THE TIRE PRINTS.
Jack Cray barely avoided a sudden start at that last remark of Mrs.
Simpson’s. He had been hoping for some light on the electric car, but
had thought it improbable that he would find any clew at the fugitive’s
home.
“So he’s a fool at times, is he?” he thought. “Good enough! That ought
to make things easier.”
“So the bug caught him, too, did it?” he asked aloud, with a careless
smile. “Did he buy a machine?”
“Oh, no, sir! He rented one in the village, but his idea was to buy one
as soon as he could afford it. In fact, he has had a gate made in the
back fence, and one of those little, portable garages put up.”
“He meant to enjoy himself, didn’t he?” Cray asked lightly, though
the role he was obliged to play was becoming more and more irksome.
“There’s a driveway at the side of the house, though, isn’t there? I
thought I noticed one as I came in.”
“Yes, there is,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “That was another queer thing.
I didn’t see how in the world John was going to afford a car—even a
secondhand one, as he talked of buying—but if he was going to have one,
I didn’t see why it should not be driven in from the front, since that
was what the drive was made for. He wouldn’t hear of it, though.”
“Why not?”
“He said he was going to drive his own car, and he didn’t want
everybody to be watching him and criticizing the way he was doing
it. He thought he would prefer to come in the back way, where there
wouldn’t be so many spectators. That was ridiculous, though, because
you can see for yourself that there are not many people living here on
the hill. Besides, he would soon have learned to drive well enough not
to mind if he were watched.”
Cray nodded, but his heart was pounding. This was certainly a queer
whim on Simpson’s part, and the detective was sure there must be some
reason for it. In fact, he was inclined to believe that there was a
reason for the choice of the house itself, and that both had to do with
the fugitive’s crime. The thought was an exciting one, but Cray was at
a loss to explain Simpson’s actions.
It might be well to see how the land lay, and the best way to do that,
he believed, was with Mrs. Simpson’s knowledge, rather than furtively.
“I don’t want to alarm you too much,” he said, “but these things look
rather queer, you know. You seem sure that there wasn’t anything the
matter with Mr. Simpson’s mind, and yet you admit that he has done
some peculiar things. You’d rather think that his mind was temporarily
clouded, wouldn’t you, than that he was dead, or had deliberately left
you in the lurch?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “It would be terrible,
though—terrible!”
“So are the other possibilities,” Cray pointed out. “Let’s work along
this line—for a while. Would you mind letting me see this gate and
garage you speak of?”
“No, certainly not,” the woman said, but it was plain that she thought
the proceeding a senseless one. “I’ll show you.”
The lot was perhaps sixty feet wide, and one hundred and fifty feet
deep, possibly more. The grass had not yet obtained a fair start, and
the shrubs and trees were very small, although they had evidently been
planted the season before.
The gravel drive ran along one side of the lot, from front to rear, and
beside it, close to the rear fence, was the little, portable garage of
which Mrs. Simpson had spoken. It was built of metal, as a precaution
against fire, and when the detective tried the door, he found it locked.
“Your husband has the key, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Cray had noted the graveled surface of the drive on his way from the
house, and had seen that it had not been used. There were footprints on
the soft surface, but no evidence of tires.
“The garage has never been used, I suppose?” Cray inquired.
“Oh, no, Mr. Jones.”
“And no car has been driven into the yard?”
“No, sir.”
There was no doubt that she was telling the truth, so far as she was
aware, but Cray had evidence that she was mistaken. To be sure, no
car had been driven in from the front, but it was plain that one had
entered the yard through the new back gate.
Evidently the machine had not entered the garage, but had halted in
front of it, and had then been backed out again. The marks were not
very recent, however, and at least one rain had fallen since they were
made.
Cray walked on to the rear gate and peered over. There was a newly
graded road beyond, and in its surface were the marks of other
tires—or, rather, the marks of the same tires repeated several times,
a number of sets of them being more recent than those in the yard. And
all were made by tires of the sort in common use on electric machines.
“Been here often,” Cray concluded. “Hasn’t been in the yard but once,
but has come as far as the gate on a number of occasions. Seems to have
been undecided about something, or had cold feet. What’s more, unless
I’m ’way off the track, that machine has been here not later than night
before last, and those freshest marks look suspiciously as if they were
made last night.”
He actually forgot Mrs. Simpson for the time being, and, opening the
gate, passed through. He had seen something which interested him, the
print of a rather small shoe in the soft ground just beyond the gate,
where one would naturally have stood to open the gate from the outside.
The detective took a steel tape line from his pocket, and carefully
measured the footprint. Incidentally, he gave the tire marks a close
examination.
Soon he straightened up and looked about him. In doing so, he was more
struck than ever with the isolation of the Simpson house. The spot
where they stood was not overlooked by any other residence. There was
another house within two or three hundred yards, to be sure, but it
presented a blank wall on that side, evidently being designed to stand
close to another one, which was yet to be built.
“Supposing the fellow had any motive to do it, he could come here in a
noiseless electric at the dead of night, with lights turned off, and
nobody would be the wiser,” Cray told himself. “And he could reach the
hill here without passing through the center of the village itself.”
At that point, however, he glanced up at the rear of the Simpson house.
“How about his wife, though?” he went on to himself. “She evidently
isn’t wise to any such thing, and yet there are plenty of windows here,
at the rear—and not very far from the garage, either.”
That brought him back, and he rather awkwardly entered the yard,
fearing that he might have betrayed curiosity of an altogether too
professional character.
“A fellow can’t help trying to act like a detective, I guess, when he’s
put on such a job like this,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “I see
right now that I’m not in the same class with Nick Carter. Suppose I’ll
have to try to keep up the bluff just the same, and ask some more fool
questions—if you are not ready to throw me out.”
“Of course not, Mr. Jones,” the poor little woman assured him. “I only
wish——”
The detective nodded. “I wish, too, that I could find him for you, Mrs.
Simpson,” he said sincerely, and added, under his breath, “and for you
alone.”
“May be I will—who knows?” he went on, gazing thoughtfully about. “By
the way, where do you sleep, if I may ask? At the back of the house?”