The coroner and I drove out to the bridge that afternoon and I must
admit I was mighty poor company. Mary's unreasonableness, her stupid
obstinacy, when she knew she was wrong and I was right, her willingness
to break our friendship at the first opportunity, gave me little room
to think of anything else.
That she should risk her reputation to run after that man was
inexplicable, but it was just like a woman. Show them a place they
must not go or a man they must not see and they will sacrifice life,
liberty and everybody else's happiness to satisfy their curiosity. It
has been true from Pandora to Pankhurst.
Well, if she could get along without me, I could get along without her.
I'm the easiest going person in the world, but when it comes to
allowing the girl you are practically engaged to, to make a fool of
herself over another man, I won't stand for it. I knew she would
probably come to me afterward and say she was sorry and she didn't
know, but I made up my mind that she would have to give me an awfully
good reason for her sudden interest in Frank Woods before I would
forgive her.
These thoughts held my attention all the way out. Now and again I
would be recalled from my gloom by some question from the coroner. He
was trying to solve the problem of who murdered Jim and I am sure he
must have thought it strange that I was so preoccupied.
As we neared the bridge, I noticed again how scant the vegetation was
on both sides of the road. Any one wishing to murder Jim would have
been able to see him coming for at least a half-mile. On the left of
the road was clay soil, sparsely covered with weeds and shrubs, while a
half-mile away could be seen the thirteenth hole of the country-club
golf links.
When we reached the crest of the hill leading down to the bridge, our
eyes at once caught sight of a tall maple tree, on the right-hand side
of the road and about two hundred yards from it.
As he saw it the coroner gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"There's our tree."
We stopped the car and scrambled through the thorny bushes that lined
the road. The ground was hard clay with only burdock and weeds growing
on it. There was nothing that would lead us to believe that any one
had been there before. When we reached the tree, the coroner examined
the ground around it carefully. When he arose he seemed disappointed.
"What did you expect to find here?" I asked.
"I didn't know what we might find. If the man who fired those shots
used this tree, I thought we might find an empty cartridge or two.
There ought to be at least some broken twigs or something to show that
he was up there, but I find nothing at all."
"Still, the fact that the tree is where it is, makes the theory
plausible."
He shook his head. "No. Now that I've seen how far we are from the
road I don't think it does. Those bullet holes in the back of the car
were fired from above and behind the machine. They slanted down but
not sidewise. If a tree had been at the very side of the road, our
theory would be acceptable, but if the murderer used this tree, two
hundred yards from the road, he would have started firing before the
car came opposite, with the probability that the holes would have been
found in the side of the car. I'm sorry, for when I saw this tree, I
thought we'd struck the right track."
"There's one thing I can't make out," I stated, "and that is the
strange cry of my sister in her delirium. 'Look out, Jim! It's going
to hit us,' she called out, and I would be willing to swear it had
something to do with the murder."
The coroner thought a moment, then turned to me.
"What else did she say?"
"Nothing that seemed to refer to the accident. All the rest was
apparently delirium. She begged forgiveness for some fancied wrong,
and repeated that a certain man was not guilty of dishonesty. But her
first weird cry had to do with the murder, I'm sure."
We walked back toward the road together. High overhead we heard the
droning of an aeroplane and we both stopped to gaze at it. Suddenly
the coroner clapped me on the shoulder.
"I've got it!"
"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered.
"An aeroplane, man! Who owns an aeroplane around here?"
"I don't know. There are several at the aviation grounds. What's that
got to do with it?"
"Everything! Don't you see? The bullets fired from above and behind.
The number of bullets fired. Those two bullet holes in the foot-board
of the car--everything points to an aeroplane. It was done a hundred,
yes, a thousand times in the war. While I was over there with my
hospital unit we used to get a lot of cases of motorcycle despatch
riders who had been picked off by German aviators. They machine-gunned
moving trains and military automobiles. It is one of the simplest
tricks of a pilot's repertoire. Has Woods an aeroplane?"
"He was a military pilot in the French army and is the head of an
aeroplane firm, but I don't think he has an aeroplane here."
"He could get one easy enough."
"The clever devil! Look over there! He had the broad sweep of the
golf course as a perfect landing ground and this road hasn't a tree on
it for a mile. He could have come down within fifty feet of the ground
and followed that car, pumping bullets into it all the way. He had
absolutely everything in his favor."
For a moment I saw red as I pictured Jim, helpless before approaching
death. I could imagine Helen's agony as she saw that dim black shape
come closer and closer and screamed in her terror, "Look out, Jim!
It's going to hit us."
"Yes, but how are we going to prove it?" I asked.
"That's up to us now. An aeroplane has such speed that it was easy for
Woods to fashion an ingenious alibi to account for every minute of his
time on the night of the murder, but there must be some holes in it;
there always is in a manufactured alibi. I want you to go over to the
country-club and check up Mr. Woods' schedule of that night while I
examine the golf links to see if he landed there."
We jumped into my car and drove rapidly to the club. I went into the
house by the back way to avoid meeting people and asked for Jackson.
"Jackson, what time did Mr. Woods get out here on the evening Mr.
Felderson was killed?"
"Ah espect he got heah 'bout six o'clock, Mistuh Thompson," the negro
replied.
"Did you see him at that time?"
"Did Ah see him at dat time? Le'me see? Why, no, suh, Ah don' think
Ah did."
"When was the first time you did see him, Jackson?"
"Ah guess it was at dinnah time, suh. He was heah den."
"You're sure he was here all through dinner?" I asked.
"Yes, suh! He must hab been, 'cause he ohdahd dinnah."
"What time was he through dinner, do you know?"
The darky scratched his head. "Ah reckon it war just befoh he ohdahd
me ter bring him dat drink."
"And he was here all that time?" I demanded.
"Yes, suh! He was right heah."
"Where did he sit?"
"Lemme see. Ah recollec' now, he ask me speshul fo' dat table ovah
yondah by de winder."
"Can you find the boy that waited on that table that night?"
The old darky hurried away, but came back presently leading a scared
yellow boy by the sleeve.
"Now, Geoge Henry, you-all quit youah contrahiness an' ansuh de
genleman's questions o' Ah 'low Ah whup you."
"George, did you wait on that table over there by the window two weeks
ago?"
"Ya-yas, suh! Ah ben waitin' on dat table fo' mo'n a month."
"Do you remember waiting on Mr. Frank Woods two weeks ago last Thursday
night?" I asked.
The boy was trembling. He rolled frightened eyes toward Jackson who
was glaring at him. Finally he broke into a wail. "Oh! Pappy
Jackson, da's all Ah knows. He tell me he go to de bah an' ef'n
anybuddy ask whah he go dat night to sen' em in dah."
"Just tell me what you know, George!" I said, motioning the angry
Jackson away.
"He--he set down at de table but he ain't eat none," the boy stuttered.
"What do you mean, George?"
"He sit down an' look out de winder. Ah brung him some soup but he got
up powful sudden, lak he had a call to de telephome, an' he ain't come
back."
"Are you sure of that, George?"
"Yas, suh, Ah ast him did he want dinnah aftah he come back but he say
he ain't hongry."
"What time was it when he came back?" I asked.
"Ha'f past eight, suh."
I gave the boy a dollar and he went away happy. Jackson had a sheepish
look on his face.
"Then Mr. Woods wasn't here all through dinner, Jackson?"
"Drat dat boy, he make me out a liah fo' a dollah," he grinned.
"Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you saw Mr. Woods at half past
eight?" I questioned.
"Yas, suh! You cain't catch me up no mo'. I saw Mistuh Woods at eight
twenty-fahv exackly."
I handed him a bill and went into the bar. Grogan, the old bartender
was there alone.
"Grogan, do you remember who was in the bar between seven-thirty and
eight-thirty on the night of the Felderson murder?"
"Only one or two of the gentlemen, sir. There was Mr. Farnsworth and
Mr. Brown and I think Mr. Woods."
"Are you sure Mr. Woods was in here?"
"Well, no, sir, not exactly. I remember Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Brown.
There were probably some others. The reason I think Mr. Woods was here
was because he called my attention to the fact a few nights after the
murder. There were a few gentlemen in here and they were talking of
Mr. Felderson's death. Mr. Woods said, in view of the fact that the
murderer hadn't been found, almost any one might be accused. Some one
asked him if he was worried--we all knew, sir, that Mr. Felderson and
Mr. Woods were not very friendly--and Mr. Woods laughed and said that
fortunately he had a perfect alibi and called my attention to the fact
that he was in here at about the time the crime was committed."
"And you're not sure that he was?" I asked.
"Oh, his alibi is good of course, because he was around the club all
that evening. I guess he was here and I don't remember it."