“That’s just what I thought,” she replied, looking ahead, because the road was narrow, rough and rather tricky.
Jimmy was apologetic. “You see what that may mean? They may be going to bluff it out and bring the police in, to try and find me. I’m sorry—but that’s what it looks like to me.”
“To me too,” she cried. “Isn’t it exciting?” And her eyes fairly danced.
“Mrs. Atwood, do you know what you are? And I mean this—by thunder! You’re a peach. You don’t mind me saying so?”
“Not if you really mean it,” she replied, a trifle confused but showing no signs of annoyance.
Jimmy’s whole being, with that lunch settling down to work nicely in it, now expanded. He had dodged Kaydick and Company. He still had the package. And now if he wasn’t bumping up a mountain-side, on the way to her ranch, with the nicest little woman in California. He lit the new pipe he had just bought, and though it tasted more of varnish than of tobacco, he puffed at it luxuriously. Well, he had earned a piece of good luck, and here it was. This was the life.
“I don’t know how you feel about it, but this Mr. Edlin business doesn’t sound right to me. How about it? Just Jimmy from now on, eh?”
She agreed, and then, under slight pressure, confessed to being Rosalie herself.
“And you couldn’t have a nicer name,” he cried, repeating it once or twice, to her confusion. “Sounds just right.”
As they went up the narrow winding track into a bright empty world of blue air and shining rock, he learned a good deal about his new friend, Rosalie Atwood. Her late husband had been told by the doctors to leave Philadelphia and to try California. He had been considerably her senior, and delicate. They had settled in Riverside, where he had bought a small business and had done well with it, until he finally broke down altogether. After his death she had sold the business, and, after clearing things up in Riverside, had let her house there, furnished, at a good rent, and since then had divided her time between travelling and staying with various relatives and this ranch up in the hills. It was a tiny ranch, she told him, and did not really pay for itself, but it was cheap to run, with only a Mexican couple there and an old-timer, a former cowboy, miner, sheep-man, guide, called Deeks. And she loved the life up there, so quiet and far away from everything. Sometimes a relative or two came to stay with her. Her husband’s brother, much younger and a wild fellow, Charlie Atwood, who had been a stunt man in Hollywood for years, sometimes descended on her, usually when he was broke. He might possibly be there now. This was the only part that Jimmy, who had not missed a word, although he was sleepy, did not like. He could do without this Charlie Atwood. Women had a trick of talking disparagingly about “wild fellows” and, on the quiet, fancying them. So now he told her a few fine things about himself, gave her a picture of himself stalking like a conqueror through the mysterious East, just to show that he was as tough as any Charlie Atwoods.
Then he must have dozed off, for he was very tired and the afternoon, even up here, was quite warm, for when next he looked about him they were running down into a small valley, ringed round with blue-shadowed mountains. There were patches of green in the bottom of the valley, and water seemed to sparkle there. As they came nearer, he noticed some cottonwood trees and a small field or two of alfalfa. It was like an oasis held tenderly in a deep cup of blue air. Wire fences and some cattle and horses. Smoke from a low building. Jimmy looked looked at it all in delight. It was like Mrs. Atwood, Rosalie, herself, being small, cosy, clean, comforting. Then he saw, to his astonishment, a long level field, not far from the ranch-house, a stretch of ground with nothing growing on it and as smooth and flat as a brown billiard-table; and, what was astonishing, there was reposing on this ground an airplane, a small and battered-looking biplane of an oldish design but nevertheless an honest-to-God airplane.
Mrs. Atwood, as she turned in towards the ranch-house, regarded the airplane with neither surprise nor enthusiasm. “Yes,” she murmured, “Charlie’s here.”
They were now running up towards the porch of the pleasant little ranch-house. “Oh—this is grand,” cried Jimmy, who after all his troubles really felt at that moment that he had arrived at a haven of peace. “You couldn’t want anything better than this. All on its own, and a marvellous situation, and yet as cosy as you like. It’s a real home. Peaceful.”
He had no sooner said this than out of the ranch-house came running and yelling, apparently in terror of their lives, two middle-aged Mexicans and three Mexican children and a very thin old man in patched pants and two dogs and a cat. Out they came, and from behind them came tremendous shouts and roars and the clash of broken glass, as if somebody in there was busy smashing the place to bits.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Atwood, a little wearily but without any trace of surprise, “Charlie’s here.”
Blinking a little, feeling rather dazed, he followed her into the house. This looked like being a long day.
CHAPTER SIX
OUTSIDE THE GATE
It was rather late when Malcolm came down to breakfast, for he had not had a very good night’s sleep and then had dozed on past his usual time. Barstow seemed to have been up for hours. The dining-room was deserted. He tried the lunch-room and there, with his long legs wrapped round a stool at the counter, was Hooker, cleaning up what looked to have been once a noble plate of ham and eggs.
“You see, Darbyshire,” he observed with a grin, “why Science makes progress while Art stands still. Art has just got up, but Science has been up and out these last two hours, making enquiries. And if we’re going exploring to-day, you’d better have a good breakfast. The ham’s good.”
“I’ll try it.” Malcolm gave his order, then apologised to Hooker for being down so late, and asked if he had discovered anything about the MacMichaels.
Hooker had. “I figured that if I went round early, before the fellows were busy, some of them would know something. Henry MacMichael’s a multi-millionaire, and he’s not the kind to live in a shack somewhere. He’ll live in a big way wherever he is. And even if he gets most of his stuff in from the Coast, he must use this place now and again. Besides, those instruments from London had to be sent here, I knew that. So I went round with a packet of Luckies. Tried the railroad here first, then one or two of the garages, and the drug store.”
“The MacMichaels are here, aren’t they?” asked Malcolm
eagerly.
With an air of leisurely enjoyment the other spread a map out on the counter. He pointed a long stained forefinger. “Up here somewhere.”
Malcolm leaned over and stared not very hopefully at some grim shading on the map. Lava Mountains. Quail Mountains. Granite Mountains. Copper City. Leadpipe Spring. Eagle Crags. Not a very promising lot of names. And he said so.
“I know,” said Hooker. “But between the road here and this end of Death Valley there’s a little valley, might be a miniature canyon, and there they are. None of these fellows has seen the place. If they had workmen up there, I think they must have brought ’em in from the Coast. But one fellow had a brother who’d done a job for them up there. Some miner who’d struck it rich started building a big place—like Scotty’s Castle at the north end of Death Valley—you’ve heard of that, eh?—well, this miner seems to have died before it was finished, and then the MacMichaels bought it two or three years ago. It’s called the Castello, and it’s at Lost Lake. So what we’re looking for is the Lost Lake Castello, somewhere about there”—he pointed again—“and if that isn’t romantic enough for you, my romantic friend, I give you up.”
“It’s romantic enough,” said Malcolm, “but do you think it’s true? Why, there isn’t even the ghost of a road marked here, and they’d have to have some sort of road.”
“They’ve probably made one since this map was printed. This is three years old. Don’t worry about that.”
“Did you hear a
nything about the girl—Andrea?”
Hooker seemed to take even more time than usual before he replied. “Yes, she’s here all right. Fellow at the filling-station at the corner knows her. Says she sometimes drives a big Packard, and stops there for gas. He described her—dark, good-looking girl—she’d taken his eye, I guess. She was through here only about four days ago.”
“Going away?” And Malcolm’s heart sank.
“This fellow thought not. Coming up from the Coast.”
His heart expanded and rose like a balloon. “Are you game to go up there as soon as possible, Hooker?” he asked eagerly.
“Sure! I want an explanation from those two MacMichaels, and I’m going to have it. But listen, Darbyshire, are you ready to take a chance, and rough it a bit? You are? Fine! Because I’ve been thinking we’d better check out of here, and take a chance on staying somewhere up there. If there isn’t anything for us, then we might be able to push over to Death Valley—I was through there once, about four years ago—and even if we can’t make that, well, I’ve got a couple of rugs in the car and we’ll put some food and drink in—what do you say?”
Malcolm agreed with enthusiasm. What did he say, indeed! To charge into the mountains and find that girl again, perhaps to rescue her for ever from her deep mysterious unhappiness, to break the spell of Lost Lake and its Castello—and what did he say! They must be off at once.
“I’ll get my car out and buy some stuff to eat and drink,” said Hooker, now enjoying himself too at the thought of this very unscientific expedition, “while you pack up here.” He unwound himself from the stool, and lovingly folded his map. “By the way, have you thought any more about that fellow who disappeared last night?”
“Yes, but I still can’t make it out. I’d thought of asking that reception clerk a few more questions. It still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Never did. But the way I look at it is this. Whatever he was, we can’t do any good by hanging about here. If he was just a crazy drunk, then we’re obviously wasting time. If he wasn’t——”
Malcolm cut in here. “And I think he wasn’t, y’know, Hooker. He might have been the kind of chap who makes mountains out of mole-hills, but that’s all. Sorry, go on.”
“Well, if he really was on to something, and they got him away, then we’re still wasting time hanging about here, because we’ll know more by going straight to the MacMichaels and asking them what they think they’re doing. Now, I’ll be all set for going in half an hour. Can you make it?”
Malcolm could and did. He packed a small bag for the journey, and left his big one at the railway station. Hooker arrived in a rather dingy coupé, which had, however, a very efficient look.
“Matter of fact, she’s really a very powerful little brute,” Hooker explained, proudly, “and she’s just right for this job because she isn’t slung too low and can climb anything. Be ready for some rough going, though, because once we’re off the main road we’re liable to strike some very rough tracks. Now I’ve got enough to eat and drink for at least a couple of days, so that’s okay. Gasoline’s the real trouble, though. No filling-stations up there. I’ve got eighteen gallons in the tank, and we’ll fill up again at the very last place we come to, and I managed to get three spare two-gallon tins for emergency. Best I could do. So let’s go.”
It was a glorious morning, not too hot yet, with something still left in the air from the chill of the night, and as clean and bright as a new knife. The Mohave Desert looked as if it had just been created. The mountains beyond, brown with faintly-blue folds in them, might have been just delivered from some vast cosmographical toy-shop. The heavily-tarred main road looked like a thin black ruler laid across a map. The distances were immense. Malcolm found himself glancing across empty spaces into which whole English counties could have been dropped. They rushed on at seventy miles an hour and yet hardly seemed to be changing their position. Soon, as the sun climbed and burned more fiercely, they began to see mirages: the road in front of them appeared to be flooded; miraculous pale-blue lakes glimmered in the distant desert and even reflected the mesquite bushes; and the far mountain ranges dissolved and re-assembled themselves magically: it was like a country in a faintly cruel fairy-tale. The air was even newer than the landscape; it had neither age nor weight; nothing, it seemed, had happened yet in it; history had not yet begun, to load it with the sorrowful rumours of man’s perpetual unrest and unhappiness; it blew from a colossal Eden; and seemed to refresh not only the body but the spirit. Between the cruel yet enchanting desert country and the friendly magic of the air, and shaken by the vast trembling expectations of a lover, Malcolm was lost indeed. His own small green land, the gloom and sullen thunder of London, his two rooms and the office and the unbuilt cottage on the North Downs, his architecture and tennis and leathery sedate University Club all fled or were extinguished. He did not feel himself, but was not yet changed into anybody else. He was lost, but in a kind of happy madness. This was a dream, in full glaring sunlight.
Hooker, who liked driving his car and was nearly as anxious to have it out with Paul MacMichael as Malcolm was to confront Andrea again, talked cheerfully of this and that, the country they were passing through, his previous travels, his work and colleagues. Both young men were in tacit agreement not to discuss further the object of their journey, for each felt that there was more than a grain of folly in his own reason for being there, and hardly any reason at all, just a sort of pleasant lunacy, in the other’s motive. Hooker could not see any sense in threading a way into these mountains merely to see a girl who had not, he gathered, been very encouraging when Darbyshire had met her at the other side of the world. Malcolm for his part could not understand what Hooker thought he was going to do when he met the MacMichaels again, for if they had behaved badly to him in London there seemed no reason why they should behave any better in this grim wilderness of theirs. And each knew the other thought this, and could see that it was not unreasonable, and felt too insecure to begin arguing about it. So nothing more was said about the most important topic, and they talked all the morning about other things.
Malcolm knew that on these occasions it is best for one man and one alone to read the map and decide on routes, and as Hooker knew a little about this region and was obviously a passionate map-reader, Malcolm left it to him. He left it to him so thoroughly that he dreamily accepted every turning and new bumpy climb, not knowing where they were going. They had now left the main road and were twisting and climbing and crawling on vague spectres of roads, dim tracks among rocks, ruts in the sand, more or less in a northerly direction. They had taken in a few more gallons at a shack that had told them firmly it was their Last Chance For Gas, just as if they were now making for the empty roof of the world. And so, it seemed, they were. They stopped finally at the very dead end of a track that Hooker confessed had been a mistake, for it petered out on a remote little plateau, uncovered to the sun and frizzling, which contained nothing but some fantastically-coloured rocks, some very unfriendly cactus growths, the ruins of a shack, and a mound of rusted old tins. A faded notice announced that this was—or had been—the Five Buzzards Mine. It might have been a mine on a lost continent. But the whole rocky surface of the plateau glittered deceptively, as if promising anything, chiefly with what Hooker declared to be mica—or fools’ gold. At this dead end they ate lunch, canned beef and crackers and fruit from Hooker’s store of provisions. Then they smoked and looked lazily about them, at the surrounding summits and long mountain slopes coloured like Eastern rugs, and far down below where the alkali deposits looked like a covering of hoar-frost. Hooker, who was a thorough traveller, had both a compass and a pair of field-glasses, and now he used them both, while Malcolm stared in dreamy astonishment at the wide scene. Hooker declared he had caught a glimpse of some electric pylons crossing the slope of a neighbouring hill, and gave it as his opinion that these might possibly be running power and light to
the MacMichaels’ place, for otherwise he could not understand how they came to be there. The MacMichaels, he said, in their opulence must have arranged to tap the electric power that ran from Boulder Dam to the Coast. If they followed the pylons, they had a good chance of finding their way to the Castello. But not only were the pylons some way off, but there was the question too of finding some sort of track along which they could take the car. So first they had to go back a few miles.
Eventually, in the strange dead middle of the afternoon, when everything has lost its colour and savour, they came to a track that was the twin of that which had led them only to the forgotten mine, but which Hooker thought was going in the right direction. This track ran along, in a dejected fashion, and with many a bad place in it where it crossed the steep washes, for about six miles, and then, just beyond a sharp rise, and just when they were beginning to think they had been deceived again, it joined a much broader and smoother track that, in this place and in this weather, could almost be considered a good road. It was not marked at all on the map, though it showed signs of much usage, and Hooker said that this was in their favour, because the MacMichaels must have had to make some such road as this, for their own traffic. It led them, with some sharp curves to avoid fallen boulders, round the side of a granite mountain, then down into a rock-strewn valley that was empty of all life; and it was here that they noticed the line of pylons curving down and then running up the farther slope, well above the road itself.
“This is it, I guess,” said Hooker, after stopping and using his field-glasses. “The line goes over the top there, and I’ll bet you ten dollars this Lost Lake canyon—or whatever they call it—is on the other side. I don’t suppose this is the only way in. There’s probably at least another road to it, from the other side, but, at that, they’ve used this quite a lot since the last big rains. Look at those tracks. They’ve had quite a few trucks along here—and not such little ones either.”
The Doomsday Men Page 15
