The D.A. Breaks an Egg

The telegraph operator in the railroad station in Corona remembered the occasion of the wire perfectly.

“It was a girl,” he said. “A young woman. A cute, red-haired girl with a nice figure.”

Brandon’s face fell. “You’re sure she’s the one?”

“That’s right.”

“How was the wire written?” Selby asked. “In handwriting, or...”

“No, it had been written on a typewriter. I remember that. I can dig into the files and find it, I guess. It was all written on a typewriter. I’m certain of that.”

“This the woman?” Brandon asked, showing him Rose Furman’s picture.

“I think it was. Of course, it’s hard to tell. There’s something sort of... yes, I think it was. Of course, her red hair doesn’t show in the picture, and... yes, I guess it’s the woman all right.”

“Well,” Brandon said to Selby, “I guess that knocks that theory into a cocked hat.”

They thanked the telegraph operator, started back to the county car.

“Hang it,” Brandon grumbled. “I thought we were on the right track. We must have...”

“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.