by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER TWENTY
With a load of booze in the car and Jim Cassidy by his side, Casey Ryandrove down the long, eucalyptus-shaded avenue that runs past theballoon school at Arcadia and turned into the Foothill Boulevard. Halfa mile farther on a Cadillac roadster honked and slid past them,speeding away toward Monrovia. But Casey Ryan was busy talkingchummily with Jim Cassidy, and he scarcely knew that a car had passed.
The money he had been given for Smiling Lou had been used to pay forthis new load of whisky, and Casey found himself wishing that he couldget word of it to Mack Nolan. Still, Nolan's oversight in the matterof arranging for communication between them did not bother Casey much.He was doing his part; if Mack Nolan failed to do his, that was nofault of Casey Ryan's.
At Fontana, where young Kenner had stopped for gas on that eventfulfirst trip of Casey's, Casey slowed down also, for the same purpose,half tempted to call up the Little Woman on long distance while the gastank was being filled. But presently the matter went clean from hismind--and this was the reason:
A speed cop whose motorcycle stood inconspicuously around the corner ofthe garage, came forward and eyed the Ford sharply. He drew his littlebook from his pocket, turned a few leaves, found what he was lookingfor and eyed again the car. The garage man, slowly turning the crankof the gasoline pump, looked at him inquiringly; but the speed copignored the look and turned to Casey.
"Where'd you get this car?" he demanded, in much the same tone whichSmiling Lou had used the night before.
"Bought it," Casey told him gruffly.
"Where did you buy it?"
"Over at Goffs, just this side of Needles."
"Got a bill of sale?"
"You got Casey Ryan's word fer it," Casey retorted, with a growing heatinside, where he kept his temper when he wasn't using it.
"Are you Casey Ryan?" The speed cop's eyes hardened just a bit.
"Anybody says I ain't, you send 'em to me--an' then come around inabout ten minutes an' look 'em over."
"What's YOUR name?" The officer turned to Jim Cassidy.
"Tom Smith. I was just ketchin' a ride with this feller. Don't go an'mix ME in--I ain't no ways concerned; just ketchin' a ride is all. IfI'd 'a' knowed--"
"You can explain that to the judge. Get in there, you, and drive in toSan Berdoo. I'll be right with you, so you needn't forget the road!"He stepped back to his motorcycle and pushed it forward.
"Hey! Don't I git paid fer my gas?" the garage man wailed, pulling adripping nozzle from Casey's gas tank.
"Aw, go tahell!" Casey grunted, and threw a wadded bank note in hisdirection. "Take that an' shut up. What yuh cryin' around about agallon uh gas, fer? YOU ain't pinched!"
The money landed near the motorcycle and the officer picked it up,smoothed out the bill, glanced at it and looked through tightened lidsat Casey.
"Throwin' money around like a hootch-runner!" he sneered. "I guess youbirds need lookn' after, all right. Git goin'!"
Casey "got going." Twice on the way in the officer spurted upalongside and waved him down for speeding. Casey had not intended tospeed, either. He was merely keeping pace unconsciously with histhoughts.
He had been told just what he must do if he were arrested forbootlegging, but he was not at all certain that his instructions wouldcover an arrest for stealing an automobile. Nolan had forgotten aboutthat, he guessed. But Casey's optimism carried him jauntily to jail inSan Bernardino, and while he was secretly a bit uneasy, he was not halfso worried as Jim Cassidy appeared to be.
Casey was booked--along with "Tom Smith"--on two charges: theft of oneFord car, motor number so-and-so, serial number this-and-that, model,touring, year, whatever-it-was. And, unlawful transportation ofspirituous liquor. He tried to give the judge the wink, but withoutany happy result. So he eventually found himself locked in a cell withJim Cassidy.
Just at first, Casey Ryan was proud of the part he was playing. Hecould look with righteous toleration upon the limpness of his fellowprisoner. He could feel secure in the knowledge that he, Casey Ryan,was an agent of the government engaged in helping to uphold the laws ofhis country.
He waited for an hour or two, listening with a superior kind ofpatience to Jim Cassidy's panicky unbraidings of his luck. At firstJim was inclined to blame Casey rather bitterly for the plight he wasin. But Casey soon stopped that. Young Kenner was the responsibleparty in this mishap, as Casey very soon made plain to Jim.
"Well, I dunno but what you're right. It WAS kind of a dirtytrick--workin' a stole car off onto you. Why didn't he pick somesucker on the outside? Don't line up with Kenner, somehow. Well, Iguess mebby Smilin' Lou can see us out uh this hole all right--only Idon't like that car-stealin' charge. Mebby Kenner an' Lou canstraighten it up, though."
Casey wondered if they could. He wondered, too, how Nolan was going tofind out about Smiling Lou getting the camouflaged White Mule. Nolanhad not explained that to Casey--but Casey was not worrying yet. Hisfaith in Mack Nolan was firm.
Came bedtime, however, with no sign of official favor toward CaseyRyan. Casey began to wonder. But probably, he consoled himself withthinking, they meant to wait until Jim Cassidy was asleep before theyturned Casey loose. He lay on the hard bunk and waited hopefully,listening to the stertorous breathing of Jim Cassidy, who had forgottenhis troubles in sleep.
