By then I was beginning to suspect that no matter what I said to this fellow I’d get only head-shakes out of him.
I said:
“Get away from the wheel, then. I’m going to drive back there.”
He opened the door and scrambled out.
“Come back here,” I called.
He backed away, shaking his head.
I cursed him, slid in behind the wheel, said, “All right, wait here for me,” and slammed the door.
He retreated backwards slowly, watching me with scared, whitish eyes while I backed and turned the coach.
I had to drive back farther than I had expected, something like a mile.
I didn’t find the black man.
The tunnel was empty.
If I had known the exact spot in which he had been lying, I might have been able to find something to show how he had been removed. But I hadn’t had time to pick out a landmark, and now any one of four or five places looked like the spot.
With the help of the coach’s lamps I went over the left side of the road from one end of the tunnel to the other.
I didn’t find any blood. I didn’t find any footprints. I didn’t find anything to show that anybody had been lying in the road. I didn’t find anything.