“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.