The key fitted the lock, and Bud went in, set down his suitcase, and
closed the door after him. It was dark as a pocket in there, save where
a square of grayness betrayed a window. Bud felt his way to the side
of the car, groped to the robe rail, found a heavy, fringed robe, and
curtained the window until he could see no thread of light anywhere;
after which he ventured to use his flashlight until he had found the
switch and turned on the light.
There was a little side door at the back, and it was fastened on the
inside with a stout hook. Bud thought for a minute, took a long chance,
and let himself out into the yard, closing the door after him. He walked
around the garage to the front and satisfied himself that the light
inside did not show. Then he went around the back of the house and found
that he had not been mistaken about the light. The house was certainly
occupied, and like the neighboring houses seemed concerned only with the
dinner hour of the inmates. He went back, hooked the little door on the
inside, and began a careful inspection of the car he was to drive.
It was a big, late-modeled touring car, of the kind that sells for
nearly five thousand dollars. Bud's eyes lightened with satisfaction
when he looked at it. There would be pleasure as well as profit in
driving this old girl to Los Angeles, he told himself. It fairly made
his mouth water to look at her standing there. He got in and slid behind
the wheel and fingered the gear lever, and tested the clutch and the
foot brake--not because he doubted them, but because he had a hankering
to feel their smoothness of operation. Bud loved a good car just as he
had loved a good horse in the years behind him. Just as he used to walk
around a good horse and pat its sleek shoulder and feel the hard muscles
of its trim legs, so now he made love to this big car. Let that old hen
of Foster's crab the trip south? He should sa-a-ay not!
There did not seem to be a thing that he could do to her, but
nevertheless he got down and, gave all the grease cups a turn, removed
the number plates and put them under the rear seat cushion, inspected
the gas tank and the oil gauge and the fanbelt and the radiator, turned
back the trip-mileage to zero--professional driving had made Bud careful
as a taxi driver about recording the mileage of a trip--looked at the
clock set in the instrument board, and pondered.
What if the old lady took a notion to drive somewhere? She would miss
the car and raise a hullabaloo, and maybe crab the whole thing in the
start. In that case, Bud decided that the best way would be to let her
go. He could pile on to the empty trunk rack behind, and manage somehow
to get off with the car when she stopped. Still, there was not much
chance of her going out in the fog--and now that he listened, he heard
the drip of rain. No, there was not much chance. Foster had not seemed
to think there was any chance of the car being in use, and Foster ought
to know. He would wait until about ten-thirty, to play safe, and then
go.