Around the World in 100 Days

by Gary Blackwood

  Though the Flash was surrounded by people, Harry’s eye was drawn to the one familiar figure among them—a tall young woman in a long coat, bareheaded despite the rain. “Elizabeth,” he said, under his breath.

  She was gazing up at their makeshift sail, with a faint smile on her face. She shook her head, whether at the crude, slapdash nature of the thing or at the cleverness of it, Harry couldn’t tell. Her gaze fell on the ruined boiler, then; she reached out a hand—as someone will reach out in sympathy to a friend who is hurt or distressed—and patted the metal body of the Flash.

  A well-dressed man stepped forward and, with a small knife, began cutting away a chunk of the leather hood. Elizabeth whirled around, her face flushed with anger, and said something to the souvenir seeker that Harry could not hear. Whatever it was, it sent the man scurrying away, his head down.

  “I’m going to go speak to her,” said Charles.

  Harry took his arm. “I wouldn’t. You’ll only embarrass her, old chum. Besides, you’re needed inside the Club. You’re the expedition’s official observer, remember?” Harry beckoned to one of the policemen who stood nearby. “Do you suppose you could go down there and keep an eye on our motorcar until we return? If you don’t, I’m afraid there’ll be nothing left.”

  The peeler touched the brim of his helmet. “Be ’appy to, sir. And congratulations.”

  Just outside the front doors of the Club, Aouda Fogg stood waiting patiently to greet her prodigal son. Though public displays of affection were not considered ladylike, she couldn’t help wrapping her arms about him. Then, standing on tiptoe, she raised her veil and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “I am very happy to see you, Hari. But, oh, you look so thin, and so tired.”

  “I am. But we won, Mother. We won.” He glanced around. “Is Father here?”

  “He is inside, probably collecting money from the other members.”

  “You mean he made a wager of his own?”

  Aouda nodded. “Several of them.”

  “And he bet that we would win?”

  “Of course. You did not suppose he would bet against you?” She gave him a slight nudge. “Do not keep him waiting, Hari. He has been very worried about you.”

  “He told you that?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps not in so many words. But I can tell.”

  Harry took her arm. “Come with me, Mother.”

  “No, no,” she protested, pulling away. “Women are not permitted in the Club, you know that. I shall go home and have the cook prepare a lovely luncheon for you.”

  Charles had already entered the Club and, finding the vestibule empty, climbed the stairs to the library. A good half of the members were gathered there, drinks in hand. When he came through the door, they raised their glasses and gave him three hearty choruses of “Hip, hip, hurrah!”

  Charles strode over to his father, who shook his hand briskly and handed him a glass of champagne. “Glad to have you back safe and sound,” said Julius Hardiman. But he did not look very glad. “Where’s young Fogg?”

  “He’ll be here.” Charles took a swig of the champagne and gazed around the room, feeling dazed and disoriented. After three months spent in the backseat of a motorcar and in livery stables, in tents and shabby hotels, the opulent surroundings of the Club seemed unreal. He had supposed that it would be a great relief to return to his old life, but somehow it all seemed rather ordinary and disappointing. He drained the glass and put on a smile. “Well, we did it, Father! We actually drove a motorcar around the world!”

  “So you did. I only wish you had taken a bit longer doing it.” He leaned closer and said confidentially, “Couldn’t you have managed to slow him down some?”

  Charles stared at his father. “I understood that I was to be an observer, not a saboteur!”

  Julius Hardiman laughed, but it sounded forced and hollow. “Of course, of course. I was merely joking.”

  “Were you?” Charles set the glass aside. “Father, I must know,” he said quietly, grimly. “Did you hire those men to disable the car?”

  His father looked genuinely baffled. “What men?”

  “A group posing as Luddites. They attacked us just before we reached the Club.”

  “I give you my word, Charles, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Have you any idea who might be responsible?”

  Before Hardiman could reply, another chorus of “Hip, hip, hurrah” filled the room. Charles turned to see Harry stride in, grinning triumphantly.

  FORTY-ONE In which

  THE OUTCOME OF THE CONTEST IS DISPUTED AND DECIDED

  Phileas Fogg, who until that moment had remained standing at the window, staring out at the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back in that stiff military manner of his, now turned and moved across the room to greet his son. He looked distinctly ill at ease, as though he were, for once in his life, at a loss as to how to act or what to say.

  Harry thrust out a hand. His father, clearly relieved that an embrace was not called for, gratefully grasped it. “Welcome back,” he said. “And congratulations.”

  “Will you have a drink with us?” asked Flanagan, one of the parties to the wager.

  “No, thank you,” replied Harry. “My mother is waiting for me. As you know, she’s not permitted to enter the Club. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just collect my winnings and go.”

  “Oh, stay and savor your victory for while,” said Flanagan. “Perhaps even gloat a bit.”

  “Yes, do stay, Harry,” put in Dr. Doyle. “We’d all like to hear about your adventures.”

  “I’m sure Charles will be happy to regale you with stories of the trip.”

  “He’s already revealed that you were attacked by Luddites,” said Julius Hardiman. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t believe they were Luddites, in fact,” replied Harry sharply. “I suspect they were paid to make certain the Flash was stopped short of the goal.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” said Dr. Doyle.

  In a quiet but commanding voice, Phileas Fogg said, “I believe I may have the answer to that.” He turned toward the window, where a figure had sat unnoticed until now, half concealed in a large armchair. “Mr. Drummond. You were telling me earlier how, once you had my son’s vehicle, you would use it as a prototype, to build and sell more motorcars. How disappointed you must be, to have your plans spoiled.”

  The man who had loaned Harry the money in San Francisco rose slowly from the armchair and turned to the others, looking rather shamefaced. He spread his hands as if in surrender. “All right, I suppose there’s no use in my denying it. The Luddite thing was meant only to be a last resort; I stationed men at both ends of the street. But I never imagined that you might actually make it back in time.”

  Harry could barely restrain himself from punching Drummond right between his ridiculous dundreary whiskers. “And I never imagined,” he said, “that you coveted our motorcar so much, you would have us beaten up in order to get it.”

  “I instructed those men not to harm anyone. They didn’t, did they?”

  “Not badly—except for the Flash, of course.”

  Julius Hardiman set his drink down so firmly that the glass threatened to shatter. “I’ll thank you to leave, now, Drummond,” he said coldly. “This is a gentleman’s club.”

  “If he may stay just a moment longer,” said Harry, “I’d like to pay back the thousand pounds I owe him—minus the cost of repairing the Flash, of course. But before I can do that, I must ask you three to make good your wagers.”

  Hardiman, Flanagan, and Sullivan traded uncomfortable glances. “I’m afraid,” said Flanagan, “that I don’t have that much on me. Frankly, I didn’t anticipate actually having to pay up. I hope you will accept a check?”

  Before Harry could reply, Sullivan the banker spoke up. “Just one moment, gentlemen. There’s a small matter that must be settled first.”

  “We followed the rules to the letter,” put in Charles, heatedly. “What objection
could you possibly have?”

  Sullivan turned to him with a smug, superior smile. “The rules state that the motorcar must travel the entire distance under its own power.”

  “And so she did, except when crossing oceans, lakes, and rivers.”

  “Are you prepared to swear to that?” asked Sullivan.

  “Yes. That is, I—” Charles broke off and gave Harry a desperate glance.

  “Isn’t it true,” Sullivan went on, “that between Rawlins, Wyoming, and San Francisco, California, you were absent from the motorcar—kicked off it, in fact, I believe?”

  “How did you—” Charles turned to Drummond. “You told him.”

  Drummond smiled and shrugged.

  “Is this true, Charles?” asked Hardiman.

  Scowling, Charles grudgingly muttered, “Yes, sir.”

  “So, you see,” said Sullivan, “we have no way of knowing whether or not there were any infractions of the rules during that time.”

  “You have my word on it, sir!” said Harry, his fists clenched in anger.

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough,” replied Sullivan.

  Phileas Fogg stepped forward, toe-to-toe and face-to-face with the banker, and said coolly, “If you insult a member of my family, Mr. Sullivan, you insult me. I demand satisfaction.”

  Sullivan gave a nervous, incredulous laugh. “Are you challenging me to a duel, Mr. Fogg?”

  “That is the traditional manner in which gentlemen settle their disputes.”

  The banker shrank back slightly. “See here, I hardly think that—”

  He was interrupted by a disturbance in the hall. A young woman in a long overcoat stormed into the library, shedding drops of water on the expensive Oriental carpet. “I knew it!” she said. “I knew they’d find some objection, some way of making sure they didn’t have to pay up!”

  “Elizabeth!” cried Charles. “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve been standing in the hall, listening to this—this load of horse manure!”

  The doorman, who had entered in her wake, said, “I’m very sorry, sirs. I tried to prevent her from—”

  “Are you aware,” said Julius Hardiman, “that women are not permitted in this club?”

  “Oh, that’s another load of horse manure! I am a reporter, and I intend to let my readers know, in great detail, the lengths to which three supposedly respectable businessmen will go to try and weasel out of paying their debts.”

  “We are simply trying to make certain that the rules were adhered to,” protested Sullivan. “And the fact is, for a considerable part of the journey, our impartial observer was not present in the car.”

  Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully. “That is true,” she admitted. Then, slowly, the frown metamorphosed into a sweet, sly smile. “However,” she said, “I was present during that time, and I give you my word that the Flash traveled every inch of the distance under her own power. Now, I know that none of you self-professed gentlemen would be so unchivalrous as to question the word of a lady.”

  Sullivan’s mouth moved as though he were about to reply, but there was nothing he could say. He was well and truly defeated, and he knew it. He simply sighed. As though they had been practicing the maneuver, he and his friends reached simultaneously for their check-books. Harry held up a hand to stop them. “One moment. To paraphrase Mr. Sullivan, I have no way of knowing whether or not your checks will be valid. I am, however, perfectly willing to wait here while you withdraw the money from your bank accounts.”

  When the three businessmen had departed, muttering indignant phrases unfit for a lady’s ears, Harry turned to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t thank me. It doesn’t begin to make up for the trouble I caused you.”

  “Well, it was hardly your fault,” said Harry, “that the Graphic sent you off on another assignment. Incidentally, how were the whist championships? Riveting, I expect.”

  Though Elizabeth was momentarily baffled, she did fine job of concealing it. “No, actually,” she said, “they were rather tedious. It’s a pity the players aren’t permitted to place bets. That might have made things a bit more interesting.” And though she was grateful to him for keeping her secret, she was careful to conceal that, too. All she did, before she turned to go, was to place a hand briefly and gently on Harry’s arm. But he understood.

  Phileas Fogg approached his son. “Before you spend all the money on building another motorcar, please remember that a thousand pounds of it is to go back into your trust fund.”

  Harry grinned. “Yes, sir.” The library clock chimed eleven. “I’m afraid I’ve played havoc with your schedule, Father. You should have left for the dining room ten minutes ago.”

  “Yes, well, I thought perhaps I’d dine with you and your mother at home, for a change. It will give us an opportunity to hear some of your adventures.”

  “All right. There’re a few adventures, however, that are best left untold, for Mother’s sake.”

  “Yes,” said Phileas Fogg. “No doubt you’re right.”

  “And perhaps,” said Harry pointedly, “you will tell us some of your adventures, in turn.”

  “But you’ve heard about my journey a hundred times.”

  “I was not referring to your journey, sir. I meant your seafaring adventures.”

  For the first time in Harry’s memory, a full-fledged look of surprise came over his father’s face.

  “You see,” said Harry, “I met Captain Keough.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps some of those adventures should remain untold, as well. For your mother’s sake.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll see you at home, then?”

  “Actually,” said Phileas Fogg, “I thought I’d help you with the Flash—having her towed, or whatever is necessary.”

  Now it was Harry’s turn to look surprised. “Of course. I didn’t suppose you’d want to.”

  “If motorcars are to be the future of transportation,” said his father, “it would behoove us all to learn a little something about them, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do. When we’ve got her running again, perhaps you’d like to take a turn at the wheel?”

  Phileas Fogg gave a small, wry smile. “I don’t believe I care to know that much about them.”

  Not wanting to lead a flock of newspaper reporters to Johnny, Harry stored the motorcar in a livery stable near Savile Row. A week or so later, when he was sure that the newspapers were done with him, he had the Flash towed—embarrassingly enough, by a team of horses—to the blacksmith shop in York Court, where he found Johnny hard at work cleaning up the charred remains of his shed. Harry had intended to share the four thousand pounds that remained, but Johnny refused. “You’ll need that money,” he said. “For engineering school.”

  Harry gave him a doubtful look. “You really think I should?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, I could give it a try.” Harry scratched his head. “Do you think any decent school will have me?”

  “Of course,” said Johnny. “You’re the famous Harry Fogg.”

  “But what about our plans to build a new, improved version of the Flash?”

  “We’ll work nights,” said Johnny. “And weekends.” He sat on the running board and pulled from his trouser pocket a piece of paper covered with mysterious scrawls and sketches. “Want to see my drawings?”

  “Does Ganesha have an elephant’s head?”

  “I don’t know,” said Johnny.

  “Well, he does. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.” Though Johnny was not the most communicative person in the world, nor the most skilled draftsman, Harry managed to decipher his drawings and his halting explanation. The new Flash would be powered, like the car in Iowa, by electricity. But, unlike Morrison’s vehicle, theirs could travel long distances, for the batteries would be recharged by a small, extremely efficient engine like the one patented seventy-five years earlier by another Scotsman named Stirling. Harry wasn’t sure
precisely how the Stirling engine worked, only that it needed no boiler and burned a fraction of the fuel used by a steam engine.

  “This is brilliant, lad!” he said. “When do we start on her?”

  “After we clean this up,” said Johnny. “And build another workshop.”

  “Right.” Harry doffed his coat and picked up a shovel. “Listen, Johnny, I never apologized to you for selling the Flash to Drummond.”

  “You didn’t sell her.”

  “Well, I nearly did. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  Johnny shrugged. “If you hadn’t, we’d still be in San Francisco.” He set to work shoveling ashes and debris into a cart and Harry followed suit.

  They got a welcome respite when Charles Hardiman turned up, carrying the latest edition of the London Daily Graphic. “Have you fellows seen this?”

  “Seen what?”

  “A very extensive and somewhat overwrought account of our journey, written by a certain Miss Annie Laurie.”

  “Overwrought?”

  Charles fished his eyeglasses from his coat pocket. “Listen to this: ‘It was at this point that your reporter was compelled to part company with Messrs. Fogg, Hardiman, and Shaugnessey. Even now, she cannot write of her reasons for leaving without suffering acute embarrassment, and yet she feels she owes her loyal readers some explanation of her actions.’”

  Harry glanced at Johnny, who had ceased working and was listening intently. “Um, Charles, I think I’d prefer to read it for myself.” Perhaps Elizabeth needed to clear her conscience, but there was no need for Johnny to hear it.

  With a puzzled look, Charles surrendered the paper. “Yes, all right, but . . .” He trailed off as Harry frowned and gave a slight shake of his head.

  Harry found the passage and, sitting on the running board of the Flash, scanned it silently:. . . owes her loyal readers some explanation of her actions. To put it as delicately and modestly as possible, the situation was similar to that of the familiar syndrome known as shipboard romance . That is, the close proximity into which we were necessarily thrown had apparently led to amorous feelings on the part of certain members of the crew, and this unfortunately resulted in another sort of contest, with this reporter’s affections as the prize. When the rivalry threatened to erupt into outright hostility, your humble correspondent concluded that it was best for all concerned if she withdrew from the expedition.