“Wait a minute,” Selby said, as he noticed a copy of the evening Blade in the rear of the car.
A photograph of Daphne Arcola smiled up at Selby from the front page under headlines reading, DISTRICT ATTORNEY SELBY INVADED BEDROOM WITNESS CLAIMS.
“Just a minute, Rex,” Selby said. “Let’s try this thing from another angle. You remember it was the resemblance between these two women that touched off the initial mistake in this case when we thought Daphne Arcola was the one who had been killed.”
Selby picked up the newspaper, walked back to the telegraph office, and said, “Now this girl has red hair. Of course this is a newspaper photograph and...”
“That’s the one,” the operator exclaimed unhesitatingly. “I know that’s the one. I recognize her. That’s it. She is the one who sent the telegram. There’s a resemblance between her and the other girl, but this is the one.”
Selby grinned across at Brandon. “Now let’s find out where Daphne Arcola is. We’re getting somewhere.”
“Want me to call the office?” Brandon asked.
“Let’s call Sylvia Martin at The Clarion,” Selby said. “She can go around as a news reporter and it won’t attract so much attention. She’ll say she wants an interview.”
“Sure,” Brandon said. “Go to it.”
Selby put through a call from the phone in the station, in order to expedite matters, making it a station-to-station call to the office of the Madison Clarion.
“Hello,” he said, when he had an operator on the line. “This is Doug Selby, the district attorney. I want to talk with Sylvia Martin. It’s important, and...”
The operator interrupted to say, “She’s been trying to get you too, Mr. Selby. She’s on some sort of a hot tip. One of the persons in whom you’re interested, and who Sylvia thinks has a key to the situation, was leaving in an automobile on some mysterious errand. Sylvia was trying to get you so that you could follow. When she couldn’t find you, she started out in her own car.”
Selby said, “Well, I guess we can’t wait then.”
He hung up and explained the situation to Brandon. “Daphne must be skipping out, Rex. Sylvia’s trying to trail her.”
Brandon said, “What’ll we do, Doug?”
“Broadcast a pickup on Daphne Arcola, Rex.”
Brandon called his office and said to the deputy who answered the phone, “Find out where Daphne Arcola is, and nail her down. If she’s left town, send out a pickup. If she hasn’t left, but starts to go anywhere, put her in custody. If Carr tries to get bail for her, see that things are tied up until we can get there. We’re starting from Corona right now.”
Brandon hung up the telephone, said, “Let’s go.”
They climbed in the car and in a matter of minutes were speeding over the road at seventy miles an hour.
Suddenly Selby grabbed Brandon’s knee. “Hold it, Rex. That’s A. B. C.’s car coming down that bill on the road ahead.”
Brandon said, “Darned if it isn’t. I’d know that battleship on wheels anywhere.”
Brandon slowed the car, extended his arm from the window, made signals.
Old A. B. C. ignored the signals. His big sedan, hurtling along the highway, went whipping past with such speed that the suction of air rocked the county car.
Brandon said, “The dirty shyster,” and watching his opportunity spun his car in a complete turn.
“That was Daphne Arcola with him,” Selby said.
“We’ll get them,” Brandon promised.
The county car rolled into speed. Ahead, the road became a divided highway. There was no sign of the car they were pursuing.
Brandon floorboarded the throttle. They roared along the smooth cement ribbon.
“There he is,” Selby said. “I recognize the rear of his car. The bumper’s chromium plated, but it’s railroad iron. They say the windows are bulletproof.” Brandon slowly cut the distance.
A. B. Carr was giving his big machine plenty of gas and was passing cars with such regularity that he consistently hugged the left-hand lane. Brandon nursed his car up behind the lawyer’s car. Then, watching for an opportunity, suddenly shot over into the right-hand lane and floorboarded the throttle.
After a second, the two cars were abreast. Old A. B. Carr at the wheel glanced across, saw the sheriff’s automobile, recognized Selby, and abruptly pushed his own throttle down to the floorboard.
The powerful motor sent the car surging forward, but Brandon, jamming the throttle of the county car wide open, kept alongside. However, the advantage was Carr’s because Carr was in the left lane of traffic, and as a big truck and trailer loomed ahead of the county car in the right-hand lane, Brandon was trapped.
For a moment the sheriff hesitated, then, giving the machine everything he had, started cutting to the left.
The truck and trailer were being overtaken with such rapidity that they drew measurably closer with each swift second while Carr’s machine, which had slowly started to forge ahead, still couldn’t make it far enough to draw away from the county car.
Selby braced himself.
Brandon grimly swung the wheel over more and more to the left until there was a scant half-inch between the fenders of the two cars.
Old A. B. Carr lost his nerve at the showdown. He took his foot off the throttle. Brandon’s car, cutting in between the wide truck and trailer and the speeding car of the lawyer, seemed to have less than an inch to spare on each side. But the sheriff was now ahead of the other machine. He grinned, shifted one hand, pulled out his revolver from its holster, placed it on the seat beside him, and slowed down, waiting for Carr to come up.
Old A. B. C. refused to take the invitation. He slowed his machine abruptly.
Brandon slammed on the brakes, watching developments in the rear-view mirror.
Carr veered over to the right, but Brandon refused to walk into that trap. He eased his machine only part way over so that when Carr suddenly tried to detour back to the left, Brandon had forestalled him and the county machine was ahead, all the time slowing in speed, forcing Carr over to the right-hand lane.
The truck and trailer coming behind started a raucous blast of its horn; then the driver, sizing up the situation, as he noted the tax-exempt license on the county car, swung over to the right and started slowing down.
Carr made a last desperate effort to scrape by on the right and Brandon, driving with his left hand, holding the gun in his right, swerved the car over sharply forcing A. B. C. off the road.
Carr brought his machine to a stop, raised his hat in a courtly bow, and said, “Good morning, gentlemen, good morning. Aren’t you rather hogging the traffic, Sheriff? It seemed to me you wanted pretty much all of the road.”
“No,” Brandon said dryly, “just the part that you were on. Pull over there and shut off your motor.”
“I say,” Carr protested, “I’m in rather a hurry and...”
“You’re being stopped for questioning,” Brandon said, “and if you try to get away I’m going to start shooting the tires out.”
“Well, of course,” Carr said, smiling affably, “if you want to be arbitrary and violent about it. Aren’t you outside of your county, however, Sheriff?”
“I’m outside of my county and within my rights.”
“After all,” Carr announced, “so far as the law is concerned, there are several...”
Brandon raised the gun. “Carr,” he said, “you try to make a getaway and I’ll riddle your tires. Now if you can get a writ of habeas corpus that’ll keep a bullet from penetrating rubber, you’d better get one fast, because you’re going to need it.”
Carr surrendered with a good-natured laugh, said, “Well, well, since you’re so remarkably insistent, Sheriff, I suppose there’s no alternative but to consume more of my valuable time in listening to your questions — questions which so frequently are completely beside the point. But go right ahead, Sheriff, if it’ll give you any pleasure, let’s get it out of your system.”