There are three veteran Le Mans drivers in this event--Kurt Kreuger in
Jag number eight, Tom Wisdom in a red Ferrari, number ten, and Jimmy
Randolph in his new Italian job, the Black Tiger, number two. Randy
has raced this car only once before and was doing well when he broke a
steering knuckle and turned over. He's a great guy to be racing today.
But he has every confidence in his car. Here it is. They're off--"
The rest of what the announcer said was drowned in a roar of engines.
Woody strained over the snow fence, his eyes on bend number five about
a hundred yards down the track. It was a particularly savage bend with
buildings on either side and a house dead in front when the driver
was halfway around. The house was protected with hay bales. Any car
that didn't get around would run straight into them. A further hazard
consisted of a thick telephone pole at the end of the bend, where most
cars would be swinging wide after making the turn. There were hay bales
around that also.
Suddenly there was a roar, and the first car appeared around number
five. It was a red Ferrari, number twelve. Then came two more and then
a Jag. Then three in a huddle, the one on the outside just missing the
telephone pole. Woody began to wonder where Randy was. Suddenly the
Black Tiger flashed by in eighth place. Randy, with his newly mended
leg, had not been able to sprint over to his car as fast as the other
drivers. It was typical of the man that he had made no mention of this
additional handicap before the start.
The announcer picked up the rest of the first lap for Woody. Wisdom
and Kreuger, old rivals, were battling for third place. Ahead of them
was Ben Wedger in a Maserati. There was no mention yet of the Black
Tiger. Woody suspected that Randy was still in eighth place. He waited,
his eyes riveted on turn number five. Suddenly two cars flashed around
it wheel to wheel. The outside car swerved off the shoulder of the
track and looked as if it were going to hit the telephone pole. Woody
could see the driver fighting to bring it back again. He succeeded but
dropped to second place. Then came two more, one on the tail of the
other. The first was Kreuger's Jag, number eight. Then Tom Wisdom in
his red Ferrari. Then a Maserati, number eleven, and then the Black
Tiger. She came around the corner like her namesake, clinging to the
inside of the track and passed the Maserati, going full bore as they
came abreast of Woody.
"He's fifth now," Woody yelled excitedly. He chalked a big three for
the lap number on the top of the board and a big five for Randy's place
in the last lap below it.
"They're going into the north hairpin now," said the announcer. "Dave
Kingston is still ahead in number twelve, Kreuger and Wisdom are
fighting it out wheel to wheel. They've come up to second and third
respectively. Wait a minute. What's this. The Black Tiger, driven by
Jimmy Randolph, just shot between Wisdom and Kreuger to take over third
place. That makes it Kingston, Kreuger, and Randolph in the Black Tiger
third. But it's still anybody's race with twenty minutes to go."
Woody forgot about the sign board in his excitement. He leaned as far
as he could over the snow fence to see the Black Tiger come around
turn number five. There was a tense silence in the crowd, above which
he could hear the roar of the engines. He heard the squeal of wheels
and the coughing spit of Kingston's Ferrari as he changed down for the
bend. Then Kingston was around and after him. Turning the corner in the
same instant was Kreuger's Jag and the Black Tiger, wheel to wheel. As
they flashed by Woody caught a glimpse of Randy, sitting quite relaxed
behind the wheel. There was a slight smile on his face, and then he was
gone, headed for the right-angle bend half a mile down the track.
"It's Dave Kingston against Jimmy Randolph in the Black Tiger now," the
loud-speaker blared. "Randolph cut in from the far side of the track
on bend six to take over the second place from Kreuger. He's battling
Kingston now for the lead position. As they pass the start-finish line
on the sixth lap it's Kingston, Randolph, Kreuger, and Wisdom.
"Randolph had an overlap on Kingston's Ferrari twice. This is a great
race--perhaps the greatest we shall see this year. Here they are going
into the hairpin. Kingston is skillfully blocking all Randolph's
attempts to pass. He's holding that inside position and has just a
little more speed than the Black Tiger on the straightaway. Now they're
entering bend number five. It looks as though Randolph is going to take
it wide, relying on the cornering ability of the Tiger to take him
around--"
Woody didn't have to listen to the rest. He saw it. Kingston's Ferrari
hurtled around the bend on the inside with the Black Tiger on its tail.
The big Ferrari skidded for a fraction of a second, picked up traction,
and hurtled down the straightaway.
But something went wrong with the Black Tiger. The car took the corner
wide, and Woody could see Randy fighting to get control. It looked as
though he was going to hit the telephone pole, but he managed to miss
it by inches. The car came roaring and fishtailing toward the crowd.
People scattered like dust before a heavy gust of wind. Woody caught
a glimpse of the Tiger hitting the shoulder of the road not a hundred
yards from him. Then it leaped into the air, turned slowly on its side,
and hit the ground upside down. It slithered bumping and screaming,
sparks flying from it, and the wheels spinning, for fifty yards before
it came to a standstill.
Woody was over the snow fence before anybody could stop him. Flagmen
appeared is if by magic, waving the red accident flags. Woody was
conscious that several cars flashed by, slowing down near him, but he
had no eyes for them. He ran to the Black Tiger, which lay beside the
track, its wheels still spinning in the air.
"Randy," he shouted, "Randy."
"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder.
Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black
Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together
they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat,
but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of
meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been
fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was
slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to
suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his
face turned up toward them.
He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little
pink foam came to his lips.
"Brakes," he said and closed his eyes.
The ambulance was there in a second, and everybody hustled away to
make room for the ambulance attendant. Woody stayed as near as he was
allowed and saw a doctor bend over Randy. When the doctor stood up,
he didn't say anything. He just shook his head and got back into the
ambulance.
Then Woody knew that Randy was dead. The Black Tiger had killed him.
14
In the weeks that followed Randy's death, nobody made any mention of
road racing or the Black Tiger around Worm's garage. There was a tacit
understanding that both topics should be ignored. Woody worked harder
than ever at his job and tried to put both subjects out of his mind. He
saw Rocky only at the funeral, and then she went back to San Diego to
live with an aunt. Woody did not know what happened to the Black Tiger.
And he hoped he would never hear of it or see it again.
Worm made only one comment on the fatal accident that killed Randy.
"Yon Black Tiger is a killer car," he said to Woody. "I told Randy so
and tried to warn him against racing it. But he was no a man that ye
could warn."
It was not, however, as easy to get away from road racing as Woody
hoped. When he went into a drugstore for a hamburger, he found himself
eying the road-racing magazines. When he bought a newspaper, the sports
pages with their columns on road racing had an irresistible fascination
for him. He did not want to look at them. Yet he found that he could
not refrain from doing so. Names seemed to leap out of the pages at
him--Tom Wisdom, Kurt Kreuger, Dave Kingston. It was strange how out of
several thousand printed words on a page, one word would stand out as
if it were printed in a different color.
A week after Randy's death, Woody called up Mary Jane and asked her for
a date. She sounded neither cold nor very friendly on the phone, and
said she was doing nothing that night. Woody asked her out to dinner.
When he called for her, he began to realize how much he had missed her.
It seemed as if he had been only a portion of himself and now he was
made whole again. They spent a pleasant evening, not saying anything
about what was past or about any plans for the future. It seemed as if
the two of them just wanted to enjoy the present for the moment.
Mary Jane seemed much more grown up to Woody that evening. She talked
neither of Somerset Maugham nor of boys she'd been out with while they
were quarreling. Woody felt peaceful while he was with her for the
first time in many weeks. When he went home, he slept well, and the
following day was whistling at his work and much more his old self.
Worm noticed the change and was pleased by it. He was not a man to pry
into others' affairs, but he had been worried about Woody, toward whom
he adopted an attitude part father and part elder brother.
For the next month things went smoothly in this fashion, and Woody
almost managed to forget about road racing and the unconquered fears
with which the whole subject filled him.
Then one day the telephone rang, and when he answered it Rocky was on
the line.
"Hi, Woody," she said. "How have you been?"
"Pretty good," Woody replied. "How are things with you?"
"Just fine now that--now that everything's settled. I called you up
because I just had some wonderful news. Guess what?"
"What?" said Woody and he felt curiously ill at ease.
"The Italian factory that made the Black Tiger had a representative
over here to look at Daddy's car. You know there are only three of them
in the world. They were worried about the two accidents"--she hurried
over the words--"because they gave the car a bad name. You know people
have been saying that the car's a killer, and nobody can be found to
drive it. Anyway, they've offered to pay the expenses of repairing
the Black Tiger, and they'll provide all the new parts needed and
everything if someone will race it again over here."
"Oh," said Woody, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.
"Daddy really believed in that car," Rocky continued. "He said it was
the finest he'd ever seen in all the time he'd been driving. I thought
that since you'd worked with him on it that you'd like to know the news
right away."
"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it. Let me know if they find
a driver, huh? Maybe Tom Wisdom. He was a friend of your father's."
"No," said Rocky. "I asked Tom. But he has the same opinion of the
Black Tiger as the others. He says it's a killer--too unorthodox a
design to be raced safely. Kurt Kreuger says the same. He won't touch
it. But I'll find somebody. Of course, there are lots of people who
would do it, but they haven't got the kind of driving flair that the
car needs. Anyway, I'll let you know if anything happens."
She sounded a little disappointed.
"Thanks," said Woody and hung up.
"Who was that?" Worm asked when he put down the phone.
"Rocky," replied Woody. "They're fixing up the Black Tiger, and they're
going to race her again."
Worm gave him a queer look. "Come into the office," he said. "I've
something I want to tell ye. And I might as well tell ye noo."
When they were inside Worm's tiny office and Worm had lit a cigarette,
he took a long hard drag at it, examined the glowing end, and addressed
himself to the smoldering cigarette rather than to Woody.
"Ye may have been wondering," he said, "for ye are a noticing body,
how it was I came to know Randy so well mony years ago. And ye may
have heard some remarks pass between us that made nae sense tae ye at
the time. Ye'll recall, nae doot, that the first time he came tae the
garage here to ask me tae work on his pit crew, he said that that was
something I had tae face and I'd do better tae face it wi' me friends."
Woody nodded but said nothing.
"Weel," said Worm, "the fact o' the matter is that many years ago,
before ye were born likely, Randy and I were both racing drivers over
there in Europe. We raced against each other in the Tourists' Trophy
in Ireland and in the Le Mans in France and sometimes in road races
that took us frae the Channel ports tae the toe of Italy and back.
Clean across the Alps, mind ye, on narrow roads, twisting and curving,
through the passes, wi' snow all aroond, and sometimes ye couldna' see
tae the end o' yere headlight beam.
"Ah weel, that was when I was young and foolish. Well, there came a
time when I was approached by a Swiss company tae race a new car for
them in the Le Mans. 'Twas a car ye probably never heard of, for they
don't make it any more. 'Twas called an Albinet."
Woody shook his head. The name was completely strange to him.
"Well, 'tis as I thought. Few these days have ever heard of the
Albinet, though at the time 'twas the wonder car of the year. Like that
Black Tiger noo.
"No tae make too long a tale of it, I agreed tae drive the car, and
Randy was in the race too, driving a Bugatti if I remember right.
"Now I don't know if you know anything about the Le Mans. 'Tis held
in the city of Le Mans in France, and the roads are blocked off tae
form the track. The race is laid down through the streets of the city,
and there's every kind of a turn and twist and hill and blind corner
and every kind of surface ye can think of to be negotiated. 'Tis a
twenty-four-hour race. There's cobbles in some parts and asphalt in
others and concrete and all the rest. And sometimes it's raining and
sometimes it's dry, so ye've never seen a race like the Le Mans over
here, and I hope ye never will.
"I mind I was third on the eightieth lap. There was a Frenchman ahead
of me in a Hispano-Suiza and a German in the lead with a Mercedes-Benz.
Randy was on my tail, and we were going hell for leather down a cobbled
hill with a wall on one side all covered wi' sandbags and houses on the
other. At the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn and then
a sharp turn to the left and up another hill.
"The trick was to change doon and brake hard, drift aroond the first
corner, regain traction on the second, and on your way.
"The crowd was as thick as flies along the sandbags lining the wall as
I came roaring down the hill. I hit my brakes to change doon, and my
foot went tae the floor. The brakes had failed. I was doing a hundred
and ten down the cobbled hill when I passed the Italian and tried to
make the turn tae the right. The car swung around like an ice skater
and hit one of the sandbags. I got doon on the floor and Randy piled
intae me. There were five cars in that wreck, and three of the drivers
were killed. Four people who were watching from the sandbags died too.
Randy lost his foot.
"After that, I swore I'd never race again. And I never have. Randy
tried tae get me back driving. He said if I didn't go back I'd be a
beaten man all me life. Well, maybe I am a beaten man. But to this day
I canna' look at a racing car without being filled wi' mortal fear.
When I agreed tae go wi' you and Steve tae the technical inspection, I
was trying tae get over some of that fear. I thought it might have left
me. But it hadn't. And when I agreed tae work in the pit wi' Randy, it
was for the same reason.
"I'm sorry now I did. Randy would hae been killed, nae doot. But
I'd have had no part in it." He paused and flicked the butt of his
cigarette deftly into a bucket of water.
"Ye'll be wondering why I'm telling ye all this, nae doot," he said.
"Weel, it's on account of yon Black Tiger. Mark my words, they'll no
find any racing driver wi' any experience that'll undertake tae handle
her. Yon car's a killer as I said before. I'm thinking that they'll be
asking you. Ye drive well. I've watched ye. Ye drive like I used tae
drive when I was racing. I've looked at ye going roond the track and
seen meself twenty years ago.
"But dinna make the mistake I made--Randy too. Dinna' go on wi' yere
driving until ye've killed seven people just because ye wanted tae
drive a new car first past the finish line.
"I'll never forget those people, laddie. Never. And I've a horror of
racing now that won't leave me until I've drawn my last breath."
Woody now understood fully Worm's strange reaction to the Black Tiger
and his reluctance to be associated with road racing in any way. But
there was something else he wanted to know. He remembered how Randy,
over dinner, had told him that road racing condensed all the challenges
of life into a few minutes. He recalled Randy's saying that all drivers
were scared but if a man gave way to fear he would be beaten for the
rest of his life.
"Tell me, Worm," he said. "Did you quit racing because of the
accident--because of the people you killed though it was not your
fault? Or did you quit because you were scared of getting killed
yourself? Because you didn't want to take any more chances."
"'Twas the people," said Worm, slowly.
"But they knew the risk they were taking when they came to watch the
race," Woody persisted. "They knew a car might get out of control. Yet
they came and sat on top of the sandbags."
Worm made no comment on this for a while. He got up moodily from his
seat and looked out of the window. "Randy told me that mony a time,"
he said. "If I face the matter squarely, I quit because I was afraid."
The sentence was uttered in almost a whisper.
"I've been afraid ever since," said Worm. Woody felt a deep compassion
for him.
15
Worm's forecast that Woody would be asked to drive the Black Tiger was
not long in coming true. A week after her telephone call, Rocky dropped
in to see him. She drove into the garage in her MG, and although Worm
was delighted to see the daughter of his old friend, it was plain that
he was worried too.
"Mind what I told ye," he said privately to Woody. "Dinna' let her talk
ye into driving yon Black Tiger. It's nae worth the risk."
Woody and Rocky went to dinner and then for a drive and a talk. For
a while nothing was said about the Black Tiger, though Woody knew
very well that that was the object of the visit. Rocky was apparently
waiting for Woody to bring up the subject, and he was determined that
he wouldn't.
Eventually she brought it up herself.
"The Black Tiger is being completely overhauled and repaired," she
said. "It will be ready to race again soon. The factory sent a man over
to supervise the work. They installed a completely new brake system.
The factory man said the car had been dropped on the way over, and that
was why the steering knuckle broke and also why the brakes went out.
There was just the tiniest rupture in the master cylinder, but with the
constant braking during two races the rupture widened and the fluid
drained out."
"Gee, I'm glad to hear they found the trouble and the car is being
fixed," Woody said.
"We haven't been able to get a driver," Rocky continued. "I'd drive it
myself, but it wouldn't be the same thing. They have special races for
women, as you know, and to prove its worth the Black Tiger has to be
driven in a man's race."
Woody made no reply to this other than to grunt.
"It's the old trouble," Rocky went on. "The car has got the reputation
of being a killer. Nobody wants to risk driving it because it's so new.
But it isn't a killer at all. I believe what Randy used to say. No cars
are killers. New ones may have bugs in them that have to be found out.
But that's been true of every car ever designed. Racing finds out the
troubles and provides better and safer cars for people to drive.
"Lots of safety features on automobiles today were developed out of
experience gained in road racing," she continued. "Four-wheel brakes
are one of them. So are rear-vision mirrors and better tires. More
people are driving with safety belts on long trips, and that's saving
a lot of lives. In the early days of racing, Daddy told me, fly-wheels
used to explode and kill drivers. But who ever heard of a flywheel
exploding these days? Racing drivers showed how to make better ones.
Every time there's an accident on a track, people say that road
racing should be banned or that a particular car is a killer. But the
automobile industry would not be where it is today if it wasn't for
road racing."
Still Woody said nothing. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach because he knew what was coming. The palms of his hands
felt moist, and he could feel his heart beating faster. He tried to
temporize.
"Why was Randy so interested in the Black Tiger?" he asked.
"Because he said it was way ahead of any other racing car yet
designed," Rocky replied. "The factory is planning to put out a small
family car based on the Black Tiger engine. It would give about fifty
miles to a gallon of gas, could be driven in any climate because the
engine is air-cooled. That means no radiator to overheat in summer or
freeze in winter. And it would sell for less than a thousand dollars.
But all that depends on the Black Tiger being shown to be an efficient
engine and chassis design.
"Daddy never said anything to me about it. But I found out through his
will that he had put all his savings into the project. He believed
in the Black Tiger that much. He used to say he'd spent all his life
looking for a perfect automobile and had found it in the Black Tiger.
Now his life's work will be wrecked unless we can find someone to drive
the Tiger." She looked across at Woody, hesitated, and then said.
"Daddy was very fond of you. He told me that you'd make a great racing
driver someday. He said you had a natural flair for it, and the sort of
courage that it takes. Woody, I hate to ask you, knowing the reputation
the Black Tiger has. I'm only asking because so much of Randy's hopes
were tied up in the car. Will you race it--not for me but for him? For
all he did for automobile racing and design?"
Woody had his answer ready, but he couldn't get it out. It seemed
to him that Randy was nearby and hanging on his answer. He wanted to
say no. He wanted to say that he, too, believed the Black Tiger was a
man-killer. He wanted to break down and confess that he was scared to
death every time he raced a car and that fear, heavy as a shroud, clung
to him through every moment of a race. But he could not get the words
out of his mouth.
"I'll have to think about it, Rocky," he said feebly.
Rocky brightened immediately. "Woody," she exclaimed, "you're
wonderful." And she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"I haven't said yes," Woody said hurriedly.
"I didn't expect you to answer right away," replied Rocky. "I know you
have to talk to your mother and father. But if you explain everything
to them, I know they will agree."
"Worm warned me not to race the Tiger," Woody said. Rocky frowned.
"Did he tell you about himself yet?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Daddy always felt bad about Worm," Rocky went on, slowly. "He believed
up to the last that all Worm had to do was turn around and face his
fear and he would be happy again. He's not happy now, you know. That's
why Daddy got him in his pit crew and brought the Black Tiger to his
garage for tuning. It wasn't really that he couldn't get the tuning
done anywhere else. He thought if he could get Worm back into racing,
he would get over his fears. Daddy was always doing things like that
for people without their knowing it. He used to say that fear was just
a continuing sense of shock. It could be cured, he thought, if faced."
Rocky didn't know how deeply these words affected Woody. He felt that
Randy was talking to him; that Randy knew the struggle in his mind and
was trying to sort it out for him. He could almost hear the bright,
gallant voice, not blaming him but understanding and trying to help him
get over his own fears.
"When do you think you'll know whether you can drive the Tiger?" Rocky
asked.
"Oh, in about a week," Woody replied.
"Whatever your answer," Rocky said, "I'll always be grateful to you.
The others just said no. You at least are willing."