Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans (8 page)

They were small, slant-eyed men—Freddy thought they might be Orientals but they spoke good English. One caught him by the arm and the other pointed a pistol at him.

“All right, Mr. Pig,” said the latter. “Let's have those plans.”

“
All right, Mr. Pig,” said the latter. “Let's have those plans.
”

Freddy was perfectly willing to give them the plans, but he didn't think he ought to turn them over too easily. They might be suspicious. “What plans?” he said.

“Come on, come on!” said the first man impatiently. “Quit stalling.” And the second man put the pistol to Freddy's ear. “I count three, then I pull the trigger,” he said. “One—”

“Hey, now
wait
a minute!” said Freddy. “What'll that get you? You don't suppose I have them on me, do you?”

“I suppose we better find out,” said the man with the pistol. With his free hand he slapped Freddy all over lightly. “Nothing, eh? Well, how about that tube strapped to your saddle?” And he turned toward it.

Freddy shrugged his shoulders and tried to look disappointed as he watched the man undo the strap. But suddenly he was aware that a strong smell of cheap perfume was stealing through the trees, and looking toward the road, Freddy saw that the little spy with the beard was stealing after it. He had a pistol in his fist. He pointed it at Freddy's captors and said quietly: “Put your hands up.”

The men had been so intent on Freddy that they hadn't noticed the car that had slid to a stop behind theirs. Now, as their hands shot up, they swung round and saw it, and the man who threatened them. They saw also, and heard, two more cars which squealed up and stopped with a jerk.

“Oh, golly, here we go again!” Freddy said to himself disgustedly. In two minutes there were a couple of dozen spies prowling about, singly or in pairs, each watching all the others—none, apparently, paying much attention to him, although he was the center of the activity. He climbed on Cy and rode off, unmolested, through the trees.

CHAPTER

8

Freddy was pretty discouraged. At this rate nobody would ever be able to steal the plans. Yet if somebody didn't steal them, sooner or later the police would pick him up, and then the cylinder would be returned to Uncle Ben. And everybody would be just back where he started from. Except him. He'd be in disgrace. Also in jail.

Of course he could hide the things. But if it was known that he had hidden them, not only the spies but everybody in the country would go hunting for them, and he couldn't think of any place where they'd really be safe from universal search.

“Remember that money you stole once?” Cy said. “Remember where you hid it?”

“It wasn't stolen,” said Freddy indignantly. “I just took it so Mrs. Bean wouldn't give it to that man who pretended to be her brother.”

“O.K., so you didn't steal it,” said Cy with a grin. “But when you stole it, remember where you hid it?”

“I tell you I didn't—” Freddy began crossly. Then he stopped. “Oh, sure,” he said suddenly, “I hid it in the jail. Golly, that's an idea, Cy. Nobody'd look for the plans there.”

“You'd be better off there yourself,” said the horse. “You wouldn't have to dodge all over the country to keep from being arrested. You'd
be
arrested. And you'd get all these here spies out of your hair.”

“How could I let one of 'em steal the plans if I was in jail?” Freddy asked. “Hold on! Maybe I could, at that.” He thought a minute, then he made up his mind. “Come on, Cy,” he said, “I'm going down to the jail and give myself up.”

Freddy managed to get to the jail, which was near the edge of town, without being observed. He rode in through the iron gates, under the archway which bore the legend:

T
HE CENTERBORO
J
AIL

A HOME FROM HOME

The lawn with its croquet wickets, mallets and balls, and its little tables shaded by colored umbrellas where the prisoners had sat drinking ice-cream sodas during the heat of the day, were deserted; it was after six, and through the dining-room windows Freddy could hear a gabble of talk and laughter and the rattle of knives and forks as the prisoners ate their supper. He unstrapped the tube of plans from his saddle and shoved it down inside his trouser leg. He gave Cy some instructions and turned him loose; then he rang the bell, and after a minute the sheriff opened the door.

He was a lanky man with a long mustache, and he had a silver star pinned to his vest. He never wore a necktie. He said that if he didn't pull it up tight it looked sloppy, and if he did, it bothered him when he wanted to swallow. He was a good friend of Freddy's, but he frowned when he saw him. “What are you doin' here?” he demanded.

“Now don't look dirty at me,” said Freddy. “And you might ask me in.”

“You bet I'll ask you in,” said the sheriff. “And you'll stay in, too. You're under arrest.”

“That's just what I want to be,” Freddy replied. “Oh, don't look so sour. You'd have stolen the plans, too, under the same circumstances.”

“Well, I feel sour,” the sheriff said. “I got to have you here, and I suppose because we used to be friends I can put up with it. But I don't know how the other prisoners are going to feel about it. Most of our boys are good honest burglars and pickpockets and stick-up men. They ain't going to like having a traitor around any more than I am.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake!” said Freddy. “I'm no more a traitor than you are. Let me in and hear what I've got to say, will you? And don't let the other prisoners see me yet.”

“You're darn tootin' I won't,” said the sheriff, and grudgingly led the way into his office. “They'll likely tear you to pieces.” He picked up a copy of the Centerboro
Sentinel
and read the headlines aloud.

LOCAL PIG ACCUSED OF TREASON

W. F. Bean's Freddy Steals Flying Saucer Plans

Believed Sold to Communists

“I suppose you don't deny this?”

“Certainly not. But I haven't sold 'em yet. You're going to help me do that.” And Freddy grinned at him.

But the sheriff didn't grin back. “Great Jerusha!” He sounded deeply shocked and horrified. “What's got into you, Freddy? You come of good American stock, and if anybody'd asked me this morning I'd have said you was as patriotic a pig as any in the county. And now you admit the whole thing, and on top of that you're flip about it.” He stared at Freddy in silence for a moment. “I just can't believe it,” he said. “I can't believe you'd do such a thing. What is it, Freddy—what has happened to you?”

Freddy stopped grinning and said seriously: “I'm glad you give me the benefit of the doubt, even if it's only a little one. I know this looks bad, but we were always friends and trusted each other, and no matter how bad it looks, I hate to think you'd believe it until you'd heard my side of the story.” So then he told the sheriff the whole thing.

The sheriff took a deep breath and let it out—Whoosh! Then he grinned and whacked Freddy on the back. “I ought to known—I ought to known,” he said. “Yes, sir, when Ben Bean told me about how you tied him up and stole the plans, and I says: ‘You want to swear out a warrant for him?'—well, Ben kind of hesitated, and then he said sort of reluctant: ‘Well, s'pose I ought to.' I ought to known right then there was somethin' funny goin' on. My gosh, Freddy, if you can forgive me—”

“Forget it,” said Freddy. “And now look, I suppose you'll have to put it in the paper tomorrow that you've arrested me?”

“Oh, yes. Have to. And,” said the sheriff, swinging round and taking a printed form from his desk, “we might as well get you registered properly. Name? Frederick Bean.” He licked his pencil and wrote it down. “Address? Bean Farm, Centerboro. Age? Well, I don't ask the boys that any more. Some of 'em are kind of sensitive about it. Feel that they're getting along in years and haven't got much to show for it, since they're still small-time burglars.”

“They oughtn't to feel that way,” said Freddy. “Everybody can't be rich and important. And after all, if you work hard at your job and do the best you can … I mean, there's nothing to be ashamed of if you haven't made a lot of money.”

“That's what I tell 'em,” said the sheriff. “Long as they do their best, whether it's burglary or banking, they didn't ought to be dissatisfied. Well now, let's see; here's a lot of other questions: father's name, mother's maiden name, name of dentist, number of second cousins on mother's side, unpaid grocery bills, if any … I don't see what that has to do with getting you into jail. Crime? What would you call your crime: assault and robbery?”

“Assault sounds kind of rough, doesn't it?”

“Well, 'cording to Ben, you tried to smother him. What'll I put—smothering and robbery?”

Freddy said that sounded all right.

“Now,” said the sheriff, “what room can I give you? We're pretty full up. Having our biggest season yet. Considerin' we don't advertise in the papers—Judge Willey tells me 'twouldn't be right to advertise a jail—but considerin' we don't, we're doin' a lot bigger business than some of these summer hotels up on the lake. Of course, our charges are low, and we don't have near as many rules about behavior as they do. Having to dress for dinner and so on.

“We've got a nice bunch this season, too. All the old crowd are back—repeaters, we call 'em—and you'll see some new faces too: old Mr. Drench, he's a retired safecracker—took up passing bad checks as a hobby; and then there's the Yeglett gang, four of 'em, racketeers from the city, nice gentlemanly boys but inclined to be a little noisy at night.”

All the cells in the jail were named after famous criminals, train robbers like Jesse James, or old time highwaymen like Dick Turpin. The only single cell available was Fagin, but as that had no desk in it, and no private bath, the sheriff took Freddy up to a luxurious double room, now vacant, which had not yet been named. “Maybe you could name it after me,” Freddy suggested.

“I don't suppose you've got those plans on you, have you?” said the sheriff. “No, no; don't tell me now. I'll have to search you later—it's my duty. But there's no hurry. Now I wonder,” he said, looking under the counterpane, “if Scar-face put clean sheets on these beds. Yes, I guess so. But you'll want an extra pillow. Half a minute and I'll get it.” And he left the room.

Freddy pulled the metal cylinder out from his pant leg and slid it under the mattress. He felt pretty sure that the sheriff, by going for a pillow, was giving him time to hide it. And indeed when he came back, the sheriff said: “Well, I'd better search you,” and he gave the pig a perfunctory patting all over. “No, you ain't got it on you. Hid it outside, I expect. …” He went over to the foot of one of the old-fashioned brass beds and unscrewed the ball on top of one of the posts. “Did you know these legs were hollow? If you had that tube of plans on you, this'd be a first-class place to hide 'em. But of course you ain't.” He put the ball back on.

“Well,” he said, “I'll get you some supper. And by the way, some of the boys did see you as you came through the hall, so I think you'd better keep your door locked. They've heard over the radio about your stealing the plans, and there's been some pretty wild talk about what they'd like to do to you. They don't like the idea of your selling to the Communists.”

“Nobody's going to like it,” said Freddy, “but I've got to do it somehow. I'm not very happy about it.”

He felt a little better about it a few hours later. He had had a big supper, and being tired from a long day in the saddle, was getting ready for bed, when there was a faint scratching on the door and a hoarse whisper said: “Hey, Freddy, lemme in.”