The Mystery of the Magic Circle - M. V. Carey [28]
Pete frowned, wondering if he should attempt to follow Thomas. Then he decided that if Jupiter had been in his place, he would keep tailing the prim accountant. If there was someone in the shed at the entrance to the yard, Pete would make up a story in grand style — just as Jupiter would. He would say that he was looking for the transmission from a 1947 Studebaker Champion.
But the shed at the gate was empty. Pete went on into the yard, moving carefully and quietly around the stripped-down car bodies and the piles of rusting used parts.
Suddenly Pete stopped still where he was. He had heard a car door open.
The tall boy listened intently. There was a tinny clanking — the sound of pieces of metal hitting together. It came from off to his left. It seemed to be just on the other side of a pile of bumpers.
Pete crept forward and peered around the bumpers. He held his breath. Harold Thomas was not five feet away. He stood next to a grey van that was parked in a clear area in the very centre of the yard. The rear doors of the van were open, and inside the vehicle were piles and piles of film cans. Pete had seen cans of motion picture film many times when he visited his father at the studio where Mr. Crenshaw worked.
Now Pete stared at the cans, trying to read the labels on their rims. He made out
“Cleopatra—Reel I” on one label. Another was marked “Salem Story—III.” The wrecking yard seemed suddenly still. There was only the roar of blood in Pete’s own ears and the beating of Pete’s own heart.
Then Harold Thomas slammed the doors of the van. He walked to the front of the vehicle, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. A moment later the van was rolling up the rutted dirt drive that led to the gate.
Pete stayed where he was for a second, stunned by what he had seen. The film cans! It seemed impossible — unbelievable — but it had to be true. Those had to be the films that had been stolen from the laboratory next to Amigos Press. And Harold Thomas had them!
Pete forced himself to move. He ran, not worrying now about caution. At the gate of the salvage yard he was in time to see the van heading north. He tried to read the licence plate, but he couldn’t. Whether by accident or not, the plate was too dusty.
Pete ran to the door of the shack near the gate. He saw a desk and a couple of battered chairs — and a telephone. He took Beefy’s telephone number out of his wallet with shaking fingers, and dialled.
The telephone at the other end rang once, twice.
Outside the shed, someone was walking on the hard earth that had been packed down by the passage of hundreds of cars and trucks. Pete did not look around. If the owners of the yard objected to his using the telephone, he would simply say that he had to call the police.
Beefy answered at the other end of the telephone.
“Beefy, listen,” said Pete quickly. “This is Pete and I’m at a car salvage yard on Thornwall, two blocks south of Wilshire. Tell Jupe and Bob that I just saw …”
A shadow fell across the desk, and Pete started to turn towards the door of the shed. But something crashed into the back of his neck. Then the light was gone and the telephone clattered to the floor, and Pete was falling … falling … falling!
**
Pete didn’t know how long he was unconscious, but when he came to his senses he was in a close, dusty place — a place that smelled of grease and old rubber. It was hot
— terribly hot — and it was dark. Pete tried to move, to turn over or stretch out, but he couldn’t. There was no room for him to straighten himself. His neck hurt, and there was something hard pressing down on his shoulder. His hands touched metal surfaces that were rough, as if they had been eaten away by rust and time. Pete realized that he was probably still in the wrecking yard. He was locked in the trunk of some old car, and the sun was beating down on it, turning it into an oven.
Pete tried to shout, but his throat had gone dry with heat and fear. He closed his mouth and tried to swallow. There was silence