He pushed her back, found her driving license. “The real name,” he drawled, “seems to be Jane Marlow.”
“Anything else?” Kane asked.
“Gobs of money, lipstick, keys and... Gosh, what a bankroll.”
She went for him blindly.
Doxey said, “Now, ma’am, I’m goin’ to have to spank yuh if yuh keep on like this.”
The plane circled, its occupants obviously interested in the scene on the ground below.
“Now — here’s something else,” Doxey said, taking out a folded newspaper clipping.
She suddenly went limp. There was no use in further pretense.
Doxey read aloud, “ ‘Following the report of an autopsy surgeon, police, who had never been entirely satisfied that the unexplained death of Frank Hardwick was actually a suicide, are searching for his attractive secretary, Jane Marlow. The young woman reportedly had dinner with Hardwick in a downtown restaurant the night of his death.
“ ‘Hardwick, after leaving Miss Marlow, according to her story, went directly to the apartment of Eva Ingram, a strikingly beautiful model who has, however, convinced police that she was dining out. Within a matter of minutes after entering the Ingram apartment, Hardwick either jumped or fell from the eighth story window.
“ ‘With the finding of a witness who says Frank Hardwick was accompanied at least as far as the apartment door by a young woman whose description answers that of Jane Marlow, and evidence indicating several thousand dollars was removed from a concealed floor safe in Hardwick’s office, police are anxious once more to question Miss Marlow. So far their efforts have definitely not been crowned with success.’
“And here’s a picture of this young lady,” Buck said, “with some more stuff under it.
“ ‘Jane Marlow, secretary of scientist who jumped from apartment window to his death, is now sought by police after witness claims to have seen her arguing angrily with Frank Hardwick when latter was ringing bell at front door of apartment house from which Hardwick fell or jumped to sidewalk.’ ”
Overhead, the plane suddenly ceased its circling and took off in a straight line to the north.
As the car proceeded northward, Buck put on speed, deftly avoiding the bad places in the road.
Jane Marlow, who had lapsed into hopeless silence, tried one more last desperate attempt when they crossed the paved road. “Please,” she said, “let me out here. I’ll catch a ride back to Los Angeles and report to the police.”
Kane’s eyes asked a silent question of the driver.
“Nope,” Buck said decisively. “That plane was the sheriff’s scout plane. He’ll expect us to hold you. I don’t crave to have no more trouble over women.”
“All right,” Jane said in a last burst of desperation, “I’ll tell you the whole story. Then I’ll leave it to your patriotism. I was secretary to Frank Hardwick. He was working on something that had to do with cosmic rays.”
“I know,” Doxey interrupted sarcastically. “And he dictated his secret formula to you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, “but he did know that he was in danger. He told me that if anything happened to him, to take something, which he gave me, to a certain individual.”
“Just keep on talking,” Buck said. “Tell us about the money.”
Her eyes were desperate. “Mr. Hardwick had a concealed floor safe in the office. He left reserve cash there for emergencies. He gave me the combination, told me that if anything happened to him, I was to go to that safe, take the money and deliver it and a certain paper to a certain scientist in Boston.”
Buck’s smile of skepticism was certain to influence Kane even more than words.
“Frank Hardwick never jumped out of any window,” she went on. “They were waiting for him, and they threw him out.”
“Or,” Buck said, “a certain young lady became jealous, followed him, got him near an open window and then gave a sudden, unexpected shove. It has been done, you know.”
“And people have told the truth,” she blazed, “I don’t enjoy what I’m doing. I consider it a duty to my country — and I’ll probably be murdered, just as Frank Hardwick was.”
“Now listen,” Kane said. “Nice little girls don’t jump off trains before daylight in the morning and tell the kind of stories you’re telling. You got off that train because you were running away from someone.”
She turned to Kane. “I was hoping that you would understand.”
“He understands,” Buck said, and laughed.
After that she was silent...
Overhead, from time to time, the plane came circling back. Once it was gone for nearly forty-five minutes and she dared to hope they had thrown it off the track, but later she realized it had only gone to refuel and then it was back above them once more.
It was nearly nine when Buck turned off the rutted road and headed toward a group of unpainted, squat, log cabins which seemed to be bracing themselves against the cold wind while waiting for the winter snow. Back of the buildings were timbered mountains.
The pilot of the plane had evidently spotted the ranch long ago. Hardly had Buck turned off the road than the plane came circling in for a landing.
Jane Marlow had to lean against the cold wind as she walked from the car to the porch of the cabin. Howard Kane held the door open for her, and she found herself inside a cold room which fairly reeked of masculine tenancy, with a paper-littered desk, guns, deer and elk horns.
Within a matter of seconds she heard the pound of steps on the porch, the door was flung open, and the fat man and a companion stood on the threshold.
“Well, Jane,” the fat man said, “you gave us quite a chase, didn’t you?” He turned to the others.
“Reckon I’d better introduce myself, boys.” He reached in his pocket, then took out a wallet and tossed it carelessly on the desk.
“I’m John Findlay of the FBI,” he said,
“That’s a lie,” she said. “Can’t you understand? This man is an enemy. Those credentials are forged.”
“Well, ma’am,” the other newcomer said, stepping forward, “there ain’t nothing wrong with my credentials. I’m the sheriff here, and I’m taking you into custody.”
He took her purse, said, “You just might have a gun in here.”
He opened the purse. Findlay leaned over to look, said, “It’s all there.”
“Come on, Miss Marlow,” the sheriff said, “You’re going back in that plane.”
“That plane of yours holds three people?” Findlay asked.
The sheriff looked appraisingly at the fat man. “Not us three.”
“I can fly the crate,” Findlay said. “I’ll take the prisoner in, lock her up and then fly back for you and...”
“No, no, no!” Jane Marlow screamed. “Don’t you see, can’t you realize, this man isn’t an officer. I’d never get there. He...”
“Shut up,” the sheriff said.
“Sheriff, please! You’re being victimized. Call up the FBI and you’ll find out that...”
“I’ve already called up the Los Angeles office of the FBI,” the sheriff said.
Kane’s brows leveled. “Was that because you were suspicious, Sheriff?”
“Findlay himself suggested it.”
Jane was incredulous. “You mean they told you that...?”
“They vouched for him in every way,” the sheriff said. “They told me he’d been sent after Jane Marlow, and to give him every assistance. Now I’ve got to lock you up...”
“She’s my responsibility, Sheriff,” Findlay said.
The sheriff frowned, then said, “Okay, I’ll fly back and send a deputy out with a car.”
“Very well,” Findlay agreed. “I’ll see that she stays put.”