32 Caliber

CHAPTER FIVE. ACCIDENT OR MURDER

Have you ever had the whole world stop for you? Well, that's what happened when that young interne told me that Jim was dead. I must have been half mad for a few moments, at least they said I acted that way.

Sometimes, tragic news deadens the senses, like the brief numbness that follows the sudden cutting off of a limb, the pain not manifesting itself until some time afterward. But with me, the fact of Jim's death clawed and tore at the very foundation of my brain. It stamped itself into my sensibilities with such crushing force that I writhed under the burden of its bitter actuality. I felt as though I, myself, had died and my spirit, snatched from the brilliant, airy sunlight of life, had been plunged into the hammering emptiness of hell. “Jim is dead—big, happy, kind-hearted Jim is dead” ached through my brain.

They gave me something to drink—ammonia, I think—and my whirling head began to clear.

“Can I see Mrs. Felderson?” I asked the interne. It was he who had given me the ammonia.

“I'm afraid not,” he replied. “She is being prepared for the operating table.”

“There is a chance, then, of her being saved?” I clutched at his arm.

He slowly shook his head. “One chance in a thousand only, I'm afraid. There was severe concussion of the brain and a slight displacement of one of the cranial vertebra. Luckily, Doctor Forbes is here, and if any one can save her, he can.” He got up from his seat beside me. “Now, Mr. Thompson, I advise you to go home and get a good night's rest. You can do nothing here, and the next few days are bound to be a great strain.”

“You will telephone me at once the result of the operation?” I asked quickly.

“I wouldn't count too much on the operation,” he said kindly, “but I will let you know.”

He turned and walked back toward Helen's room. Just then the door was opened and there appeared a sort of elongated baby-cab, without a top. On this wheeling table was a still white bundle, from which a stifled moan escaped now and then. Shaken with terror and nausea, I ran for the stairs and did not stop until I got into my car and was racing away.

As I drove, my brain cleared and I remembered that there were others to whom the tragedy was almost as vital as to myself and who ought to be informed. I stopped at a corner drug store and called up Mary. Mother should not be told until a physician could assure me she was strong enough to stand the shock.

Mary was wonderfully sympathetic and tender, not voluble the way some women would have been. She asked me if I had been to the scene of the accident, and when I told her I was just going, she asked me if I wanted her with me. As it was after ten o'clock and the rain had begun again, I told her “No,” and added that I'd come to see her in the morning.

When I left the telephone-booth the drug clerk stared at me inquisitively.

“You look all fagged out,” he said frankly.

“I'm not feeling very well,” I replied, struggling into my rain-coat.

“Better let me give you somethin' to fix you up,” he suggested. I acquiesced, and he went to the shelf and shook some white powder into a glass. Then he put some water with it and it phizzed merrily. I drank it at a gulp and, climbing into the car, started for the second bridge on the Blandesville Road.

The drink braced me up and as I drove I began to recall the events of the last few days, and for the first time to wonder if they had any connection with the tragedy. Captain Wadsworth had told me it was an accident. Could Frank Woods have been in any way responsible? No, certainly not, for Helen had been in the car, and he surely would never have done anything to put her life in jeopardy. But Woods didn't know that she was there. He had told Jim to come out alone; had insisted on it, in fact. It was Jim's idea to bring Helen with him.

My heart was doing a hundred revolutions to the minute. Now that I had hit on this idea, every fiber of my being cried out that Frank Woods was in some way responsible. I tried to urge my car to more speed. The wreck would surely tell me something. I determined to hunt every inch of ground around the place for a clue. Woods would have to prove to me that he had nothing to do with the accident before I'd believe him innocent.

I drove up the long hill overlooking the little bridge that had suddenly assumed such a tragic significance in my life. It lies at the bottom of the hill, about half-way between the city and the country-club and on the loneliest stretch of the entire road. There are no houses about; the city not having grown that far out and the soil being entirely unsuitable for farming. In fact, there are only one or two large trees near by, to break the desolate expanse, the vegetation consisting mostly of thorny bushes springing from the rocky soil. There have been several accidents at the bridge, for its narrowness is deceiving and it is impossible for two autos to pass. Motorists, going to the club, usually let their cars out on the long hill and if another car, coming around the bend from the opposite direction, reaches the bridge at the same time, only skilful driving and good brakes can avoid a smash-up. The matter has been brought to the attention of the authorities several times, but nothing has ever been done, either to widen the bridge or to warn automobilists of the danger.

As I reached the top of the hill, I saw that two automobiles had stopped at the bottom, and, noticing that their lights blinked as people passed back and forth in front of them, I was convinced that a small crowd had gathered, probably out of curiosity. I slowed up as I neared the spot and came to a stop at the side of the road. A motorcycle cop walked up to my car.

“Inspector Robinson, sir?”

“No,” I answered, “I am Warren Thompson, brother-in-law of Mr. Felderson, who had the accident. How did it happen, do you know, Sergeant?”

“It was the fault of the bridge again, sir. I've told the chief that something ought to be done. This is the third accident in six months. We've been trying to find the other car.”

“What other car?” I asked.

“The car that made Mr. Felderson take the ditch,” he explained. “He must have been driving fast—he usually did; many's the time I've had to warn him—and must have seen that the other car would meet him at the bridge. He stopped too quick, skidded off the road and turned over into the creek.”

I shuddered as I pictured the scene. One of the automobiles turned around and the lights picked out the upturned wheels of Jim's car. It looked like some monster whose back had been broken. It was a large Peckwith-Pierce touring car, and the force of the crash had twisted and smashed the huge chassis. Several men were gathered around the car, examining it with the aid of a barn-lantern.

“Where were the bodies found?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Mrs. Felderson was over there on the bank. She was thrown out likely when the car left the road. Mr. Felderson's body was under the machine.”

While the thought of the heavy weight crushing the life out of Jim sickened me, I thanked God that death must have been instantaneous.

“Do you know who found them, Sergeant?”

He pointed to a man standing by the wreck. “That man over there. He found them and took them to the hospital after sending one of his friends to notify the police.”

The man evidently heard our voices, and came over to us.

“Is this the inspector?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “I am Mr. Felderson's brother-in-law.”

“Oh, I'm sorry!” he said quickly. “May I express my deep, deep sympathy?”

“Thank you. Will you tell me how you discovered the accident?”

“I had been out to Blandesville on business and was returning with a party of friends. As we neared the bridge, one of them caught sight of the upturned automobile in the creek, and we stopped. We found Mrs. Felderson first, being attracted by her moans. We went at once to the car, and as there were four of us, we were able to lift the automobile sufficiently to get Mr. Felderson from under it. We knew that the woman was still living, but none of us was doctor enough to tell whether Mr. Felderson was alive or not. We carried them quickly to our car and hurried to St. Mary's, dropping one of my friends at the North District Station to inform the police what had occurred. Afterward we drove back here, thinking we might be wanted in case there was an investigation.”

“Did you see the lights of any car ahead of you, as you came along the road?” I asked. “Did any car pass you, going in the same direction?”

“A car turned in ahead of us from the Millerstown Road about ten minutes before.”

“Do you think that might have been the car that was partly responsible for this accident?” I queried.

“Of course, no one could be sure in a situation of that kind, but I wouldn't doubt it at all. It left us behind as if we were tied.”

Another car had driven up while we were talking and our policeman had gone over to it at once. He came back now, accompanied by a short heavy-set man in plain clothes.

“I am Inspector Robinson, detailed to examine into this affair. Were you the man who discovered the accident?” he asked, addressing my companion.

“Yes, Inspector; Pickering is my name. I'm with the Benefit Insurance Company.”

He told the circumstances of the discovery to the plain-clothes man, who, all the time Pickering was talking, bustled up and down and around the car. Finally he made Pickering show him just where the bodies lay.

“Distressing, distressing,” the inspector chirped, “dreadful accident, dreadful indeed, but quite to be expected with fast driving. If they will risk their lives——”

“Inspector,” I broke in, “I am the brother-in-law of the man who drove that car. While he was a fast driver, he was not a careless one. I've never known him to have an accident before.” The little man irritated me.

“That's the way it always happens,” he came back at me; “they take risks a dozen times and get away with them, and then—Blooey!!”

“But aren't you going to find the other car?” I demanded.

“What other car?” he snapped.

“The one that must have been coming from the opposite direction; that caused this accident.”

“Do you know there was any such car?” he bristled.

“There must have been,” I answered. “No accident has ever happened here except under such circumstances. Besides, Mr. Pickering saw a car turn into this road ahead of him not ten minutes before the accident.”

Robinson looked from me to Pickering as though we were both conspiring to defeat justice.

“Did you see such a car?” he barked at Pickering.

“A car turned out of the Millerstown Road and went toward the city about ten minutes before we discovered the bodies,” Pickering replied evenly.

“Why didn't you say so?” the detective asked sharply. “What kind of a car was it?”

“A black limousine with wire wheels. I couldn't see the number.”

Robinson's humor seemed to have come back.

“Now we're getting on,” he said, rubbing his hands. “That's better. That's much better. If you gentlemen had just told me that in the first place we'd have saved all this time.”

He turned to the motorcycle policeman. “Feeney, go over to Millerstown and inquire if a black limousine with wire wheels stopped there to-night between eight and nine o'clock.”

A figure, unnoticed in the darkness, approached. It proved to be a lanky farmer, who spoke with a decided drawl.

“I reckon I kin help ye thar. They was a big limozine tourin' car with wire wheels went through Millerstown 'bout ha'f past eight, quat' t' nine. I know, 'cause it durn near run me down.”

“Do you live in Millerstown?” the inspector questioned.

“Yep! Come over t' see the accident.”

“Did that auto stop in Millerstown?”

The farmer chuckled and expectorated. “It didn't even hesitate.”

“Can you tell us anything else about it?” I spoke up.

The inspector glared at me. “I'll conduct this investigation, Mr.—err——”

The farmer scratched his head. “Waal, nothin' much. It went too blamed fast fer me to git mor'n a right good look, but I did gee that it was full o' men an' the tail-light was bu'sted an' they wa'n't no license on it.”

“You're sure of that?” the inspector asked.

“Yep!” he said, “I'm sure, 'cause I was goin' to report 'em.”

Again the inspector turned to Feeney, who had been listening intently.

“Feeney, go in and tell the chief to issue instructions to all the force to keep an eye out for a black limousine with wire wheels, a broken tail-light and no license tag! My friend,” he said, turning to the farmer, “I thank you for your information. By to-morrow night we'll have that car and the parties concerned. By gad! They had their nerve, running away after the accident. The damned rascals—killing people and then running away. I'll grill their toes for them.”

The malice of the little detective, his readiness to jump from one conclusion to another, reminded me for all the world of some disagreeable, little, barking dog that chases every passing vehicle.

I bade him good night, shook hands with Pickering and was on my way back to my car, when another automobile drove up. Three men jumped out, and as they passed in front of the lamps, I recognized Lawrence Brown and Fred Paisley, from the club; the third man was Frank Woods. As I caught sight of his well-set-up figure, all the hatred I had for him seemed to rise in my throat and choke me. Try as I would I couldn't separate him from the tragedy. When the farmer said the black limousine was full of men, I realized that Frank Woods couldn't have been one of them, and yet, so great was my distrust of the man, that I felt like accusing him on the spot.

Larry Brown caught sight of me and wrung my hand. “Dammit, old man, I can't fell you how sorry I am.” Paisley patted me on the back. “If there is anything we can do, Thompson——”

I shook my head and tears came to my eyes. They made me realize poignantly how much I had lost. Woods didn't join us. He knew if he tried to sympathize with me, after the affair the other day, that I would throttle him for his hypocrisy.

“Was Jim killed outright?” Brown asked.

“Yes! And there's one chance in a thousand for Helen.”

Both men started. “Was Mrs. Felderson there? They telephoned us at the club that Jim had been killed, but we didn't know she was with him.”

They glanced at each other and then at Woods, who was standing by the side of the overturned car.

“You'd better tell him, Larry,” Paisley muttered.

“Doesn't he know?” I asked.

“Of course not,” replied Brown. “He was out there at the club with us. I'm afraid it will hit him awfully hard.”

He stepped over to Woods and, taking him by the arm, they disappeared into the darkness. We heard a choking cry, and the next moment Woods came running toward us. His face was distorted with horror and his eyes were almost starting from his head.

“Thompson, for God's sake, tell me he lies! Tell me he lies!” he shrieked. “Helen wasn't in that car?”

The old suspicions came tumbling back an hundredfold and I turned cold all over.

“It is true,” I said, “Mrs. Felderson is in the hospital at the point of death.”

With a stifled groan, Woods sank to the ground and buried his face in his shaking hands.