“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?”
The farmer chuckled and expectorated. “It didn't even hesitate.”
“Can you tell us anything else about it?” I spoke up.
The inspector glared at me. “I'll conduct this investigation, Mr.—err——”
The farmer scratched his head. “Waal, nothin' much. It went too blamed fast fer me to git mor'n a right good look, but I did gee that it was full o' men an' the tail-light was bu'sted an' they wa'n't no license on it.”
“You're sure of that?” the inspector asked.
“Yep!” he said, “I'm sure, 'cause I was goin' to report 'em.”
Again the inspector turned to Feeney, who had been listening intently.
“Feeney, go in and tell the chief to issue instructions to all the force to keep an eye out for a black limousine with wire wheels, a broken tail-light and no license tag! My friend,” he said, turning to the farmer, “I thank you for your information. By to-morrow night we'll have that car and the parties concerned. By gad! They had their nerve, running away after the accident. The damned rascals—killing people and then running away. I'll grill their toes for them.”
The malice of the little detective, his readiness to jump from one conclusion to another, reminded me for all the world of some disagreeable, little, barking dog that chases every passing vehicle.
I bade him good night, shook hands with Pickering and was on my way back to my car, when another automobile drove up. Three men jumped out, and as they passed in front of the lamps, I recognized Lawrence Brown and Fred Paisley, from the club; the third man was Frank Woods. As I caught sight of his well-set-up figure, all the hatred I had for him seemed to rise in my throat and choke me. Try as I would I couldn't separate him from the tragedy. When the farmer said the black limousine was full of men, I realized that Frank Woods couldn't have been one of them, and yet, so great was my distrust of the man, that I felt like accusing him on the spot.
Larry Brown caught sight of me and wrung my hand. “Dammit, old man, I can't fell you how sorry I am.” Paisley patted me on the back. “If there is anything we can do, Thompson——”
I shook my head and tears came to my eyes. They made me realize poignantly how much I had lost. Woods didn't join us. He knew if he tried to sympathize with me, after the affair the other day, that I would throttle him for his hypocrisy.
“Was Jim killed outright?” Brown asked.
“Yes! And there's one chance in a thousand for Helen.”
Both men started. “Was Mrs. Felderson there? They telephoned us at the club that Jim had been killed, but we didn't know she was with him.”
They glanced at each other and then at Woods, who was standing by the side of the overturned car.
“You'd better tell him, Larry,” Paisley muttered.
“Doesn't he know?” I asked.
“Of course not,” replied Brown. “He was out there at the club with us. I'm afraid it will hit him awfully hard.”
He stepped over to Woods and, taking him by the arm, they disappeared into the darkness. We heard a choking cry, and the next moment Woods came running toward us. His face was distorted with horror and his eyes were almost starting from his head.
“Thompson, for God's sake, tell me he lies! Tell me he lies!” he shrieked. “Helen wasn't in that car?”
The old suspicions came tumbling back an hundredfold and I turned cold all over.
“It is true,” I said, “Mrs. Felderson is in the hospital at the point of death.”
With a stifled groan, Woods sank to the ground and buried his face in his shaking hands.
CHAPTER SIX. A CLUE AND A VERDICT
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 tie 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.