Dr. Stone moved toward the little office. A voice said, “He’s blind, Rog.” The tapping had stopped.
But well able to hear, the doctor thought with grim humor, and listened from the doorway. Voices came from the garage floor—Jerry Moore’s, the nervous voice that had said, “He’s blind, Rog,” and the mellow, genial tones of a third man.
“This brake-rod”—grunt—“sure was loose.” That was Jerry. “Quite a contraption you’ve got under here.”
“My own idea,” the genial voice said. “Why smear up a car when you can pack them where they’re out of the way?”
The job was done, and presently the car backed out of the garage. Jerry came to the office.
“What won’t folks think up next?” he demanded. “Fishing fellows, those two who just went out. Stopping off to try Horseshoe Lake. Got a long metal box bolted in under the floor boards. Out of sight and out of the way. Got room in that box for a hundred pounds along with ice.”
“Fish?” Dr. Stone asked a trifle sharply.
The garageman cackled. “Sure; a regular ice-box on wheels. How come they pick here for fishing? Nobody’s taken a bass out of Horseshoe in years, and danged few pickerel. Want that rod mended?”
A horn blew at the pumps. Jerry put the rod down and hurried outside, and Dr. Stone walked to the door. A hoarse voice said: “Two quarts of medium.” A moment later the voice rasped harshly: “Get away from that hood. Can’t you see I’ve brought a can for the oil?”
“Easy, brother,” Jerry soothed. “No harm done.”