Interrupted Romance

Franklin Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 32, 22 March 1939, Page 2

Interrupted Romance

By JULIE ANNE MOORE

m (Copyright)

INSTALMENT 27. The Fordell station wagon was sweeping around the bend when Chief Carter brought his car to a stop and shouted at the waiting group of officers :

“What’re you stopping here for. Why the ” and suddenly saw the roadster lying on its side in the marsh ail of ten feet below the roadbed. He was scrambling out for a closer inspection of the wreck when Polly grabbed his arm. “Listen —she’s stopping!” Polly said. Polly, meant Sheila.

Only Polly had been consciously listening to the diminishing exhaust of the station wagon, but now they all realised that steady purr had been in their ears, for the silence throbbed with the sound that had either died down to an inaudible purr or ceased altogether. ‘l’ve got five bucks,” Carter said harshly, “that says she stopped to pick up the bird that was driving that car down there.” He was eyeing the overturned machine. “Get the marker numbers ?”

“Yes, sir—and the registration was in the pocket. That’s Lieutenant Brell’s car, chief.”

Then they heard the noisy acceleration of the motor ahead.

• Carter yelled, “Catch that station wagon—hold everybody in it!” and began to slam through the gears. Tn thirty seconds every car had passed them and when at last they rounded the bend, Polly saw the tail lights of the swiftly receding parade of cars well beyond the toll house.

The toll collector shouted something as they whisked by, but his words were unintelligible to Polly. A remembered phrase flashed through her mind: “Longest bridge of its kind in the world.” Three miles long. She had read that somewhere. Looking at it now, she could see the entire gigantic structure, actually two bridges spanning two separate arm's of the Cooper River. Carter’s men had swept around the elbow turn and were now halfway up the first bridge. The tail lights of the station wagon were nearing the top of the second span. The rising wail of a siren came to them faintly. Polly looked up at Carter. “What is it, the fireboat?” He shook his head. “Radio prowl car—from the city,” he said, biting off bis words. “The station wagon probably went through the toll gate at seventy or better and the collector turned in the alarm.”

Minutes later, slipping down into the sweeping declivity between the two bridges, they saw the confusion of lights on the ridge ahead —headlights of cars drawn up on the opposite inclines, flooding the central section. “They got him trapped,” Carter grunted. He was leaning heavily on the wheel. “He heard the siren and stopped up on top. Hope we don’t pick up stray lead if there’s any shooting.” Polly’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She thought: “They’ve got him. They’ve got the man who murdered Norris Fordell and Mrs Fordell and Marco. The murderer —he’s up there, surrounded.” But whom had they trapped? Not Mel Dyson. She couldn’t believe that. The specialists had said Mel was completely blind.

Carter’s car screeched to a stop. They got out and climbed to the top of that second mountain of steel and concrete. Half a dozen men milled around the station wagon. It was close against ' the rail. Two long smears on the, floor of the bridge told of the suddenness with which the brakes had been applied.

Trotting at Carter’s side, Polly thought of the afternoon when she had found Tod hiding in the luggage compartment of the station wagon. A very long time ago that seemed now. How much had happened since . . . .! Some one was calling to Carter. Polly looked up and saw two officers lifting an inert form from the station wagon. It was Sheila Cleaves. “She’ll be 0.K.,” one of the men called down to Carter. “He hit her on the back of the head, but not 100 hard.”

Carter halted, stood there, panting. At last he managed to say, ‘Dyson — did he get away?” The officer shook his head, grimly. “He wasn’t in any shape to gel away. He’s over there.” Tiie station wagon had been stopped with its back end all but touching the railing, but the front end was well away from the railing and in the angle between the steel guard and Ihe cat Carter saw Mel Dyson’s body. The knees were drawn up and the head and shoulders humped forward. Carter bent over and pulled the long-visored cap from the black wavy head and carefully removed the dark glasses. Behind him Polly stood with her heart in her mouth, almost at raid to look at the while face on which was frozen the puzzled horror with which the man had met death. But look she did and it was a face she had never before seen in its entirety. As if talking to himself. Carter muttered. “Deaf, dumb and blind, says the doctors —and I believed ’em.” He looked up at the officer who stood on Ihe opposite side. “Listen, chief,” said his subordinate. “You’re all wrong. We didn’t; give Dyson Ihe works. We found him like that, stuffed down between

the two seats. He’s been dead for hours, maybe days.”

For a full minute Carter stood there staring. Then he came away and began to snap out commands. Two cars sped down the incline toward the city. Men moved along the guardrails on both sides of the bridges, peering down at the black water below. . . . Somewhere in the river, dead or alive, but almost certainly dead, was the heartless murderer, who, finding himself trapped, had once more cheated the law.

Sheila lay on two seat cushions on the floor of the bridge. Sitting beside her, rubbing the unconscious girl’s bloodless hands, Polly saw Sheila’s eyelids quiver, abruptly open. She said, “Lie quiet, Sheila. You’re all right now.” Then Carter came, hurrying, sat on his heels beside Polly. “What happened, Miss Cleaves? You picked ip somebody beyond the toll gate, clidn t you?” . , _ Sheila looked up at him, vaguely. “Y Cf . yes. He was in the middle of the highway. It was —it was- Mel Dyson. I was in a hurry, trying to get to Tod. but —1 couldn t get by. I had to slop. He came up, groping. ] held out my hand to help, but he didn’t know it was there, of course. He got his hand on the side, pulled himself up—in the seat behind me an d ” Her uncertain gaze swung to Folly’s face. “I 'lon'l remember anything —after that.” . Her eyes closed. She fell back, limp. By the time the coroner arrived, one of Carter's men was taking Sheila into the hospital, two miles away. Under the bridge the police boat was chugging up and down, searchlights playing on the water. Carter related what had happened. The coroner frowned.

“Where’s the Cleaves girl now?” “Sent her to the hospital,” Carter answered.

“Who went with her?”

“One of my men —with orders to keep an eye on her. She’s a material witness.”

The coroner pursed his lips. "If you don’t fish a body out of the river, she may be more than a material witness.”

“You don’t think she —” “I think anything—everything- — nothing,” the coroner declared. “It was an evil day I‘or me when Norris Fordell moved to the island.” He saw Polly then and bowed slightly smiling. “Not a very pleasant experience for a young woman to have to go through, either.” Polly forced a smile, She said, “I only hope this is the end.”

“It is. I’m sure it is,” the coroner said. He and Gaiter walked off a little way and stood there talking. "Polly moved to the railing, watched the brilliant white light flashing over the water. She told herself, “I mustn’t think. I mustn't think. 1 mustn’t let myself think anything at all,” and was thinking the same harrowing thoughts when she heard Carter’s voice behind her. She turned and saw that the coroner was there, 100.

“Miss Markey, I wish you would tell the coroner about being tied up in the library and overhearing the conversation in the living room.” Polly nodded, began to talk. When she paused at last, the coroner asked, “But you must have been able to identify the voices—Mrs Fordell’s, at least.”

She shook her head. “They were like the voices we used to hear when the talkies were new, metallic and very much alike. All 1 know is that lie called her Evelyn and she called him Cecil.” “Then you wouldn’t even guess who the man was?” Carter said, ‘"She doesn’t have to guess. She heard the conversation over the microphone hook-up and the minute she cried out, Brell walked into the library.” The coroner frowned. “How long after the voices died out before Brell entered the library, Miss Marlcey?”

Polly considered. “About a minute. Maybe a little longer.” “Then we can’t be sure,” said the coroner, “that Brell hadn’t just come into tiie house.” Carter laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. The coroner ignored it. He said, “What happened after you found Mrs Fordell on the settee in the living room?” Folly supplied that information without hesitation. Brell had told h er to call a doctor and lie had taken Mrs Fordell up to her room. They hadn’t known then that Mrs Fordell had been stabbed. After the doctor had come and gone, Polly said, she remained in the room with Mrs Fordell. Then Angus Garbrook came in and they were standing near the bed, talking,' when Garbrook was shot .... “Garbrook shot!” Carter almost shouted.

“Through the window, from the upstairs porch,” Polly said. e couldn’t see who it was, of course.” “Yes, but —” Carter began, and broke off to demand, “Where’s Garbrook now?”

“He went to the doctor’s,” Polly replied. “I. don’t know which one.” Carter swung around as muffled shouts came up from the river. In a moment Polly was alone. Every man on the bridge was bending over Hie guard-rail, intently listening. Polly knew what that shouting meant. They had found something

in Ihe river. A body. The body ot the person who had killed Fordell and Marco and Mrs Fordell —and Dyson. An old tear that had become a dull ache was suddenly intensified into sharp pain-again. It was impossible, utterly impossible. And yet—she raised her drawn face to the starlit sky and her lips moved in prayer!ui agony: ‘dt can't be! It can’t be!” Someone came across the bridge and stood before her, looking down at her with a quality of intense sympathy in his grey eyes. Until he spoke, she was not aware that lie was there. "I'm sorry, Polly,” Angus Garbrook said gently, “awfully sorry.” (To be Continued).