Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen (page 3)

the slightest proof that you didn’t.”

“I–I came down on the train which left there a little after two in the morning.”

“Prove it.”

There was a hunted look about Lawrence. “I can’t prove it–a man can’t prove that he came on a certain train–“

“Was there nobody on board who knew you?”

“I–don’t know. I was feeling badly when I got in–the berths were all made up–I went right to sleep and when the porter woke me we were in the yards. I dressed and came right home.”

“And yet–” Carroll was merciless “–you have no substantiation for your statements.” He switched his line of attack suddenly: “What made you think I was coming here to discuss Roland Warren’s death?”

It was plain that Lawrence did not want to answer–yet there was something in Carroll’s mesmeric eyes which wrung words unwillingly from his lips–

“Just logic,” he answered weakly. “I knew that you weren’t calling to see Evelyn because you were interested in her. You knew Warren had been pretty friendly in this house–so you came to talk to us about it. Isn’t that reasonable?”

“I don’t believe I am here to answer questions, Mr. Lawrence. You invited me to ask them.”

Naomi broke in, her voice choked with hysteria–“What are you leading to, Mr. Carroll? It is absurd to think that Gerald had anything to do with Mr. Warren’s death.”

Carroll swung on her, biting off his words shortly: “Do you _know_ that he didn’t?”

“Yes–I–“

“I didn’t ask what you _thought_, Mrs. Lawrence. I am asking what you _know_!”

“But if he was in Nashville–“

“If he was, then he’s safe. But he himself cannot prove that he was. And I tell you frankly that the police will investigate his movements very carefully. It strikes me as exceedingly peculiar that he checked out from the Hermitage Hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon when he intended taking a two a.m. train. Remember, I am accusing your husband of nothing. Our conversation could have been pleasant–he refused to allow it to be so. He classified me as a professional detective and put me on that basis in his home. I have merely accepted his invitation to act as one. If I appear discourteous, kindly recall that it was none of my doing.”

“I’m sorry, Carroll,” said Lawrence pleadingly. “I didn’t know–“

“Of course you didn’t know how much I knew–or might guess. You saw fit to insult me–“

“I’ve apologized.”

“Your apologies come a trifle late, Lawrence. Entirely too late. Our relations from now on are those of detective and suspect–“

Again the flare of hate in Lawrence’s manner: “I don’t have to prove an alibi, Carroll. You have to prove my connection with the thing. And you can’t do it!”

“Why not?”

“Because I was in Nashville at that time. And while perhaps I can’t prove I was there–you certainly cannot prove I was not.”

“That remains to be seen. Meanwhile, I’d advise you to establish that fact if you can possibly do so. And by the way: are you in the habit of indulging in these solitary debauches in neighboring cities?”

Lawrence flushed. “Sometimes. I used to be a heavy drinker, and–“

“Is that a fact, Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yes,” she answered eagerly: almost too eagerly Carroll thought–“he has had escapades like this–several times.”

“And you are sure that his story is true?”

“Yes. Of course I’m sure. Why should he kill Mr. Warren? There isn’t any reason in the world–“

“For your sake and his, I hope not. But meanwhile–“

“Surely, Mr. Carroll–you don’t intend publishing what he has told you–about his drinking–alone–in Nashville?”

Carroll smiled. “No indeed. In the first place, I am not at all sure that he has told me the truth. In the second place, if I were sure of it–his alibi would be established and I have no desire whatever to injure a man because of a personal weakness.”

Lawrence stared at Carroll peculiarly. “You mean that if I can prove the truth of my story, nothing will be made public about my–the affair–in Nashville?”

“Absolutely. Because you have treated me discourteously, Lawrence–I don’t consider myself justified in injuring your reputation. I am after the person or persons responsible for the death of Roland Warren. Your intimate weaknesses have no interest to either me or the public.”

Lawrence was silent for awhile, and then–“You’re damned white, Carroll. The apologies I extended a moment ago–I repeat. And this time I’m sincere.”

“And this time they are accepted.”

“Meanwhile–you are welcome here whenever you wish to call. Perhaps–by talking to me–you yourself may establish the alibi which I know I have, but cannot prove.”

Carroll rose and bowed. “Thank you. And now–I’ll go. If you will express my regrets to Miss Rogers–“

Naomi accompanied him to the door. She extended her hand–“You’re wrong, Mr. Carroll”, she murmured. “Quite wrong!”

“You are sure?”

“I _know_! I really believe his story.”

“I hope to–soon. But just now, Mrs. Lawrence–” He saw tears in her fine eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me if he is innocent.”

She pressed his hand gratefully, and then closed the door. Carroll, inhaling the bracing air of the winter night, proceeded briskly to the curb. Then, standing with one foot on the running board of his car, he stared peculiarly at the big white house standing starkly in the moonlight–

“I wonder,” he mused softly–“I wonder–“

CHAPTER XIV

THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN

Carroll drove direct to his apartments, despite his original intention of dropping by headquarters for a chat with Leverage. He wanted to be alone–to think–

The evening had borne fruit beyond his wildest imaginings. Fact had piled upon fact with bewildering rapidity. As yet he had been unable to sort them in his mind, to catalogue each properly, to test for proper value.

He reached his apartment and found it warm and comfortable. He donned lounging robe and slippers which the thoughtful Freda had left out for him, settled himself in an easy chair, lighted a fire which he kept always ready in the grate and turned out the lights. Then, with his cigar glowing and great clouds of rich smoke filling the air–he sank into a revelry of thinking.

Certain disclosures of the evening stood out with startling clarity. Chief among them was the inevitable belief that Gerald Lawrence had either killed Roland Warren or else knew who had done so–and how it was done. Yet Carroll tried not to allow his thoughts and personal prejudices to run away with him. He knew that now, of all times, he must keep a tight grip on himself.

Great as was the dislike which he had conceived for Lawrence–an instinctive repugnance which still obtained–he was grimly determined that he would not be swayed by his emotions. Therefore he deliberately reviewed Lawrence’s story in the light of its possible truth.

Lawrence claimed that he belonged to that none too rare class of prominent citizens who once every so often respond to the call of the wild within them by going to a nearby city where they are not known and giving themselves over to the dubious delights of a spree. Publication of this fact alone would prove sufficient to injure Lawrence socially and in the commercial world. The old case of the Spartan lad–Carroll reflected. The disgrace lay in being discovered.

Also, it was perfectly plain to Carroll that at the outset of his conversation Lawrence had been smugly satisfied that he was possessed of a perfect alibi. It was only under Carroll’s merciless grilling that he had been brought abruptly to realization that he had no alibi whatever. The same logic applied there, as in Leverage’s theory that Barker’s arrest would be an excellent strategic move. All Carroll had to do now was to arrest Lawrence for Warren’s murder–and the burden of proof would have been shifted from the shoulders of the detective to that of the suspect. It would then devolve upon Lawrence to prove an alibi that Carroll knew perfectly well he could not prove–save by merest accident.

But that was a procedure which Carroll abhorred. Those were police department methods: wholesale arrests in the hope of somewhere in the net trapping the prey. Such a course was at the bottom–and Carroll knew it–of an enormous number of convictions of innocent men. And Carroll had no desire to injure Lawrence provided Lawrence was free of guilt in this particular instance. He didn’t like the man–in fact his feelings toward him amounted to a positive aversion. But through it all he tried to be fair-minded–and he could not quite rid himself of the picture of Naomi Lawrence–Carroll was far from impervious to the appeal of a beautiful woman.

So much for the probable truth of Lawrence’s story. The reverse side of the picture presented an entirely different set of facts. There was not alone the strange procedure of checking out of the big hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon when he intended catching an early morning train: but there was the information so innocently dropped by the loquacious Evelyn Rogers regarding Naomi’s actions on the night of the murder.

According to Evelyn, her sister was an intensely nervous woman: one who stood in fear of being alone at night. And yet this sister had volunteered the suggestion that Evelyn spend the night with Hazel Gresham when her husband was supposed to be out of the city.

Carroll, well versed in applied psychology, knew that in such a combination of facts there lay an important clue. He was well satisfied that Naomi Lawrence had been satisfied that she was not to be alone that night!

Arguing with himself from that premise, the conclusion was inevitable: she knew that her husband would return from Nashville at midnight. She did not wish anyone–even Evelyn, to learn that he had done so. Therefore she got Evelyn out of the house!

The conclusion developed a further train of reasoning–one which Carroll did not at all relish, but which he faced with frank honesty. If he was right in his argument–then Naomi Lawrence had known of the murder before it was committed!

He shrank from the idea, but it would not down. He was not ready to admit its truth–but there was no denying its logic. There was something inexpressibly repugnant in the thought. He infinitely preferred to believe that Naomi hated her husband–was miserable with him–he preferred that to the idea that they were accomplices in the murder of a prominent young man.

Then, too, there were the strange visits of William Barker, former valet to Warren, to the home of the Lawrences. There was no doubt remaining in Carroll’s mind that Barker knew a very great deal about Warren’s murder. That being the case it was fairly well established that he was cognizant of the Lawrences’ connection with the crime.

Carroll had started off with the idea that someone, in addition to the woman in the taxi-cab, had been instrumental in ending Warren’s life. Here, following a casual line of investigation, he had uncovered the tracks of two men, both of whom he was convinced knew more about it than they had cared to tell.

Both men–Barker and Lawrence–had acted peculiarly under the grilling of the detective. The former had been surly and non-informative, only to leap eagerly upon the first verbal trend which tended to throw suspicion upon a person whom Carroll knew–and whom Carroll knew Barker knew–was innocent. Gerald Lawrence, on the other hand, had been downright antagonistic until he made the startling discovery that his supposed alibi was no alibi at all–at which his attitude changed from open hostility to something closely akin to suppliance.

Then, too, there was the danger of injuring an innocent man because of his inability to prove an alibi. If Lawrence’s story was true, it was perfectly natural that even in a condition of intoxication he would maintain his instinct for concealment of a personal weakness. The chances were then that no one had seen him either in Nashville–after the four o’clock train had left, or on the two a.m. train homeward bound.

Matters could not right themselves in Carroll’s mind. He knew one thing, however–Evelyn Rogers was a wellspring of vital information. The very fact that she talked inconsequentialities incessantly–and occasionally let drop remarks of vital import–made her the more valuable. He knew that he had not seen the last of the seventeen-year-old girl. And he felt a consuming eagerness to be with her again, for now he had a definite line of investigation to pursue.

He slept soundly that night, and the following morning dropped in on Leverage. The Chief of Police had a little information–with all of which Carroll was already familiar. He told Carroll that Lawrence had been in Nashville and that he had checked out of the Hermitage hotel in time to catch the four o’clock train on the afternoon preceding the murder. Carroll satisfied Leverage by accepting it as information, made sure that nothing else of importance had developed, requested Leverage to ask the Nashville police to determine whether Lawrence had been seen in Nashville after 4:30 p.m.–if necessary to send one of his own men there–and left headquarters.

He made his way directly to a public telephone booth. He telephoned the Lawrence home and asked for Evelyn Rogers. A maid answered and informed him that Evelyn had left home fifteen minutes previously.

“Any idea where she was going?” questioned Carroll.

The answer came promptly: it mentioned the city’s leading department store–“she’s gone there to get a beauty treatment,” vouchsafed the maid.

Carroll was not a little chagrined. Evelyn Rogers had put him in more hopeless positions in their brief acquaintanceship than he had experienced in years. There was his call upon her the previous night with its role of dual entertainer to the young lady with a nineteen-year-old college freshman. And now a vigil outside a beauty parlor.

But he went grimly to work. He located the beauty parlor on the third floor of the giant store, and paced determinedly back and forth before its doors.

A half hour passed; an hour–two hours. He concluded that Evelyn must be purchasing her beauty in job lots. When two hours and thirty-five minutes had elapsed Evelyn emerged–and Carroll groaned. With her were three other girls, as chattery, as immature, as Evelyn herself.

She swept down upon him in force–tongue wagging at both ends–

“You naughty, _naughty_ man!” she chided. “You abso_lute_ly deserted me last night. Why, I didn’t even know that you had gone–until Sis came in and said you had asked her to extend your respects. Good gracious! I almost _died_!”

“I’m sorry–really,” returned Carroll humbly–“But you seemed so interested in that young man–and I had gotten into an absorbing conversation with your sister and brother-in-law. I’m not used to girls, you know.”

“Kidder! I think you’re simply elegant!” She turned to her giggling friends and introduced them gushingly. Carroll was in misery–a martyr to the cause. But Evelyn would not let him get away. Through her sudden friendship with the great detective, Evelyn was building up a reputation that was destined to survive for years, and she was not one to fail to make the most of her opportunities.

It was not until almost an hour later, when the other three girls had left for their homes–left only after they had hung around until the ultimate moment before lunch–that Carroll found himself alone with his little gold mine of data. He bent his head hopefully–

“Were you planning to eat lunch downtown?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh!”

“Suppose we eat together?”

“Scrumptious!” There was no hint of hesitation in her manner. “I’ve been hoping ever since we met that you’d ask me.”

They found a table mercifully secluded in the corner of the main dining room of the city’s leading hotel. For once Carroll felt gratitude for the notoriously slow service. He begged her to order–and she did: ordered a meal which contained T.N.T. possibilities for acute indigestion. Carroll smiled and let her have her way–he was amused at her valiant efforts to appear the blase society woman.

“I really did enjoy our conversation last night, Miss Rogers.”

“Oh! piffle! I don’t fall for that.”

“I did.”

“Then why did you beat it so quick?”

“Well, you see–I suppose I was jealous of your elegantly dressed young friend.”

“Him? He’s just a kid. A mere _child_!”

“He seemed very much at home.”

“Kids like him always do. They make me sick–always putting on as though they were grown up.”

She secured an olive and bit into it with a relish. “Awful good–these olives. I love queen olives, don’t you. I used to be crazy about ripe olives, but I read in a book once that sometimes they poison you, and when they do–there just simply isn’t any anecdote in the world that can save you. So I figured there wasn’t any use taking chances–“

Carroll let her run on until the meal was served. And it was then when she was satisfying a normal youthful appetite that he drove straight to the subject which had led to this masculine martyrdom.

“The day before Mr. Warren died,” he said mildly–“are you sure that your sister made the suggestion that you spend the night with Miss Gresham?”

“Her? Sure she did.”

“Didn’t it strike you as peculiar–knowing that she’d be in the house alone all that night?”

“I’ll say it did. I asked her was she nutty and she scolded me for being slangy. So I told her I should worry–if she wanted to suffer alone, and I went with Hazel. And it’s an awful good thing I did, because if I hadn’t she would have been arrested and tried and convicted and hanged–or something, and–“

“Oh! hardly that bad. You’re sure your sister was alone in the house that night?”

“Sure. Who could have been there with her?”

“I’m not answering riddles. I’m asking them.”

“I’ve got my fingers crossed. The answer is that there wasn’t any one there. At first I thought she was going out–but she wasn’t, and when I asked her was she, she got real peeved at me.”

“Aa-a-h! You thought she was going out that night?”

“Uh-huh,” came the answer between bites at a huge lobster salad.

“What made you think that?”

“Oh! just something. You know, I don’t get credit for having eyes, but I sure have. And I never did understand that business anyway. But then Sis always has been the queerest thing–ever since she married Gerald. Say–” she looked up eagerly–“ain’t he the darndest old crab you ever saw in your life?”

“Why, I–“

“Ain’t he? Honest?”

“He’s not exactly jovial.”

“He’s a lemon! Just a plain juicy lemon. And I think she was a nut for marrying him.”

“But–” Carroll proceeded cautiously–“you made the remark just now that something was the queerest thing. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh! I guess I was crazy–or something. But she got sore at me when I asked her–“

“Who?”

“Sis.”

“What did you ask her?”

“Why–” she looked up innocently–“about that suit-case!”

“What suit-case? When was it?”

“It was the day before Mr. Warren died–I always remember everything now by that date. Anyway–I went in her room that morning to ask something about what I should take to Hazel’s–and what do you think she was doing?”

“I’ll bite,” he answered with assumed jocularity–“what was she doing?”

“Packing a suit-case!”

“No?” Carroll was keenly interested–struggling not to show it.

“Yes, sir. I asked her what was she doing it for–and that’s when she got peeved. I told you she was a queer one.”

“Indeed she must be. Packing a suit-case–“

“And that ain’t all that was funny about that, either, Mr. Carroll.”

“No? What else about it was peculiar?”

“That suit-case–” and Evelyn lowered her voice to an impressive whisper–“was gone from the house the next day–and the day after it showed up again and when I asked Sis wasn’t that funny she told me to mind my own business!”

CHAPTER XV

A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM

Carroll tried to appear disinterested–strove to make his manner casual; jocular even. Evelyn was piecing the threads of circumstances together and the events surrounding the Warren murder were slowly clarifying in Carroll’s brain.

But he knew that now, of all times, he must keep her from thinking that he had any particular interest in her chatter. She was completely off guard–and he knew that for his own interests, she must remain so.

So he assumed a bantering attitude–he resorted to what she would have termed “kidding.”

“Aren’t you the observant young woman, though? Not a single thing escapes your eagle eye, does it?”

She pouted. “Oh! rag me if you want to. But I am _terribly_ noticing. There ain’t many things that happen which I don’t get wise to.”

“Not even vanishing suit-cases, eh?”

“No: not even that. It was funny about that, though. At first I thought maybe Sis was packing up to go meet Gerald in Nashville–but I figured out that it was bad enough to have to live with him here without chasing all over the country after him.”

“You say that suit-case left the house after she packed it?”

“Sure pop.”

“Who took it?”

“I don’t know. Sis was out a couple of times that day–so I guess she did.”

Carroll shrugged. “She was probably sending some of Mr. Lawrence’s belongings to him in Nashville.”

“Huh! There’re some things even a great detective like you don’t know. Don’t you suppose I noticed that the clothes she was packing in that suit-case were _hers_?”

“Really?”

“You bet your life, I noticed. You see,” she grew suddenly confidential. “There’s a certain kind of perfume Sis uses–awful expensive. Roland Warren used to bring it to her. Well, I’ve been using it too–and Sis never did get wise. I only used it when she did–and when she smelled it, she didn’t know that she was smelling what I had on. Well, it isn’t likely she was sending that to Gerald, is it?”

“Hardly. But are you sure she packed it?”

“I’ll say I am. I saw her do it. And then two days later I saw the bottle on her dressing table again–and so I just naturally looked to see if the suit-case was back and it surely was.”

“But perhaps it never left the house?”

“Guess again, Mr. Carroll. I know–because just before I went to Hazel’s I hunted all over for it, to get some of that extract myself. And the suit-case wasn’t there. Believe me–it’s _some_ perfume, too!”

“You say Mr. Warren gave it to her?”

“He sure did. That man wasn’t any piker, believe me. It costs twelve dollars an _ounce_!”

“No?”

“Yeh–goodness knows how much a pound would cost. I used it all the time–I knew when he gave it to Sis he meant it for me–because, like I told you, he was simply crazy about me. Told me so dozens of times. Said he came to see me. It used to bore him terribly when he’d have to sit in the room and talk to Sis and Gerald.”

“I fancy it did–” Carroll summoned a waiter–“A little baked Alaska for dessert?”

“Baked Alaska! Oh! boy! you sure spoke a mouthful that time. I’m simply _insane_ over it!”

She evidently had not exaggerated. She absorbed enough of the dessert to have satisfied two growing men. It did Carroll good to witness her frank enjoyment of his luncheon. She glanced at her wrist watch and rose hastily–

“Goodness me, I’ve simply _got_ to be going.”

“Where?”

She made a wry face: “Hazel Gresham’s. Honestly, women get queer when they grow up–get older than twenty. Hazel has been acting so _peculiarly_ lately–“

“That’s natural, isn’t it, Miss Rogers? Her fiance killed–“

“Oh! shucks! I don’t mean that. That wouldn’t be queer. But there’s something else bothering her. And when I try to get her to tell me what it is, she gets right snippy and tells me to mind my own business. And I’ll tell you right now, Mr. Carroll–if there’s one person in the whole world who always minds their own business–and who doesn’t pay the slightest attention to other peoples’ affairs–that person is me. I started that a long time ago when I read something some one wrote in a book about how much happier folks could be if they never bothered with other folk’s business–and it struck me as awfully logical. And so that’s what I’ve always done. Don’t you think I’m sensible?”

“I certainly do. Very sensible. And I’m sorry Miss Gresham isn’t feeling well.”

“Oh! she feels well enough. She’s just acting nutty. And as for when your name is mentioned–O-o-oh!”

“_My_ name?” Carroll was genuinely surprised.

“Yes siree-bob! I started telling her all about what good friends you and I have gotten to be–and would you believe it! she jumped all over me–just like Sis did when I told her–and said I shouldn’t associate with professional detectives–and it was immoral–and all that sort of thing.”

“Indeed?”

“You bet she did. It was scandalous! Of course I told her what a ducky you are–but she begged me not to go with you any more. I told her she was crazy–because I really don’t think there’s anything so very terrible about you–do you?”

“At least,” smiled Carroll, “I won’t eat you. But what you tell me about Miss Gresham is interesting. Why in the world should she be prejudiced against the man who is trying to locate the slayer of her fiance?”

“Ask me something easy. I reckon it’s just like I said before: when a woman grows up–gets to be twenty–she gets mentally unbalanced–or something. Honestly, I haven’t met a woman over nineteen years of age in the _longest_ time who didn’t have a crazy streak in her somewhere. Have you?”

“I’d hardly say that much–” They had crossed the hotel lobby, swung through the doors and were standing on the sidewalk unconsciously braced against the biting wind which shrieked around the corner and cut to the bone, giving the lie to the bright sunshine and its promise of warmth.

“Brrrr!” shivered Evelyn–and Carroll rose eagerly to the hint.

“I’d be delighted to ride you to Miss Gresham’s in my car–“

“Would you? That’d be simply splendiferous! And I’d like Hazel to meet you–then she’d know that you’re just a regular human being in spite of what everyone says.”

During the drive to the Gresham home, which stood on the side of the mountain at the extreme southern end of the city–Evelyn did about a hundred and one per cent of the talking. She blithely discussed everything from the economic effect of the recent election to the campaign against one-piece bathing suits for women: indicating well-defined, if immature opinions on every subject. She informed him that she was delighted with suffrage and opposed to prohibition, that the League of Nations would be all right if only it was not so far away, that she was sincerely of the belief that straight lines would pass out within the year and the girl with the curvy figure have a chance again in the world, that fur coats were all the rage–and he ought to see her sister’s–it was the _grandest_ in the city, that–she orated at length on any subject which occurred to her tireless mind; securing his dumb Okeh to her views–and liking him more and more with each passing minute because he treated her seriously: like a full grown woman of twenty–or something.

They pulled up at the curb of the Gresham home. As they did so Garry Gresham swung out of the gate, paused–and his eyes widened in astonishment at sight of Carroll. Then he stepped quickly to the curb as Carroll and the girl alighted.

“Hello, Garry,” greeted Evelyn boldly. It was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. But Gresham did not notice. He nodded a curt “Hello, Evelyn” and addressed himself to Carroll–eyes level, manner direct.

“What do you want here, Carroll?”

There was an undertone of earnestness in the young man’s words which the detective did not miss. He simulated innocence: “I? Nothing–“

Garry Gresham frowned. “You had no particular reason for coming here?”

“None whatever. Why?”

“I fancied it was peculiar–after your original suspicion of my sister–“

Carroll laughed good-naturedly. “Rid your mind of that, my friend. I merely happened to be downtown with Miss Rogers–and drove her up here in my car. As a matter of fact, if you have no objection, I’d like very much to meet your sister.”

“Why?”

“Because she was Roland Warren’s fiancee. Because she can tell me some things about Warren which no one else can tell me. Because the Warren case is almost as far from solution as it was one minute after the killing occurred.”

Gresham thought intensively for a moment. “You can give me your word of honor, Carroll, that you are convinced that my sister is not connected in any way with the crime?”

“I can, Gresham. So far as I now know, your sister has no connection whatever with the case. But she must necessarily be in possession of certain personal details regarding Warren which I’d like to find out.”

Gresham started back toward the house. “You may talk to her,” he decided briefly–“if she is willing. But I prefer to be present during the interview.”

Carroll bowed. “As you will, Gresham.”

They walked to the house and Garry led the way to the front hall. Evelyn, considerably piqued at being ignored, took advantage of his disappearance in search of his sister, to open up a broadside of inconsequential chatter before which her previous efforts paled into insignificance. And it was in the midst of her verbal barrage that Gresham appeared at the far end of the hall with his sister.

Carroll was pleasantly surprised. Evelyn’s protestations of intimacy with Hazel Gresham had implanted in his mind the impression that she was decidedly of the flapper type. He was glad to find that she was not.

She was not a beautiful girl: rather she belonged in that very desirable category which is labeled “Sweet.” There was an attractive wistfulness about her–an undeniable charm, a wholesomeness–the sort of a woman, reflected Carroll instantly, whom a sensible man marries.

There was no hint of affectation about her. Her eyes were a trifle red and swollen and she seemed in the grip of something more than mere excitement. But in her dress there was no ostentation–it was somber, but not black. And she came straight to Carroll–her eyes meeting his squarely–and they mutually acknowledged Evelyn’s gushing, but unheard, introduction–

“Miss Gresham–“

“Mr. Carroll–“

They seated themselves about a small table which stood in the center of the reception hall, and even Evelyn sensed the undercurrent of tenseness in the air. Her tongue became reluctantly still although she did break in once with a triumphant–“Ain’t he like I told you he was?” to Hazel.

It was Garry who introduced the subject. “Mr. Carroll wants to ask you something about Roland,” he said softly–and Carroll, intercepting the look which passed between brother and sister, felt a sense of warmth–a pleasant glow; albeit it was tinged with guilt–as though he had blundered in on something sacred.

The girl’s voice came softly in reply: her gaze unwavering.

“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Carroll?”

The detective was momentarily at a loss. He conscripted his entire store of tact–“I don’t want to cause you any embarrassment, Miss Gresham–“

“This is no time for equivocation, Mr. Carroll. You may ask me whatever you wish.”

“Thank you,” he answered gratefully. “You have, of course, heard that there is a woman connected with Mr. Warren’s death–the woman in the taxicab.”

Her face grew pallid, but she nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

He watched her closely–“Have you the slightest idea–the vaguest suspicion–of that woman’s identity?”

“No!” she answered–and he knew that she had spoken the truth.

“You have thought of it–of her–a good deal?”

“Naturally.”

“Mind you–I’m not asking if you _know_–I’m merely asking if you have a suspicion.”

“I have not–not the faintest.”

“You were quite satisfied–pardon the intense personal trend of my questions, Miss Gresham–that during his engagement to you, Mr. Warren was–well, that he was carrying on no affair with another woman?”

“I say, Carroll–” It was Garry Gresham who interrupted and his voice was harsh. But his sister halted him with a little affectionate gesture–

“Mr. Carroll is right, Garry: he must know these things.” She turned again to Carroll. “No, Mr. Carroll–I knew of no such affair–nor did I suspect one. When I became engaged to Mr. Warren I placed my trust in him as a gentleman. I still believe in him.”

“Yet we _know_ that there _was_ a woman in that cab!”

“No-o. We know that the taxi-driver _says_ there was.”

“That’s true–“

Hazel Gresham leaned forward: her manner that of a suppliant. “Mr. Carroll–why don’t you abandon this horrible investigation? Why aren’t you content to let matters rest where they are?”

“I couldn’t do that, Miss Gresham.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Warren’s murderer is still at large–and as a matter of duty–“

“Duty to whom? I am content to let the matter rest where it is. All of your investigation isn’t going to restore Roland to life. You can only cause more misery, more suffering, more heartbreak–“

“It is a duty to the State, Miss Gresham. And, frankly, I cannot understand your attitude–“

“She has had enough–” broke in Garry Gresham. “She’s been through hell since–that night.”

“I’m afraid, though–“

“Mr. Carroll–you _can_ call it off, if you will.” Hazel Gresham rose and paced the room. “The case is in your hands. You can gain nothing by finding the person who committed the–the–deed. Let’s drop it. Do me that favor, won’t you? Let’s consider the whole thing at an end!”

David Carroll was puzzled. But he was honest–“I’m afraid I cannot, Miss Gresham. I must, at least, try to solve it.”

She paused before him: figure tensed–

“Then let me say, Mr. Carroll–that I hope you fail!”

CHAPTER XVI

THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI

From the Gresham home, David Carroll went straight to headquarters. Developments had been tumbling over each other so fast that he found himself unable to sort them properly. He wanted to talk the thing over with someone, to place each new lead in the investigation under the microscope in an attempt to discern its true value in relation to the killing of Roland Warren.

Eric Leverage was the one man to whom he could talk. And, locked in the Chief’s office, he told all that he knew about the case, detailing conversations, explaining the situation as he understood it, reserving his suspicions and watching keenly for the reaction on the stolid mind of the plodding, practical Chief.

Carroll placed an exceedingly high valuation on Leverage’s opinion–even though the minds of the two men were as far apart as the poles. But Leverage was a magnificent man for the office he held: competent, methodical, intensely orthodox–but typical of the modern police in contradistinction to the modern detective.

Carroll knew that modern police methods have received a great deal more than their share of unjust criticism. He knew that the entire theory of national policing is based on an exhaustive system of records and statistics. It operates by brute force and all-pervading power rather than by any attempt at sublety or keen deduction. The former is so much safer as a method. And the combination of the two–keen analysis, logical deduction and plodding investigation–can perform wonders, which explains why Carroll and Leverage worked hand-in-hand with implicit confidence in one another.

Leverage listened with rapt attention to the report of his friend. Occasionally the corners of his large humorous mouth twitched as Carroll touched on one or two of the lighter phases of his investigation–and once Leverage even twitted him about becoming “one of these here butterfly investigators”–but Carroll knew that no word of his escaped the retentive brain of the chief of the city’s police force, and that each was being carefully catalogued with truer knowledge of its proper importance than Carroll had yet been able to determine.

“And so,” finished Carroll, “there you are. The thing is in as pretty a mess as I care to encounter. Frankly, I don’t know which way to turn next–which is why I wanted to talk things over. Perhaps, between us, we can arrive at some solution of the affair–determine upon some course of action.”

“Yes,” responded Leverage slowly, “perhaps we can. Only trouble is–there are so many different ways of spillin’ the beans that we’re takin’ a chance no matter what we do. Answer me this, David: if you had to point out one person right now as the guilty one–which’d you choose?”

Carroll shook his head. “You know I don’t like to answer questions of that sort.”

“But you can tell me–“

“No-o. It might start your mind working along lines parallel to mine–and I prefer to have you buck me. But, in perfect honesty, I’ll tell you that I’m all at sea. I couldn’t conscientiously make an arrest now.”

“Well–I’m willing to air my opinions,” volunteered the Chief. “And I’m telling you that if it was up to me to make an arrest to-day I’d nab Mr. Gerald Lawrence–and haul in William Barker for good measure.”

“M-m-m!” Carroll nodded approvingly. “Sounds reasonable. How about the woman?”

“That’s what’s got me puzzled. I’ve worked on that end of it, and I’ve had several of my best men circulating around trying to gather dope from the gossip shops–but there doesn’t seem to be a clue from this end. Anyway–I don’t believe Warren was killed by the woman in the taxi!”

Carroll was genuinely impressed. “You don’t?”

“No. Don’t believe any woman–I don’t care who–would have killed him under those circumstances.”

“You mean you believe the woman in the taxi had nothing to do with it?”

“I don’t mean anything of the kind. I know darn well she had something to do with it–but I don’t believe she did the actual killing. That’s why I’d arrest this bird Lawrence and also William Barker. They either killed the man or they know all about it.”

“But,” suggested Carroll slowly, “suppose we admit that your theory is correct–and I’ve thought of it myself: how and where was that body put into the taxicab?”

Leverage shrugged: “That’s where you come in, Carroll. I ain’t the sort of thinker who can puzzle out something like that. Of course I’d say the only place the shift could have been made was when the taxi stopped at the R. L. & T. railroad crossing–and every time I think that it strikes me I must be wrong. Because any birds working a case like that couldn’t have counted on such a break in luck.”

“It might have been,” suggested Carroll, “that two men entered the cab at that crossing: Warren and another–both alive, and the killing might have occurred between then and the time the cab reached number 981 East End Avenue.”

“Might have–yes. But something tells me it didn’t. It’s asking too much–“

“Then what _do_ you think happened?”

“I don’t think. There just simply isn’t anything you can think about an affair like that. You either know everything or you don’t know a thing!”

“I think you’re about right, Leverage. And now–let’s run over the list we have in front of us. Spike Walters–the taxi driver–comes first. What about him?”

Leverage rubbed his chin. “Funny about Spike, Carroll–I think the kid’s story is true.”

“So do I.”

“But unless there’s some other answer to this affair–it’s damned hard to believe that the body could have been dumped into that cab, or that the killing could have occurred there, without Spike knowing about it. Ain’t that a fact?”

“It is.”

“And if he knows anything he hasn’t told, the odds are on him to know a whale of a sight more. And if he knows a whole heap–then the chances are he knows enough to justify us in keeping him in jail.”

“You’re right, Leverage. If Spike is innocent he’s not undergoing any enormous hardship. But if his story is untrue in any particular–then it is probably entirely false. And since we cannot understand how that body got into the cab or where the murderer went–we’ve got to hold on to Spike. Meanwhile, we both believe him.”

“You said it, David. Now, next on the list we have Barker. What about him?”

“I don’t like Barker particularly,” said Carroll frankly. “He hasn’t what you would call an engaging personality. Not only that, but we are agreed that he knows a great deal about the case which he hasn’t told–and doesn’t intend to tell unless we force him to it. But we’ll go back to him later: he’s too important a link in the chain to pass over casually when we’re trying to hit on a definite course of action. Remembering, of course, that his visits to the Lawrence home have a certain degree of significance.”

Leverage chuckled grimly. “You’re coming around to my way of thinking, David Carroll. Remember, I wanted to stick that bird behind the bars the first day we talked to him–when we first knew he was lying to us.”

“Yes–but we wouldn’t have gained anything–then. Perhaps now the time is ripe to try some of that third degree stuff. But let’s take up the others. My little friend, Miss Evelyn Rogers, for instance.”

Leverage chuckled. “Go to it, David. You know more about that kid than I ever will–or want to. Ain’t suspecting her of being the woman in the taxi, are you?”

“Good Lord! no! She hasn’t that much on her mind. And if we manage to solve this case, we can thank her. That little tongue of hers wags at both ends–and out of the welter of words that drip from her lips–I’ve managed to extract more information than from every other source we’ve tapped. I’ve been awfully lucky there–“

“Don’t talk like a simp, David–’tain’t luck. That’s your way of working. And because there isn’t anything flashy about it–you call it luck. Why, you poor fish–there isn’t any other man in the country who’d have had the common sense to do what you did–to know that it would be a sensible move.”

“Some day, Eric,” grinned Carroll, “I’m going to throw you down–I’m going to flunk on a case. And then you’ll say to my face what you must often have thought–that I’m a lucky, old-maidish detective.”

“G’wan wid ye! Fishing for compliments–that’s what you are.”

Carroll grew serious again. “I think we’re safe in eliminating Evelyn Rogers from our calculations except as a gold mine of information. Which takes us to her friend–Hazel Gresham.”

“And Garry Gresham. You say he didn’t want you to discuss the case with his sister.”

“They both acted mighty peculiarly,” agreed Carroll. “One of them, I’m sure, knows something about that case–has some inside dope on it. And the one who knew has told the other one–the affection between them is something pretty to look at, Leverage.”

“You think one of them is in on the know?”

“Yes, I think so. And I think that their information touches someone pretty close to them. That’s obviously why they pleaded so hard with me to call off the investigation.”

“M-m-m–They’re pretty good friends to the Lawrences, aren’t they!”

“Yes–with Naomi Lawrence, anyway. I don’t believe Gerald Lawrence is especially friendly with anyone. But the Greshams and Mrs. Lawrence are pretty intimate.”

“And you believe that the alibi Miss Rogers established for Hazel Gresham is good?”

Carroll hesitated a moment before replying. When he did speak it was with obvious reluctance: “I hate to say so, Leverage–because I like Evelyn Rogers and I took an instant liking to both Hazel Gresham and her brother. But there seems to be something wrong about it. I do think that Evelyn Rogers believed she was telling the truth–but I’m not so sure that her dope was accurate. Just where the inaccuracy comes–I haven’t the least idea–but I’m not letting my likes and dislikes stand in the way of a sane outlook on the case. I am convinced that both the young Greshams know something more than they have told. As a matter of fact, there isn’t a doubt of it–they showed it clearly when they begged me to call off the investigation. We know further that they are intimate with Naomi Lawrence–and we know that either Naomi or her husband–or both–are mixed up in this case. Events dovetail too perfectly for us to ignore the fact that however right Evelyn Rogers may believe she is–she may be wrong!”

“And I’m not forgetting, either–” said Leverage grimly, “that Hazel Gresham was engaged to marry Warren!”

“No. Nor am I. It’s a puzzling combination of circumstances, Leverage: a perfectly knit thing–if we don’t–and so now we come to Gerald Lawrence and his wife.”

Leverage did not take his cue immediately. He sat drumming a heavy tattoo on the tabletop, forehead corrugated in a frown of intensive thought. When he did speak it was in a manner well-nigh abstract–

“Gerald Lawrence probably lied when he said he didn’t leave Nashville until the two a.m. train.”

“He may have. One thing which impressed me about Lawrence was this, Leverage–when the man started bucking me he thought he had a perfect alibi. He was supremely confident that I was going to be completely nonplussed. It was only after I had questioned him closely that he realized his alibi was no alibi at all. He realized he couldn’t prove where he was at the time the murder was committed–that for all the evidence he could adduce he might have been right here in this city.”

“Yes–?”

“The significant fact is this,” explained Carroll–“when he made the discovery that his alibi was no good–_he_ was the most surprised person in the room!”

“And you’re thinking,” suggested the Chief, “that if he had actually had a hand in the murder of Warren he would have had an alibi that would have been an alibi?”

“Just about that. Get me straight, Chief–I would rather believe Lawrence guilty than any other person–except perhaps Barker–with whom I have come in contact since this investigation began. He has one of the most unpleasant personalities I have ever known. He is a congenital grouch. But he told his Nashville story so frankly–and then became so panicky with surprise when my questioning showed him that his alibi was rotten–that we must not fasten definitely upon him–“

“–Except to be pretty darn sure that he knows more about it than he has told.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Ain’t you sure he does?”

“I’m not sure of anything. I haven’t one single item of information save that regarding the one person whom I would prefer to see left clear.”

“And that is?”

“Mrs. Naomi Lawrence.”

Leverage nodded agreement. “Things do look pretty tough for her.”

“More so than you think, Eric.” Carroll designated on his fingers, “Count the facts against her as we know them: irrespective of their weight or significance.

“First, she is a beautiful woman, twelve years younger than her husband and very unhappy in her domestic life. Second, she was very friendly with Roland Warren. Of course, Miss Rogers’ fatuous belief that Warren was crazy about her is pure rot: he called at that house to see either Gerald or Naomi Lawrence. We must admit that the chances are the woman was the person in whom he was interested. Third, in substantiation of that belief we know that he frequently gave her presents. It doesn’t matter how valuable the presents were–he gave them. That proves a certain amount of interest.”

Carroll paused for a brief explanation. “Mind you, Leverage–I’m not trying to make out a case against Naomi Lawrence–I’m only being honest. To continue–fourth, we know that in spite of the fact that she is afraid to remain in a house alone at night, she suggested that her sister visit at the home of Hazel Gresham on the night Warren was killed. Her husband was supposed–according to his story–to be in Nashville. It is absurd to presume that when she let Evelyn go out for the night she expected to remain alone until morning. Therefore, for the sake of argument, we will assume that she knew her husband would be back that night. If that is the case–we are also forced to believe that there was something sinister about it.

“Fifth–we are fairly positive that she packed a suit-case the morning before the murder, that the suit-case left the house that morning and that two days later it mysteriously reappeared–“

“Yes,” interrupted Leverage, “and we know that Warren was planning to make a trip with someone else!”

“Exactly!”

“Which makes it pretty clear,” finished Leverage positively, “that Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxicab!”

CHAPTER XVII

BARKER ACCUSES

The men looked at each other in silence for a minute. Leverage was sorry for Carroll–sorry because he knew that Carroll was disappointed, that the boyish detective had hoped against hope that the trail would lead to some person other than the flaming creature who was Gerald Lawrence’s wife.

It was not that Carroll had become infatuated with her. It was merely that he liked her–liked her sincerely–and was sorry for her.

The conclusions to be inevitably reached from the premise that Naomi was the woman in the taxicab were none too pleasant. In the first place there was the matter of morals involved. It had been pretty well established that the dead man had planned a trip to New York with someone: there was the fact that he had purchased a drawing room and two railroad tickets–only one of which later had been found in his pockets at midnight that night.

Then there was the circumstance of Mrs. Lawrence packing her suit-case and taking it, or sending it, from the house during the day–and its reappearance a couple of days later. It also explained her willingness that Evelyn spend the night with Hazel Gresham. Knowing that she, Naomi, was going to leave her home before midnight, she had not wanted her youthful sister to spend the balance of the night alone–and so had sent her to the house of a friend. That much was clear–

“It’s hell!” burst out Carroll.

“You said it.”

“Suppose she _was_ the woman in the taxicab–?”

“Yes–suppose she was: it doesn’t prove that she killed Warren?”

“No–but it proves something a good deal worse, Leverage. It proves that she was going to elope with him.”

“It may–we don’t _know_!”

“We don’t _know_ anything. But there is a certain logic which is irrefutable–and, confound it! man–what are we going to do now?”

Leverage refused to meet his friend’s eyes. “We-e-ll, David–suppose you tell me what _you_ think we should do?”

“We ought to–but it’s rotten! Absolutely rotten!”

“Trouble with you, David,” said Leverage kindly–“is that you’re too damned human!”

“I can’t help it. It isn’t my fault. And if I was sure that Naomi Lawrence was the woman in that taxi, I’d arrest her immediately. But I’m not sure, Leverage–and neither are you. Let’s admit that it’s a ten to one bet–we’re still not positive. And I wonder if you realize what her arrest would mean?”

“What?”

“We can’t arrest a woman of her prominence socially without a reason–and a darned good reason. Therefore, when we arrest her we have to tell the public why we’re doing it. And what do we tell ’em? That she was–or might have become–Warren’s light-o’-love! That she was going to elope with him!”

“And yet, David–all of that is probably true.”

“Probably–yes. But not positively. We haven’t proved anything. And once we explode that social bomb–we’ve started something that she’ll never live down. We’ve done more than that–we’ve played the devil with Evelyn’s chance of happiness. That kid will be in a swell position when the scandal-mongers get hold of the gossip about her sister. Can’t you hear ’em–babbling about it being in the blood?”

“But she might prove that none of it is true.”

“That doesn’t make a bit of difference. Gossip pays no attention to a refutation. Leave consideration for Mrs. Lawrence out of it altogether–and figure where Evelyn comes in on the backwash.”

“It _is_ tough. But this is a murder case–and, anyway, I don’t think she killed Warren.”

“Even if she didn’t–I fancy she’d rather be convicted of murder–than of what this will lead to. I’m afraid, Leverage. We’re trifling with something a good deal more sacred than human life. If Naomi Lawrence is guilty–there’s no objection to her suffering. But her kid sister will suffer too–“

“You don’t think, Carroll–that she looked like that kind?”

“Good God! _no!_ And even if we prove that she was the woman in the taxicab–that she was going to elope with Warren–it still won’t prove that she was that kind. There’s something about that husband of hers–meet him, Leverage–meet him! That’s the only way you’ll have any understanding of my sympathy for the wife.”

Leverage rose and walked to the window. He spoke without turning, “Tough–David; mighty tough. And we’ve got to do something.”

No answer. Carroll had lighted a cigarette and was puffing fiercely upon it. Leverage spoke again softly–

“Haven’t we?”

“I suppose we have–“

“Well?”

Another long silence. “Isn’t there anything we can do, Eric–before we start something that no human power can stop? Something to make us sure–to give us a clincher? That’s all I ask. You say I’m cursed with too much of the milk of human kindness. Perhaps I am–perhaps that’s what makes me no better detective than I am–but it’s a trait–good or bad–that I’ll never get over. And until every possible doubt as to that woman’s complicity has been removed, I am opposed to any such course as arrest and public announcement of the reasons therefor.”

Leverage shook his head. He was disappointed in his friend. Not that Carroll would flinch from duty–but Leverage considered it a weakness that Carroll insisted on postponing the inevitable. He was sorry–he knew that it had to come: Naomi’s arrest and the consequent nasty publicity. His manner, as he addressed Carroll, was that of a man who washes his hands of something–

“It’s your case, David. Handle it your own way. That’s been our agreement always when we worked together–and I’m game to stick to it now.”

Carroll flushed. “Yet you’re disappointed in me?”

“A little–yes,” said Leverage honestly. “But I’ve been disappointed in you before, David–and you’ve always made me sorry for it. I know you won’t throw me down this time. You’ve never done it yet.”

“You’re safe!” said Carroll grimly. “No–” as Leverage started for the door; “Don’t go! I want to think for a minute–“

Leverage sank obediently into a chair. Carroll paced the room slowly. He was thinking–struggling to decide upon a plan of action which would delay the arrest of Naomi Lawrence until the ultimate moment. And finally he flung back his head triumphantly. Leverage looked up with pleasure at the sound of relief in his friend’s voice–

“Leverage?”

“Yes?”

“You say this case is mine–absolutely? To handle as I see fit?”

“Yes.”

“You agree that we have enough against William Barker to arrest him?”

“Gosh–I said that the first day we met him.”

“You also agree that he knows whatever connection the Lawrences have with the Warren murder?”

“I do.”

“Then get Barker. Bring him here!”

Leverage departed with a light step. There was a smile on his lips. Here was the style of procedure with which he was familiar and in full sympathy. Here was action supplanting stagnation–something definite succeeding the long nerve-wracking period of conjecture which appeared to lead nowhere save into a labyrinth of endless discussion.

He started the machinery of the department to moving. When he returned to his office an hour later, Carroll was still seated motionlessly before the grate fire–an extinguished cigar between his teeth–eyes focused intently on the dancing flames. Leverage spoke–

“I’ve got Barker.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs.”

“Bring him in. You stay here when he comes–send everybody else out.”

Cartwright brought Barker into the room and Leverage dismissed the plainclothesman. Barker, eyes wide with fear, face pallid–yet with a certain belligerence in his attitude–confronted the two detectives.

“I say–” he started, “what does this mean?”

“It means,” said Carroll coldly, “that you are under arrest for the murder of Roland Warren!”

“That I’m–” Barker fell back a step. It was plain that he was surprised. “You’re arresting _me_ for Warren’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t do it. I’ll swear I didn’t.”

“Of course you’ll swear it–” Carroll’s steely voice excited a vast admiration in Leverage’s breast. Many times before he had seen the transformation in his friend from all too human softness to almost inhuman coldness–yet he never failed of surprise at the phenomenon. “But we know you did do it.”

“You don’t know nothin’ of the kind,” Barker’s voice came in a half-snarl. “I don’t give a damn how smart you fly-cops are–you can’t prove nothin’ on me.”

“That so?”

“Yes–that’s so. Just because I worked for Warren ain’t no reason why you should arrest me for his murder. Suppose I had wanted to kill him–and I didn’t–didn’t have no reason at all. But suppose I had wanted too–you know bloody well that I didn’t do it.”

“Why do we know that?”

“Because you know he was killed by a woman!”

“Aa-a-ah! That’s what you think, eh?”

“I know a woman killed him.”

“You were present?”

“Bah! Trying to trap me–are you? Well, I ain’t going to be trapped. I don’t know nothin’ about it. Like I said from the first.”

“But you do know something about it,” insisted Carroll icily. “And I’d advise you to come clean with us.”

“There ain’t nothin’ to come clean about.”

“You say we know that a woman killed Warren. You seem pretty confident of that yourself. Well, we happen to know that you know who this woman was. Who was she?”

For the first time Barker’s eyes shifted. “You know as well as me who she was?”

“Who was she?” Carroll’s voice fairly snapped.

“It was–Miss Hazel Gresham!”

Carroll stared at the man. “Listen to me, Barker–you’re lying and we know you’re lying. You know as well as we do that Miss Gresham was at her own home when Warren was killed. I don’t want any more lies! Not one! Now tell us the truth!”

Barker stared first at Carroll–then at Leverage. An expression of doubt crossed his face. It was patent that these men knew more than he had credited them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders–

“Well–Mr. Carroll, that bein’ the case–I ain’t goin’ to stick my head in a noose for nobody!”

“You’ve decided to tell us the truth!”

“I have.”

“You know who killed Roland Warren?”

“Yes–I know who killed Roland Warren!”

“Who was it?”

Barker’s face went white. Leverage and Carroll leaned forward eagerly–nervously. It seemed an eternity before Barker’s answer came–but when it did, his words rang with conviction–he uttered a name–

“_Mrs. Naomi Lawrence_!”

CHAPTER XVIII

“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH–“

Barker’s words reverberated through the room–to be succeeded by an almost unnatural stillness; a silence punctured by the ticking of the cheap clock on the mantel, by the crackling of the flames in the grate, by the whistling of the wind around the corners of the gaunt gray stone building which housed the police department.

The accused man looked eagerly upon the faces of the two detectives; then, slowly, his chest expanded with relief: he saw that they believed him.

And Carroll did believe. It was not that he wanted to–he had fought himself mentally away from that conviction time after time; had threshed over every scintilla of evidence, searching futilely for something which would clear this radiant woman whom he had met but once. Carroll’s interest–however platonic–was intensely personal. The woman had impressed herself indelibly upon him. It was perhaps her air of game helplessness; perhaps the stark tragedy which he had seen reflected in her eyes when he had first entered her home and saw that she knew why he had come.

And now, driven into the corner which he had hoped to avoid, his retentive memory brought back a circumstance well-nigh forgotten. He addressed Barker, his voice soft-hopeless.

“You mean that Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxicab?”

“Yes, sir.” The “sir,” which Barker used for the first time was respectful.

“Where had she been during the evening–after dark of the night of the–killing?”

“At home–I believe.”

“You believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

Carroll’s eyes lighted. His voice cracked out accusingly: “Don’t you _know_ that that is incorrect?”

Barker shook his head. “Why, no, sir. Of course, I ain’t sayin’ positive that she _was_ at home all evenin’, but–“

“As I understand it,” said Carroll slowly–“an accommodation train came in just about that time: isn’t that a fact?”

“Some train came in then–I don’t know which one it was.”

“Isn’t it a fact that the woman who got into the taxicab had been a passenger on that train: that she got off with the other passengers, carrying a suit-case?”

“There ain’t nobody can see the passengers get off the trains at the Union Station, Mr. Carroll. You go down them steps and approach the waitin’ room underground–crossin’ under the tracks.”

“But you do know that this woman–whoever she was–passed through the waiting room with the passengers who came on that train, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir–she done that, but it don’t mean nothin’.”

“Why don’t it?”

“Well, sir, for one thing–ain’t it true that the papers said the suit-case she was carryin’ wasn’t hers at all. Ain’t it a fact that she had Mr. Warren’s suit-case?”

“Well?” Carroll saw his last hope glimmering.

“You see, sir–Mr. Warren was meetin’ Mrs. Lawrence at the station. He got there with his suit-case at about ten minutes to twelve. She got there about ten or fifteen minutes later–“

“How did she come?”

“On the street car. And when she come out–she was alone and it was his suit-case she was carryin’–the same suit-case he had taken into the station. The one you found in the taxicab.”

“I see–” Carroll did not want to believe Barker’s story, but he knew that the man was telling the truth–or at least that most of what he was saying was true. The detective seemed crushed with disappointment. Leverage, seated in the corner of the room, chewing savagely on a big black cigar–was sorry for his friend: sorry–yet proud of the way he was standing the gaff of his chagrin. Carroll again spoke to Barker–manner almost apathetic–

“You know a good deal more about this thing than you’ve told us, don’t you Barker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well: let’s have your story from the beginning to the end. I’ll be honest with you: I believe a good deal of what you’ve told me. Some of your story I don’t believe. Other portions of it need substantiation. But you are mighty close to being charged with murder–and now is your chance to clear yourself. Go to it!”

Barker plunged a hand into his pocket. “Can I smoke, Mr. Carroll?”

“Certainly. And sit down.”

They drew up their chairs before the fire. Carroll did not look at Barker, but Leverage’s steady gaze was fixed on the man’s crafty face.

“I’m going to come clean with you, Mr. Carroll. I’m going to tell you everythin’ I know–and everythin’ I think. I didn’t want to do it–and I don’t want to now. But I’d a heap rather have the job of convincin’ you that I ain’t mixed up in this murder than I would of makin’ a jury believe the same thing. I reckon you’ll give me a square deal.”

“I will,” snapped Carroll. “Go ahead.”

“In the first place,” started Barker slowly, “it’s my personal opinion that Mr. Warren never had no idea of marryin’ Miss Gresham. Maybe I’m all wrong there–but it’s what I think. I can’t prove that, of course–an’ no one else can’t either.

“Also I happen to know that he’s been crazy about Mrs. Lawrence for a long time. He’s been hangin’ around the house a good deal–an’ doin’ little things like a man will when he’s nuts about a woman. For instance, Mr. Warren wasn’t no investing man: s’far’s I know he had all his money in gover’ment bonds and such like investments. But he sank some money into them woolen mills that Mr. Lawrence owns. And also he pretended that he liked that kid sister of Mrs. Lawrence’s–Evelyn Rogers. But there ain’t hardly a doubt in my mind, Mr. Carroll–an’ I’m handin’ it to you straight–that he was crazy about Mrs. Lawrence. And, not meanin’ no impertinence, sir–I ain’t blamin’ him a bit.

“Also, I reckon she wasn’t exactly indifferent to him. She’s been up in his apartment twice–which is a terrible risky thing, an’ somethin’ no woman will do unless she’s wild about a feller. Oh! everything was proper while she was there. I was at home all the time and I know. But she was–what you call, indiscreet–that is, in comin’ up there at all–no matter how decent she acted when she was there. An’ also, sir, she used to write him notes–most every day.”

“You have some of those notes?”

“No, sir. I had one–if you want the truth–but when I saw you was watchin’ me–sure, I know you’ve had a couple of dicks shadowing me–I destroyed it.”

“Where are the rest of her letters?”

“Mr. Warren used to burn ’em up careful. He wasn’t takin’ no chances of someone findin’ ’em and he bein’ caught in a scandal–which is why I think he really cared about her serious. His other lady friends he used to joke about–but never Mrs. Lawrence. An’ the one letter of her’s that I had–I’m betting that he looked for three days without stopping before he gave it up as a bad job.

“That’s the way things was when I seen him begin to make arrangements to get away from town. It wasn’t supposed to be none of my business and Mr. Warren never was a feller I could ask questions of. When he had something to tell me, he told it–an’ I never got nothin’ out of him by askin’. But, bein’ his valet, there was certain things I couldn’t very well miss knowin’. I know his apartment is sublet for the new tenants to come in on the first of the month, he placed his car with a dealer to be sold and he didn’t order a new one an’ he drew a whole heap of cash out of the bank the day before he was killed.

“Also that day he sent me downtown to do some shoppin’. While I was downtown I seen him go into the railroad ticket office. I didn’t pay much attention to that then and later on he drove by the house for a minute. I had taken his laprobe out of the car the night before and forgot to put it back–so I thought I’d better do it. I went downstairs without his knowing it–and when I put the laprobe in the car I seen he had a suit-case in there. An’ the suit-case wasn’t his, sir–the initials on it was N.L.–which, if you know, sir–Mrs. Lawrence’s name is Naomi.

“That made things pretty clear to me then. He drove off and come back about a half hour later. I looked when he come back and the suit-case wasn’t in the car no more. And it was then that he handed me a big wad of wages in advance and told me he wasn’t going to need me no more and I could quit any time after five o’clock in the afternoon.”

Barker paused, lighted another cigarette from the stump of the one he had been smoking–inhaled a great puff, and continued. His manner was that of a man under great mental stress–as though he was struggling to recall every infinitesimal detail which might possibly have a bearing on the case.

“That sort of carries me along to the night, sir–as I left there at five o’clock and he was still there–tellin’ me goodbye and givin’ me an excellent reference and sayin’ I was a good valet an’ all like that, sir.

“After leavin’ there I went out and got some supper, and then I went up to Kelly’s place and horned into an open game of pool. You know Kelly’s place is pretty close to the Union Station and when it come about ten o’clock I got tired and went an’ sat down in the corner, eatin’ a hot dog from the stand in Kelly’s–an’ then I sort of got to thinkin’ things over.

“An’ thinkin’ things over that way, Mr. Carroll–I began to think that Mrs. Lawrence was doin’ a terrible foolish thing, and I was kinder sorry about it. Now don’t get no idea that I’m wantin’ you to believe I got a soft heart or anythin’ like that–but then I sort of liked Mr. Warren and I knew Mrs. Lawrence was a decent woman–and I knew once she got on the train with Mr. Warren she was done for. And when I got to thinkin’ about that, sir–it struck me that maybe somethin’ could be done to keep ’em from eloping with each other that way. Not that I was plannin’ to do anything–but curiosity sort of got me, and along about eleven o’clock or a little while after I went out of Kelly’s and up to the Union Station. I sat down over in the corner and waited for somethin’ to happen–sort of hopin’ maybe I had been wrong all the time and there wasn’t going to be no elopement.

“I waited there a long time, and then suddenly a taxicab came up to the curb and Mr. Warren got out. Then the taxicab beat it down-town again and Mr. Warren went in the station. And as he come in one door, I beat it out of the other.”

“Why?” snapped Leverage.

“Because him seein’ me there was certain to start somethin’. And I wasn’t hankerin’ for nothin’ like that to happen. So I went across the street and tried to get shelter against the wall of that dump of a hotel over there. An’ it was cold: I ain’t seen such a cold night in my life. I almos’ froze to death.”

“And yet you continued to stand there?”

“Sure–I was curious. Kinder foolish, maybe, but I wanted to see had I figured right about him eloping with Mrs. Lawrence. So I stood there, darn near dead with the cold, when the midnight Union Station street car stopped an’ Mrs. Lawrence got out. An’ the first thing I noticed was that she wasn’t carryin’ no suit-case. I noticed that on account of havin’ seen her suit-case in Mr. Warren’s car that day. She didn’t carry nothin’ but one of these handbag things that women lug around with ’em.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Fur coat and hat and a heavy veil.”

“You could see the veil from across the street at midnight?”

“No sir. Not from there. But when she went in the depot, I followed across the street and looked inside to see what was goin’ to happen.” He paused a moment and then Carroll prodded him on–

“Well–what _did_ happen?”

“The minute Mr. Warren seen her come in he beat it through the opposite door from where I was standin’ out to the platform that runs parallel to the tracks. An’ he nodded to her to follow him. She sort of nodded like she was wise, an’ took a seat so’s nobody would think anything in case there was anyone there lookin’ for something. Mr. Warren walked off down the outside platform towards the baggage room an’ after about three minutes she gets up, kinder casual-like and follers. Soon as she went through the door to the platform I went in the waitin’ room.”

“What did you do then?”

“Nothin’. Just made a bee line for the steam radiator an’ tried to get warm. I was so cold it hurt. An’ I stood there for about ten minutes. Then I heard that train comin’ in an’ I went outside into the street again.”

Carroll’s voice was tense. “In all that time did you hear anything–anything at all?”

Barker shook his head. “No sir–not a thing–except that train comin’ in. And then the passengers from it began to come through, and I was surprised to see Mrs. Lawrence comin’ with them, an’ she was carryin’ his suit-case.”

“Whose suit-case?”

“Mr. Warren’s. She come on out to the curb an’ called a taxicab.”

“Where was the taxicab standing?”

“Parked against the curb on Atlantic Avenue about a hundred yards from the entrance in the direction of Jackson street.”

“How did she act?”

“Kinder nervous like. Noticin’ her come out I seen the taxi driver when he climbed back into his cab an’ when he started her up. He picked up Mrs. Lawrence an’ she put the suit-case in front beside him. Then they drove off. And that’s all I know sir.”

Carroll rose and walked slowly the length of the room.

“What did you think when you saw Mrs. Lawrence come out of the station alone carrying Mr. Warren’s suit-case? When she did that and called a taxicab and went off in it alone?”

“Not knowin’ about no killin’, Mr. Carroll–I thought they’d got together and talked things over an’ decided to call off the elopement!”

“You did–” Carroll paused. “And the first time you knew of Warren’s death?”

“Was when I read the newspapers the next morning.”

“Then why,” barked the detective, “did you make the blunt statement that Mrs. Lawrence killed Warren?”

“Because,” said Barker simply, “I believe she did.”

“How could she have killed him? When and how?”

“That’s easy,” explained Barker quietly. “If I’m right in thinkin’ that they was goin’ to call off the elopement–they could have seen that taxi standin’ against the curb and he could have got in without bein’ seen. It was awful dark where the taxi was standin’ an’ the driver says himself that he was over in the restaurant gettin’ warm. So what I thought right away was that Warren got in the taxi, an’ she called it. That was so they wouldn’t be seen gettin’ in together at that time of night. Then I thought they drove off. And then–“

“Yes–and then?”

“It was while they were alone together in that taxi, that she killed him!”

CHAPTER XIX

LABYRINTH

Long after William Barker left the room–held in custody under special guard–David Carroll and Chief of Police Eric Leverage maintained a thoughtful silence. Leverage wanted to talk–but refused to be the first to broach the subject which each knew was uppermost in the mind of the other. And it was Carroll who spoke first–

“Well, Eric,” he said dully, “you called the turn that time.”

“Reckon I did, David.”

“It looks mighty bad for Mrs. Lawrence–mighty bad.” He hesitated. “I wonder whether Barker told the truth when he said he had been calling on Mrs. Lawrence to apply for a job?”

“Why not?”

“Because when valets or butlers apply for domestic positions they don’t go to the front door, and Barker did on both occasions he visited that house. No, Leverage–I don’t think he told the truth there.”

“Then what _was_ he doing at the house?”

“Mmm! Just struck me, Eric–that he may have been trying a little private blackmail.”

Leverage arched his eyebrows: “On Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yes–on Mrs. Lawrence. You see, it’s this way: according to Barker’s own story he knew everything which transpired at the station. If we believe what he told us, and if he is correct in his belief that Mrs. Lawrence did the killing, then we know he is the only person who–until now–had any knowledge of the identity of the woman in the taxicab. That being the case, and Barker being obviously not a high type of man, it is certainly not unreasonable to presume that he was capitalizing his information.”

“Seems plausible,” grunted Leverage. “But where does it get us?”

“Just this far,” explained Carroll. “Unless Barker was applying for a position at the Lawrences–where they not only do not employ a male servant, but have never employed one–he was not seeking employment anywhere. He has been taking life pretty easy, all of which is indicative of a supply of money from outside. And I fancy that Mrs. Lawrence would pay a pretty fancy price to have her name left out of this rotten scandal.”

Leverage held Carroll with his eyes: “Do you believe Barker’s story, David?”

“Believe it? Why, yes. Most of it anyway.”

“You believe Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxicab?”

“I’ve got to believe it.”

“Do you believe she killed him?”

“Evidence points to that answer, Leverage. You see, Barker’s story impressed me this way: it is the only sane, logical solution of the killing which has yet been advanced. Neither of us has ever yet hit upon an answer to the puzzle of the body in the taxicab. What Barker tells us is perfectly plausible–” Carroll paused–

“You see,” he continued, “from the first I have maintained that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman–innately decent. I will even admit that her domestic life was so miserably unbearable that she would entertain the idea of eloping with Warren: that she went so far as to attempt to carry that idea into execution. But I am also ready–and eager, too, if you will, to believe that when she reached the stepping off place she must have reneged. That woman couldn’t have done anything else.

“We are fairly well satisfied–from Barker’s own story–that there had been nothing wrong in the relations between Warren and Mrs. Lawrence up to that night. But we are pretty sure that they met at the station to go away together. What is more reasonable than to presume that she lost her nerve at the eleventh hour: that, unhappy as she was at home, she was unable to take the step which would forever make her a social outcast?

“Very well. If that is true, we have them at the station at midnight. The weather is the worst of the year. They are standing in the dark passageway between the main waiting room and the baggage room. No light is on the corner of Jackson street. They see only one taxicab on duty. For all they know–the last street car has passed. They conceive the idea of making a single taxicab do double duty–and, knowing that the driver is across the street drinking coffee and getting warm–Warren gets into the cab from the blind side, Mrs. Lawrence returns to the waiting room as the accommodation rolls in, she picks up Warren’s suit-case which had been left there, steps to the curb and summons the cab, in which Warren is hiding all the time. Sounds all right so far?”

“Perfectly,” said Leverage. “Go ahead.”

“Walters gets the signal and drives up. Mrs. Lawrence gets in. He drives away. And then–“

Leverage leaped forward eagerly: “Yes–?? and then?”

“Well,” said Carroll slowly, “we don’t know what happened in that taxicab. We believe that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman. We know that Warren would have gone through with the elopement. That being the case, we can fancy his keen disappointment. Under those circumstances, Eric–a good many things could have occurred in that taxicab which might have justified Warren’s death at her hands.”

Leverage crossed to his desk, from the top drawer of which he took a box of cigars. He was frowning as he recrossed to Carroll and offered him one. Then, with almost exasperating deliberation, the head of the police force clipped the end of his own cigar, held a match to it, replaced the box in his desk and took up his post before the fire–with his back to it so that he could watch Carroll’s face.

“You really want to believe that story, don’t you, David?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“And yet you know it is shot all full of holes.”

“How?”

“For one thing,” said Leverage slowly–“how do you explain the fact that it was a.32 that killed him. Not that a .32 is any big gun–it isn’t–but it does make a considerable racket.”

“The shooting probably took place at the R.L.&T. crossing while the train was passing. The sound of the shot may have been drowned in the roar of the train–not entirely smothered of course, but sufficiently blended with the other noise not to attract the attention of the half-frozen driver. And, the cab being stopped there, it must have been at that point that Mrs. Lawrence–panicky over what had occurred–left the taxi.”

“You’re a dandy little ol’ explainer, Carroll. But you’ve forgotten one other important item.”

“What is it?”

“The address Mrs. Lawrence gave–981 East End avenue. That address was a stall–we know it was a stall. We were hot on that end of it the night the body was found. And if those two people were trying to get home, Carroll–if Warren was already in the cab and Mrs. Lawrence gave the address–and if she wanted to get away from Warren and safe at home as soon as she could–she’d never have ordered Walters to drive to 981 East End avenue!”

Carroll did not answer. There was no answer possible. Leverage’s logic was irrefutable. And finally Carroll rose to his feet and slipped into his heavy overcoat. Leverage’s eyes were turned kindly upon him.

“Where are you going, David!”

“I’m going to play my last trump. If it doesn’t uncover something–I throw up my hands. Laugh at me if you will, Eric–rail at me for being chicken-hearted, for playing hunches too strongly–but I have an idea that Mrs. Lawrence did not kill Warren. Don’t ask me how or why? I don’t know–I admit that frankly. But I’ve always banked on my knowledge of human nature, Leverage–and my instinct has never yet betrayed me. Just now it is forcing me to give this woman every chance in the world to clear herself. I am hoping that circumstances will allow me to bring this case to a conclusion without making public her connection with it–the elopement she was planning.”

“You do believe that part of the story, then: that she was going to elope with Warren?”

“I do. I don’t want to–but I’m honest with myself.”

“Then,” exclaimed Leverage with a slight touch of exasperation in his manner–“who in thunder could have killed Warren if she didn’t? And when?”

“That,” said Carroll simply, “is what I hope to find out.”

“From where?”

“From the lips of Mrs. Lawrence. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

Carroll was far from happy during his drive to the Lawrence home. The Warren mystery seemed to be verging on a solution, but in Carroll’s breast there was none of the pardonable surge of elation which normally was his under these circumstances. It had been a peculiar case from the first. The _dramatis personae_ had all been of the better type, with the single exception of William Barker–they had been persons against whom the detective was loath to believe ill. And, most eagerly, he had shied from the belief that Mrs. Lawrence was connected in a sinister way with the death of Roland Warren.

Yet he found himself en-route to her home, facing the ordeal of an interview with her–an ordeal for her as well as for him–and one through which he feared she could not safely come. For, frankly as Carroll had admitted to his friend that he hoped to find Naomi innocent–he was yet honest and fearless, and failure of the woman to clear herself meant her arrest. Carroll was determined upon that–yet he dreaded it as a child dreads the dentist–as something painful beyond belief.

He rang the bell–then groaned as Evelyn Rogers greeted him effusively. She ushered him ostentatiously into the parlor and drew up a chair close to his–

“Mr. Carroll–it’s just simply _scrumptuous_ of you to call on me informally like this. I can’t tell you how tickled I am. I was sitting upstairs, simply bored to extinction. Sis has been a terrible drag on me recently–really you’d have thought there had been a death in the family. Or something! It’s been simply graveyardy! And now you come in–like a darling angel–and save me from the willywoggles. You’re a _dear_, and–“

“But–but–I really came to see your sister.”

“Oh! _pff_! That’s what poor dear Roland used to say all the time. But I always knew I was the one he wanted to see. Goodness, he was simply _crazy_ about me–but of course Sis never understood that. She hasn’t yet realized that I’m grown up.”

“Peculiar how blind some folks are. But this time, Miss Rogers–I really do want to chat with your sister. Not that I wouldn’t prefer a talk with you. So if you’ll tell her I’m here–and would like to see her _privately_–“

Evelyn rose and started reluctantly toward the door. “I suppose it’s up to me to make myself very scarce. But it is simply _precious_ of you to admit you’d rather talk to me. Poor Roland used to say that–but he always said it as though he was kidding. I believe _you_!”

“I assure you I’m serious.”

“I know it. And anyway, I was thinking of running out for a minute–and I suppose this is a good chance. Of course, I’d stay and see you if you wanted–but I suppose you’ve got something terribly dry to discuss and so–“

She left the room and Carroll heaved a sigh of infinite relief. A few minutes later the hall door swung back and Naomi and Evelyn entered. He was immensely relieved to see that the youngster was cloaked for the street and murmured a few idle words to her before she went. And until the front door banged behind her he remained standing before the fireplace, his eyes focused on the tragic figure of Naomi.

She faced him bravely enough, but in her eyes he read the message of knowledge. There was no need for words between them. She knew why he had come–and he knew that she knew.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Carroll.”

He waited until she had seated herself and then followed suit. He controlled his voice with an effort–his words came softly, reassuringly.

“I’m sorry I’ve come this way, Mrs. Lawrence. I’ve come–“

“I know why you have come, Mr. Carroll. You need not mince matters.”

He drew a long breath. “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Lawrence, that _you_ were the woman in the taxi-cab the night Mr. Warren was killed?”

She inclined her head. “Yes.”

Carroll fidgeted nervously. “I must warn you to be careful in what you say to me, my friend. I am the detective in charge of this case, and–“