I drove home with my thoughts in a tumult. The look on Woods' face and
the vehemence of his words made me sure he was in some way responsible
for Jim's death. I walked the floor for hours trying to build up my
case against him. He had sworn to kill Jim, unless he let Helen go,
and he must have known that afternoon that not only was Jim going to
keep Helen from him, but that he had the proof with which to ruin him
forever. He had planned to have it out with Jim at the country-club,
knowing it would be a cold damp night and that few people would be out
there. He had emphatically stated that Jim should come alone and
should be there promptly at half-past eight. All those facts pointed
to the man's guilt and I felt sure that in some way I should be able to
unearth the proof.
I knew I ought to sleep, but sleep was the last thing I could do.
Twice I called up the hospital to inquire after Helen, but they could
tell me nothing. Had the operation been successful? Yes, she had come
through it. Would she get well? Ah, that they could not say. They
would let me know if there was any change. I sent a telegram to Jim's
uncle in the West, the only relative Jim ever corresponded with, and
told him to notify any others to whom the news would be of vital
interest.
Toward five o'clock, when dawn was just graying the windows, I threw
myself on my bed. I suddenly realized I was extremely tired, yet my
brain was buzzing like a dynamo. Pictures and scenes from the last few
days flashed through my mind: the vindictive look in Helen's eyes after
the fight with Woods; that table being wheeled out of Helen's room at
the hospital, with the moaning white bundle on it; the upturned car
pricked out of the darkness by the automobile lamps, and finally, Frank
Woods' face when he heard that Helen had been in the car. With the
realization that I ought to get up and close the window, where the
morning breeze was idly flapping the curtain, I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start, to find the room flooded with golden sunlight. A
glance at the clock on the mantel-shelf showed that it was after nine.
My body was cramped and stiff and I felt stale and musty from having
slept in my clothes. It was only after a cold shower and a complete
change that I felt refreshed enough to pick up the threads where I had
dropped them the night before.
Again, like the sudden aching of a tooth, came the heart-breaking
realization that Jim was dead. With it came also anxiety for Helen's
condition, so I called up the hospital at once. They could only say
she had not recovered consciousness, but seemed to be resting
comfortably.
I went down to the office to tell the stenographers they might have a
vacation until after the funeral, and to lock up. The first person I
found there was Inspector Robinson, who was calmly reading over the
correspondence on Jim's desk. With all the "sang-froid" in the world,
he met my infuriated gaze.
"Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Thought there might be something here
touching on the case." He waved a hand toward Jim's letter basket.
"Have you found the black limousine?" I asked.
"Certainly, my dear man, certainly! We've not only found the car, but
we found the people who were in the car and they know nothing about the
accident. My first explanation was the right one, as I knew it would
be. Felderson was driving recklessly, saw the bridge, put on the
brakes, skidded--was killed."
"But why should he put on his brakes at the bridge?" I queried.
"I've thought of that," he smiled. "Perfectly logical. There's a
nasty bump at the bridge and he naturally didn't want to jar Mrs.
Felderson."
"So he turned into the ditch and pitched her out on her head instead,"
I jeered. "That's all poppy-cock. I've taken that bridge at full
speed a hundred times without a jar."
"It's immaterial anyway," he snapped, frowning at me. "You can't make
any fool mystery out of it. The point is that Mr. Felderson put on his
brakes rapidly, perhaps for a dog or a rabbit, and skidded into the
ditch."
"It's not immaterial!" I burst out angrily. "There was a real reason
for his putting his brakes on rapidly. He was afraid of hitting
something, or being hit himself. Who was the driver of that other car?"
"The son of one of the biggest men in the state, Karl Schreiber."
"Karl Schreiber?" I cried. "The son of the German Socialist, who was
put in jail for dodging the draft?" I grabbed him by the arm. "Quick,
man! Who were the others with him?"
Robinson gazed at me with a stupid frown.
"Two reporters from _The Sun_, a fellow by the name of Pederson, Otto
Metzger and that Russian, Zalnitch, who just got out of prison."
"Zalnitch!" I yelled exultantly.
Zalnitch! The man Jim had sent to prison and who had threatened
revenge. Metzger, who had been his accomplice all along. Schreiber,
who hated Jim and all the virile Americanism that he stood for.
Pederson and the two reporters I didn't know, but they were no doubt of
the same vile breed. A fine gang of cutthroats who would have liked
nothing better than to get rid of Jim. They probably saw his big
search-light, that makes his car easily recognizable, and realized
their opportunity had come. They had driven toward him as though to
smash into him and made Jim take the ditch to get out of the way. That
explained the sudden jamming on of his brakes that had caused him to
skid and overturn. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I
heard the names of the men in the black limousine.
"Inspector," I said, "I am fully convinced that the men in the black
limousine are responsible for my brother-in-law's accident."
"What makes you think that?" he demanded, eying me narrowly.
"Because all of them had reason to hate and fear my brother-in-law.
Zalnitch, since his release, has sworn he would get even with Mr.
Felderson for putting him in prison. Metzger felt the same way. As
for Schreiber, I'm sure if he could have manipulated that car so as to
cause an accident to Mr. Felderson, he would have done it."
"You're crazy," Robinson sneered. "This thing's gone to your head.
How could they have known it was your brother-in-law's car?"
"By the big search-light in front. It's the only car in the state with
such a search-light. Mr. Felderson's car was so fast that the police
sometimes used it, and he had their permission to wear that light, as
you probably know. Also, it may have been dark enough to use the
search-light and yet light enough so that a car could be distinguished
at a hundred feet. If there was any light at all, that big
Peckwith-Pierce car could be recognized by any one." He was impressed.
I could see it by the thoughtful, shrewd look that, came into his eyes.
Already, he was making arrests by the wholesale, in his mind.
"But I can't go pulling these men for murder on such slight evidence as
that," he exploded.
"No one wants you to," I said sharply. "All I want you to do is to
help me find out whether those men were present when the accident
happened."
The idea of helping me didn't please him at all. As soon as I had
spoken I saw my error in not putting it the other way around.
"Now, Mr. Thompson, you better keep out of this," he advised, getting
to his feet. "I know that you are anxious to find out if these men had
anything to do with Mr. Felderson's death, but the case is in good
hands. We professionals can do a lot better, when there's no amateurs
messing about. You leave it to me!"
"Just as you say," I acquiesced. "Get busy, though, and if you find
out anything, let me know!"
Robinson stood a minute, turning his derby hat in his hands. I knew
what he was after.
"By the way," I added. "I'll pay all expenses."
His face brightened at once. "Well, now, that's good of you, Mr.
Thompson. I wasn't going to suggest anything like that, but it'll help
a lot."