‘I was beatin’ along the Boston Post Road, about fifty miles an hour, when I looks around and sees this bird standing on the tail-gate fumbling with the lock on the doors. I stopped as fast as I could, jumped out, and ran round to the back. This mug had hopped off with an armful of furs and climbed into a car that was following. His partner even took a shot at me,’ said Sullivan, whom Professor Fordney was questioning.
‘He must have been a very good judge. He took only the best you carried,’ commented Fordney.
‘Yeah. Guess he was. Fur-stealin’ is a big racket these days.’
‘Why didn’t you report it at the next town instead of waiting until you got back to the office?’
‘Well, I thought the boss wouldn’t want it to get out that the furs of his wealthy customers had been pinched. He’s awful particular about us usin’ our heads.’
‘Where was your helper?’
‘Just after I started out, he said he was feelin’ sick, so I told him to go on home.’
‘Fifty miles an hour is excessive speed for that truck, isn’t it?’ asked Fordney, examining the all-steel doors of the massive, dust-proof moving-van.
‘She’s big, but she’ll do even better than that!’
‘Always wear those gloves when you’re working?’
‘Always,’ laughed the driver. ‘Have to keep me hands dainty, you know.’
‘I thought so,’ retorted Fordney, continuing his close examination of the doors.
‘Come on, Sullivan, take me for a ride in that truck. I know you’re lying.’
