Erle Gardner: The Case of the Haunted Husband

He paused for one pawing familiarity at her surrender, then whirled back to grab the steering wheel.

The car had swerved far to the left. The pavement was three lanes wide. Two cars directly ahead blocked the right lane. A big truck and trailer were coming toward them in the left lane. Headlights in the middle line blazed through the windshield.

The man swung the wheel hard to the right, automatically stepped on the throttle, then, as there was no response from the dead motor, tried the brakes.

A slight jarring impact came from the rear as the car swerved under the sudden application of the brakes.

There were headlights directly ahead. They grew larger. They bored directly into Stephane’s face. She screamed... and the headlights seemed to pounce on her. She had never realized headlights could be so widely separated, so bright, so close.

A great wave of blackness submerged everything, headlights, cars, highway. There was a high-pitched tinkle of sound which persisted after that final crash. It was strange, she thought, that the sound of falling fragments of shattered glass would be so enduring. What had happened to the light? The wave of darkness had engulfed the road, why hadn’t — and then the darkness flowed over all sound and submerged it, and flowed over her as well.

Stephane was conscious of a flickering light — a light which came and went. There was pain in her chest, the sound of some liquid gurgling.

Lights again, this time stabbing into her eyes. She raised her lids with an effort. The beam seemed to pierce her brain.

A man’s voice said, “She is alive. Her eye moved.”

She felt the thing which was beneath and on her left sway, as though waves were rocking it. A man said, “We can lift her through.”

Again she opened her eyes. This time her senses had cleared so she could see, and could understand what she saw.

She was behind the steering wheel of the big car. Her gloved left hand and her bare right hand were holding firmly to the perimeter of the wheel. The car was over on its side, balanced precariously on a steep bank. Water was running out of the radiator, off from the crankcase. The lights were off, and the motor was dead.

Someone turned the flashlight toward her again. She saw the windshield interspersed with myriad cracks, saw broken glass guttering on the seat.

There were people above her. Arms reached down through the wide window in the car. Fingers circled her wrists, were pulling her up. A man’s voice said, “Give me a hand here. This thing may catch fire. Hurry up. Can you use your legs, sister?”

She tried to struggle. Her legs seemed twisted and useless. She felt herself falling. Only the inexorable pressure on her wrists held her up. Then there were other hands under her armpits, on her body, and she was being lifted smoothly up.

Darkness again, the feeling the she was being carried... Voices, voices engaged in meaningless conversation. She could hear the sounds, and knew they were words, but they conveyed no meaning to her mind... Blood-red lights on the road... Screaming of tires... “Hurry, there has been an accident.”... “Over there... I think he is dead.”... “Right here.”... “Beg pardon, Madam, there has been an accident.”... Screaming tires... Sirens.

The darkness of oblivion.

Pain stung her into consciousness, short, sharp road jolts which came from tires hitting expansion joints on the concrete pavement at great speed. The steady sound of a siren, the clanging of a bell...

She was in traffic now. She could hear the sound of traffic signals, of horns, the rumble of streetcars. But the ambulance went right ahead, its siren clearing a right of way. Stephane could feel the short, sharp jolt of streetcar tracks, feel the sway of the big car as the driver spun the wheel first to one side then to another, avoiding obstruction as the ambulance raced through the frozen traffic.

She felt the touch of hands. A man’s voice said, “Take it easy.” She heard the sound of rollers, then she was being lifted on a stretcher. She caught the smell of ether, opened her eyes and saw the walls of a white corridor flowing past. She was on wheels... bright lights in her eyes, skilled fingers exploring her body... She felt a twinge of pain, heard a man’s voice whisper, heard the rustle of stiffly starched garments, then the jab of a hypodermic needle...

She was having difficulty with her breathing. She tried to fight something off her face, trying to get fresh air.

A nurse said, “Don’t fight. Breathe deeply...”

A long deep breath...

Horty looked down at Stephane’s blonde hair spilled out on the Pillow. “You are a mess,” she said.

Stephane smiled. “I feel it. I ache everywhere.”

“You are lucky nothing is broken. Some bad bruises and a few stitches in your leg. A cut on your shoulder, but it has all patched up nicely.”

“Any scars?”

“Not where they will show, unless you take up fan dancing.”

“I might at that,” Stephane said, “My mouth feels like a hotel room after a salesmen’s convention has moved out. What happened?”

“You are in a jam” Horty said.

“I shall say I am. I came down here to get a job, and here I am laid up. How long will it be before I can get out, Horty? Give me the real low-down.”

Horty was in the late twenties, and weighed a hundred and fifty. Her figure didn’t bulge. She carried her weight in comfortable curves which attracted the masculine eye. There was bubbling good nature in her eyes, a smile always twisting the corners of her lips. She perpetually found something in life to laugh at. The broad-minded tolerance of her outlook enabled her to see humor in any situation. She was never insulted, never shocked, never annoyed. She took life in her stride, ate what she wanted when she wanted, and never worried. “Sure, men like slender, willowy figures,” she said. “They also like good nature. Good nature goes with upholstery. And I like food. So there you are.” And Horty never suffered for any lack of men friends. Men were always taking her out, starting in as good pals and winding up in the grip of fascination which made other women seem insipid.

“Come on, Horty,” Stephane said. “How long?”

Horty looked down at her. The smile quit trembling at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes still showed humor. “You must have been pretty high,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Stealing the guy’s car.”

“Stealing a car! What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you grab the buzz buggy?” Horty asked.

“Good heavens, no. I was riding...”

“There was liquor on your breath.”

“Yes, he kept after me until I took a drink.”

“But you were driving the car.”

“I was doing no such thing, Hortense Zitkousky.”

Horty’s eyes became grave. “You wouldn’t kid an old friend, would you?”

“Of course not.”

Horty looked around the room, lowered her voice. “It is okay, Stephane. The nurse is out.”

“I tell you I wasn’t driving that car.”

“When they found you, you were behind the wheel.”

Sudden realization came to Stephane’s mind. “I was, at that,” she admitted. “I remember that much. What happened to the man?”

“What man?”

“The man who was with me — who was driving the car.”

Horty shook her head.

“Anybody hurt?” Stephane asked.

“Lots of people. Some of them bad. You sideswiped into a car on the right, went directly toward a car coming in your direction, raked across its front, and sent it over into the other line of traffic. It was a hit head-on. Then you went on down the bank, turned over four or five times, and came to rest right on the edge of a sheer drop. It was a wonder you didn’t burn to a crisp.”