The Race Clive Cussler (new books to read txt) 📖

and pressed her body against his until her mother called through the door, “Good night!”

Eustace Weed stumbled down the stairs, his head reeling and his heart full.

Two toughs were blocking the sidewalk, West Side boys.

It looked to Eustace like he had a fight on his hands, and one he wasn’t likely to win. Running for it seemed the better idea. He was tall and thin and could probably leave them in the dust. But before he could move, they spread out and, to his astonishment and sudden fear, flashed open flick-knives.

“The boss wants to see you,” one said. “You gonna come quiet?”

Eustace looked at the knives and nodded his head. “What’s this about?”

“You’ll find out.”

They fell in on either side and walked him a couple of blocks to a street of saloons, where they entered a dimly lighted establishment and led him through the smoky barroom to a back-room office. The saloonkeeper, a barrel-bellied man in a bowler hat, vest, and necktie, sat behind a desk. On it, heated by a candle, bubbled a little cast-iron pot of boiling paraffin. It gave off a smell similar to the burnt castor scent of Gnome engine exhaust. Beside the pot was a short length of copper pipe, a water pitcher with a narrow spout, a leather sack a little longer than the pipe, and a vicious-looking blackjack with a flexible handle and a thick head.

“Shut the door.”

The toughs did and stood by it. The saloonkeeper beckoned Eustace to approach his desk. “Your name is Eustace Weed. Your girl is Daisy Ramsey. She’s a looker. Do you want to keep her that way?”

“What do you—”

The saloonkeeper picked up the blackjack and dangled the heavy end so that it swung side to side like a pendulum. “Or do you want to come home from the air race to find her face beaten to a pulp?”

In his first flush of panic, Eustace figured it was mistaken identity. They were thinking he owed gambling debts, which of course he didn’t because he never gambled except when shooting pool, and he was too good at it to call it gambling. Then he realized it wasn’t mistaken identity. They knew he was working on the air race. Which meant they also knew that he was working on the flying machine owned by the chief investigator of the Van Dorn Detective Agency. And they knew about Daisy.

Eustace started to ask, “Why—” He was thinking this had to do with Harry Frost, the madman trying to kill Josephine.

Before he could finish his question, the saloonkeeper interrupted in a silky voice. He had eyes that reflected the light as if they were as hard and polished as ball bearings. “Why are we threatening you? Because you’re going to do something for us. If you do it, you will come home to Chicago and find your girl Daisy just like you left her. You got my promise, the word goes out tonight: anybody so much as whistles at her, he’s dragged in here to answer to me. If you don’t do what we ask, well . . . I’ll let you guess. Actually, you don’t have to guess. I’ve already told you. Understand?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me that you understand before we go on to what we want.”

Eustace saw no way out of this mess other than to say, “I understand.”

“Do you understand that if you go to the cops, you’ll never know which cops are our cops.”

Eustace had grown up in Chicago. He knew about cops and gangsters, and he’d heard the old stories about Harry Frost. He nodded that he understood. The saloonkeeper raised an inquiring eyebrow and waited until Eustace repeated out loud, “I understand.”

“Good. Then you and Daisy will live happily ever after.”

“When will you tell me what you want?”

“Right now. Do you see this here pot?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see what’s in there boiling?”

“It smells like paraffin.”

“That’s what it is. It’s paraffin wax. Do you see this?” he held up the three-inch length of three-quarter-inch copper tubing.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s a length of copper pipe.”

“Blow out the candle.”

Eustace looked puzzled.

The saloonkeeper said, “Lean down here and blow out the candle so the paraffin wax stops boiling.”

Eustace leaned down, wondering if it was a trick, and they were going hit him or throw the boiling wax in his face. The back of his neck tingled as he blew out the candle. No one hit him. No one threw hot wax in his face.

“Good. Now we’ll wait a moment for it to cool.”

The saloonkeeper sat in complete silence. The toughs at the door shifted on their feet. Eustace heard a murmur of conversation from the saloon and a bark of laughter.

“Pick up the copper tube.”

Eustace picked it up, more curious now than afraid.

“Dip one end in the paraffin. Careful, don’t burn your fingers on the pot. Still hot.”

Eustace dipped the tube in the paraffin, which was congealing and growing solid as it cooled.

“Hold it there . . .” After sixty seconds the saloonkeeper said, “Take it out. Good. Dip it in that water pitcher to cool it . . . Hold it there. All right, now you gotta move quick. Turn it over so the wax plug is down . . . That’s a plug you made, you see, the wax plugs that end of the tube. Do you see?”

“The bottom is plugged.”

“Now take the pitcher and pour the water into the tube. Careful, it doesn’t take much. What would you say that is, two tablespoons?”

“Just about,” Eustace agreed.

“Now, holding it upright, not spilling it, take your finger of your other hand and dip it in the wax . . . Don’t worry, it won’t burn you . . . Still warm, might sting a little, is all.”

Eustace dipped his index finger into the warm, pliable wax.

“Almost done,” said the saloonkeeper. “Scoop up some wax on your finger and use it to plug the other end of the tube.”

Eustace did as he was told, working