The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (16 page)

He did not have long to wait, for the next alarm in the headquarters of the bus company at Oklahoma City came in exactly twenty-four hours later concerning Bus 150, Los Angeles to New York via Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago and Cleveland, aboard which the Coote sisters were travelling on their first package tour of the United States. It was this alert pair that made the discovery that there was a hijacker aboard.

The Coote sisters, Vera and Prudence, were British, unmistakably so. Spinster sisters, habitat Vine Cottage, Birdsfeather Lane, little Eggham, Dorset, they had been the first to notice the resemblance of the man slouched across the aisle from them to the hijacker of the bus whose portrait and the story of whose crime graced the front page of their copy of the
Los Angeles Times
and which they had been studying with delighted horror. They had been warned by both the vicar and the colonel back home of the dangers of travel, let alone life, in the colonies, and here was breathtaking evil that in a way had touched them. Hijacking of a bus.
They
were on a bus.

The Coote sisters had devoured the story in the newspaper, the horrible menace to the passengers of death by gunfire, bomb, or both, the brave boy who have saved them all, the villainous perpetrator shown both shackled to the police and later arraigned. He looked every bit as bad as he was, dirty denim trousers, open shirt, curious leather jacket, stetson, his face smudged with a growth of beard, eyes bleary. He looked, in fact, just as wicked as did the fellow sitting opposite them in worn denims, open shirt, odd jacket patterned in brown and white fur, cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes, face bristling with two days’ growth. In fact, Vera and Prudence admitted to one another with the first
frisson
of horror, the men looked very much alike. Perhaps all hijackers in the Americas wore a standard kind of uniform. Whatever, the sisters decided that the man would bear watching.

Prudence whispered, “Where did he get on?”

Vera replied, “I don’t remember. He wasn’t there last night.”

“Do you think that the boy is with him?”

Vera said, “I don’t know.”

The child was dressed in some kind of a playsuit and most of the time had been looking out the window. Neither he nor the potential hijacker had addressed each other.

The two nervous sisters gave themselves the thrill of reading the story all over again but rather ignored the brief short which appeared at the end under the heading “Police Seek Missing Boy. Young Hero Vanishes,” and datelined El Paso, reading to the effect that the police had sent out a general alarm for Julian West, the young hero who had foiled the San Diego bus hijack and who had apparently vanished from the scene shortly after the incident. The squib did not, of course, hint at the complete bafflement of the police. One moment, according to every officer interrogated, the boy had been sitting by the side of the road waiting for the troopers to clear the traffic jam before driving him to El Paso and a plane for home, and the next he wasn’t there or anywhere else and since his disappearance no trace of him had been reported.

The bus was tooling along U.S. Highway One east of Albuquerque and entering the red and sand-coloured rocky wilderness of the Manzano Badlands.

Vera, in the window seat, looking out, observed, “What terrifying country! It’s so different from Little Eggham, sometimes I wonder if we really should have come.”

Prudence said, “Of course it’s different, but that’s why one travels.”

“Supposing there are Indians? The vicar said . . .”

“Don’t be silly. The vicar’s a fool. They killed off all the Indians. And after that, the bootleggers. Though, I suppose the colonies have never really been civilized.”

Vera said, “Now, it’s hijackers.”

Prudence said, “I’m watching him,” and stole another glance at the man slouched in his seat a few feet away from them.

In a bus that seemed filled with innocent enough and typical Americans on the move, businessmen, a few blacks, salesmen, ranchers, farmers, a family of mother, father, small son and daughter, an elderly woman going to visit her married children, he was the only really desperate-looking character.

The vicar, of course, the Coote sisters were aware, was hopelessly behind the times, but their friend, the colonel, a relic of World War One, the sisters had taken more seriously. The colonel had read up and was something of an expert on American lawlessness, and when the two had come by a windfall inheritance and decided to see something of the world beginning with Britain’s first colony to be given its independence, the colonel had briefed them thoroughly on what might be expected, bringing them up to date on the various types of crime rampant in the States with the exception of that extra-added bonus which they might now encounter, the hijacking of a transcontinental bus.

Though there were five years between them, Prudence being the elder, there was not much to tell them apart. They had the same angularity, washed-out eyes, colourless hair and prominent teeth. They were both swathed in sensible tweeds of similar patterns and wore cloth hats.

“Oh,” said Vera, “We’re stopping. What do you suppose it is . . . ?”

Prudence looked to her right at a sign and said, “
HUMBLE
. What a funny name! Goodness, it’s a petrol station. We’re stopping for petrol.”

Across the aisle, Julian asked, “Where’s Humble?”

Marshall said, “Nowhere. It’s a gas station.” He barely glanced out of the window as the bus drew up to one of the big Western Oil Company’s pumps; they seemed to be just outside a hamlet called Adamana. They had left Arizona and now had crossed into Texas and the bus driver, fat, cheerful, perspiring, his shirt dark at the armpits, got out and walked over to the diesel pump and talked to the uniformed attendant. Although conversation could not be heard due to the thick windows required by the air conditioning system, a clattering from without did penetrate as a Texas state trooper on a motor-cycle drew up, stopped, remained sitting on his bike, but engaged the driver and the attendant in conversation. Then, all three looked over in the direction of the bus.

Marshall said, “Oh, Christ. Duck.”

Julian, alarmed, cried, “What’s the matter?”

Marshall said, “Shut up and get down. The fuzz. He may have spotted us.”

The policeman, the driver and the attendant were now looking directly into the window where they were sitting.

Julian obediently squidged down below window level, Marshall slid down in his seat as low as he could and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes.

However, he had to know and out of the side of his mouth he said, “Julian . . . I mean, Buffalo.”

The boy replied “Yeah?”

“Take a quick peek. What are they doing? The cop, I mean?”

Julian popped up and down in the approved TV style and then said, “They’re all talking and looking over here,” and then he asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Are they on our trail?”

Marshall replied, “I dunno, but keep down and don’t look any more. Here, pretend like you’re reading,” and he shoved a comic book over at him.

Under his breath he said, “Oh, Christ, the goddamn bus driver,” for there was no doubt in his mind that something was up. He had caught a glimpse of the driver talking and twitching his head in the direction of the bus and seen the trooper, risen from the saddle of his cycle craning his neck and looking directly at him, Frank Marshall.

It was just the last half-minute or so of this drama which the Coote sisters caught when Prudence happend to look to her right and saw the trooper craning his neck, staring, and its shattering effect upon the desperado across the aisle.

She seized her sister’s arm and whispered, “Vera, did you see?”

“Yes.”

“Do you suppose he recognized him?”

“Oh, Prudence, how terrifying!”

Prudence squeezed Vera’s hand again, “Look at him. If that isn’t the guilt of a hardened criminal.”

Vera whispered, “Ssshhh. For heaven’s sake, Prudence, be careful. He might hear you.”

At this point the meeting at the diesel pump broke up, the driver lifted his hand in a gesture of good-bye and got back into the bus.

Prudence leaned closer to her sister, “Oh, dear, it doesn’t seem as if he’s going to do anything. The policeman, I mean.”

Vera said, “Perhaps he didn’t recognize him after all. But you would think that after having his picture in all the papers . . .”

Prudence said, “Don’t be stupid. That’s the other one. They caught
him.
Oh, dear, maybe he didn’t see him.”

The noise of the bus in full swing again was providing cover for the whispers of the two.

Vera said, “He’s acting guilty.”

“Not like an honest man.”

“I shan’t have another quiet moment.”

Prudence now reached down and picked up her handbag which was actually a rather oversized reticule and heavy, and placed it between her and Vera remarking grimly, “I’m afraid the colonel was right.”

This was how fear came to four of the inmates of Bus 150. This was how it had looked to them from inside the bus. From the outside the conversation, unfortunately inaudible to the four within, had been somewhat more innocent.

The state trooper had opened with, “Hello, Fatso.”

The bus driver said, “Hi, Tex.”

The attendant said, “How many gallons?”

Fatso replied, “Fill ’er. I don’t like goin’ over them mountains without I know I got plenty.” He turned to the trooper and said, “Whaddya know, Tex.”

Tex replied, “Nuthin’. What’s with you?”

Fatso said, “Same old load,” and then added, “No, I got a couple of limeys aboard. Sisters. Real kooks. Can they ask questions.”

Tex said, “No kiddin’.”

Fatso said, “One of ’em’s got Indians on the brain. Are we gonna be attacked by Indians?”

Tex repeated, “No kiddin’, where are they?”

Fatso motioned with his hand in the direction of the bus and said, “In the back there. You can just see their heads. They’re on the other side.”

Tex hoicked himself up off the seat of his motor-cycle and craned his neck so that he could see better. The attendant stopped cranking the diesel pump and had a look for himself.

Tex asked, “Them two with the hats?”

Fatso said, “Yeah. Get a load.”

Tex remarked, “It takes all kinds, don’t it. English you said they was?”

“Uh huh. They talk like they got a hot potato in their kissers.”

The attendant said “Sixty-three gallons.”

Fatso said, “Okay, charge it.” And produced the bus line’s credit card.

Tex was still standing looking over at the bus and suddenly found himself staring into four alarmed eyes as the heads of the two sisters were turned in his direction staring back.

“Boy,” he said, “They’re a couple, ain’t they? Indians!”

Fatso restored his credit card to his wallet, said thanks to the attendant and “So long, Tex, don’t fall off your bike.”

Tex said, “Okay, Fatso boy, drive careful and watch out for Injuns.”

Fatso got back into his bus, slammed the door shut, rolled her back on to the highway and they were off.

After a few moments Marshall side-mouthed, “Take a look out the back window. Is that cop following us?”

Julian got up, knelt on the seat and looked backwards to investigate. He said, “No, I can’t see anyone.” He withdrew his gun from its holster and aimed it through the back window and said, “If he comes I’ll shoot him with my Bubble Gun.”

Marshall reached up in sudden panic and said, “Oh Christ, put that thing away, will you, and keep it away.”

Julian regarded him reproachfully saying, “Okay, okay, I was only fooling,” and then added, “Were you scared again?”

Marshall replied, “Not scared. Just careful. I’m trying to keep you from being grabbed. But even if he’d spotted you he wouldn’t have recognized you in that outfit, so let’s forget it.” He sat up in his seat again, shoved back his hat and mopped his brow.

Prudence Coote had gone quite stiff and now shifted her reticule and put it on to her lap.

She leaned to Vera, “Do you see? He’s armed. I knew it.”

“Prudence, I shall die.”

“He’s using the child as a decoy. We must do something at once.”

“Oh please, Prudence, no. He would shoot us.”

“Hush, he needn’t know.”

“What will you do?”

“Tell the driver at once.”

Vera began to shake. “Oh Prudence, don’t leave me. I shall die of fright.”

Prudence ran the Union Jack up to the masthead over the ramparts and ordered the bugles to blow the charge. She said, “Vera, remember that we are British.”

She rose, holding her bag for a moment, then on second thought placed it carefully in Vera’s lap. “There,” she said, “and don’t hesitate.” She moved off, carefully refraining from bestowing so much as a glance upon Marshall, who was now sitting up reading a comic book again, or Julian, whose nose was flattened against the window pane.

Her chin quivering with nervousness, Vera watched her sister, back of the bus. There was some further whispering after which the driver nodded his head. Prudence came marching down wheel and turn his fat baby face to look anxiously towards the back of the bus. There was some further whispering after which the driver nodded his head. Prudence came marching down the aisle again all flags flying and a look of satisfaction upon her face. She sat down, retrieved her carry-all and placed it firmly upon her lap. Her eyes were turned towards the front end of the bus and she craned her neck slightly to see better.

Vera whispered, “Did you tell him?”

“Ssshhh!” cautioned Prudence. She elongated her neck another centimetre and then relaxed as she saw the driver pick up his microphone.

And thus the second hijack alarm came into the Oklahoma City dispatcher’s office where the operator listened to a hoarsely whispered message from Bus 150 Los Angeles to Washington and then cried aloud, “What? Oh, for God’s sake, not again. Are you sure?”

His exclamation attracted the attention of the chief dispatcher who queried, “What’s up?”

The dispatcher with a look of disbelief on his face said, “What the hell is going on here? Bus 150 reports a suspicious character. Sounds like another hijacker. He’s armed.”