CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE ANSWER
The coroner and I drove out to the bridge that afternoon and I must admit I was mighty poor company. Mary's unreasonableness, her stupid obstinacy, when she knew she was wrong and I was right, her willingness to break our friendship at the first opportunity, gave me little room to think of anything else. That she should risk her reputation to run after that man was inexplicable, but it was just like a woman. Show them a place they must not go or a man they must not see and they will sacrifice life, liberty and everybody else's happiness to satisfy their curiosity. It has been true from Pandora to Pankhurst.
Well, if she could get along without me, I could get along without her. I'm the easiest going person in the world, but when it comes to allowing the girl you are practically engaged to, to make a fool of herself over another man, I won't stand for it. I knew she would probably come to me afterward and say she was sorry and she didn't know, but I made up my mind that she would have to give me an awfully good reason for her sudden interest in Frank Woods before I would forgive her. These thoughts held my attention all the way out. Now and again I would be recalled from my gloom by some question from the coroner. He was trying to solve the problem of who murdered Jim and I am sure he must have thought it strange that I was so preoccupied.
As we neared the bridge, I noticed again how scant the vegetation was on both sides of the road. Any one wishing to murder Jim would have been able to see him coming for at least a half-mile. On the left of the road was clay soil, sparsely covered with weeds and shrubs, while a half-mile away could be seen the thirteenth hole of the country-club golf links.
When we reached the crest of the hill leading down to the bridge, our eyes at once caught sight of a tall maple tree, on the right-hand side of the road and about two hundred yards from it.
As he saw it the coroner gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"There's our tree." We stopped the car and scrambled through the thorny bushes that lined the road. The ground was hard clay with only burdock and weeds growing on it. There was nothing that would lead us to believe that any one had been there before. When we reached the tree, the coroner examined the ground around it carefully. When he arose he seemed disappointed.
"What did you expect to find here?" I asked.
"I didn't know what we might find. If the man who fired those shots used this tree, I thought we might find an empty cartridge or two. There ought to be at least some broken twigs or something to show that he was up there, but I find nothing at all." "Still, the fact that the tree is where it is, makes the theory plausible." He shook his head. "No. Now that I've seen how far we are from the road I don't think it does. Those bullet holes in the back of the car were fired from above and behind the machine. They slanted down but not sidewise. If a tree had been at the very side of the road, our theory would be acceptable, but if the murderer used this tree, two hundred yards from the road, he would have started firing before the car came opposite, with the probability that the holes would have been found in the side of the car. I'm sorry, for when I saw this tree, I thought we'd struck the right track." "There's one thing I can't make out," I stated, "and that is the strange cry of my sister in her delirium. 'Look out, Jim! It's going to hit us,' she called out, and I would be willing to swear it had something to do with the murder." The coroner thought a moment, then turned to me.
"What else did she say?" "Nothing that seemed to refer to the accident. All the rest was apparently delirium. She begged forgiveness for some fancied wrong, and repeated that a certain man was not guilty of dishonesty. But her first weird cry had to do with the murder, I'm sure." We walked back toward the road together. High overhead we heard the droning of an aeroplane and we both stopped to gaze at it. Suddenly the coroner clapped me on the shoulder.
"I've got it!" "What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered.
"An aeroplane, man! Who owns an aeroplane around here?" "I don't know. There are several at the aviation grounds. What's that got to do with it?" "Everything! Don't you see? The bullets fired from above and behind. The number of bullets fired. Those two bullet holes in the foot-board of the car—everything points to an aeroplane. It was done a hundred, yes, a thousand times in the war. While I was over there with my hospital unit we used to get a lot of cases of motorcycle despatch riders who had been picked off by German aviators. They machine-gunned moving trains and military automobiles. It is one of the simplest tricks of a pilot's repertoire. Has Woods an aeroplane?" "He was a military pilot in the French army and is the head of an aeroplane firm, but I don't think he has an aeroplane here." "He could get one easy enough." "The clever devil! Look over there! He had the broad sweep of the golf course as a perfect landing ground and this road hasn't a tree on it for a mile. He could have come down within fifty feet of the ground and followed that car, pumping bullets into it all the way. He had absolutely everything in his favor." For a moment I saw red as I pictured Jim, helpless before approaching death. I could imagine Helen's agony as she saw that dim black shape come closer and closer and screamed in her terror, "Look out, Jim! It's going to hit us." "Yes, but how are we going to prove it?" I asked.
"That's up to us now. An aeroplane has such speed that it was easy for Woods to fashion an ingenious alibi to account for every minute of his time on the night of the murder, but there must be some holes in it; there always is in a manufactured alibi. I want you to go over to the country-club and check up Mr. Woods' schedule of that night while I examine the golf links to see if he landed there." We jumped into my car and drove rapidly to the club. I went into the house by the back way to avoid meeting people and asked for Jackson.
"Jackson, what time did Mr. Woods get out here on the evening Mr. Felderson was killed?" "Ah espect he got heah 'bout six o'clock, Mistuh Thompson," the negro replied. "Did you see him at that time?" "Did Ah see him at dat time? Le'me see? Why, no, suh, Ah don' think Ah did." "When was the first time you did see him, Jackson?" "Ah guess it was at dinnah time, suh. He was heah den." "You're sure he was here all through dinner?" I asked.
"Yes, suh! He must hab been, 'cause he ohdahd dinnah." "What time was he through dinner, do you know?" The darky scratched his head. "Ah reckon it war just befoh he ohdahd me ter bring him dat drink." "And he was here all that time?" I demanded.
"Yes, suh! He was right heah." "Where did he sit?" "Lemme see. Ah recollec' now, he ask me speshul fo' dat table ovah yondah by de winder." "Can you find the boy that waited on that table that night?" The old darky hurried away, but came back presently leading a scared yellow boy by the sleeve.
"Now, Geoge Henry, you-all quit youah contrahiness an' ansuh de genleman's questions o' Ah 'low Ah whup you." "George, did you wait on that table over there by the window two weeks ago?" "Ya-yas, suh! Ah ben waitin' on dat table fo' mo'n a month." "Do you remember waiting on Mr. Frank Woods two weeks ago last Thursday night?" I asked.
The boy was trembling. He rolled frightened eyes toward Jackson who was glaring at him. Finally he broke into a wail. "Oh! Pappy Jackson, da's all Ah knows. He tell me he go to de bah an' ef'n anybuddy ask whah he go dat night to sen' em in dah." "Just tell me what you know, George!" I said, motioning the angry Jackson away.
"He—he set down at de table but he ain't eat none," the boy stuttered. "What do you mean, George?" "He sit down an' look out de winder. Ah brung him some soup but he got up powful sudden, lak he had a call to de telephome, an' he ain't come back." "Are you sure of that, George?" "Yas, suh, Ah ast him did he want dinnah aftah he come back but he say he ain't hongry." "What time was it when he came back?" I asked.
"Ha'f past eight, suh." I gave the boy a dollar and he went away happy. Jackson had a sheepish look on his face.
"Then Mr. Woods wasn't here all through dinner, Jackson?" "Drat dat boy, he make me out a liah fo' a dollah," he grinned. "Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you saw Mr. Woods at half past eight?" I questioned.
"Yas, suh! You cain't catch me up no mo'. I saw Mistuh Woods at eight twenty-fahv exackly." I handed him a bill and went into the bar. Grogan, the old bartender was there alone.
"Grogan, do you remember who was in the bar between seven-thirty and eight-thirty on the night of the Felderson murder?" "Only one or two of the gentlemen, sir. There was Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Brown and I think Mr. Woods." "Are you sure Mr. Woods was in here?" "Well, no, sir, not exactly. I remember Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Brown. There were probably some others. The reason I think Mr. Woods was here was because he called my attention to the fact a few nights after the murder. There were a few gentlemen in here and they were talking of Mr. Felderson's death. Mr. Woods said, in view of the fact that the murderer hadn't been found, almost any one might be accused. Some one asked him if he was worried—we all knew, sir, that Mr. Felderson and Mr. Woods were not very friendly—and Mr. Woods laughed and said that fortunately he had a perfect alibi and called my attention to the fact that he was in here at about the time the crime was committed." "And you're not sure that he was?" I asked.
"Oh, his alibi is good of course, because he was around the club all that evening. I guess he was here and I don't remember it." I shook hands with him and left.
Far out on the golf links the coroner was bending over, examining something on the ground. When I reached him he grabbed me by the sleeve and pointed to two barely discernible tracks paralleling each other for almost a hundred yards. Between them ran a shallow, jagged rut, where the spade of an aeroplane had dug up the turf.
