“There is no use in concealment, Mr. Carroll. I have been driven almost crazy since that night. I have almost reached the end of my rope. It was the scandal I have been fighting to avoid–not so much for my own sake as for Evelyn and my husband. Publicity–of this kind–would be very–very–awkward–for both of them.”
“I’m sorry–” Carroll hesitated. “If you don’t care to talk to me–“
She shrugged slightly. “It makes no difference–now. I’d rather talk to you than someone who might understand less readily–or more harshly.”
“I may question you?”
“Yes.”
“I regret it–and rest assured that I am trying to find–a way out–for you.”
“There is no way out–from the scandal. But that is my own fault–“
Somewhere down the block an auto horn shrieked: in another room of the house an old grandfather’s clock chimed sonorously.
“You admit that you were the woman in the taxicab?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Do you admit that you killed Roland Warren?”
Her startled eyes flashed to his. The color drained from her cheeks. Her answer was almost inaudible–
“No!”
“You did not kill him?” Carroll was impressed with the nuance of truth in her answer.
“No–I did not kill him.”
“But when you got into the taxicab–isn’t it a fact that he was already there?”
“Yes–he was there, Mr. Carroll. _But he was already dead_!”
CHAPTER XX
A CONFESSION
“–Already dead!” Carroll did not know if his lips framed the words or if the walls of the room had echoed. He was startled at a time when he fancied that there could be no further surprise in store for him. He found himself eyeing the woman and he wondered that he gave credence to her statement.
Naomi was sitting straight, large black eyes dilated, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly, lips slightly parted. Even under the stress of the moment Carroll was actually conscious of her feminine allure; unable to free himself of her hypnotic personality. She spoke–but he scarcely heard her words through his chaos of thought.
“He was dead–before I got into the taxi-cab.”
He saw that she was fighting to impress upon him the truth of her well-nigh unbelievable statement, that every atom of her brain strove desperately to convince him. And then she relaxed suddenly, as though from too great strain, and a shudder passed over her.
“I knew–I knew–“
“You knew _what_, Mrs. Lawrence?”
“I knew that you would not believe me. Oh! it’s true–this story I am telling you. But I knew no one could believe it–it stretches one’s credulity too far. That is why I have kept silent through all these days which have passed–that and a desire to save Evelyn and my husband.”
“You love your husband?” Carroll bit his lips. The question had slipped out before he realized that he had formed the words. But she did not evade the issue–
“I despise him, Mr. Carroll. But he has played square with me–more so than I have with him. And publication of this would hurt him–“
“Because he cares for you?”
“No. But because he is proud: because he is jealous of his personal possessions–of which I am one.”
“I see–And Mr. Warren–?”
She spread her hands in a helpless, hopeless gesture. “What’s the use, Mr. Carroll? Why, should I wrack myself with the story when you do not even believe the reason upon which it is based? If you only believed me when I tell you that when I got into the taxicab Roland had already been killed–“
“I do believe that,” returned Carroll gently.
She inbreathed sharply, then her eyes narrowed a trifle. “Do you mean that–or is it bait to make me talk?”
“I can not do more than repeat my statement. I believe what you have told me.”
She held his eyes for a moment, then slowly hers shrank from the contact. “You are telling me the truth,” she ventured.
“And if you will tell me the whole story, Mrs. Lawrence–I shall see what I can do for you.”
“What is there to do for me? There is no way to keep my name from it–my name and the story of the mistake which I made–was willing to make.”
“Good God! No.”
“If we–” he used the pronoun unconsciously–“can establish that, there may be some way of keeping the details from the public. Suppose you start at the beginning–and tell me what there is to tell?”
She hesitated. “Everything?”
“Everything–or nothing. A portion of the story will not help either of us. Of course you don’t have to–“
Impulsively she leaned forward. “There is something about you, Mr. Carroll, which makes me trust you. I feel that you are a friend rather than an enemy.”
He bowed gratefully. “Thank you.”
“It really began shortly after my marriage to Mr. Lawrence–” she had started her story before she knew it. “I knew that I had made a mistake. He is nearly thirteen years older than I–a man of icy disposition, a nature which is cruel in its frigidity. I am not that–that kind of a woman, Mr. Carroll. I should not have married that type of man.
“He was good enough to me in his own peculiar way. I have a little money of my own: he is wealthy. He liked to dress me up and show me off. He was liberal with money–if not with kindness–when there was trouble in my family. After my parents died he allowed Evelyn to live with us. They have never liked one another–the more reason why I am grateful to him for allowing her to remain in the house.
“That is the life we have led together. We have long since ceased to have anything in common. He has kept to himself and I have remained alone. So far as the world knew–our home life was tranquil. Unbearably so–to a nature like mine which loves love–and life.
“I grew to hate my husband as a man much as I admired him in certain ways for his brain and his achievement. Our individualities are millions of miles apart. There was no oneness in our married life. And gradually he learned that I hated him–and he became contemptuous. That stung my pride. He didn’t care. I felt–felt unsexed!
“No need to go into further detail. Sufficient to say that I became desperate for a little affection, a little kindness, a little recognition of the fact that I am a woman–and a not entirely unattractive one. It was about then that I met Roland Warren.
“I wonder if you understand women, Mr. Carroll? I wonder if it is possible for you to comprehend their psychological reactions? Because if you cannot–you will never understand what Roland Warren meant to me. You will never understand the condition which has led to–this tragedy.”
She paused and Carroll nodded. “You can trust me to understand.”
“I believe you do. I believe you understand something of what was going on within me when Roland came into my life. In the light of what has transpired, the fact that I was neglected by my husband seems absurd–trivial. But it is not absurd–it is _not_ trivial!
“Mr. Warren was kind to me. He was attentive–courteous–I believe that he really loved me. I may have been fooled, of course. Starved as I was for the affection of a man, I may have been blind to the sincerity of his protestations. But I believed him.
“As to how I felt toward him: I don’t know. I liked him–admired him. I believe that I loved him. But again we are faced with the abnormal condition in which I found myself. I believe I loved him as I believe he loved me. He represented a chance for life when for three years I had been dead–living and breathing–yet dead as a woman. And that is the most terrible of all deaths.
“We planned to elope. Don’t ask me how I could consider such a thing. There is no answer possible. It wasn’t a sane decision–but I decided that I would. There was the craving to get away from things–to try to start over. To revel in the richest things of life for awhile. I was selfish–unutterably so. I didn’t think then of the effect on my husband–or of the effect on Evelyn. I was selfish–yes. But immoral–no! What I planned to do–under the circumstances–was not immoral. Even yet I cannot convince myself that it was.
“Roland laid all his plans to leave the city. In all my delirium of preparation–the hiding and the secrecy–I felt sincerely sorry for only one person, and that person was Hazel Gresham to whom Mr. Warren was engaged. I believe she was in love with him. But so was I–and if he loved me–as I said before, Mr. Carroll–I was selfish!
“On the morning of the day we were to go–my husband was in Nashville, you know–Mr. Warren came to the house in his car. He showed me that he had reserved a drawing-room for us to New York. In order that we would not be seen together, he gave me one of the railroad tickets. I was to reach the Union Station ten minutes before train time. If you recall–the train on which we were to go was quite late that night.
“We planned not to talk to one another at the station until after boarding the train. Morning would have published news of the scandal broadcast, but until the irrevocable step had been taken–we determined to avoid gossip. And, Mr. Carroll–I was then–what is called a ‘good woman’. My faithlessness up to that time, and to this moment, had been mental–and mental only.
“When he left me that morning he took with him my suit-case. We had agreed that I was not to take a trunk: that I was to buy–a trousseau–in New York. I looked upon it almost as a honeymoon. He took my suit-case to the Union Station and checked it there. I did not see him again that day.”
“Toward evening–knowing that my husband was not due back until the following morning, and realizing that I could not leave Evelyn alone in the house–I suggested that she spend the night with Hazel Gresham. She was surprised–knowing that I dread to be alone at night–but was ready enough to go. I was not overcome with either emotion or shame when I told her good-bye that afternoon. I was so hungry for happiness that I was dead to the other emotions.
“I went to the station that night in a street car. I had telephoned in advance and learned that the train was late. The night was the worst of the winter–bitterly cold. When I reached the station, I saw that Roland was already there, and as he saw me enter, he left through the opposite door–walking out to the platform which parallels the railroad tracks.
“Then from the outside, he motioned me to follow. He wanted to talk to me, but would not risk doing so where we might be seen. I sat down for awhile, then, as casually as I could, followed him onto the station platform. I saw him down at the far end near the baggage room. Again he motioned to me to follow him. And he started out past the baggage room into the railroad yards.
“I was very grateful to him. He was taking no risk of our being seen together. I followed slowly–not seeing him, but knowing that he would be waiting for me out there. You understand where I mean? It is in that section of the railroad yards where through trains leave their early morning Pullmans–the tracks are parallel to Atlantic Avenue–and also the main line tracks running into the Union Station shed.
“I was conscious of the intense cold, but excitement buoyed me up. I passed through the gate which ordinarily bars passengers from the tracks, but which that night had either been left open or opened by Roland. The wind, as I stepped from under the shelter of the station shed, was terrific: howling across the yards, stinging with sleet. It was very slippery under foot–I had to watch closely. And I was just a trifle nervous because here and there through the yards I could see lanterns–yard workers and track walkers, I presume. And occasionally the headlight of a switch engine zigzagged across the tracks–I was afraid I’d be caught in the glare–
“Finally, I saw Warren. He had walked about a hundred and fifty yards down the track and was standing in the shelter of the Pullman office building. It was very dark there–just enough light for me to make out his silhouette. I started forward–then stopped: frightened.
“For I distinctly saw the figure of a man coming into the yards from Atlantic Avenue. From the moment I noticed him I had the peculiar impression that the man had not only seen Mr. Warren and intended speaking to him–but also that the meeting was not unexpected. I stopped where I was and strained my eyes through the darkness–
“I could not see much–save that they were talking. Of course I could hear nothing. I was shivering–but more with premonition of tragedy than with the terrific cold. Then suddenly I saw the two shadows merge–the combined shadow whirled strangely. I knew that Mr. Warren was fighting with this other man.
“I started forward again. Then I saw one of the shadows step back from the other. There was the flash of a revolver–no noise, because a train was rolling under the shed at the moment. But I saw the flash of the gun. I stood motionless, horrified. I didn’t advance, didn’t run–
“I knew that the man who had been shot was Mr. Warren. I didn’t know what to do. I felt suddenly lost; hopeless–And watching, I saw one figure stoop and lift the prostrate man. He dragged him across the tracks to the inky darkness between the Pullman offices and the rear of the baggage room. I don’t know what he did there–but I remember looking toward Atlantic Avenue and seeing a yellow taxicab parked against the curb. I could see that there was no one in the driver’s seat–and while I watched I saw the man who had done the shooting drag Mr. Warren’s body to the taxicab. It was dark in the street–the arc light on the corner was out–
“I saw him throw Mr. Warren’s body into the taxicab. It was then that I turned and fled toward the station.
“I can’t tell you how I felt. At a time like that one doesn’t pause to analyze one’s emotional reactions. I was conscious of horror–of that and the idea that I must save myself. And then the thought struck me that perhaps Mr. Warren was _not_ dead. Perhaps he was only badly wounded. If that were the case I knew that he would freeze to death in the cab. It was necessary to get to him–
“By that time I had reached the waiting room. I saw his suit-case–and then, Mr. Carroll–I thought of something else: something which made it imperative that I get to Mr. Warren–” She stopped suddenly. Carroll–eyes wide with interest–motioned her on.
“You thought of something–something which made it necessary for you to get to him?”
“Yes. I remembered that he had in his pocket the check for my suit-case! He had checked it himself that day. I realized in a flash that there would be a police investigation–and the minute that checkroom stub was found, the detectives would have followed it up. They would have discovered my suit-case. My name would then have been indelibly linked with his–in–in that way–
“So there were two reasons why I knew I must get into that taxicab: to recover the suit-case check–and to either assure myself that he was dead, or else take him where he could get expert medical attention. Almost before I knew what I was doing I seized his suit-case, which he had left on the floor of the waiting room. I left the station along with several passengers who had come in on the local train. I called the taxicab–I told him to drive me to some place on East End Avenue–gave him some address which I knew was a long distance away–so that I would have time to learn if he was dead–and if he wasn’t, to get him to a doctor’s; and if he was, to find the check–the finding of which in his pocket would have connected me with the affair.
“He was dead!” She paused–choked–and went on gamely. “I got out of the taxicab when it slowed down at a railroad crossing. I walked half the distance back to town, then caught the last street car home–“
Her voice died away. Carroll relaxed slowly. Then a puzzled frown creased his forehead–
“The man who did the actual shooting,” he said quietly–“have you the slightest idea as to his identity?”
“No.” Her manner was almost indifferent: the strain was over–she was hardly conscious of what she was saying. “He was smaller than Mr. Warren–a man of about my husband’s size–“
She stopped abruptly! Carroll’s gaze grew steely–he made a note of the expression of horror in her eyes.
“About your husband’s size!” he repeated softly.
CHAPTER XXI
CARROLL DECIDES
For a moment she was silent. It was patent that she was groping desperately for the correct thing to say. And finally she extended a pleading hand–
“Please–don’t think that!”
“What?”
“That is was–was my husband. He wouldn’t–“
“Why not?”
“Anyway–it is impossible. He was in Nashville. He didn’t get home until morning.”
Carroll shook his head. “I hope he can prove he was in Nashville. We have tried to prove it, and we cannot. And you must admit, Mrs. Lawrence, that had he known what you planned he would have had the justification of the unwritten law–“
Her eyes brightened. “You think, then–that if he did–he would be acquitted?”
“Yes. More so in view of your story that there was a fight between the two men. That would probably add self-defense to his plea. However, I may be wrong in that–“
“You are indeed, Mr. Carroll. My husband–isn’t that kind of a man. And even if he had done the shooting–he could not have concealed it from me for this length of time. He would have given a hint–“
“No-o. He wouldn’t have done that. If he shot Warren he would have been afraid of telling even you.”
She walked to the window where she stood for a moment looking out on the drear December day. Then she turned tragically back to Carroll.
“You are going to arrest me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I believe your story, Mrs. Lawrence. And so long as there is any way to keep your name clear of the whole miserable mess, I shall do so.”
“But if you arrest my husband–“
“I have no intention of doing that, either–unless I am convinced that he was in the city when the shooting occurred. I am not in favor of indiscriminate arrests. In this case, they can do nothing but harm.”
“You are very good,” she said softly. “I didn’t imagine that a detective–“
“Some of us are human beings, Mrs. Lawrence. Is that so strange?”
She did not answer, and for several minutes they sat in silence–each intent in thought. It was Carroll who broke the stillness:
“Do you know William Barker?”
“Barker? Why, yes–certainly. He was Mr. Warren’s valet.”
“I know it. Have you seen Barker since the night Mr. Warren was killed?”
“Yes.” He could scarcely distinguish her answer. “Twice.”
“He called here?”
“Yes.”
“Was your husband at home on either occasion?”
“No.”
“Why did he come here?”
She hesitated, but only for the fraction of a second. “It was Barker who was driving me to distraction. He knew that I was the woman in the taxicab. He really believes that I killed Mr. Warren. He has been blackmailing me.”
“A-ah! So _that_ explains his visits, and his plentiful supply of money?”
“Yes. Oh! it was shameful–that I should be so helpless before his demands. It didn’t matter that I had nothing to do with the killing–it was enough that I had to pay any price to keep my name clear of scandal. Looking back on the affair now, Mr. Carroll–I cannot understand my own weakness. But I felt that I owed it to my husband and my sister to protect them from scandal at any cost–and I have paid Barker a good deal of money–“
“I see.” Carroll rose. “I want you to understand, Mrs. Lawrence, that you have helped me tremendously. And to know, also, that I shall probably succeed in keeping your name out of any disclosures which might have to be made to the public.”
“But if my husband did it–“
“In that event, it will be impossible not to tell.”
“And if he didn’t do it?”
“Then you will be safe. But,” finished the detective seriously, “if your husband didn’t do it–I don’t know who did. I have followed every possible trail and unless guilt can be fastened on either your husband or Barker, there isn’t the faintest shadow of suspicion attached to anyone else. It will make things very difficult–for me.”
During his ride to headquarters Carroll was busy with his thoughts. He was worried about the possible complicity of Gerald Lawrence in the shooting of Warren. He was more than halfway convinced that Lawrence knew a good deal about it–and the obvious method was to order Lawrence’s arrest and make him prove an alibi. But such a procedure was impossible in view of his determination to protect Naomi’s name to the ultimate moment.
He was greeted at headquarters by a reporter for one of the two evening papers. The reporter was eager for an interview. There had been an appalling dearth of local news, and the Warren story had been long since played beyond the point of public interest. The readers, explained the reporter, were growing tired of theories and column after column of conjecture. They wanted a few facts.
Carroll shook his head. “Nothing definite to give out yet.”
The reporter was persistent. “You have made no new discoveries at all?”
“Well–I’d hardly say that.”
“Then you _have_?”
“Yes,” answered Carroll frankly, “I have.”
“You think you know who killed Warren?”
Carroll, his mind still busy with Naomi’s story, answered casually. “I believe I do. That is just a belief, mind you. But there is an outside chance that there will be important developments within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Something definite, eh?”
“If anything at all happens, it will be definite.”
Then Carroll excused himself and sought Eric Leverage. Under pledge of secrecy he told Leverage the entire story as he had heard it from Naomi Lawrence’s lips. When he finished Leverage slammed his hand on the arm of his chair–
“Gerald Lawrence, or I’m a bum guesser,” he stated positively.
“Looks that way,” admitted Carroll. “What I hate about the idea is that if Lawrence is the man there will be no way on earth to keep Mrs. Lawrence’s name out of it.”
“You’re right–How about Barker?”
“I believe Barker’s story. So does Mrs. Lawrence. She believes that Barker thinks she killed Warren in the taxi.”
Leverage glanced keenly at his friend. “You are going to arrest Lawrence?”
“No-o. Not yet. He may not have done it–“
“Well,” sizzled the chief of police, “if he didn’t and Barker didn’t–who the devil did?”
Carroll shook his head hopelessly. “I don’t know, Eric. If neither of those two men did, we’ll be left hopelessly in the air.”
“Exactly. We know that one of ’em did the shooting. We’ve covered this case from every angle, and if we believe that the shooting was not done by Mrs. Lawrence, we must suspect one of the two men involved. And if you are sure it wasn’t Barker–“
“Let’s wait a little while longer,” counseled Carroll. “I want to be absolutely sure of my ground.”
The two men sat in Leverage’s office and talked. They discussed the case again from the beginning to its present status–threshing out each detail in the hope that they might have overlooked some vital fact which would give them a basis upon which to proceed. Their efforts were fruitless. The investigation had developed results–true enough–but those results were not at all satisfactory.
And it was about an hour later that a knock came on the door. In response to Leverage’s summons, an orderly entered. In his hand he carried an evening paper–
“Just brought this in, sir. Thought you and Mr. Carroll might like to read it.”
The orderly retired. Carroll spread the paper–then did something very rare. He swore profoundly. His eyes focused angrily on the enormous first page headlines:
“CARROLL HAS SOLVED WARREN MYSTERY
“Identity of Clubman’s Slayer Known to Famous Detective
“WILL MAKE ARREST WITHIN 24 HOURS
“Sensational Developments Promised by David Carroll in Exclusive Interview with Reporter for The Star.”
It all came back to Carroll now. The eager reporter, the news-hunger, his non-committal statements. He read furiously through the story. It proved to be one of those newspaper masterpieces which uses an enormous number of words and says nothing. Carroll was quoted as saying only what he had actually said. It was the personal conjecture of the reporter writing the story which had given spur to the vivid imagination of the headline writer.
“So now,” questioned Leverage–“what are you going to do: deny it?”
“No!” snapped Carroll–“I can’t. He hasn’t misquoted a single line of what I said. It just makes things–makes ’em mighty embarrassing.”
He sat hunched in his chair staring at the screaming headlines and re-reading the lurid story. Again an orderly entered.
“Young lady out there,” he announced, “who wants to know if Mr. Carroll is here.”
Instantly the mind of the detective leaped to the tragic figure of Naomi Lawrence. “She wants to see me?” he questioned.
“Yes, sir.”
“Show her in.” He motioned to Leverage to remain. The orderly disappeared–and in a minute, the door opened and a woman entered. Carroll sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.
“Miss Gresham!”
Hazel Gresham nodded. She advanced toward Carroll. Every drop of color had been drained from her cheeks. Her manner indicated intense nervous strain. Her eyes were wide and fixed–
“I would like to speak to you alone, Mr. Carroll.”
“Yes–This is Chief Leverage, Miss Gresham.”
Leverage acknowledged the introduction and would have left but the girl stopped him. “On second thought, Mr. Leverage–you might remain.”
Eric paused. His eyes sought Carroll’s face. Both men knew that something vitally unexpected was about to be disclosed. They waited for the girl to speak–and when she did her voice was so low as to be almost unintelligible.
“About a half hour ago, gentlemen–I read the story in The Star. I–I–” she faltered for a moment, then went bravely on–“I came right down–to save you the trouble of sending for me!”
Silence: tense–expectant. “You did _what?”_ queried Carroll.
“I came down–to save you the trouble–the embarrassment–of sending for me.” She looked at them eagerly. “I have come to give myself up!”
Carroll frowned. “For what?”
“For–for the murder of–Roland Warren!”
The detective shook his head. “I don’t understand, Miss Gresham. Really I don’t. Do you mean to tell me that _you_ were the woman in the taxicab?”
She was biting her lips nervously. “Yes.”
“And that you shot Roland Warren?”
“Y-yes–And when I read in the paper that you knew who did it–I came right down here. I didn’t want to–to–to be brought down–in a patrol wagon.”
“I see–” Wild thoughts were chasing one another through Carroll’s brain. He was beginning to see light. “You are quite _sure_ that you killed Mr. Warren?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why do you doubt me? Don’t you suppose that I know whether I killed him? Don’t you suppose I can prove that I did it–“
“Yes–I suppose you can. I wonder, Miss Gresham,” and Carroll’s voice was very, very gentle, “if you would wait in that room yonder for a few minutes?”
“Certainly–” She raised her head pleadingly: “You _do_ believe me, don’t you?”
Carroll dodged the issue. “I want to think.”
Alone with Leverage, Carroll clenched his fist–“If that isn’t the most peculiar–“
“She’s not telling the truth, is she, David?”
“Certainly not. She couldn’t smash her own alibi if she tried a million years.”
He paced the room, walking in quick, jerky steps. Finally his face cleared and he stopped before Leverage’s chair.
“I’ve got it!” he announced triumphantly.
“Got what?”
“Never mind,” Carroll was surcharged with suppressed excitement. “I want you to do something for me, Leverage–and do it promptly.”
“Sure–“
“Send Cartwright and bring Garry Gresham here.”
“Garry Gresham?”
“Yes–the young lady’s brother.”
Leverage was bewildered. “What in the world do you want with him?”
“I want him,” explained Carroll confidently–“because _Garry Gresham is the man who shot Warren!”_
CHAPTER XXII
THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED
Within an hour Garry Gresham appeared at headquarters in the company of Cartwright. The officer left the room and the three men were alone.
Gresham’s manner was nervous, but he showed no fright. Leverage, regarding him keenly, found reason to doubt Carroll’s positive statement that Gresham was the person they sought. The young man stood facing them bravely, waiting–
“Gresham,” said Carroll softly, “Your sister is in that room yonder. She read the afternoon paper–the report that I knew who killed Roland Warren. She immediately came here to give herself up.”
An expression of utter bewilderment crossed young Gresham’s face. Then he started forward angrily: “Why are you lying to me–“
“Easy, Gresham–easy there. I am not lying to you.”
He saw Garry’s eyes dart to the door behind which the sister was seated. “What did she give herself up for, Carroll?”
“For killing Roland Warren.”
Gresham took a firm grip on himself. “She didn’t do it,” he stated positively.
“Of course not,” returned Carroll with equal assurance. “_You_ did! And so that you will be quite convinced that I am not trying to trick you into the confession which I am sure you will make–” He crossed the room and flung open the door. “Come in, please, Miss Gresham.”
The girl entered quietly–then saw her brother. Instantly her manner softened. She stepped swiftly to his side and took his hand in hers. “Please, Garry–“
Gresham smiled; a tender, affectionate smile.
“Good scout, aren’t you, Sis? But tell me,” his tone was conversational, “how did you know that I shot Roland Warren?”
“You didn’t!” She flung around on Carroll–“Don’t believe him. I shot Mr. Warren–“
“I knew from the first that you didn’t do it, Miss Gresham. I know that Miss Rogers spent the night with you. More than that, I know the identity of the woman in the taxicab.”
“Who was she?” It was Gresham who questioned.
Carroll shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who she was, Gresham. We’re going to keep her name out of this case. She was a woman who loved Roland Warren–and his death saved her from a great mistake. There’s no necessity to ruin her life, is there?”
“How did you know–it was Garry–who did the shooting?” asked the girl.
“The minute you confessed,” answered the detective quietly, “I knew that you were doing it to shield someone. You could have had no possible motive for shielding either of the other two men under suspicion. I knew that it must be your brother. He had motive enough–he knew that you were in love with Mr. Warren–engaged to him. He knew that Warren was about to elope with another woman, that it would cause you intense misery. So he went to the station that night to prevent the elopement. Isn’t that so, Gresham?”
The young man nodded. “Yes. When I went to your apartment the morning after the killing, it was for the purpose of confessing. But then when you assured me that my sister was not under suspicion–I decided to wait awhile before saying anything.” He paused–“And as to that night–I parked my car a couple of blocks away and walked to the station through Jackson Street, intending to cut through the yards and approach the waiting room from the passenger platform. I had no idea that–that there would be–a tragedy. I wanted to reason with Warren; to beg him to save my sister from suffering which I knew would be attendant on–his elopement.
“He was walking in the yards as I entered from between the Pullman building and the baggage room. I don’t know what he was doing there–but I spoke to him. He seemed startled at seeing me. I told him that I knew he was planning to elope–and begged him to call it off.
“Much to my surprise, he immediately got nasty. He seemed to want to get rid of me. He told me it was none of my damned business what he was doing. He even admitted the truth of what I said.
“That was the first hint of unpleasantness. But it grew–rapidly. He cursed me–anyway we had a brief, violent quarrel. He said something about my sister and I struck him. He clinched with me. We were fighting then–and I am a fairly good athlete. I broke out of a clinch and hit him pretty hard. He reached into his pocket and pulled a revolver. I managed to grab his hand before he could fire. I got it from him, and as I jerked it away–it went off. He fell–
“I was afraid then–panicky. I felt his body and realized that he was dead. A train had just come into the yards and there were switch engines puffing here and there–I was apprehensive that one of their headlights would pick me up. And there were some railroad men walking around the yards with lanterns in their hands. There was danger that I was going to be seen–and, had I been, I felt that I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on; alone in such a place with the body of a man whom I admitted having shot–
“You see, I couldn’t even prove the contemplated elopement. Late that evening I had received an anonymous telephone call from a man telling me that if I wanted to save my sister a good deal of unpleasant gossip, I’d better meet that midnight train as Warren was eloping on it with some other woman. But the man who gave me this information cut off before telling me the name of the woman. I didn’t know it then–and I don’t know it now.
“I knew I had to hide Warren’s body; not that my killing was not justified on the grounds of self-defense, but because I would not bring my sister’s name into it–and also because even if I did, there’d be no proof of the truth of what I said.
“I dragged his body into the shadows between the two buildings. Atlantic Avenue was deserted. At the curb I saw a yellow taxicab and noticed that the driver was in the restaurant across the street. I conceived the idea of putting the body in the taxicab–I knew I wouldn’t be seen doing it, and it would serve the purpose of causing the body to be discovered at some point other than that at which the shooting occurred.
“I did it. Then I left. The next morning I read of the case in the papers and I have followed it closely since. I knew you were ostensibly on the wrong track and as a matter of self-preservation I determined to keep my mouth shut unless it happened that the wrong person was accused. Had you charged someone else with the killing I assure you I would have come forward. But meanwhile–not even knowing the identity of the woman in the taxi–there seemed no necessity for running the risk. There was nothing save my own word to prove self-defense, you see.”
“There is now,” said Carroll. Hazel started eagerly and he smiled upon her. “The story of the woman who actually was in the taxicab substantiates yours, Gresham. She had followed Warren into the yards to talk to him. She saw the whole affair from a distance–and then went back through the waiting room of the station and called the taxi in which you had placed Warren’s body.”
“Then Garry will be freed?” cried the girl hopefully: “His plea of self-defense will acquit him?”
“Undoubtedly,” retorted Carroll. “Don’t you think so, Leverage?”
“Surest thing you know,” returned the chief heartily. “And I’m darned glad of it!”
Garry faced his sister. “How did you know that I had killed him, Sis?”
“I didn’t,” she answered quietly. “Not at first, anyway. But, if you remember, you came in the house a little after eleven o’clock that night and seemed excited. You came to my room–“
“I was thinking then,” explained Garry, “that maybe _you_ were eloping with Warren.”
“Then you came home again a little after one o’clock. You waked me then–and acted peculiarly.”
“I was reassuring myself,” he said, “that you really hadn’t left the house.”
“The next morning while you were taking your shower I was putting up your laundry,” Hazel went on. “I found a revolver in your drawer. I didn’t think anything of it then–I hadn’t even read the papers about the–the–killing. But later, I remembered it. I went back to look for the revolver–just why, I don’t know–and it was gone. I questioned you about it a couple of days later, and you denied that you had ever had a revolver in the house. And I knew then, Garry–I knew that you had done it.”
He squeezed her hand. “We always did know more about each other than we were told, didn’t we, Little Sis? Because at that moment, too, I knew that you knew!”
The young man turned back to the detectives–“And what now?” he questioned.
“We’ll have to hold you, Gresham. You’ll have to go through the form of a trial–but you’ll get off, don’t worry!”
Sister and brother left the room hand-in-hand. Alone again, the two detectives faced each other. “You win, David,” said Leverage admiringly. “Though darned if I know how you do it?”
“A combination of luck and common sense,” returned Carroll simply. “This time it was principally luck. It usually is in such cases–but most detectives don’t admit it. It is the wild-eyed reporter with the vivid imagination whom we can thank for this solution. It was his fiction that brought about Miss Gresham’s ridiculous confession and that which caused me to know that she must be shielding her brother. As to how matters stand–I say Thank God!”
“Why?”
“Garry Gresham will undoubtedly be freed; it was a clear case of self-defense. Unfortunately, the fact that there was an elopement will have to be known–but that is a comparatively trivial thing, unpleasant as it may be for Miss Gresham. And, most of all–I’m glad because Naomi Lawrence’s name will not be dragged into it.”
“How will you work that, David?”
“It can be done, Eric. The district attorney is a pretty good friend of mine–and he’s a good square fellow. Of course he will have to know the entire story; and it is a certainty that he will believe it. And when he does–you know that he will handle the case so that Mrs. Lawrence will not be connected. Irregular–yes. But you believe he can–and will–do it, don’t you?”
“You bet your bottom dollar he will. He’s another nut like you–so bloomin’ human it hurts.”
“And now–” said Carroll, “I want to chat with William Barker. There are one or two loose ends I want to clear up.”
Barker was very humble as he entered the room.
“You’re free of the murder charge,” stated Carroll promptly, “but we may hold you for blackmail.”
Barker heaved a sigh of relief. “I ain’t objectin’ to that, Mr. Carroll. It’s a small thing when a man has thought he might be strung up.”
“Who killed Warren?” questioned the detective.
“Don’t you know?” came the surprised answer.
“Yes–but I’m asking you.”
“I suppose you’re driving at something new,” retorted Barker, “but _I_ really think Mrs. Lawrence shot him.”
“She didn’t,” answered Carroll. “And there’s one thing I want to warn you about right now, Barker. You’re the only person except the Chief here, and myself, who knows that Mrs. Lawrence is connected with the case. I want her name kept out of it. Of course that makes it impossible to arrest you for blackmail–and so, if you tell me the entire truth, I’m going to _let_ you go free. But if I ever hear of her name in connection with this case I’ll know that you have leaked–and I’ll get you if it takes me ten years. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do–thankin’ you, sir. I know which side my bread is buttered on.”
“Good. Now I’m telling you that Mrs. Lawrence did _not_ shoot Warren. Who did?”
“I don’t know–” Suddenly his expression changed. “If it wasn’t her, Mr. Carroll–it must have been Mr. Gresham.”
“Aa-a-ah! What makes you think that?”
Barker’s eyes narrowed. “You give me your word of honor, Mr. Carroll, I ain’t goin’ to be pinched for blackmail?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was this way, sir. Bein’ Mr. Warren’s valet I knew he was plannin’ to run off with Mrs. Lawrence. I knew that was going to raise an awful row in town–and I knew that Mr. Gresham would do a heap to keep his sister from bein’ unhappy as she was going to be if Mr. Warren done as he was plannin’. So I called up Mr. Gresham that night and told him everything but the woman’s name. My idea was that he’d bust up the elopement. I went to the station to make sure that Mrs. Lawrence got there–knowin’ that once she’ was there, if young Mr. Gresham busted things up, I’d be able to blackmail Mrs. Lawrence–her bein’ a rich woman. I’m comin’ clean with you, Mr. Carroll–“
“Go ahead!”
“I never seen Mr. Gresham at all at the station. And when I seen Mrs. Lawrence get into the taxi and found out the next morning that Mr. Warren’s body was found there–of course I couldn’t help thinkin’ like I did, could I?”
“I suppose not. You’re a skunk, Barker–and I hate to let you go. But if the Chief is willing I’m going to do it–because your hide isn’t worth Mrs. Lawrence’s good name. Now get out!”
“I’m free?” questioned the man eagerly.
“How about it, Leverage?”
“Sure,” growled Leverage. “You’re the boss, David.”
Immediately as Barker left the room Carroll turned to the telephone and called a number.
“Who’s that?” questioned Leverage.
“Mrs. Lawrence,” answered Carroll. “I want to tell her that she is safe.”
Leverage smiled broadly. And as he watched Carroll’s eager face he saw an expression of consternation cross it. Carroll covered the transmitter with his hand–
“Good Lord!” he groaned, “it’s Evelyn Rogers!”
Leverage chuckled–then listened shamelessly to Carroll’s end of the conversation–
“Yes–yes, this is David Carroll–I’m glad you think it was sweet of me to telephone–I want to speak to your sister–She isn’t there?–Well, ask her to telephone me at headquarters as soon as she comes in, will you?–Uh-huh!–the Warren case has ended–and that’s what I wanted to tell her–I only did my best–Yes–Oh! say–“
The receiver clicked on the hook. Carroll was grinning as he turned back to his friend–
“Guess what that young thing said when I told her I had solved the Warren case?”
“Tell me, David–I’m a poor guesser.”
“She said,” returned Carroll gravely–“that I am just the cutest man she has ever known!”