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?"