A RANDOM CLUE
Mr. Beckworth Fleming would, no doubt, have been interested in knowing
that while he was speaking of Joe in Boston the latter was discussing
him in New York.
It was Reggie who had first brought in his name, as he stood with Joe
and Jim in the lobby of the Marlborough, waiting for the others of the
party to come down on the way to the train.
“Funny thing happened to-day, don’t you know,” he remarked. “Fellow
sitting in the box next to me at the grounds got to talking about an
auto accident that happened on Long Island a little while ago.”
Joe and Jim pricked up their ears.
“What did he say about it?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Why, I heard him say that it was the wildest ride he had ever had, and
that he’d been wondering ever since how they got through it without
getting pinched. Said that half the time the car was going on two
wheels. Once they knocked down a man on the Merrick road, and they had
come near to smashing up a car they passed just before that.”
“That describes the accident to Anderson,” broke in Jim.
“Yes, and don’t you remember how near they came to running into us just
before that?” added Joe. “But did you get any clue as to who the fellows
were?”
“I didn’t hear any full names,” replied Reggie, “but several times the
man who was telling the story referred to the reckless driving of ‘old
Beck,’ whoever that might have been.”
“Beck, Beck,” mused Jim. “That isn’t much of a hint. The directory is
full of Becks.”
A thought suddenly came to Joe.
“Fleming’s first name is Beckworth, isn’t it?” he asked Reggie.
“Yes,” replied Reggie.
“And wouldn’t it be natural for his cronies to speak of him as Beck?”
Joe went on.
“Sure,” said Reggie. “As a matter of fact, I’ve often heard them refer
to him in that way.”
“And he’s known as a reckless driver, isn’t he?” asked Joe, going back
in memory to the way in which Fleming had handled the car on that
memorable afternoon when he had rescued Mabel from his clutches.
“Yes,” Reggie responded. “In fact, he seems to take a sort of pride
in it. I’ve often heard him tell how often he had been arrested for
speeding.”
“It begins to look as though he might have been mixed up in that
Anderson affair,” mused Jim.
“Yes, but that’s a mighty slender basis to go on,” answered Joe. “Of
course he’d deny it, and we couldn’t prove it if we had nothing to back
it up with.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “Now that you come to speak of it, I
remember catching sight of Fleming at the Long Beach Hotel when we were
dining there. He was sitting at a table in the further corner of the
room. I thought of going over to speak to him, but I noticed that he was
with a pretty noisy party, and as the girls were with us I passed it up.”
“Well, now, that’s something more like proof!” exclaimed Joe, with
animation. “That brings him near the scene of the accident on the day it
happened. He’s a reckless driver and his pals often spoke of him as ‘old
Beck.’ I believe he was the fellow that knocked the old man down.”
“It looks like it,” agreed Jim, “and from what we’ve learned of the
fellow since, I think he’s just the kind that would go on without trying
to help or stopping to see what he had done. But even now we haven’t
anything that would convince a jury.”
“No,” agreed Reggie. “Moral proof isn’t legal proof by a long shot. The
one thing we need to clinch the matter is the number of the car that
held the party.”
“What a pity we didn’t get it,” fumed Joe.
“We weren’t to blame for that,” replied Reggie. “They were going so
fast and raising such a cloud of dust that we couldn’t see it. That is,
we didn’t get it in full. Seems to me, though, that I heard you say
something, Joe, about some numbers that you caught sight of.”
“That’s so,” confirmed Jim. “What were they, Joe? Do you remember?”
“There was a seven and a four,” answered Joe. “But I couldn’t be sure
that they were next to each other. There may have been another figure in
between. And anyway, as there were probably five or six figures in the
whole number, that isn’t very much to go on.”
“I tell you what,” cried Jim, eagerly. “Every car is registered in the
State Registry Bureau, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” answered Reggie. “Mine is, I know. They put down the name of the
man when they give him his number.”
“Exactly!” returned Jim. “What’s the matter then with our making
inquiries at the proper department and finding the number of the car
that is registered as owned by Beckworth Fleming?”
“The very thing,” assented Reggie. “But when we find it, what then?”
“Nothing, perhaps,” Jim admitted. “And then, on the other hand, it may
mean a great deal. Suppose, for instance, the number has a seven and a
four in it?”
“That would certainly bring it much closer to Fleming,” observed Joe,
thoughtfully, “and it would make us that much surer in our own minds
that he’s the man in question. But it would still fall far short of
legal proof.”
“Bother legal proof!” snapped Jim. “The one point is that all these
things taken together would make us feel so sure that we were on the
right track that we’d feel justified in accusing Fleming to his face of
having done it.”
“I see!” exclaimed Joe, his eyes kindling. “You mean to put up a great
big bluff and try to catch him off his guard.”
“That’s what,” agreed Jim. “Trust to his guilty conscience. He knows
whether he did it or not, and he won’t be sure how much we know. If we
act as if we were sure we have him dead to rights, he may give himself
away. Try to explain or excuse it and in that way admit it. At any rate,
it seems to me it might be worth trying. We can’t lose and we may win.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “I believe it might work.”
“It’s a dandy idea,” approved Joe, warmly.
“It would do me a whole lot of good to make him come across handsomely
to Anderson,” said Jim. “The old man needs money badly, and Fleming
has a good deal more than is good for him. And he can consider himself
mighty lucky if he gets off with only a money payment.”
“Well, whatever we do in that line, we’ll have to do right away,”
remarked Joe. “To-morrow’s the last day we’ll be in Boston, and I’d like
to fix up the matter at once. Anderson we know is there and Fleming
probably will be, too.”
“I wish we’d known of this earlier,” remarked Jim. “Of course all the
official departments are closed by this time.”
“Yes,” said Joe, “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll ask Belden
here at the desk to look up the matter for us the first thing to-morrow
morning. He can find out the number and call me up on the long distance
’phone to Boston. We ought to know all about it as early as ten o’clock.”
“The very thing,” said Jim.
Joe went over to the hotel desk, where Belden, the night clerk, had just
come on duty. He was a warm admirer of Baseball Joe, and, like everybody
in New York just then, was happy to do anything he could for the famous
pitcher of the Giants.
“Mr. Belden,” Joe began, “I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Only too glad, Mr. Matson,” replied the clerk, his face wreathed in
smiles. “What is it?”
“I’d like you to call up the city office of the State Registry Bureau,
Broadway and Seventy-fourth Street, early in the morning,” said Joe,
“and find out the number of the car owned by a Mr. Beckworth Fleming.
Then I’d like to have you call me up on the long distance ’phone, of
course at my expense, and let me know what it is. If you’ll do this for
me I’ll be greatly obliged.”
The clerk made a note of the name and also of the hotel where Joe would
stay in Boston.
“I’ll do it without fail, Mr. Matson. You can depend upon me.”
Joe thanked him and returned to his party, which had now been joined by
Mr. and Mrs. Matson and the girls. A couple of taxicabs were pressed
into service, and they were carried to the Grand Central Terminal where
they embarked on the last trip that was to be made to Boston during the
Series.
“What with the game to-morrow and perhaps this Fleming matter on our
program, I imagine we’re going to have our hands full,” Jim remarked in
an aside to his friend.
“Yes,” laughed Joe, “it looks like a busy day.”
But just how busy a day it was destined to be it would have startled him
to learn.