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.”
I handed over several bills, which he pocketed with satisfaction.