The D.A. Breaks an Egg

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.”

“I want to talk with Daphne Arcola,” Brandon said, getting out of the car and holstering his revolver.

Carr’s lips tightened. “What questions did you want to ask Miss Arcola?”

“Where are you going, for one thing,” Brandon said.

“I received a call which is taking me to my office in the city.”

“You put up bail for Frank Grannis earlier today, I believe,” Selby said.

“That’s right, I did. Is there any law against that?”

“Why did you put up that bail?”

“Because he’s a client of mine,” Carr said, “and I’m satisfied he’s innocent. I feel that he’s been given a raw deal. I put up my own money as bail and I don’t have to answer...”

“And then where did he go when he left El Centro?”

“Good heavens, gentlemen, I don’t know,” Carr said. “I asked him to keep in touch with me, naturally. And, of course, when the time is set for his trial he’ll be there. Otherwise, of course, I’d have to forfeit the bail money.” And Carr smiled blandly.

“All right,” Brandon said, turning to Daphne Arcola. “Why did you go into the telegraph office at Corona and send a wire to Mrs. Barker C. Nutwell in Los Angeles and sign the name of Rose Furman, the murdered girl?”

Daphne Arcola’s eyes widened. Her face suddenly drained of color so that the patches of rouge showed distinctly orange.