besides, Harry could hear his friend's familiar guttural snore issuing from the next stall.

But who else would be fiddling with the
Flash
, and why?

THIRTEEN
In which

H
arry would have been wise to sneak up and catch the intruder unaware, but it was not in his nature to be sneaky. He stood and called out, “You there! What are you doing?”

The shadowy form sprang to its feet and ducked behind one of the horse-drawn carriages. By the time Harry reached the spot, the figure had vanished; the only clue to where it had gone was the open door of the stable, flapping in the wind.

The disturbance had upset the horses, and their anxious whinnies roused the stableman; he appeared in the doorway with a kerosene lantern in hand, water streaming from his slicker and rain hat. “What's going on?” he demanded.

“I caught someone messing about with our motorcar,” said Harry. “Did you see anyone leave the stable just now?”

“Not a soul,” said the stableman. “You sure you weren't just having a bad dream?”

“Perfectly sure. Here, let me borrow that.” He took the lantern and, kneeling next to the car, examined the ground. Scuff marks in the dirt showed that someone had been scrambling about in the spot. He shone the light beneath the
Flash
but could see nothing out of place.

The stableman snatched the lantern and went to check on his horses. When Harry returned to the stall that served as their bedroom, Johnny was still sound asleep. “Is something wrong?” said a soft voice. “I thought I heard shouting.”

“We had a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who?”

“I wish I knew. I suspect someone was trying to sabotage the
Flash
.”

“Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth. “I hope he didn't succeed.”

“Not as far as I can tell. We'll examine her more closely in the morning.”

“You didn't get a look at the culprit, then?”

Harry shook his head. “Too dark. You may as well go back to bed. All the excitement's over—I hope.”

She put a hand on his arm. “You get some rest, too, Harry. We don't want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Yes, all right.” But instead of stretching out on his straw bed, Harry curled up in the rear seat of the
Flash
, where he dozed fitfully until dawn.

 

When it was fully light, they pushed the car into the stable yard and Johnny crawled under to make certain nothing had been damaged. When he emerged, Harry said, “Did you find anything?”

“No. But I have a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Something's wrong.”

“With the car, you mean? What sort of something?”

Johnny scowled. “I don't know.”

“Well, we may as well fire her up. If there is anything amiss, we'll know soon enough.”

While the
Flash
built up steam, Harry searched the bay where the car had sat. He found, crammed beneath one of the carriages, a ragged old peacoat. The back was covered with dirt. Clearly, it had been worn by the unidentified intruder.

The obvious suspect was the stableman. When Harry confronted him, the man admitted the coat was his. “I keep it hung on a nail by the door; I use it whenever there's dirty work to be done. Mind you, it wasn't me who messed with your motorcar. I was in the house, sound asleep, until I heard all the ruckus.”

Harry was inclined to believe the man. After all, why would he would run away, only to grab up a lantern and rain gear and come right back to the scene of the crime? But who else had a reason to want the car disabled?

The answer was so obvious that Harry mentally kicked himself for not having seen it before. He was so deucedly naive, it had never occurred to him that Julius Hardiman might have sent his son along not to keep Harry honest but to make certain that he lost.

Harry stuffed the peacoat under one arm and strode across the alley. Just as he reached the back door of the hotel, Charles appeared, glancing up at the sky. “Thank heavens that beastly rain has let up.”

Harry thrust the dirty coat under his delicate nose. “I'm onto you, Hardiman!”

Distastefully, Charles pushed the coat away. “Well, I'll thank you to get
off
me. What is that smelly object?”

“The coat you wore last night!”

“Are you out of your mind, Fogg? You couldn't force me at gunpoint to wear such a repulsive garment.”

“Don't try to deny it! You used it to keep your fancy clothing clean while you crawled under the car!”

Charles appeared genuinely puzzled. “Why on earth would I do that?”

Harry flung down the coat. “I may be gullible, Hardiman, but I'm not a complete fool! Now I see why your father wanted you aboard the
Flash
! So you could sabotage her!” He raised a fist, tempted to knock the disdainful look off Hardiman's face.

Charles flinched, but stood his ground. “My father is a gentleman, sir. He would never resort to such tactics. Even if he did, I would not carry them out.” Charles straightened the lapels of his well-tailored tweed jacket. “I believe you owe me an apology.”

Harry's fit of righteous anger quickly lost steam. “And I will gladly tender one . . . if you can prove that you were not in the stable last night.”

“I can't
prove
it. But I give you my word, I did not try to sabotage your machine.”

Harry took a deep breath and blew it out again. “All right. I'll accept that. For now.” He scooped up the coat. “Mind you, I'll be keeping a close eye on you, all the same.” He started for the stable.

“Just a moment,” said Charles. “You never properly apologized, you know.”

“Yes, all right, if it will make you feel better, I apologize.”

“Thank you. Oh, by the by, I've changed some money into American dollars. Perhaps you'd like a bit.”

“You're giving it away?” Harry said. “How kind of you.”

“I expect English currency in return.”

With two of the bills, Harry purchased twenty gallons of kerosene from a drugstore. Another two went to the stableman, and a half-dollar to his wife for some ham sandwiches and fruit. Harry and Johnny wasted no time on eating; too many hours of daylight had escaped them already. They topped up the fuel and water tanks and set off.

Once they left the paved streets of Philadelphia, they found that the heavy rains had turned the dirt roads to something resembling glue. Harry tried in vain to muscle the motorcar through the mud. “I suppose we'll have to put on the other set of wheels,” he said.

While he and Johnny labored at this task, Charles sat in the
Flash
, jotting in his journal.

FOURTEEN
In which

H
arry had plenty of time for a ham sandwich after all—any number of them, in fact. He sat helpless for an interminable two hours while Johnny repaired the line that fed steam to the engine. The pipe had not actually been cut, only filed down so that it would burst under pressure.

Through the smudges of dirt, Harry could see that his friend's face had an unhealthy pallor. “Your head's hurting, isn't it?” he said.

Johnny nodded slightly, then grimaced with pain. He had put so much of himself into the
Flash
that, when anything went wrong with the car, something went wrong in Johnny's head. Ever since the accident with the horse, he had been subject to blackouts and violent headaches. They were unpredictable, but seemed to occur most often when he was under stress.

“I'll put your tools away,” Harry said. “You stretch out on the grass and relax for a while.”

“We need to go,” Johnny protested weakly.

“I was thinking of stopping for a few hours anyway, until the roads dry out.”

“Liar.”

“Well, in any case, it wouldn't hurt. Go lie down, now. Or have a sandwich; that might help.”

“Nothing helps.” Nevertheless, Johnny lay down in the shade and draped an arm over his eyes to block the light.

“Is he ill?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

Harry nodded. “He gets these pains in his head. He says it's like having his head squeezed in a vise and pounded with a chisel.”

Elizabeth clucked her tongue sympathetically. “I have something that may help.” She retrieved her carpetbag from the box on the back of the car and took out a bottle labeled DR. PEMBERTON'S SYRUP. “Give him two capfuls of this,” she said. “I mean the bottle cap, of course, not the cap on his head.”

“Thank you for clearing that up,” said Harry.

Whether it was due to the medicine itself or simply to the power of suggestion, within half an hour Johnny was feeling well enough to take his seat in the motorcar. Harry relit the burner, and they set off again.

Beyond Lancaster, the roads began to improve. Though he hated stopping, Harry knew they would make better time with the rubber-tired wheels, so he pulled over and got out the jack.

When Charles made no move to help, Elizabeth gave him a reproachful glance, then said to Harry, “I'll assist you, if you like.”

“No, no,” Charles said hastily. “I'll do it. It's no job for a lady.” As he climbed awkwardly from the car, Harry and Elizabeth exchanged a small conspiratorial smile.

To Charles's dismay, they didn't stop in Harrisburg to clean up and change clothing. Harry insisted on driving well after dark; the acetylene lamps on the fenders cast a dim light for ten or fifteen yards.

Until now, the land had been relatively level, but once they crossed the Susquehanna River they began to climb into the mountains—the Appalachians, according to Charles's map. The most practical route through the mountains was the one chosen by the engineers who built the railroad line from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh. When the wagon road they were following crossed the railway, Harry impulsively turned onto the tracks.

Knowing they would be driving over rough terrain, Johnny had equipped the motorcar with forty-inch wheels. Smaller tires would have dropped into the gaps between the wooden sleepers, but these rolled over the ties with a rhythmic, almost soothing thumping sound.

Charles took advantage of the relatively stable ride to jot another entry in his journal: