The Case of the Musical Cow

Chapter 7

Rob Trenton counted the minutes until he could get out of the congested lanes of city traffic and find less crowded roads. Curled up in the rear seat, Lobo slept with his head on his paws. The dog now had sufficient confidence in his new master to accept whatever his new environment might be with complete assurance.

The car whined on through the night. Gradually the lights of approaching automobiles became more infrequent. At first there were breaks in the procession of approaching cars, then gradually the distance between the cars themselves became greater, until finally there were intervals up to as much as several minutes at a time when Rob Trenton’s eyes were spared the glare of approaching headlights.

Just as Rob Trenton dared to make an estimate as to the time he would arrive at the little farmhouse where he maintained his kennels, he felt the car swerve to the right, heard the bang of a blown-out tire and then was fighting the wheel to hold the machine straight on the road while he angled off to one side, touching the brakes at intervals very gently until he had the car well over on the verge.

The dog, up on all fours at the unexpected swing, was peering through the windshield.

Rob brought the car to a stop, quieted the dog, got out tools, jacked the car up and started to work.

It was while he was changing the tire that he first noticed the peculiar bulge on the underside of the car’s frame.

It seemed to be a smooth swelling in the metal, evidently housing some sort of a gear box, but there was certainly no evidence to indicate that any mechanism was supposed to be concealed under the swelling. Rob conducted an exploratory tapping with the handle of the wrench. The metal “blister” seemed to be hollow.

The little flashlight was getting dim, but curiosity and a certain cold suspicion brought decision to Rob Trenton’s mind.

He drove to the next town where he was able to procure a cold chisel and hammer, a larger flashlight and fresh batteries.

Ten miles down the road he again stopped the car, waited until there was a complete break in the traffic, then crawled under the car, adjusted the flashlight and tapped at the border of the steel blister with the edge of the cold chisel held firmly in position.

The blister peeled off as though it had been half a melon and a cascade of packages wrapped in oiled silk dropped to the highway.

Rob Trenton had no need to examine these oiled silk packages to know what they were.

A disillusioning bitterness filled Trenton until there was even the taste of it in his mouth. So he had been used as an unwilling accomplice. There actually had been some foundation for those anonymous letters which had been sent to the Customs.

Yet Rob could hardly picture Linda Carroll as a smuggler. He felt that she herself must have been victimized. And, having reached that decision, he knew that he must protect her against a premature discovery. Not until he had unearthed the real criminal could Linda be permitted to know what had happened. And, in the meantime, no matter what the cost, the authorities must be kept from any further search. Their suspicions already aroused, it would only be a short time before they would think of the car in which Linda Carroll, Merton Ostrander and Rob Trenton had made their European tour.

Rob’s palms were cold with perspiration as he thought of what would happen if some State Police patrol car, seeing his machine stopped by the side of the road, should pull up alongside and seek the cause of the trouble.

There was a short-handled shovel in the tool kit, one which had been carried through Europe in case of emergencies; and now in a frenzy of desperation Rob Trenton took the shovel from its place, moved over to the side of the road, near the fence, removed the sod, and quickly dug a hole some two feet deep, wrapped the oiled silk packages in a newspaper, shoved the whole thing down in the hole, placed the metal disc on top, and replaced the dirt as best he could. Then he fitted into place the circle of sod which he had carefully cut when he started the hole.

He checked the mileage on the speedometer of the little car, then with his pocket knife made a little blaze on a wooden fence post at the roadside.

Then he opened his notebook and drew a sketch map showing the exact location where he had stopped the car. A road sign some fifty feet ahead of the car gave mileages to the cities ahead and Rob carefully copied these distances in his book as well as the number of fence posts between the car and the sign.

He replaced the shovel and was just closing the toolbox when headlights coming along the road behind him suddenly swerved to the right, etching the little car in white brilliance. Abruptly a double red spotlight on the roof of the oncoming car sent an oscillating beam along the highway in both directions. The car drew up behind him and a uniformed state patrolman got out and walked forward.

“Having trouble?” he asked.

“Had a flat,” Rob Trenton said, “but I have it fixed now. I just put the tools away.” And then by way of confirmation, as though he might need something in the way of proof, he pounded his fist into the mushy softness of the blown-out tire which he had placed on the rack. “It certainly let go all at once,” he said.

The trooper, following Rob’s example, pounded the soft tire, nodded, said, “All right. Good luck,” and walked back to his car. He took a notebook from the front seat and started writing.

Trenton realized that with the new regulations motor patrolmen were called on to note every stop which they made on their run, and realized that the man would note the time, the place, and might well also make a note of the license number on Trenton’s automobile.

He opened the door and started to get in the car, but the patrolman, notebook in hand, was walking towards him once more. “Hate to bother you when you’re having trouble,” he said, smiling affably, “but since we’re already stopped, I’ll just make a check on your driving license. I like to make a routine check every so often.”

Wordlessly, Rob Trenton opened his pocket billfold, extracted the driving license in its plastic container and handed it to the officer who checked it carefully, nodded, handed it back, and said, “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks,” Trenton said, and jumped in behind the wheel.

“Nice dog you have there.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Vicious?”

“He’s all right... only... I wouldn’t pet him,” Trenton said.

He felt certain that if he had wanted to disclose his business, this man would know who he was. Some of the state troopers were familiar with the work that was being done with the training of their dogs and several of Rob Trenton’s “pupils” had gone to the State Police here. However, Rob was in no mood for conversation. He wanted only to get away from there.

The state trooper was at the rear of Rob’s car. As Rob climbed in the driver’s seat he felt the jar as the trooper’s fist once more thudded on the deflated tire. In the rear-view mirror he could see that the trooper was inspecting the gash in the casing.

“Okay?” Rob Trenton called.

“Okay,” the trooper said.

Rob Trenton eased the car into gear, made time down the road, keeping an eye on his speedometer, taking great pains not to exceed the legal limit, watching in the rear-view mirror to see if the lights of the state patrol car followed.

But the State Police car remained where it was parked, the red spotlight shimmering a warning in both directions up and down the road. Two other motorists came whizzing along behind and their headlights drowned out the view Rob Trenton had in the rear-view mirror of what was taking place behind him.

Trenton devoted his attention to driving the car.

After a mile or so he slowed and let the two other cars come on past.

The road behind was clear now. There were no reflections of headlights in the rear-view mirror. The State Police car at least had not followed along behind. Rob hoped nothing had happened to arouse the suspicions of the officer.

Cautiously he depressed his foot on the pedal, bringing the quivering speedometer needle up above the legal limit. It would be approximately an hour before he could turn in to his own farm, where Joe Colton, the deaf caretaker, had been caring for the dogs while Rob had been away in Europe.