Paul pulled the station wagon to a halt at the gas pumps, and climbed out, stretching elaborately. While the station attendant filled the tank and checked under the hood, Paul glanced into the rear window and satisfied himself that the interior betrayed no trace of his illegal cargo.
He went into the rest room, and by the time he had returned, the bronzed, wrinkled old operator had finished with the vehicle and was sucking at a can of beer by the battered old desk in the office.
Paul spotted the clipboard and signed the invoice, waited while the old character took a final sip of beer, then accepted his copy of the paperwork and the plastic credit card.
"Keep cool, Pop," he said. And he walked out, taking the long way around the station wagon to get another peek into the back of the vehicle. The rear glass was just as dirty as when he came in. He grinned to himself. Few operators would have spent the time to clean a rear window on a scorching day like this. And he wasn't eager to improve the visibility of that glass.
As he headed back out onto the freeway, he was thankful that he had no glass in the sides of this salesman's special wagon. He had to wait on traffic for a while, before he could get into the flow of the slow lane. While his rear wheels were still in the driveway of the service station, a motorcycle patrolman swerved in beside him. The bike moved very slowly across the sidewalk area of the drive, and the officer glanced toward the side of Paul's vehicle.
A momentary chill traveled up his back, but he told himself it wasn't fear of discovery. There was nothing basically suspicious about his car, and he knew that even if someone took a look inside, there was little chance that the unconscious Pal would be found.
A hole opened in the traffic, and he slipped out onto the highway with normal speed. He watched in the mirror as the motorcycle moved on into the service station and pulled up in the relative coolness of the shade beneath the service canopy. He grinned and picked up speed, gradually working over into the faster lanes, until he was barreling along at seventy in the speed lane.
He reassessed the shuddering tingle that had run through him, and decided that the brief glimpse of the officer had merely reminded him of his virginal passenger. And the anticipation of what he would do with her when he got to his destination had brought on a thrill of physical excitement.
When he found himself ahead of the mainstream of traffic, he eased up to sixty-five and relaxed, resting his dark hair back against the cushioned headrest, and letting the smoothly running car almost drive itself.
He was extremely pleased with his final swing over this large territory. Not only had he accomplished his personal goals, but he had actually reaped a larger amount of orders for Boswell than had ever been previously recorded for the four-state district.
He could resign with an unbeaten record and the gratitude of the company. Especially when they learned that he would himself be a potential buyer of their products.
He laughed to himself as he wondered what Sherm Boswell and his sales manager, Curt Webster, would do if they knew what kind of a facility the Harshman Research Foundation really maintained in the isolated woods of Northern California.
It had taken Paul Harshman six years of hard work for Boswell Bio-Ceuticals to establish the kind of future he had been dreaming of for most of his life. The fact that he had made some sizable contributions to the illegal narcotics flow in the Southwest had helped him reach his goal several years sooner than he could have managed it as a super-salesman with a degree in pharmacy.
Paul's carefully planned collaboration with hijackers had resulted in the theft of several million dollars over those six years. Not in cash, but in highly negotiable narcotics and other pharmaceutical products.
With his share, Paul had invested in the remotely located old sanitarium with spacious grounds and surprisingly sturdy buildings. His remodeling of the facility had made it an ultra-modern plant on the inside, without disturbing the quiet old serenity of the antique-appearing exterior.
Of course, Boswell – and any other curious parties – would be told that there was a silent backer who furnished the capital for the foundation. And the name of Dr. Jonas Stillwell would add to their respect and awe of Paul's organizational ability.
They couldn't know that Stillwell's magic name in the field of antibiotic research might have been overshadowed by the notoriety from which Paul had saved the brilliant doctor.
As he drove north on the four-lane freeway, Paul mused over the manner in which accidental meetings had placed him in such a very advantageous position.
First, he had met Marv Gilman at that San Francisco party. It was a selected group. Only those who had passed several screenings and become firmly identified as sexual-discipline fanatics were at that wild orgy of booze, bodies and blood!
Marv had been a passive addict, strangely enough, and Paul later marveled at the steely personality Gilman displayed in business. Because on that night, Gilman had been crawling like a beaten schoolboy before the punishment he was getting from a tiny brunette in leather costume and five-inch heels. It was more logical when Paul made himself regard his own conduct in the eyes of "normal" society. He knew that he appeared to be a gentle, courteous and chivalrous man. Quite the opposite of his conduct when he had a cringing female at his feet, and a whip in his hand!
But when a growing acquaintanceship with Gilman led to Paul's collaboration with Marv's hijackers, it seemed quite natural. It might have been because both activities were frowned on by the more conservative elements of society.
Now, Dr. Stillwell was quite a different proposition.
As he ramped off the freeway and headed northeast into the wooded foothills, Paul recalled the first time he had seen the noted Dr. Stillwell…