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*


ONCE AGAIN THE DOOR OF THE UNION STATION OPENED
Page 8


M ID NIGHT
BY
OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
Author of
“THE CRIMson ALIB1,” “GRAY DUsk,” Ero.
FRONTISPIECE BY
LEE THAYER
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
3tº, º A
ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDA1 iON-3
R L
COPYRIGHT 1991, By
OCTAVUS Roy coBEN
Pri
7,
te
d
in
U.
S.
A
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - -
*.*.*.* * * * * *
-- - - • * * *
- - • * ~ * * *
- - - - -, * *
- - - - • - -
.*** - ". .
* - - - -
- - - - -
-** -- - - -
w_* - - - -
* * * - - - -
* * * * * -
** * * * * * * * *


:
TO
DR. MILEs A. WATKINs





chapTER
II
III
IV
j
VIII
IX
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XXI
XXII
C O N T ENTS
OUT OF THE STORM .
THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED
“FIND THE Woman”
CARROLL HAs A VISITOR .
MISS EVELYN ROGERs
REGARDING ROLAND WARREN .
THE WALET TALKs
CARROLL MAKES A Move
ICE CREAM SoDA .
A DISCOVERY .
LOOSE ENDS
A CHALLENGE . .
No ALIBI . -
THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN
A TALK witH HAZEL GRESHAM
THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI .
BARKER ACCUSEs.
“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH-”
LABYRINTH . . .
A CoNFESSION
CARROLL DECIDEs
THE PROBLEM Is SoLVED
rage
13
27
40
52
64
75
87
99
111
124
135
149
161
175
189
203
214
228
241
255
268





MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER I
OUT OF THE STORM
AXICAB No. 92,381 skidded crazily on
- | the icy pavement of Atlantic Avenue.
Spike Walters, its driver, cursed
roundly as he applied the orakes and with diffi-
culty obtained control of the little closed car.
Depressing the clutch pedal, he negotiated the
frozen thoroughfare and parked his car in the
lee of the enormous Union Station, which bulked
forbiddingly in the December midnight.
Atlantic Avenue was deserted. The lights at
the main entrance of the Union Station glowed
frigidly. Opposite, a single arc-lamp on the
corner of Cypress Street cast a white, cheerless
light on the gelid pavement. The few stores
along the avenue were dark, with the exception
of the warmly lighted White Star restaurant
1


2 MIDNIGHT
directly opposite the Stygian spot where
Spike's car was parked.
The city was in the grip of the first cold wave
of the year. For two days the rain had fallen —
a nasty, drizzling rain which made the going
soggy and caused people to greet one another
with frowns. Late that afternoon the mercury
had started a rapid downward journey. Fires
were piled high in the furnaces, automobile-
owners poured alcohol into their radiators.
The streets were deserted early, and the citi-
zens, for the most part, had retired shiveringly
under mountains of blankets and down quilts
still redolent of moth-balls.
Winter had come with freezing blasts which
swept around corners and chilled to the bone.
The rain of two days became a driving sleet,
which formed a mirror of ice over the city.
On the seat of his yellow taxicab, Spike
Walters drew a heavy lap-robe more closely
about his husky figure and shivered miserably.
Fortunately, the huge bulk of the station to his
right protected him in a large measure from the
shrieking wintry winds. Mechanically Spike
kept his eyes focused upon the station entrance,
half a block ahead.
But no one was there. Nowhere was there a


OUT OF THE STORM 3
sign of life, nowhere an indication of warmth or
cheer or comfort. With fingers so numb that
they were almost powerless to do the bidding of
his mind, Spike drew forth his watch and
glanced at it. Midnight!
Spike replaced the watch, blew on his numb
fingers in a futile effort to restore warmth,
slipped his hands back into a pair of heavy—
but, on this night, entirely inadequate—driving-
gloves, and gave himself over to a mental
rebellion against the career of a professional
taxi-driver. -
“Worst night I've ever known,” he growled
to himself; and he was not far wrong.
Midnight! No train due until 12.25, and that
an accommodation from some small town up-
State. No taxi fares on such a train as that.
The north-bound fast train—headed for New
York—that was late, too. Due at 11.55, Spike
had seen a half-frozen station-master mark it
up as being fifty minutes late. Perhaps a
passenger to be picked up there—some sleepy,
disgruntled, entirely unhappy person eager to
attain the warmth and coziness of a big hotel.
Yet Spike knew that he must wait. The com-
pany for which he worked specialized on
service. It boasted that every train was met by


4 MIDNIGHT
a yellow taxicab–and this was Spike’s turn for
all-night duty at the Union Station.
All the independent taxi-drivers had long
since deserted their posts. The parking space
on Cypress Street, opposite the main entrance
of the station—a space usually crowded with
commercial cars—was deserted. No private
cars were there, either. Spike seemed alone in
the drear December night, his car an exotic of
the early winter.
Ten minutes passed—fifteen. The cold bit
through Spike's overcoat, battled to the skin,
and chewed to the bone. It was well nigh un-
bearable. The young taxi-driver’s lips became
blue. He tried to light a cigarette, but his
fingers were unable to hold the match.
He looked around. A street-car, bound for a
suburb, passed noisily. It paused briefly before
the railroad-station, neither discharging nor
taking on a passenger, then clanged protest-
ingly on its way. Impressed in Spike's mind
was a mental picture of the chilled motorman,
and of the conductor huddled over the electric
heater within the car. Spike felt a personal
resentment against that conductor. Comfort
seemed unfair on a night like this; heat a luxury
more to be desired than much fine gold.


OUT OF THE STORM 5
From across the street the light of the White
Star Café beckoned. Ordinarily Spike was not
a patron of the White Star, nor other eating
establishments of its class. The White Star
was notoriously unsanitary, its food poison-
ously indigestible; but as Spike’s eyes were
held hypnotically by the light he thought of two
things—within the circle of that light he could
find heat and a scalding liquid which was
flavored with coffee.
The vision was too much for Spike. The fast
train, due now at 12.45, might bring a fare. It
was well beyond the bounds of reason "that he
would get a passenger from the accommodation
due in a few minutes. There were no casuals
abroad.
The young driver clambered with difficulty
from his seat. He staggered as he tried to
stand erect, his numb limbs protesting against
the burden of his healthy young body. A gale
howled around the dark Jackson Street corner
of the long, rambling station, and Spike defen-
sively covered both ears with his gloved hands.
He made his way eagerly across the street;
slipping and sliding on the glassy surface, head
bent against the driving sleet, clothes crackling
where particles of ice had formed. Spike
*
*
*,


6 MIDNIGHT
reached the door of the eating-house, opened it,
and almost staggered as the warmth of the
place smote him like a hot blast.
For a few seconds he stood motionless, revel-
ing in the sheer animal comfort of the change.
Then he made his way to the counter, seated
himself on a revolving stool, and looked up at
the waiter who came stolidly forward from the
big, round-bellied stove at the rear.
“Hello, George!”
The restauranteur nodded.
“Hello!”
“My gosh! What a night!”
“Pretty cold, ain't it?”
“Cold?” Spike Walters looked up antago-
nistically. “Say, you don’t know what cold
means. I’d rather have your job to-night than
a million dollars. Only if I had a million
dollars I’d buy twenty stoves, set ’em in a
circle, build a big fire in each one, sit in the mid-
dle, and tell winter to go to thunder—that’s
what I’d do. Now, George, hustle and lay me
out a cup of coffee, hot—get that?—and a
couple of them greasy doughnuts of yourn.”
The coffee and doughnuts were duly pro-
duced, and the stolid Athenian retired to the
torrid zone of his stove. Spike bravely tried


OUT OF THE STORM 7
one of the doughnuts and gave it up as a bad
job, but he quaffed the coffee with an eagerness
which burned his throat and imparted a pleas-
ing sensation of inward warmth. Then he
stretched luxuriously and lighted a cigarette.
He glanced through the long-unwashed win-
dow of the White Star Café—“Ladies and
gents welcome,” it announced—and shuddered
at the prospect of again braving the elements.
Across the street his unprotesting taxicab stood
parked parallel to the curb; beyond it glowered
the end of the station. To the right of the long,
rambling structure he could see the occasional
glare of switch engines and track-walkers’
lanterns in the railroad yards.
As he looked, he saw the headlight of the loco-
motive at the head of the accommodation split
the gloom. Instinctively Spike rose, paid his
check, and stood uncomfortably at the door,
buttoning the coat tightly around his neck.
Of course it was impossible that the accom-
modation carried a fare for him; but then duty
was duty, and Spike took exceeding pride in the
company for which he worked. The company’s
slogan of service was part of Spike's creed. He
opened the door, recoiled for a second as the
gale swept angrily against him, then plunged


8 MIDNIGHT
blindly across the street. He clambered into
the seat of his cab, depressed the starter, and
eventually was answered by the reluctant cough
of the motor. He raced it for a while, getting
the machinery heated up preparatory to the
possibility of a run.
Then he saw the big doors at the main
entrance of the station open and a few melan-
choly passengers, brought to town by the accom-
modation train, step to the curb, glance about
in search of a street-car, and then duck back
into the station. Spike shoved his clutch in and
crawled forward along the curb, leaving the
inky shadows of the far end of the station, and
emerging finally into the effulgence of the arc
at the corner of Cypress Street. -
Once again the door of the Union Station
opened. This time Spike took a professional
interest in the person who stepped uncertainly
out into the night. Long experience informed
him that this was a fare. -
She was of medium height, and comfortably
guarded against the frigidity of the night by a
long fur coat buttoned snugly around her neck.
She wore a small squirrel tam, and was heavily
veiled. In her right hand she carried a large
suitcase and in her left a purse.


OUT OF THE STORM 9
She stepped to the curb and looked around
inquiringly. She signalled the cab. Even as
he speeded his car forward, Spike wondered at
her indifference to the almost unbearable cold.
“Cab, miss?”
He pulled up short before her.
“Yes.” Her tone was almost curt. She had
her hand on the door handle before Spike could
make a move to alight. “Drive to 981 East
End Avenue.”
Without leaving the driver's seat, Spike
reached for her suitcase and put it beside him.
The woman—a young woman, Spike reflected—
stepped inside and slammed the door. Spike
fed the gas and started, whirling south on
Atlantic Avenue for two blocks, and then turn-
ing to his left across the long viaduct which
marks the beginning of East End Avenue.
He settled himself for a long and unpleasant
drive. To reach 981 East End Avenue he had
to drive nearly five miles straight in the face of
the December gale.
And then he found himself wondering about
the woman. Her coat—a rich fur thing of black
and gray—her handbag, her whole demeanor—
all bespoke affluence. She had probably been
visiting at some little town, and had come down


10 - MIDNIGHT
on the accommodation; but no one had been
there to meet her. Anyway, Spike found him-
self too miserable and too cold to reflect much
about his passenger.
He drove into a head wind. The sleet slapped
viciously against his windshield and stuck there.
The patent device he carried for the purpose of
clearing rain away refused to work. Spike
shoved his windshield up in order to afford a
vision of the icy asphalt ahead.
And then he grew cold in earnest. He seemed
to freeze all the way through. He drove
mechanically, becoming almost numb as the
wind, unimpeded now, struck him squarely. He
lost all interest in what he was doing or where
he was going. He called himself a fool for hav-
ing left the cozy warmth of the White Star
Café. He told himself—
Suddenly he clamped on the brakes. It was
a narrow squeak! The end of the long freight
train rumbled on into the night. Spike hadn’t
seen it; only the racket of the big cars as they
crossed East End Avenue, and then the lights
on the rear of the caboose, had warned him.
He stopped his car for perhaps fifteen
seconds to make sure that the crossing was
clear, then started on again, a bit shaken by the


OUT OF THE STORM 11
narrow escape. He bumped cautiously across
the railroad tracks.
The rest of the journey was a nightmare.
The suburb through which he was passing
seemed to have congealed. Save for the corner
lights, there was no sign of life. The roofs and
sidewalks glistened with ice. Occasionally the
car struck a bump and skidded dangerously.
Spike had forgotten his passenger, forgotten
the restaurant, the coffee, the weather itself.
He only remembered that he was cold—almost
unbearably cold.
Then he began taking note of the houses
There was No. 916. He looked ahead. These
were houses of the poorer type, the homes of
laborers situated on the outer edge of the sub-
urb of East End. Funny—the handsomely
dressed woman—such a poor neighborhood—
He came to a halt before a dilapidated bunga-
low which squatted darkly in the night. Stiff
with cold, he reached his hand back to the door
on the right of the car, and with difficulty
opened it. Then he spoke:
“Here y’are, miss—No. 9811”
There was no answer. Spike repeated:
“Here y’are, miss.”
Still no answer. Spike clambered stiffly from


12 MIDNIGHT
the car, circled to the curb, and stuck his head
in the door.
“Here, miss—”
Spike stepped back. Then he again put his
head inside the cab.
“Well, I'll be-”
The thing was impossible, and yet it was true.
Spike gazed at the seat. The woman had dis-
appeared l
The thing was absurd; impossible. He had
seen her get into the cab at the Union Station.
There, in the front of the car, was her suitcase;
but she had gone—disappeared completely,
vanished without leaving a sign.
Momentarily forgetful of the cold, Spike
found a match and lighted it. Holding it cupped
in his hands, he peered within the cab. Then he
recoiled with a cry of horror.
For, huddled on the floor, he discerned the
body of a man!


CHAPTER II
THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED
T WHE barren trees which lined the broad
deserted thoroughfare jutted starkly in-
to the night, waving their menacing, ice-
crusted arms. The December gale, sweeping
westward, shrieked through the glistening
branches. It shrieked warning and horror,
howled and sighed, sighed and howled.
Spike Walters felt suddenly ill. He forgot
the cold, and was conscious of a fear which acted
like a temporary anesthesia. For a few seconds
he stood staring, until the match which he held
burned out and scorched the flesh of his fingers.
His jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He
opened his lips and tried to speak, but closed
them again without having uttered a sound save
a choking gasp. He tried again, feeling an urge
for speech—something, anything, to make him
13


14 MIDNIGHT
believe that he was here, alive—that the horror
within the cab was real. This time he uttered
an “Oh, my God!”
The words seemed to vitalize him. He
fumbled for another match, found it, and
lighted it within the cab. It seemed to have the
radiance of an incandescent.
Spike had hoped that his first impression
would prove to be a mere figment of his imagi-
nation; but now there was no doubting. There,
sprawled in an ugly, inhuman heap on the floor,
head resting against the cushioned seat of the
cab, was the figure of a man. There was no
doubt that he was dead. Even Spike, young,
optimistic, and unversed in the ways of death
as he was, knew that he was alone with a corpse.
And as he gazed, a strange courage came to
him. He found himself emboldened to investi-
gate. He was shivering while he did so, shiver-
ing with fear and with the terrific cold of the
night. He could not quite bring himself to
touch the body, but he did not need to move it
to see that murder had been done.
The clothes told him instantly that the man
was of high social station. They were obvi-
ously expensive clothes, probably tailor-made.
The big coat, open at the top, was flung back.


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 15
Beneath, Spike discerned a gray tweed—and
on the breast of the gray tweed was a splotch,
a dark, ugly thing which appeared black and
was not black. Spike shuddered. He had never
liked the sight of blood.
The match spluttered and went out. Spike
looked around. He felt hopelessly alone. Not
a pedestrian; not a light. The houses, set well
back from the street, were dark, forbiddingly
dark.
He saw a street-car rattle past, bound on the
final run of the night for the car-sheds at East
End. Then he was alone again—alone and
frightened. -
He felt the necessity for action. He must do
something—something, but what? What was
there to do?
A great fear gripped him. He was with the
body. The body was in his cab. He would be
arrested for the murder of the man!
Of course he knew he didn’t do it. The
woman had committed the murder.
Spike swore. He had almost forgotten the
woman. Where was she? How had she man-
aged to leave the taxicab? When had the man,
who now lay sprawled in the cab, entered it?
He had driven straight from the Union Sta-


16 MIDNIGHT
tion to the address given by the woman—
straight down East End Avenue, turning
neither to right nor left. The utter impossibilty
of the situation robbed it of some of its stark
horror. And yet—
Spike knew that he must do something. He
tried to think connectedly, and found it a diffi-
cult task. Near him loomed the shadow which
was No. 981 East End Avenue—the address
given by the woman when she entered the cab.
He might go in there and report the circum-
stances. Some one there would know who she
was, and—but he hesitated.
Perhaps this thing had been prearranged.
Perhaps they would get him—for what he
didn’t know. When a man—a young man—
comes face to face with murder for the first
time, making its acquaintance on a freezing
December midnight and in a lonely spot, he is
not to be blamed if his mental equilibrium is
destroyed.
Wild plans chased each other through his
brain. He might dump the body by the road-
side and run back to town. That was absurd
on the face of it, for he would be convicting him-
self when the body was found. It would be
traced to him in some way—he knew that. He


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 17
was already determined to keep away from No.
981 East End Avenue. There was something
sinister in the unfriendly shadow of the ram-
bling house. He might call the police.
That was it—he would call the police. But
how? Go into a house near by, wake the resi-
dents, telephone headquarters that a murder
had been done? Alarm the neighborhood, and
identify himself with the crime? Spike was
afraid, frankly and boyishly afraid—afraid of
the present, and more afraid of the future.
And yet he knew that he must get in touch
with the police, else the police would eventually
get in touch with him. He thought then of tak-
ing the body in to headquarters; but he feared
that his cab might be stopped en route to the
city and the body discovered. They would
never believe, then, that he had been bound for
headquarters.
Almost before he knew that he had arrived at
a decision, Spike had groped his way across
the icy street and pressed the bell-button on the
front door of the least unprepossessing house on
the block.
For a long time there was no answer. Fi-
nally a light shone in the hall, and the skinny
figure of a man, shivering violently despite the


18 MIDNIGHT
blanket-robe which enfolded him, appeared in
the hallway. He flashed on the porch light from
inside and peered through the glass door.
Apparently reassured, he cracked the door
slightly.
“Yes. What do you want?”
At sound of a human voice, Spike instantly
felt easier. The fact that he could converse,
that he had shed his terrible loneliness, steadied
him as nothing else could have done. He was
surprised at his own calmness, at the fact that
there was scarcely a quaver in the voice with
which he answered the man. -
“I’m Spike Walters,” he said with surpris-
ing quietness. “I’m a driver for the Yellow
and White Taxicab Company. My cab is No.
92,381. I have a man in my cab who has been
badly injured. I want to telephone to the city.”
The little householder opened the door wider,
and Spike entered. Cold as the house was,
from the standpoint of the man within, its
hold-over warmth was a godsend to Spike's
thoroughly chilled body.
The little man designated a telephone on the
wall, then started nervously as central an-
swered and Spike barked a single command into
the transmitter:


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 19
“Police-station, please!”
“Police?”
“Never you mind, sir,” Spike told the house-
holder. “Hello! Police!” he called to the op-
erator.
There was a pause, then Spike went on:
“This is Spike Walters—Yellow and White
Taxi Company. I’m out at No. 981 East
End Avenue. There’s a dead man in my
cab!”
The weary voice at the other end became
suddenly alive.
“A dead man?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
“When did he die? How?”
Spike controlled himself with an effort.
“Don’t you understand? He has been
killed—”
“The devil you say!” replied the voice at
headquarters, and the little householder chimed
in with a frightened squeak.
“Yes,” repeated Spike painstakingly. “The
man is dead—killed. It is very peculiar. I
can’t explain over the phone. I called up to
ask you what I shall do.”


20 MIDNIGHT
“Hold connection a minute!” Spike heard a
hurried whispered conversation at the other
end, then the voice barked back at him: “Stay
where you are—couple of officers coming, and
coming fast!”
It was Dan O'Leary, night desk sergeant,
who was on duty at headquarters that night,
and Sergeant Dan O'Leary was a good deal
of an institution on the city's force. He
hopped excitedly from his desk into the office
of Eric Leverage, the chief of police.
Chief Leverage, a broad-shouldered, heavy-
set, bushy-eyebrowed individual, looked up
from the chess-board, annoyed at this interrup-
tion of a game which had been in progress since
ten o’clock that night. O'Leary grabbed a
salute from thin air.
“’Scuse my botherin’ ye, chief, but there's
hell to pay out at East End.”
O'Leary was never long at coming to the
point. Leverage looked up. So, too, did the
boyish, clean-shaven young man with whom he
was playing chess.
“An’ knowin’ that Mr. Carroll was playin'
chess with ye, chief—an” him naturally inter-
ested in such things—I hopped right in.”
“I’ll say you did,” commented the chief


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 21
phlegmatically. “I have you there, Carroll—
dead to rights!”
O'Leary was a trifle irritated at the cold re-
ception accorded his news.
“Ye ain’t afther understandin’,” he said
slowly. It’s murder that has been done this
night.”
“H-m!” Carroll's slow, pleasant drawl
seemed to soothe O’Leary. “Murder?”
“You said it, Mr. Carroll.”
Leverage had risen. It was plain to be seen
from his manner that the chess-game was for-
gotten. Leverage was a policeman first and a
chess-player second—a very poor second. His
voice, surcharged with interest, cracked out
into the room.
“Spill the dope, O'Leary!”
The night desk sergeant needed no further
bidding. In a few graphic words he out-
lined his telephone conversation with Spike
Walters. -
Before he finished speaking, Leverage was
slipping into his enormous overcoat. He
nodded to Carroll.
“How about trotting out there with me,
David 7”
Carroll smiled agreeably.


22 MIDNIGHT
“Thank goodness my new coupé has a heat-
ing device, chiefl”
That was all. It wasn't David Carroll's way
to talk much, or to show any untoward emotion.
It was Carroll’s very boyishness which was his
greatest asset. He had a way of stepping into
a case before the principals knew he was there,
and of solving it in a manner which savored not
at all of flamboyance. A quiet man was Carroll,
and one whose deductive powers Eric Leverage
fairly worshiped.
On the slippery, skiddy journey to East End
the two men—professional policeman and ama-
teur criminologist—did not talk much. A few
comments regarding the sudden advent of
fiercest winter; a remark, forcedly jocular,
from the chief, that murderers might be con-
siderate enough to pick better weather for the
practice of their profession—and that was all.
Thus far they knew nothing about the case, and
they were both too well versed in criminology
to attempt a discussion of something with which
they were unfamiliar.
Spike Walters saw them coming—saw their
headlights splitting the frigid night. He was
at the curb to meet them as they pulled up. He
told his story briefly and concisely. Leverage


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 23
inspected the young man closely, made note of
his license number and the number of his taxi-
cab. Then he turned to his companion, who had
stood by, a silent and interested observer.
“S'pose you talk to him a bit, Carroll.”
“I’m David Carroll,” introduced the other
man. “I’m connected with the police depart-
ment. There’s a few things you tell which are
rather peculiar. Any objections to discussing
them?”
In spite of himself, Spike felt a genial warm-
ing toward this boyish-faced man. He had
heard of Carroll, and rather feared his prow-
ess; but now that he was face to face with him,
he found himself liking the chap. Not only
that, but he was conscious of a sense of protec-
tion, as if Carroll were there for no other pur-
pose than to take care of him, to see that he
received a square deal.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Carroll, I’ll be glad to tell you
anything I know.”
“You have said, Walters, that the passenger
you picked up at the Union Station was a
woman.”
“Yes, sir, it was a woman.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why, yes, sir. I couldn't very well be mis-


THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED 25
Chief Leverage was shivering under the im-
pact of the winter blasts.
“S'pose we take a look at the bird, David,”
he suggested, nodding toward the taxi. “That
might tell us something.”
Carroll nodded. The men entered the taxi,
and Leverage flashed a pocket-torch in the
face of the dead man. Then he uttered an
exclamation of surprise not unmixed with
horror.
“Good Lord!”
“You know him?” questioned Carroll easily.
“Know him? I'll say I do. Why, man, that’s
Roland Warren l’’ -
“Warren' Roland Warren l Not the club-
man?”
“The very same one, Carroll, an” none other.
Well, I’m a sonovagun' Sa-a-ay, something
surely has been started here.” He swung
around on the taxi-driver. “You, Walters!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are sure the suit-case is still in front?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well”—to Carroll—“that makes it easier.
It's the woman’s suit-case, and if we can’t find
out who she is from that, we’re pretty bum,
eh?”


26 MIDNIGHT
“Looks so, Eric. You're satisfied”—this to
Walters—“that that is her suit-case?”
“Absolutely. It hasn’t been off the front
since she handed it to me at the station.”
Carroll swung the suit-case to the inside of
the cab. It opened readily. Leverage kept his
light trained on it as Carroll dug swiftly
through the contents. Finally the eyes of the
two men met. Carroll's expression was one of
frank amazement; Leverage's reflected sheer
unbelief.
“It can’t be, Carroll!”
“Yet—it is 1”
“Sufferin’ wildcats!” breathed Leverage.
“The suit-case ain’t the woman’s at all! It's
Warren’s 1”


CHAPTER III
“FIND THE woman”
HE thing was incomprehensible, yet
| true. Not a single article of feminine
apparel was contained in the suit-case
Not only that, but every garment therein which
bore an identification mark was the property of
Roland Warren, the man whose body leered at
them from the floor of the taxicab.
The two detectives again inspected the suit-
case. An extra suit had been neatly folded.
The pockets bore the label of a leading tailor,
and the name “Roland R. Warren.” The
tailor-made shirts and underwear bore the
maker’s name and Warren’s initials. The
handkerchiefs were Warren's. Even those arti-
cles which were without name or initials con-
tained the same laundry-mark as those which
they knew belonged to the dead man.
Carroll’s face showed keen interest. This
newest development had rather startled him,
27


28 MIDNIGHT
and made an almost irresistible appeal to his
love for the bizarre in crime. The very fact
that the circumstances smacked of the impos-
sible intrigued him. He narrowed his eyes and
gazed again upon the form of the dead man.
Finally he nudged Leverage and designated
three initials on the end of the suit-case.
“R. R. W.-Roland R. Warrenl” Leverage
grunted. “It’s his, all right, Carroll. But just
the same there ain’t no such animal.”
Carroll turned to the dazed Walters. -
“Understand what we’ve just discovered,
son?” he inquired mildly.
Spike's teeth were chattering with cold.
“I don’t hardly understand none of it, sir.
'Cording to what I make out, that suit-case be-
longs to the body and not to the woman.”
“Right! Now what I want to know is how .
that could be.” -
Spike shook his head dazedly.
“Lordy, Mr. Carroll, I couldn’t be knowing
that.”
“You’re sure the woman got into your cab
alone?”
“Absolutely, sir. She came through the wait-
ing-room alone, carrying that very same suit-
case—”


“FIND THE WOMAN’’ 29
“You’re positive it was that suit-case?”
“Yes, sir—that is, as positive as I can be.
You see I was on the lookout for a fare, but
wasn’t expecting one, on account of the fact
that this here train was an accommodation, and
folks that usually come in on it take street-cars
and not a taxi. Well, the minute I seen a good-
lookin', well-dressed woman comin’ out the
door, I sort of noticed. It surprised me first off,
because I asked myself what she was doing on
that train.”
“You thought it was peculiar?”
“Not peculiar, exactly; but sort of of in-
teresting.”
“I see. Go ahead!”
“Well, she was carrying that suit-case, and
she seemed in a sort of a hurry. She walked
.straight out of the door and toward the curb,
and—”
“Did she appear to be expecting some one?”
“No, sir. I noticed that particularly. Sort
of thought a fine lady like her would have some
one to meet her, which is how I happened to
notice that she didn’t seem to expect nobody.
She come right to the curb and called me. I
was parked along the curb on the right side of
Atlantic Avenue—headin’ north, that is—and I


30 MIDNIGHT
rolled up. She handed me the suit-case and told
me to drive her to No. 981 East End Avenue. I
stuck the suit-case right where you got it from
just now; and while I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about
what happened back yonder in the cab, Mr.
Carroll, I'll bet anything in the world that that
there suit-case is the same one she carried
through the waitin’-room and handed to me.”
“H-m! Peculiar. You drove straight out
here, Walters?”
“Straight as a bee-line, sir. Frozen stiff, I
was, drivin’ right into the wind eastward along
East End Avenue, and I had to raise the wind-
shield a bit because there was ice on it and I
couldn’t see nothin’—an’ my headlights ain’t
any too strong.”
“You didn't stop anywhere?”
“No, sir. Wait a minute—I did!”
“Where?”
“At the R. L. and T. railroad crossing, sir.
I didn’t see nor hear no train there, and almost
run into it. It was a freight, and travelin’
kinder slow. I seen the lights of the caboose
and stopped the car right close to the track. I
wasn’t stopped more’n fifteen or twenty sec-
onds, and just as soon as the train got by, I
went on.”


“FIND THE WOMAN '' 31
“But you did stand still for a few seconds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If any one had got into or out of
the cab right there, would you have heard
them?” -
“I don’t know that I would. I was frozen
stiff, like I told you, sir; and I wasn’t thinking
of nothin’ like that. Besides, the train was
makin' a noise; an’ me not havin’ my thoughts
on nothin’ but how cold I was, an” how far I had
to drive, I mos’ prob'ly wouldn't have noticed
—although I might have.”
“Looks to me,” chimed in Leverage, “as if
that's where the shift must have taken place;
though it beats me—”
Carroll lighted a cigarette. Of the three men,
he was the only one who seemed impervious to
the cold. Leverage and the taxi-driver were
both shivering as if with the ague. Carroll, an
enormous overcoat snuggled about his neck, his
hands thrust deep into his pockets, his boyish
face set with interest, seemed perfectly com-
fortable. As a matter of fact, the unique cir-
cumstances surrounding the murder had so in-
terested him that he had quite forgotten the
weather.
“Obviously,” he said to Leverage, “it’s up to


32 MIDNIGHT
us to find out whether the people at this house
here expected a visitor.”
“You said it, David; but I haven’t any doubt
it was a plant, a fake address.”
“I think so, too.”
“Wait here.” The chief started for the dark
little house. “I’ll ask 'em.”
Three minutes later Leverage was back.
“Said nothing doing,” he imparted laconi-
cally. “No one expected—no one away who
would be coming back—and then wanted to
know who in thunder I was. They almost
dropped dead when I told 'em. No question
about it, that address was a stall. This dame
had something up her sleeve, and took care
to see that your taxi man was given a long
drive so she’d have plenty of time to croak
Warren.”
“Then you think she met him by arrange-
ment, chief?”
“Looks so to me. Only thing is, where did he
get in?”
“That's what is going to interest us for some
time to come, I’m afraid. And now suppose we
go back to town? I'll drive my car; I'll keep
behind you and Walters, here. You ride to-
gether in his cab.”


“FIND THE WOMAN ?” 33
Walters clambered to his seat, and succeeded,
after much effort, in starting his frozen motor.
Leverage bulked beside him on the suit-case of
the dead man. The taxi swung cityward, and
immediately behind trailed Carroll in his cozy
coupé.
As Carroll drove mechanically through the
night, he gave himself over to a siege of inten-
sive thought. The case seemed fraught with
unusual interest. Already it had developed an
overplus of extraordinary circumstances, and
Carroll had a decided premonition that the road
of investigation ahead promised many sur-
prises.
There was every reason why it should. The
social prominence of the dead man, the myste-
rious disappearance of the handsomely dressed
woman—all the facts of the case pointed to an
involved trail.
If it were true that the woman had entered
the taxicab alone, that the man had come in
later, and that the murder had been committed
by the woman in the cab before reaching the
railroad crossing, the thing must undoubtedly
have been prearranged to the smallest frac-
tional detail. That being the premise, it was
only a logical conclusion that persons other


34 MIDNIGHT
than the woman and the dead man were in-
volved.
Interesting—decidedly so! But there was
nothing to work on. Even the suit-case clue had
vanished into thin air, so far as its value to the
police was concerned.
That suit-case bothered Carroll. He believed
Spike's story, and was convinced that the suit-
case which they had examined out on East End
Avenue was the one which the woman had car-
ried from the train to the taxicab. There again
the trail of the dead man and the vanished
woman crossed; else why was she carrying his
suit-case?
The journey was over before he knew it. The
yellow taxi turned down the alley upon which
headquarters backed, and jerked to a halt be-
fore the ominous brown-stone building. Carroll
parked his car at the rear, assigned some one to
stand guard over the body, and the three men,
Leverage carrying the suit-case, ascended the
steps to the main room and thence to the chief’s
private office.
The warmth of the place was welcome to all of
them, and in the comforting glow of a small
grate fire, which nobly assisted the struggling
furnace in its task of heating the spacious


“FIND THE WOMAN’’ 35
structure, Spike Walters seemed to lose much
of the nervousness which he had exhibited
since the discovery of the body. Carroll
warmed his hands at the blaze, and then ad-
dressed Leverage.
“How about this case, chief?”
“How about it?”
“You want me to butt in on it?”
“Want you? Holy sufferin’ oysters! Car-
roll, if you didn’t work on it, I’d brain you!
You're the only man in the State who could—”
“Soft-pedal the blarney,” grinned Carroll.
“And now—the suit-case again.”
He dropped to his knees and opened the suit-
case. Garment by garment he emptied it,
searching for some clue, some damning bit of
evidence, which might explain the woman’s pos-
session of the dead man’s belongings. He
found nothing. It was evident that the grip
had been carefully packed for a journey of sev-
eral days at least; but it was a man's suit-case,
and its contents were exclusively masculine.
Carroll shrugged as he rose to his feet. He
turned toward Spike Walters and laid a gentle
hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Walters,” he said, “I want to let you know
that I believe your story all the way through. I


36 MIDNIGHT
think that Chief Leverage does, too—how about
it, chief?”
“Sounds all right to me.”
“But we’ve got to hold you for a while, my
lad. It's tough, but you were the person found
with the body, and we’ve naturally got to keep
you in custody. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. It’s none too pleasant, but I guess
it’s all right.”
“We'll see that you’re made comfortable, and
I hope we’ll be able to let you go within a day
or so.” *
He pressed a button, and turned Walters over
to one of the officers on inside duty, with in-
structions to see that the young taxi-driver was
afforded every courtesy and comfort, and was
not treated as a criminal. Spike turned at the
door.
“I want to thank you—”
“That’s all right, Spike!”
“You’re both mighty nice fellers—especially
you, Mr. Carroll. I’m for you every time!”
Carroll blushed like a schoolgirl. The door
closed behind Walters, and Carroll faced Lev-
erage.
“Next thing is the body, chief.”
“Want it up here?”


“FIND THE WOMAN” 37
“If you please.” -
An orderly was summoned, commands given,
and within five minutes the body of the dead
man was borne into the room and laid carefully
on the couch. Leverage glanced inquisitively
at Carroll.
“Want the coroner?”
“Surely; and you might also call in the news-
papermen.”
“Eht Reporters?”
“Yes. I have a hunch, Leverage, that a great
gob of sensational publicity, right now, will be
of inestimable help. Meanwhile let's get busy
before either the coroner or the reporters ar-
rive.”
The two detectives went over the body meticu-
lously. Warren had been shot through the
heart. Carroll bent to inspect the wound, and
when he straightened his manner showed that
he had become convinced of one important
fact. In response to Leverage's query, he
explained:
“Shot fired from mighty close,” he said.
“Sure?”
“The flame from the gun has scorched his
clothes. That's proof enough.”
“In the taxi, eh?”
“Possibly.”


38 MIDNIGHT
“But the driver would have heard.”
“He probably would; but he didn't.”
“Ye-e-es.”
Carroll resumed his inspection of the body,
examining every detail of figure and raiment;
and while he worked he talked.
“You know something about this chap?”
“More or less. He’s prominent socially; be-
longs to clubs, and all that sort of thing. Has
money—real money. Bachelor—lives alone.
Has a valet, and all that kind of rot. Owns his
car. Golfer—tennis-player—huntsman. Pop-
ular with women—and men, too, I believe.
About thirty-three years old.”
“Business?”
“None. He’s one of the few men in town
who don’t work at something. That’s how I
happen to know so much about him. A chap
who’s different from other fellows is usually
worth knowing something about.”
“Right you are! But that sort of a man—
you'd hardly think he'd be the victim of—hello,
what’s this?”
Carroll had been going through the dead
man's wallet. He rose to his feet, and as he
did so Leverage saw that the purse was stuffed
with bills of large denomination—a very con-


“FIND THE WOMAN ?” 39
siderable sum of money. But apparently Car-
roll was not interested in the money; in his
hand he held a railroad-ticket and a small
purple Pullman check.
“What's the idea?” questioned Leverage.
“Brings us back to the woman again,” re-
plied Carroll, with peculiar intensity.
“HOW SO?”
“He was planning to take a trip with her.”
Leverage glanced at the other man with an
admixture of skepticism and wonder.
“How did you guess that?”
“I didn’t guess it. It's almost a sure thing.
At least, it is pretty positive that he was not
planning to go alone.”
“Yes? Tell me how you know.”
Carroll extended his hand.
“See here—a ticket for a drawing-room to
New York, and one railroad-ticket!”
“Yes, but—”
“Two railroad-tickets are required for pos-
session of the drawing-room,” he said quietly.
“Warren had only one. It is clear, then, that
the holder of the missing ticket was going to
accompany him; so what we have to do now—”
“Is to find the other railroad-ticket,” fin-
ished Leverage dryly. “Which isn't any lead-
pipe cinch, I’d say!”


CHAPTER IV
CARROLL HAS A VISITOR
ARROLL gazed intently upon the face
( of the dead man. There was a half
quizzical light in the detective’s eyes
as he spoke, apparently to no one.
“I’ve often thought,” he said, “in a case like
this, how much simpler things would be if the
murdered man could talk.”
“H-m!” rejoined the practical Leverage.
“If he could, he wouldn't be dead.”
“Perhaps you’re right. And following that
to a logical conclusion, if he were not dead we
wouldn’t be particularly interested in what he
had to say.”
“All of which ain’t got a heap to do with the
fact that your work is cut out for you, Carroll.
You’re dead sure about that ticket dope, ain’t
you? I ain't used to traveling in drawing-
rooms myself.”
“It’s straight enough, Leverage. The rail-
40


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 41
road company won’t allow a single passenger
to occupy a drawing-room—that is, they de-
mand two tickets. If you, for instance, were
traveling alone, and desired a drawing-room,
you’d be compelled to have two tickets for
yourself. That being so, it is plain that Warren
there didn't intend making this trip to New
York alone. If he had, he would have had the
two tickets along with the drawing-room check.
I am certain that two tickets were bought, be-
cause the railroad men won’t sell a drawing-
room with a single ticket. It is obvious, then,
that he bought two tickets and gave the other
one to the person who was to make the trip
with him.”
“The woman, of course!” *
“What woman?”
“The woman in the fur coat—the one who
got into the taxicab.”
“Perhaps; but she came in on the accommo-
dation train after the New York train was due
to leave. The fast train was late.”
“So was the accommodation. They are due
to make connection.”
“That’s true. If we can find that ticket—”
“We'll have found the woman, and when we
find her the case will end.”


42 MIDNIGHT
“Probably—”
The door opened, and Sergeant O'Leary en-
tered. -
“The coroner, sorr–him an' a reporter from
each av the mornin’ papers.”
“Show the coroner in first,” ordered Carroll.
“Let the newspapermen wait.”
“Yis, sorr. They seem a bit impatient, sorr.
They say they’re holdin' up the city edition for
the news, sorr.”
“Very good. Tell them Chief Leverage says
the story is worth waiting for.”
The coroner—a short, thick-set man—entered
and heard the story from Leverage's lips. He
made a cursory examination and nodded to
Carroll.
“Inquest in the morning, Mr. Carroll.
Meanwhile, I reckon you want to let them news-
papermen in.”
The two reporters entered and listened pop-
eyed to the story. They telephoned a bulletin
to their offices, and were assured of an hour's
leeway in phoning in the balance of the story.
They were quivering with excitement over
what promised to be, from a newspaper stand-
point, the juiciest morsel of sensational copy


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 43
with which the city had been blessed for some
time.
To them Carroll recounted the story as he
knew it, concealing nothing.
“This is a great space-eating story,” he told
them in their own language—the jargon of the
fourth estate—“and the more it eats the better
it’ll be for me. We want publicity on this case
—all you can hand out big chunks of it. We
want to know who that woman was. The way
I figure it, this city is going to get a jolt at
breakfast. Every one is going to be comparing
notes. Out of that mass of gossip we may get
some valuable information. Get that?”
“We do. Space in the morning edition will
be limited, but by evening, and the next morn-
ing—oh, baby!”
They took voluminous notes and telephoned
in enough additional information to keep the
city rooms busy. When they would have gone,
Carroll stopped them.
“Either of you chaps know anything of War-
ren’s personal history?”
The elder of the two nodded.
“I do. Know him personally, in fact. I’ve
played golf with him. Pretty nice sort.”
“Rich, isn't he?”


44 MIDNIGHT
“Reputed to be. Never works; spends freely
—not ostentatiously, but liberally. Pretty fine
sort of a chap. It’s a damned shame!”
“How about his relations with women?”
The reporter hesitated and glanced guiltily
at the dead body.
“That's rather strong—”
“It’s not going beyond here, unless I find it
necessary. I’ve played clean with you boys.
Suppose you do the same with me.”
“We-e-ell”—reluctantly—“he was rather
much of a rounder. Nothing coarse about him,
but he never was one to resist a woman.
Rather the reverse, in fact.”
“Ever been mixed up in a scandal?”
“Not publicly. He's friendly with a good
many men—and with their wives. A dozen, I
guess; but the husbands invite him to their
homes, so I don’t suppose there could be any-
thing in the gossip. You see, folks are always
too eager to talk about a man in his position
and whatever woman he happens to be friendly
with. And anyway, there hasn’t been nearly so
much talk about him since his engagement was
announced.”
“He is engaged?”
“Why, yes.”


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 45
“To a girl in this city?”
“Sure! I thought you knew that. Dandy
girl—Hazel Gresham. You’ve heard of Garry
Gresham? It’s his kid sister.”
“So-o! How long has this engagement been
known?”
“Couple of months. Pretty soft on both
sides; he’s got money and so has she. She’s a
good scout, too, even if she is a kid.”
“How old?”
“Hardly more than twenty; but her family
seemed to welcome the match. Warren and
Garry Gresham were pretty good friends.
Warren was about thirty-three or thirty-four,
you know. Gossip had it that the family was
going to object because of the difference in ages,
but they didn't.”
Carroll was silent for a moment.
“Nothing else about him you think might
prove interesting?”
“No-o.”
“And your idea of the murderer, after what
you’ve heard?”
“The woman in the taxicab killed him.”
“When did he get in?”
The reporter threw back his head and
laughed.


46 MIDNIGHT
“What is this—a game? If I knew that
I’d have your job, Mr. Carroll. The dame
killed him, all right; and when we find
out how she did it, and when, and how he
got in and she got out, we'll have a whale of a
story!”
“No theories as to the identity of this woman,
have you?”
“Nary one. A chap like Warren—bachelor,
unencumbered—is liable to know a heap of 'em.
From what you tell me of the tickets—from the
fact that she was going away with him, I sort
of figure you might do a little social investigat-
ing and discover what woman might have been
going off with him.”
Eric Leverage had been listening intently.
His mind, never swift to work, yet worked
surely. His big voice boomed into the conver-
sation:
“Carroll?”
“Yes?”
“This young fellow says Miss Gresham's
family didn’t have no objections to the mar-
riage. It just occurred to me to ask him is he
sure?”
The reporter flushed.
“Why, no, chief; not sure. You never can


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 47
be sure about things like that; but so far as
the public knew—”
“That's it, exactly. How do we know,
though, but what they were sore as a pup over
it, and just kept their traps closed because they
didn’t want any gossip? S'posin’ they were
trying to break things off, an’ makin’ it pretty
uncomfortable for the girl? Sºpose that, eh?”
“Yes,” argued the reporter. “Suppose all
of that. Where does it get you?”
“It gets you just here”—Leverage talked
slowly, heavily, tapping his spatulate fingers on
the table to emphasize his points—“we know
this bird was going to elope with some skirt.
All right! Now I ask this—why go all around
the block, looking for some one he might have
been mixed up with, when the woman a man
is most likely to elope with is the girl he’s en-
gaged to marry?”
Silence—several seconds of it. Carroll
spoke:
“Miss Gresham, you mean?”
“Sure, David—sure! I'm not sayin’ she was
the woman, mind you. I'm not sayin’ anything
except that if I’m right in thinkin’ that maybe
her folks weren’t as crazy about this guy War-
ren as they seemed—if I’m right in that, maybe


48 * MIDNIGHT
they was plannin’ to take matters in their own
hands and elope.”
“It’s possible.”
“Sure, it’s possible, and—”
“But, chief,” interrupted the reporter who
had done most of the talking, “why should Miss
Gresham kill Warren?” *
“I didn’t say she did, did I?”
“If she was the woman in the taxi-”
“If I Sure—if / All I mentioned that for was
to show you we might as well start thinking
close to home before we go to beatin’ through
the bushes to follow a cold trail.”
The reporters left, and Carroll smiled at Lev-
erage.
“Good idea, Eric—about Miss Gresham.”
“”Tain't a hunch,” said Leverage. “It just
made good talkin’.”
“I’m glad you did it, anyway.”
“What is there about it that you like?”
“Those newspaper chaps will play it up.
Maybe they won’t intend to, but they’ll play it
up, just the same; and it won’t take us long
either to connect Miss Gresham with the crime
or to link up an iron-clad alibi for her.”
“H-m! Not bad! You know, Carroll”—and
Leverage smiled frankly—“I’m always makin'


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 49
these fine suggestions an’ pullin' good stunts,
an’ never knowin’ whether they’re good or not
until somebody tells me.”
“A good many folks are like that, Eric, but
they don’t admit it afterward.”
“Neither do I–publicly.”
Leverage rose and yawned.
“It’s me for the hay, Carroll. I’m played
out; and I have a hunch that to-morrow I’m
going to be busy as seven little queen bees—and
you, too.”
Carroll reached for his overcoat.
“A little bit of thinking things over isn’t
going to hurt me, either. Good night!”
Thirty minutes later Carroll reached his
apartment, and a half-hour after that he was
sleeping soundly. The following morning he
waked “all over,” as was his habit, and turned
his eyes to gaze through the window.
During the night the sleety drizzle had ceased,
and the sun streamed with brilliant coldness
upon a city which shone in a glare of ice. Leaf-
less trees stretched their ice-covered tentacles
into the cold, penetrating air; pedestrians and
horses slipped on the glassy pavements; auto-
mobiles either skidded dangerously or set up an
incessant rattle with their chains.


50 MIDNIGHT
Carroll glanced at his watch. It showed nine
o'clock. He started with surprise. Then he
reached for the newspapers on the table at the
side of his bed, and spread open the front
pages.
They had evidently been made up anew with
the breaking of the Warren murder story.
Eight-column streamers shrieked at him from
both front pages. He read the stories through,
and smiled with satisfaction. Just as he had
anticipated, both reporters, hungry for some
definite clue upon which to work, had seized
upon the possibility of Hazel Gresham being
the mysterious woman in the taxicab. Not that
they said so openly, but they said enough to
make the public know that the detectives in
charge of the case were likely to investigate her
movements on the previous night.
Carroll stepped into a shower, then dressed
quickly and ate a light breakfast served him by
his maid, Freda. Before he finished, the door-
bell rang, and Freda announced that there was
a lady to see him.
“A lady?”
Freda shrugged.
“She ain’t bane nothin’ but a girl, sir, Mr.
Carroll—just a little girl.”


CARROLL HAS A VISITOR 51
“Show her in.”
In two minutes Freda returned, and behind her
came the visitor. Carroll concealed a smile at
sight of her. She was a little thing—sixteen or
seventeen years old, he judged—a fluffy, blond
girl quivering with vivacity; the type of girl who
is desperately reaching for maturity, entirely
forgetful of the charms of her adolescence. He
rose and bowed in a serious, courtly manner.
“You wish to see me?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Is this Mr. Carroll—the fa-
mous detective?”
“I am David Carroll—yes.”
She inspected him with frank approval.
“Why, you don’t look any more than a boy!
I thought you were old and had whiskers—and
—and—everything horrid.”
“I’m glad you’re pleasantly surprised.
What can I do for you?”
“Oh, it isn't what you can do for me—it's
what I can do for you!”
“And that is?”
“I came to tell you all about this terrible
Warren murder case.”
“You came to tell me about it?”
“Why, yes,” she retorted smilingly. “You
see, I know just heaps about the whole thing!”


CHAPTER V
MISS EVELYN ROGERS
ARROLL was more than amused; he
was keenly interested. He motioned
his visitor to a chair and seated him-
self opposite, regarding her quizzically.
She was not exactly the type of person he had
anticipated encountering in a murder investi-
gation. From the tip of her pert little hat to
the toes of her ultra-fashionable shoes she was
expressive of the independent rising genera-
tion—a generation wiser in the ways of the
world than that from which it was sprung—a
generation strangely bereft of genuine youth,
yet charming in an entirely modern and
unique manner.
She was obviously a young person of italics,
a human exclamation-point, enthusiastic, irre-
pressible. She sat fidgeting in her chair, trying
52


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 53
her best to convince the detective that she was
a woman grown. -
“I’m Evelyn Rogers,” she gushed. “I’m the
sister of Naomi Lawrence—you know her, of
course. She's one of the city’s social leaders.
Of course, she's kind of frumpy and terribly old.
She must be—why, I suppose she's every bit of
thirty! And that's simply awful!”
“I’m thirty-eight,” smiled Carroll.
“No?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well, you don’t look it. You don’t look a
day over twenty-two, and I think men who are
really grown up and yet look like boys are
simply adorable! I do, really. And I simply
despise boys of twenty-two who try to look like
thirty-eight. Don’t you?”
“M-m! Not always.”
“Well, I do! They’re always putting on airs
and trying to make us girls think they’re full-
grown. I just simply haven’t time to waste
with them. I feel so old!”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, Miss Rogers. And
now—I believe you came to tell me something
about the Warren case?”
“Oh, yes, indeed—just lots! But do you
know”—she stared at him with frank ap-
-


54 MIDNIGHT
proval—“I’m terribly tickled with the way you
look. You may not believe it, but I’ve always
heen atrociously in love with you.”
“No?”
“Yes, indeed! You’re such a wonderful
man—having your name in the papers all the
time. Oh, I’ve read about everything you’ve
done! That’s how I learned so much about
detectiving—or isn’t that what you call it?”
“Detecting?”
“That's it. You know I always was simply
incorrigible in making up words when I couldn't
think of the right one. Don’t you think it’s a lot
of trouble sometimes—thinking of just the right
word in the right place?”
“Sometimes. But about the Warren case?”
“Oh, yes, certainly! I’m always getting off
my subject, ain't I? I mean—am I not? Bother
grammar, anyway. It’s a terrible bore, don’t
you think?”
“Yes, Miss Rogers. And now—”
“Back to that awful crime again, aren’t you?
It's simply sugary the way you great detectives
stick to one subject. I can do it, too, when I
have to. I took some lessons once in power of
will—concentration and all that sort of thing.
It made me feel wickedly old; but I learned a


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 55
great deal about keeping my mind on one sub-
ject all the time. You know, it doesn’t matter
what you concentrate on—even if it's only mak-
ing biscuits, or something messy and domestic
like that—it does you good. It trains you not
to waste words, and to store up your mental
energy, and all that sort of thing. And all the
time I was studying that course, I was thinking
how perfectly glorious modern science is. Just
suppose Shakespeare had been able to concen-
trate like us moderns can His plays would
have been utterly marvelous, wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose they would. And now let's try
concentrating on the Warren case.”
“That’s what I’ve been leading up to. You
see, I knew Mr. Warren very well. In fact, he
was awfully friendly with me. To tell you the
strict truth, and absolutely in confidence, I
really believe he was in love with me!”
“No?”
“Yes, truly 1 We women have a way of know-
ing when a man is in love with us. He used to
be around at the house all the time. Of course,
he pretended that he came around because he
liked Sis and Gerald—”
“Gerald?”
“That's Mr. Lawrence. He's my brother-in-


56 MIDNIGHT
law—Sis's husband. Insufferably old-timy.
Don’t think of anything but business. Used to
look at me through his horn-rimmed glasses and
say I was entirely too young to be receiving
attentions from a man as old as Mr. Warren;
but he didn't know. I’m not young, really, you
know. Of course, I’m not twenty yet, but a girl
can be under twenty and yet be a woman, can't
She?”
“Yes”—dryly—‘‘especially after she learns
to concentrate.”
“And as intimately as I knew Roland—
that's Mr. Warren, you know—of course I
didn’t call him Roland to his face. Not that he
didn’t want me to, but then Sis and Gerald
would have disapproved—old frumps! Know-
ing him so intimately, and really believing that
he was in love with me—although, of course, the
minute he became engaged to Hazel Gresham I
didn't even flirt with him any more—not the
least little tiny harmless bit well, I find it ex-
cruciatingly hard to believe that he is dead!”
“He is—quite. We're trying to discover who
killed him.”
“I know it. That’s what I came to see you
about.”
“So you did. I’d quite forgotten—”


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 57
“You ought to learn to concentrate, Mr.
Carroll. It's really ridiculously easy after
you’ve studied it a little bit. Now if I had been
you, and you had been I–me—I never would
have forgotten what you came to see me about.
Of course, I know you didn’t forget, really; but
the chances are that you were interested talking,
and absolutely failed to remember that poor
boy.”
“What poor boy?”
“Roland Warren.”
Carroll with difficulty concealed a smile.
“I see! And now that I’ve remembered him
again, suppose you tell me what you know about
him and the case?”
“It’s principally about what I read in the
papers this morning. Really, Mr. Carroll, there
ought to be a law against newspapers printing
such ridiculous things!”
“As what, for instance?”
“That thing they had in there this morning.
Why, the way they mentioned Hazel Gresham,
you’d have thought that they thought she was
the woman who killed Roland—the woman in the
taxicab.”
Carroll's eyes narrowed slightly. The faint
smile still played about his lips.


58 MIDNIGHT
“You don’t think she was?”
“Oh, Mr. Carroll! Please, please, don’t be so
irresistibly absurd! Why in the world should
Hazel kill the man she was engaged to?”
“I don’t know.”
“And besides, what does she know about kill-
ing some one? That is the most bizarre idea I
have ever heard in all my life. Besides, she
couldn’t have killed him, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t; and
I’m sure she didn’t want to. Not that I think
Roland Warren was the finest man in the world,
or anything like that. Of course, I do believe
he was interested in me, and that made me know
him pretty well; but still he was an awfully nice
boy, and I’m sure Hazel was very much in love
with him. So even if she could have killed him,
she wouldn’t, would she?”
“I hope not; but you said she couldn’t. What
did you mean by that?”
“I mean that nobody can be in two places
at one time. Although I did read a funny
article in the Sunday magazine section of one
of the big newspapers, last year, which said
that—”
“If Miss Gresham had been with Mr. Warren


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 59
last night at midnight—she would have been in
two places at one time?”
“Why, yes—and that’s not possible; so, of
course, she—"
“What makes you think that, Miss Rogers?”
“Think What?”
“That Miss Gresham was not with Mr.
Warren at midnight last night?”
“Why,” answered Evelyn Rodgers simply,
“I know she wasn't—that’s all.”
“You know?”
“Yes, indeed—beyond the what-you-call-'em
of a doubt.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s very simple,” she explained casually.
“She was with me all night.”
Carroll gazed at the girl before him with new
interest. Out of her chatter he had at last
garnered one important fact. His mind, trained
to seize upon the vital and instantly discard the
inconsequential, clutched the bit of information
and turned it over. From the first Carroll had
scouted the idea that the dead man’s fiancée
might have been responsible for his death; but
still it was a line of investigation which
demanded examination, and his pretty young
visitor was making that road exceedingly


60 MIDNIGHT
simple. He injected all the warmth of his
friendly, sunny nature in the smile which he
bestowed upon her.
“You have helped me tremendously with that .
piece of information, Miss Rogers.”
“I don’t see how, particularly. No one with
any sense—provided they knew Hazel, of
course—could even imagine her killing any one,
and least of all an adorable boy like Roland.
She was so much in love with him l’’
“Of course, I haven’t the pleasure of Miss
Gresham's acquaintance.”
“Of course not. You’ll have to meet her,
though. She's a darling! Naturally, she's all
broken up this morning because her wed-
ding date was all set. Now all her plans
have gone smash, and she really was terribly
fond—”
“You say you spent the night with Miss
Gresham?”
“Certainly, and—”
“Where?”
“At her house.” -
“And you are sure she was there all night?”
“Of course! We slept in the same bed—and
that’s certainly proof enough, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 61
“You suppose? My goodness gracious!
Don’t you know?”
“Well—yes. If you’re sure—”
“Why, my dear Mr. Carroll, we didn’t even
actually go to bed until a quarter before twelve.
At ten o’clock we made some waffles down-
stairs— Hazel has just bought a perfectly
darling aluminum electric waffle-iron. It makes
the most toothsome waffles—all crisp and every-
thing. And you know when you use aluminum
you don’t need any grease, so that makes the
waffles much nicer. I’m getting horribly domes-
tic since Hazel became engaged, because she is
learning—”
“And after you made the waffles?”
“Oh! After that we went up-stairs to her
room, and put on our kimonos, and had a heart-
to-heart talk. I can’t tell you what we talked
about, because sometimes—well, it was atro-
ciously risqué—as women will, you know,
and—” g
“At a quarter before twelve you were still
sitting up talking, and you had your kimonos
On?”
“Yes, and—oh, you just ought to see Hazel’s
new kimono—pink crêpe de chine, trimmed with


MISS EVELYN ROGERS 63
“Whenever you get ready.”
She clapped her hands.
“That's simply eacquisite! You know, Mr.
Carroll, I’m just simply crazy about you! I
always have been, but I’m more so now than
ever—just hopelessly!”
“Thank you.”
She made her way to the door. There she
turned, and there was a peculiar light in her
eyes.
“Mr. Carroll?”
“Yes?”
“I wish you had been nineteen years old just
now.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she flashed, “if you had been
nineteen years old when I told you what I did,
you would have kissed me!”


CHAPTER VI
REGARDING ROLAND WARRENT
OR a long time after Evelyn departed,
F Carroll remained seated, puffing amus-
edly on the cigar which followed his
matutinal cigarette. Time had been long since
the detective had come in contact with so much
youthful spontaneity, and he found the experi-
ence refreshing. Then he rose and would have
left the apartment for headquarters, but again
Freda announced a caller. -
“Another young lady?” questioned Carroll.
“No, sir. It bane young feller.”
“Show him in.”
The visitor entered, and Carroll found him-
self gazing into the level eyes of a slightly dis-
heveled and obviously excited young man of
about twenty-eight years of age. The man was
slight of stature, but every nervous gesture be-
spoke wiriness.
“Are you Mr. Carroll?”
64


- REGARDING ROLAND WARREN 65
“Yes.”
“I’m Gresham—Garrison Gresham.”
“A-a-ah! Won't you be seated?”
“Yes. I came to have a talk with you.”
Carroll seated himself opposite his caller.
Then he nodded.
“You came to see me?”
“About the Warren case.”
“You know something about it?”
“Yes!” The young man seemed to bite the
word. “I do.”
“What?”
“You’re in charge of the case, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen this morning’s papers?”
“I have.”
“Well, they’re rotten—absolutely rotten.
They don’t say it in so many words, but the
impression they create is that my sister, Hazel,
was the woman in the taxi who killed Roland
Warren. It’s a damned lie!”
The young man was growing more excited.
Carroll put out a restraining hand.
“I quite agree with you, my friend—it was a
pretty rotten impression to create; but I shall
see that all doubt is removed from the mind of
the public when this afternoon’s papers appear


66 MIDNIGHT
I have just learned that your sister has an iron-
clad alibi.”
“You have already learned that?”
“Yes.”
Gresham leaned forward eagerly.
“What makes you sure—that she did not—
was not—”
“Suppose I question you—if you have no
objections.”
“Fire away.”
“Where was your sister at midnight last
night?”
“At home.”
“Alone? I mean was any one besides your
family there?”
“Yes,” replied Gresham, showing surprise at
Carroll’s evident knowledge of facts.
“Who?”
“Evelyn Rogers spent the night with her.
Evelyn's a seventeen-year-old kid who has had
what I believe you call a crush on my sister.
They were together in that house from ten
o'clock last night, or earlier, until this morning.
And if you don’t believe that—”
“But I do. I have just had a visit from Miss
Rogers, and she told me exactly what you have
just repeated; so I'm pretty well satisfied that


REGARDING ROLAND WARREN 67
your sister had nothing whatever to do with the
affair. I will take pains to see that this eve-
ning’s papers make that quite clear.”
Gresham rose. A load seemed to have
dropped from his shoulders.
“That's white of you, Carroll! I appreciate
it.”
“Not at all. I have no desire to cause annoy.
ance or inconvenience where it is unnecessary.
And Miss Rogers told me, with great attention
to detail, just why and how it was impossible for
your sister to have been anywhere except at
home last night.”
“Evelyn's considerable of a brick, in spite of
the fact that she’s more or less minus in the
upper story. And now, if you’re really satis-
fied, I’ll be going.”
The two men walked to the door together.
They were about of a height; Carroll slightly
the heavier of the two. -
“You’ve no idea as to the identity of the
woman in the taxicab, have you, Gresham?”
“No. Have you?”
“None whatever; though I fancy something
ought to develop in the near future. The city
is discussing it pretty freely?”
“The town's wild about it. They don’t


68 MIDNIGHT
understand anything. It's tough on my sister.
Hazel is only a kid, and I think she was in love
with Warren. Well, good day, Carroll.” He
extended a firm hand. “Any time I can be of
any help-”
“Thanks, Gresham.”
Five minutes after Gresham's departure,
Carroll was in his car, headed for the police-
station. He turned the case over and over in a
keen, analytic mind which had been refreshed
by a night of untroubled sleep.
There were a good many features about it
which puzzled him considerably. While he had
not expected that the trail of the mysterious
midnight woman would lead to the fiancée of the
dead man, the sudden dissipation of that as a
clue rather threw him off his balance. He had
reached the end of a trail almost before setting
foot upon it.
Thus far he had refused to allow himself to
be worried by the strangest feature of the
case—the appearance of the dead body in a taxi-
cab which, according to its driver's story, could
not have been other than empty. It was always
easy to explain the disappearance of a person
from an automobile; but, he figured, it was pat-


REGARDING ROLAND WARREN 69
ently impossible to enter one without the
driver's knowledge.
He reached headquarters and closeted him-
self with Leverage. They plunged at once into
a discussion of that phase of the case.
“There are only two things which could have
happened,” said the chief of police slowly,
“One is that some one croaked that bird Warren
and shoved him into the cab while the woman
was ridin’ in it. The other is that he slipped
into the cab and she killed him. While I ain’t
jumpin’ on no set ideas, I have a hunch that the
last one is right.” -
“Why?”
“Because the other—that idea of puttin' a
dead body into a cab without the driver know-
ing it—it just naturally ain’t possible.”
“Then you are quite convinced, Leverage,
that Walters did not know anything about it?”
“Now, say, Carroll, that’s putting it up to me
rather strong; but since you're asking, I’m here
to say that I believe the kid. Of course it’s pos-
sible that he was in on the deal—but I’m betting
Liberty bonds against Russian rubles that he'd
have slipped somewhere if that had been the
case. Nobody that's in on a murder deal is
going to frame a lie that sticks his bean as close


70 MIDNIGHT
to a noose as Walter’s would be if he’s not
tellin’ the truth!”
“Sounds reasonable; and yet—”
“I’m surprised at you suspectin’ the kid.”
“I don’t suspect him.”
“But you said—”
“We can't overlook anything—that's what I
said. It’s what I was driving at, anyway. So
far, Walters is the only tangible clue we’ve had
to work with. As I told you, the Hazel Gresham
trail died a-borning. The kid who came to see
me this morning cleared her; and then her
brother came along right afterward, red-hot
over the insinuations against his sister in the
papers. As matters stand now, there’s nothing
to tie to but Spike Walters.”
“I’m glad you’re handling it,” said Leverage
fervently. “And as you are, I'm making so
bold as to ask what you’re going to do next?”
“A little general inquiring. You can help me
on that. For one thing, I want to get hold of
every bit of dope I can regarding Warren—who
he was, where he came from, what he did, the
size of his bank deposits, his business connec-
tions, his social life, and especially every morsel
of gossip that’s ever been circulated about him
in connection with women.”


REGARDING ROLAND WARREN 71
“H-m! You think this dame was a society
SOrt?”
“Probably. He was undoubtedly going away
with her; and a man of his stamp doesn’t often
elope with a woman of the other type.”
“True enoughl Well, I’ll get you what dope
I can.”
“I want it all. I'm afraid this is going to
resolve itself into a contest of elimination. The
city is buzzing about the case to-day, and it
ought to be pretty easy to get hold of a world of
gossip concerning Warren's love-affairs—pro-
vided he had any. Everybody’s concerned over
the identity of that woman, and every woman
Warren has ever been mixed up with, even in
the most innocuous way, is going to be dragged
into the case.”
Carroll made his way from headquarters
direct to the consolidated railroad ticket office.
He introduced himself to the chief clerk and
stated his business. The other showed keen
interest.
“The tickets were sold to him in this office,
Mr. Carroll. This young man here sold them.”
Carroll smiled genially at the skinny young
chap who bustled forward importantly, proud
of his temporary spotlight position.


72 MIDNIGHT
“You sold some tickets to Roland Warren?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When?” .
“Day before yesterday.”
“You are sure it was Mr. Warren?”
“Yes, sir. I have known him by sight for a
long time.”
“About the tickets—what did he buy?”
“Two tickets and a drawing-room on No. 29
for New York—due to leave at 11.55 last night.”
“You’re sure he bought two tickets and a
drawing-room? Or was it one ticket?”
“It had to be two. We can’t sell a drawing-
room unless the purchaser has double transpor-
tation.”
“You delivered both tickets to him person-
ally?”
“Yes, sir—gave them both to him.”
From the ticket office Carroll went back to
headquarters, and from there to the coroner’s
office, and, accompanied by that dignitary, to
the undertaking establishment where the body
was being kept under police guard. Nothing
had yet been touched. The inquest had resulted
in a verdict of “death by violence, inflicted by a
revolver in the hands of a person unknown.”
Carroll again ran through the man's pockets.


REGARDING ROLAND WARREN 73
In a vest pocket he discovered what he sought.
He took the trunk check to the Union Station,
and through his police badge secured access to
the baggage-room. The trunk was not there.
He compared checks with the baggage-master,
and learned that the trunk had duly gone to
New York. He left orders for it to be returned
to the city.
From there he went to the office of the divi-
sion superintendent, and left a half-hour later,
after an exchange of telegrams between the
superintendent and the conductor of the train
for New York, which informed him that the
drawing-room engaged by Warren had been
unoccupied, nor had there been an attempt on
the part of any one to secure possession of it.
Also that the only berth purchased on the train
had been at a small-town stop about four o’clock
in the morning. -
Obviously, then, the person who was to share
the drawing-room with Warren, and for whom
the second ticket had been bought, had never
boarded the train. The trail had doubled back
again to the woman in the taxicab.
It was not until two o'clock in the afternoon
that Carroll returned to headquarters. He
found Leverage ready with his report.


76 MIDNIGHT
at the curb and inspected the place closely from
the outside.
There was little architectural beauty to rec-
ommend the house. It was a rambling, dilapi-
dated, two-story structure, sadly in need of
paint and repairs, and bespeaking occupancy
by a family none too well blessed with the better
things of existence. They proceeded to the door
and rang the bell. A slatternly woman
answered their summons, and Leverage ad-
dressed her: -
“We wish to see William Barker, please.”
“William Barker?” -
“Yes. I believe he moved here yesterday.”
“Oh, that feller!” The woman started in-
side. “Wait a minute,” she said crossly, and
shut the door in their faces.
While they stood waiting, Leverage glanced
keenly up and down the street, and his eye
lighted on the muscular figure of Cartwright,
the plainclothes man, shivering in the partial
shelter of an alley across the way. The police-
man signaled them that all was well, and
resumed his vigil. At that minute the door
opened and the woman reappeared.
“He ain’t home!” she said, and promptly
closed the door again. *


THE WALET TALKS 77
Carroll looked at Leverage and Leverage
looked at Carroll. Leverage crossed the street
and interrogated Cartwright.
“The landlady says he's out, Cartwright.
How about it?”
“Bum steer, chief! The bird’s there—I’ll
bet my silk shirt on it!”
Leverage recrossed the street and reported to
Carroll.
“You’re pretty sure Cartwright has the
straight dope?”
“Sure thing,” said the chief. “He’s one of
the most reliable men on the force, and when he
says a thing, he knows it.”
Carroll stroked his beardless chin. There was
a hard, calculating light in his eyes—eyes which
alternated between a soft, friendly blue and a
steely gray. Finally he looked up at Leverage.
“What's your idea, Eric?”
“About him sendin’ word he was out when we
know he ain’t?” *
“Exactly.”
“It looks darn funny to me, Carroll! 'Pears
like he didn’t want to discuss the affair with
us.”
“He don’t know who we are.”
“He can guess pretty well. Any guy with a


78 MIDNIGHT
head on his shoulders knows the valet of a
murdered man is going to be quizzed by the
police.”
“Good! Come on.”
Carroll put a firm hand on the knob and
turned it. Then he stepped into the dingy
reception hall, followed by the city’s chief of
police.
At the sound of visitors, the angular frame
of the boarding-house-keeper appeared in the
doorway, her eyes flashing antagonistically.
Leverage turned back the lapel of his coat and
disclosed the police badge.
“Listen here, lady,” he said in a voice whose
very softness brooked no opposition; “that bird
Barker is here, and we’re going to see him.
Police business! Where’s his room?”
The woman’s face grew ashen.
“What’s he been doin’?” she quavered.
“What's he been up to now?”
“What’s he been up to before this?” count-
ered Leverage.
“I don't know anything about him. Swear
to Gawd I don't! He just come here yesterday
an” took a room. Paid cash in advance.”
“He’s in his room, ain't he?”
“What if he is? He told me to tell anybody


THE WALET TALKS 79
who come along that he was out. I didn’t know
you was cops. Oh, I hope there ain’t nothin’
goin’ to ruin the reputation of this place!
There ain’t a woman in town who runs a
decenter place than this.”
“Nobody’s going to know anything,” reas-
sured Carroll, “provided you keep your own
tongue between your teeth. Now take us to
Barker’s room.”
The boarding-house-keeper led the way up a
flight of dark and twisting stairs, along a
musty hall. She paused before a door at the
far end.
“There it is, sirs—and—”.
“You go downstairs,” whispered Carroll.
“If we should find you trying to listen at the
keyhole—”
His manner made it unnecessary to finish the
threat. The woman departed, fluttering with
excitement. Leverage's hand found the knob,
and Carroll nodded briefly. The door was flung
open, and the two men entered.
“What the—”
The occupant of the room leaped to his feet
and stood staring, his face gone pasty white, his
demeanor one of terror, which Carroll could see
he was fighting to control. Leverage closed the


80 MIDNIGHT
door gently and gazed at the man upon whom
they had called.
William Barker was not a large man; neither
was he small. He was one of those men of
medium height, whose physique deceives every
one save the anatomical expert. To the casual
observer his weight would have been catalogued
at about a hundred and forty. At a glance Car-
roll knew that it was nearer a hundred and
eighty. Normal breadth of shoulder was more
than made up for by unusual depth of chest.
Ready-made trousers bulged with the enormous
muscular development of calf and thigh. The
face, clean-shaven, was sullen with the fear
inspired by the sudden entrance of Carroll and
Leverage; and there was more than a hint of
evil in it. As they watched, the sullenness of
expression was supplanted by a leer, and then
by a mask of professional placidity—the bovine
expression which one expects to find in the aver-
age specimen of masculine hired help.
The man’s demeanor was a combination of
abjectness and hostility. He was plainly fright-
ened, yet striving to appear at ease.
Carroll and Leverage maintained silence.
Barker fidgeted nervously, and finally, when the
strain became too great, burst out with:


THE WALET TALKS 81
“Who are you fellers? Whatcha want?”
Carroll spoke softly.
“William Barker?”
“What if that is my name?”
Carroll's hands spread wide.
“Just wanted to be sure, that’s all. You are
William Barker?”
“An’ what if I am? What you got to do with
that?”
Carroll showed his badge.
“And this gentleman,” he finished, designat-
ing Laverage, “is chief of police.”
Barker's voice came back to him in a half
whine, half snarl.
“I ain’t done nothin’—”
“Nobody has accused you yet.”
“Well, when you bust in on a feller like
this—”
Carroll seated himself, and Leverage fol-
lowed suit. He motioned Barker to a chair.
“Let’s talk things over,” he suggested mildly.
“Ain’t nothin’ to talk over.”
“You’re William Barker, aren't you?”
“I ain’t said I ain’t, have I?”
Carroll's eyes grew a bit harder. His voice
cracked out:
“What's your name?”


82 MIDNIGHT
s
Barker met his gaze; then the eyes of the
ex-valet shifted.
“William Barker,” he answered almost unin-
telligibly.
“Very good! Now, sit down, William.”
William seated himself with ill grace. Car-
roll spoke again, but this time the softness had
returned to his tones. His manner approached
downright friendliness.
“We came here to talk with you, Barker,” he
said frankly. “We don’t know a thing about
your connection with this case; but we do know
that you were valet to Roland Warren, and
therefore must possess a great deal of informa-
tion about him which no one else could possibly
have. All we want is to learn what you know
about this tragedy—what you know and what
you think.”
Barker raised his head. For a long time he
stared silently at Carroll.
“I don’t know who you are,” he remarked at
length; “but you seem to be on the level.”
“I am on the level,” returned Carroll quietly.
“My name is David Carroll—”
“O-o-oh" So you’re David Carroll?” The
query was a sincere tribute.
“Yes, I’m Carroll, and I’m working on the


THE VALET TALKS 83
Warren case. I don’t want to cause trouble for
any one, but there are certain facts which I
must learn. You can tell me some of them. No
person who is innocent has the slightest thing
to fear from me. And so—Barker—if you have
nothing to conceal, I'd advise that you talk
frankly.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to conceal. What made
you think I had?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think anything
definite at this stage of the game. I want to find
out what you know.”
“I don’t know nothin', either.”
“H-m! Suppose I learn that for myself!
I’ll start at the beginning. Your name is
William Barker?”
“Yes. I told you that once.”
“Where is your home? What city have you
lived in mostly?”
The man hesitated.
“I was born in Gadsden, Alabama, if that’s
what you mean. Mostly I’ve lived in New York
and around there.”
“What cities around there?”
**Newark.”
“Newark, New Jersey?”


84 MIDNIGHT
“Yes. An’ in Jersey City some, and Pater-
son, and a little while in Brooklyn.”
“You met Mr. Warren where?”
“In New York. I was valet for a feller
named Duckworth, and he went and died on
me—typhoid; you c'n find out all about him if
you want. Mr. Warren was a friend of Mr.
Duckworth's, an” he offered me a job. We lived
in New York for a while and then we come down
here.”
“How long ago?”
“’Bout four years—maybe five.”
“What kind of a man was he—personally?”
Carroll watched his man closely without ap-
pearing to do so. He saw Barker flush slightly,
and did not miss the jerky nervousness of his
answer—that or the forced enthusiasm.
“Oh, I reckon he is all right. That is, he
was all right. Real nice feller.”
“You were fond of him?”
“I didn’t say I was in love with him. I said
he was a nice feller.”
“Treated you well?”
“Oh, sure—he treated me fine.”
“And yet he discharged you yesterday.”
Then Carroll bluffed. “Without notice!”
Barker looked up sharply. His face betrayed


86 MIDNIGHT
“Oh, her? Sure! She's the person that
killed him!”
“He knew a good many women?” suggested
Carroll interrogatively. “He got along pretty
well with them?”
“H-m!” William Barker nodded. “You said
it then, Mr. Carroll. Mr. Warren—he was a
bird with the women!”


CHAPTER VIII
CARROLL MAKES A MOVE
O slightest move of Warren’s erstwhile
N no involuntary gesture of nervousness,
valet—no twitching of facial muscles,
however slight—escaped Carroll's attention;
but with all his watchfulness, the boyish-looking
investigator was unostentatious, almost retir-
ing in his manner. -
And this modest demeanor was having its
effect on William Barker, just as Carroll had
known it would have, and as Leverage had
hoped. Eric Leverage had worked with Carroll
before, and he had seen the man's personal
charm, his sunny smile, his attitude of cama-
raderie, perform miracles. People had a way of
talking freely to Carroll after he had chatted
with them awhile, no matter how bitter the
hostility surrounding their first meeting. Car-
roll was that way—he was a student of prac-
tical every-day psychology. He worked to one
87


88 - MIDNIGHT
end—he endeavored to learn the mental reac-
tions of every one of his dramatis personae
toward the fact of the crime he happened to be
investigating; that and, as nearly as possible,
their feelings at the moment of the commission
of the crime, no matter where they might have
been.
“It doesn’t matter what a suspect says,” he
had told Leverage once. “Some of them tell the
truth and some of them lie. Often the truth
sounds untrue, while the lies carry all the ear-
marks of honesty. It’s a sheer guess on the
part of any detective. What I want to know is
how my man felt at the time the crime was com-
mitted—not where he was; and how he feels now
about the whole thing.”
“But the facts themselves are important,”
argued the practical chief of police.
“Granted! But when you have facts, you
don’t need a detective. I’d rather have a
suspect talk freely and never tell the truth
than have him be reticent and stick to a true
story.”
Leverage's reply had been expressive of his
opinion of Carroll's almost uncanny ability.
“Sounds like damned nonsense,” said he;
“but it's never failed you yet. And even you


90 MIDNIGHT
first, find the woman; then find some man vitally
affected by her elopement with Warren.
Carroll betrayed no particular interest in
Barker's statement. Instead, he smiled geni-
ally, a sort of between-us-men smile, which did
much to disarm Barker.
“A regular devil with 'em, eh, Barker?”
“You spoke a mouthful that time, Mr. Car-
roll! What he didn’t know about women their
own husbands couldn’t tell him.”
“Married ones?”
“Oh, sure! He was a specialist with them.”
“Then most of this gossip we’ve been hearing
has a basis of fact?”
A momentary return of caution showed in
Barker's retort.
“I don’t know just what you’ve been
hearin’.”
“A good many stories about his love affairs—
with women who were prominent socially.”
Barker shrugged.
“Most likely they’re true; although it's a safe
bet that a heap of 'em was lies. Men folks have
a way of lyin’ about women that way, even
where they’ll tell the truth about everything
else. They’ve got women beaten ninety-seven
ways gossiping about that sort of thing.”


CARROLL MAKES A MOVE 91
“You know a thing or two yourself, Barker?”
The man flushed with pleasure.
“Oh, I ain’t nobody’s pet jackass, when it
comes to that!”
“Now you”—Carroll’s tone was gentle,
almost hypnotic—“of course you know who the
woman is that Mr. Warren was planning to
elope with?’”
“I know—”
Suddenly Barker paused, and his face went
white. He compressed his lips with an effort
and choked back the words. Leverage, leaning
forward in tense eagerness—knowing the verbal
trap that Carroll had been planting—sighed
with disappointment, and relaxed.
“Say, what the hell are you driving at?”
“Nothing.” One would have sworn that
Carroll was surprised at Barker's flare of
anger—or else that it had passed unnoticed. “I
just figured that you, having been his valet, and
knowing a good deal about him, would have
knowledge of this.”
“He wasn’t in the habit of discussin” his
lady friends with me,” growled the ex-valet
surlily.
“Of course he wasn't; but you know, of
course? You guessed?”


92 MIDNIGHT
“No, I didn't do nothin’ of the kind. Say,
what are you tryin’ to do—trip me up or some-
thin’?”
“Of course not. Why should I be interested
in tripping you up?”
“You was sayin’—”
“Don’t be foolish, Barker! It wouldn’t do
me a bit of good to—er—trip you up. All I
want is whatever knowledge you have which
may prove of interest in solving this case.”
The man’s eyes narrowed craftily.
“You ain't got no suspicions yourself, have
you?”
“Suspicions of what?”
“Who that dame in the taxicab was.”
Carroll laughed infectiously.
“Goodness, no! If I had, I wouldn’t be
seated here chatting with you.” -
Again the expression of relief flashed across
Barker's face—a bit of play lost by neither
detective. Carroll was toying idly with a gold
pencil on the end of his waldemar. His outward
calmness exasperated Leverage. From this
point of the interview, the chief of police would
have dropped the attitude of trustful friendli-
ness and resorted to a little practical third-
degree stuff. He was fairly quivering with


CARROLL MAKES A MOVE 93
eagerness to bluster about the room and extract
information by main force.
And a hint of Leverage's mental seethe must
have been communicated to Carroll, for the
younger man turned the battery of his sunny
gaze upon the chief of police and nodded reas-
suringly. The effect was instantaneous. Lev-
erage's temporary resentment departed much
as the gas escapes from a pin-punctured bal-
loon. He gave ear to Barker’s speech.
“N’r you ain’t the only one who don’t know
who that woman was. I don't!”
“You knew he was planning to elope,
though?”
The man shook his head doggedly.
“I knew he was leavin’ the city for good, if
that’s what you mean.”
“No-o, not exactly. I knew that much myself.
What interests me is this—was he planning to
leave with some woman?”
Barker hesitated before replying, and when
he did answer it was patent that his words were
chosen carefully.
“I don’t hardly reckon he was, Mr. Carroll.
Mind you, I'm not sayin’ he wasn't; but then
again I ain’t sayin’ he was. I can't do nothin'
only guess—same as you can.”


94 MIDNIGHT
“I see!” Carroll was apparently uncon-
scious of Barker's flagrant evasion. “What I
don’t understand is this—when Mr. Warren
was publicly engaged to Miss Gresham, why
did he try to elope with her?”
“Elope with Miss Gresham?” Barker
paused; then a slow, calculating smile creased
his lips. “Miss Gresham—her he was engaged
to! Dog-gone if I don’t believe you’ve hit the
nail on the head, Mr. Carroll!” -
“What nail?” - t
“About her bein’ the woman in the taxi. You
know some fellers is like that—they’d a heap
rather elope with a woman they’re crazy about
than stand up in a church and get married.
They’re sort of romantic.” Barker was wax-
ing loquacious. “You know, you must be right.
Fact, if you put it right up to me, I’d say there
wasn’t no doubt that Miss Gresham was the
woman in the taxicab.”
“I had that idea,” responded Carroll slowly.
“But what I can’t understand, Barker, and
what you might help me figure out, is
this—why should Miss Gresham kill Mr.
Warren?”
“Huh ! Ask me somethin’ easy, will you? I
never was good at riddles.”


cannow wakes a MOVE 9
5
Leverage marveled at the change in the two
men. Apparently Carroll had swallowed hook,
line, and sinker. Of course, Leverage was
pretty sure that he had not; but he was also sure
that Barker thought he had. And Barker was .
volunteering information—plenty of it—that
was absolutely valueless. For the first time he
was forcing the conversational pace, and Car-
roll seemed serenely content to drag limply
along.
“Reckon she might have been jealous of
him?” drawled Carroll.
“Jealous? Maybe. I ain’t sayin’ she wasn’t.
Of course, she must have heard a good many
things about him and other women; and when a
woman gets downright jealous there ain’t much
sayin’ what she wouldn’t do. Not that I’m
sayin' Miss Gresham croaked him. I ain’t sayin'
nothin’ positive; but if you’re askin’ me who
he'd most naturally elope with, why I'd say it
was the girl he was engaged to marry.. If he
wasn’t going to marry her, what did he ever get
engaged to her for?”
Carroll nodded.
“Certainly sounds reasonable.” He paused,
and then: “Where were you about midnight last
night?”


96 MIDNIGHT
“I was.”—Barker's figure stiffened defen-
sively, and his eyebrows drew down over the
, deep-set eyes— “I was just shootin’ some
pool.”
“Shooting pool?”
“Uh-huh !”
“Where?”
“At Kelly's place.”
“Where is that?”
The man hesitated, flushed, and then, some-
what sullenly:
“On Cypress Street.”
“That’s pretty close to the Union Station,
isn’t it?”
“Not so close.”
“About how far away?”
Again the momentary hesitation.
“’Bout a half-block.”
“And you were shooting pool there?”
“Sure I was I c'n prove it.”
Carroll grinned disengagingly.
“You don’t need to prove anything to me,
Barker. And for goodness' sake get the idea
out of your head that I’m suspecting you of
anything. I had to talk matters over with you.
You knew more about the dead man than any
one else; but I couldn’t think you had anything


CARROLL MAKES A MOVE 97
to do with it, could I? You’re not a woman!”
Barker grinned sheepishly.
“That’s all right, Mr. Carroll. And as for me
bein’ a woman—well, you’re sure a woman
killed him, ain't you?”
“As sure as any one can be. And now”—
Carroll rose—“I’m tremendously obliged for
all the information you’ve given me. Any time
you run across anything more that you think
might prove of interest, look me up, will you?”
“Sure! Sure!” Barker’s tone was almost
hearty. “You’re a regular feller, Mr. Carroll—
a regular feller!”
The two detectives departed. Carroll spoke
to Cartwright as he passed:
“Keep both eyes on that fellow Barker,” he
ordered curtly. “I’ll send Reed up to team
with you. Don’t let him get away. Nab him if
he tries it.”
Cartwright nodded briefly, and Carroll and
Leverage climbed into the former's car. As
they rounded the corner, Leverage turned wide
eyes upon his professional associate.
“Carroll ?”
“Yes?”
“You beat the Dutch 1”
“How so?”


98 MIDNIGHT
“You didn’t swallow that bird’s yarn, did
you?”
“Of course not,” answered Carroll calmly.
“I didn’t think so; but you had me worried,
with that innocent look of yours. Me, if I was
wantin’ to play safe on this case, I’d arrest
William Barker pronto.”
“Why?”
“Because,” snapped Leverage positively,
“I think he was mixed up in Warren's mur-
der 1’’
“Aa-ah!” Carroll refused to become ex-
cited. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. What do you think?”
“I think this,” answered Carroll. “I think
that Mr. William Barker knows a great deal
more about the case than he has told!”


CHAPTER IX
ICE CREAM SODA
HEY drove in silence to headquarters,
each man busy with his thoughts. It
was not until they were alone in Lever-
age’s sanctum that the subject of the recent in-
terview was again broached. It was Leverage
who brought it up, in his characteristically gruff
way.
“I reckon you’re wonderin’, Carroll, about
what I said back yonder in the car?”
“About arresting Barker?”
“Yes. I guess you’re figuring what I’d ar-
rest him for, eh?”
“I’m interested—yes.”
“I’d arrest him for this.” Leverage leaned
forward earnestly, his attitude that of a man
eager to convince. “Let’s admit right off the
reel that the skirt in the taxicab croaked War-
ren. Looks like she did, anyway; but whether
she did or not, it’s an even bet that there was a
99
º
*


100 MIDNIGHT
man mixed up in it somewhere. And if that
man isn't Mr. William Barker, then I'll eat a
month’s pay.”
“You’re sure there was a man mixed up some-
Where?”
“Certainly. This murder deal was planned
in advance. It must have been. Things
couldn’t just work out that way. And no
woman, no matter how much she wanted to
bump Warren off, could think of a thing that
complicated. Even if she did think of it, she
wouldn’t have the nerve to carry it out that
way. Ain't I right?”
“You may not be right, Leverage; but you’re
certainly logical.”
“Good! Now, so far, we ain’t got any man
in this case except Barker.” - * *
Carroll shook his head.
“You’re wrong there.”
“How?”
“Somewhere in this town is some man who is
interested in the woman with whom Warren was
planning to elope. Don't forget this, Leverage
—I let Barker ramble on. I like to hear 'em
talk. The minute he jumped at the idea that
the woman in the taxi was Miss Gresham, I
knew perfectly well that he knew she was not.


ICE CREAM SODA 101
I also believe that he knows who the woman
was. Further, I believe that she is socially
prominent. That being the case, it is a safe
guess that there is some man who might com-
mit a murder, provided he knew in advance of
the elopement. Our task now is to discover
that woman and, through her, the man inter-
ested.”
Leverage frowned thoughtfully.
“Listens good,” he volunteered at length.
“Another thing—Barker admits he was shoot-
ing pool in Kelly's place last night around mid-
night; and Kelly’s place is only half a block
from the Union Station. That sounds signifi-
Cant!”
“It does; and then again it may mean noth-
ing. What I am striving for is to make Wil-
liam Barker feel that he is safe. The safer he
feels, the more readily he will talk. No matter.
how many lies he tells, everything that he says
is of value. He didn't know, of course, that we
already had a perfect alibi for Miss Gresham;
but even if we hadn’t, his assumed belief that
she committed the crime would have assured
me that she did not. No-o, I think we’d better
not arrest the man unless he forces our hand—
tries to jump town, or something like that.


º
º
2102 MIDNIGHT
Better let him remain at large and talk fre-
quently. If he has anything to betray, there's
more chance that he’ll do it that way. Don’t
you think I'm right?”
“I wouldn’t admit it if I didn’t, Carroll.
I’ve seen you in action too often to believe
you're ever wrong.”
Carroll flushed boyishly.
“Don’t be absurd, Leverage! I'm often
wrong—very wrong. And don’t think that I’m
“a transcendent detective; they don’t really ex-
ist, you know. I’m merely trying to be human,
to learn the nature of the people with whom
I’m dealing. I try to learn 'em as well
as they know themselves—maybe a little bet-
ter; and then I try to separate the wheat
of vital facts from the chaff of the inconse-
quential.”
“Just the same,” insisted Leverage loyally,
“you always get 'em!”
“And when I do, it is because I have used
nothing more than plain common sense. Don’t
think that I attach no importance to physical
clues. They’re immensely valuable; but the
one weakness in a criminal is his lack of com-
mon sense. His perspective is awry, his sense
of values distorted. Usually he bothers his


ICE CREAM soda 103
head about a myriad minor details, and pays
but scant attention to the genuinely important
things. It is upon that weakness that I am
banking—particularly so in the case of
Barker.”
“I insist that you're a wonder, Carroll!”
“And I insist that you’re foolishly compli-
mentary. Did you ever stop to realize, Eric,
that when a crime is committed the advantage
lies entirely with the detective? The detective
can make a thousand mistakes during the course
of his investigations and still trap his man; but
the criminal cannot make one single error—not
one!”
“Maybe so, David; but it takes a good man
to recognize that one, and to know what to do
with it.”
Carroll grinned and left, and then for two
days devoted himself to a study of the condi-
tions surrounding the murder—that and routine
matters. The trunk, for instance, was duly re-
turned by the railroad from New York, and
Carroll and his friend made a minute investi-
gation of every article contained therein. Their
search was well-nigh fruitless. The trunk con-
tained little save the wardrobe of a well-dressed
man—suits, shirts, underwear, shoes, caps.


ICE CREAM SODA 105
-**
response from nameless individuals who were
morbidly eager to be of help.
The detective knew that the running down
of each individual trail—the investigation of
each of Warren's supposed affairs of the heart
—would be an interminable procedure. And so
far not a single one of the letters had varied
from another. They connected Warren’s name
with that of some married woman, and let it
go at that. It was quite evident that the dead
man had been very much of a Lothario -- too
much so for the mental ease of the investigator
who was struggling to link the cause of his death
with one particular affair.
The reporters allowed their imaginations to
run wild. The story was what is known, in the
parlance of the newspaper world, as a “space-
eater.” City editors turned their best men
loose on it and devoted columns to conjecture.
There was little definite information upon which
to base the daily stories that were luridly
hurled into type. Thus far Spike Walters,
driver of taxicab No. 92,381, was the only per-
son under arrest, and only those persons too
lazy to exercise their minds were willing to be-
lieve that Spike was guilty or that he knew more
of the crime than he had told.


ICE CREAM SODA 107
Station, and filed it away with his other threads
of information concerning the murder.
Carroll was frankly puzzled. The case dif-
fered widely from any other with which he
had ever come in contact. Usually there was
an array of persons upon whom suspicion could
be justly thrown; a collection of suspects from
whom the investigator could take his choice,
or from whom he could extract facts which
eventually might be used to corner the guilty
person. In the present case there was no one
to whom he could turn an accusing finger.
Of course, he was convinced that William
Barker knew a great deal about the crime and
the events which preceded it; but Barker
wouldn’t talk—and he, Carroll, had no evidence
that enabled him to bluff, to draw Barker out
against his will.
The crime seemed to have lost itself in the
sleety cold of the December midnight upon
which it was committed. The trails were not
blind—there were simply no trails. The cir-
cumstances baffled explanation—a lone woman
entering an empty taxicab; a run to a distant
point in the city; the discovery of the woman's
disappearance, and in her stead the sight of the
dead body of a prominent societyman—that, and


108 MIDNIGHT
the further blind information that the suit-case
which the woman had carried was the property
of the man whose body was huddled horribly in
the taxicab.
The woman, whoever she was, had either been
unusually clever or unusually lucky. Minute
examination of the interior of the cab had re-
vealed nothing—not a fingerprint, nor a scrap
of handkerchief. There was absolutely noth-
ing which could serve as a clue in establishing
her identity.
And yet, somewhere in the city—a city of
two hundred thousand souls—was the woman
who could clear up the mystery.
Convinced that she was prominent socially,
Carroll kept a close eye upon the departures
of society women for other cities. His vigil
had been unrewarded thus far. And the public
as a whole waited eagerly for her apprehen-
sion, for the public was unanimous in the belief
that the woman in the taxicab was the person
who had ended Warren’s life.
The very fact of having nothing definite upon
which to work was getting on Carroll's usually
equable nerves. He had little to say to Lever-
age regarding the case, for the simple reason
that there was very little which could be said.


112 MIDNIGHT
two of them made rather pallid attempts at
repartee. Then Carroll and the seventeen-year-
old found a table in the very center of the floor,
even as a boy, recognizing Carroll, appeared at
their elbow.
The detective studied the list intently. Ap-
parently there was no subject in the world more
vital at that moment than the selection of just
the proper concoction. Finally he looked up
and shook his head.
“I can’t decide,” he announced gravely.
“They all sound so good! Walnut banana
sundae; strawberry glory; peach Melba; choco-
late parfait, with whipped cream and cracked
walnuts; elegantine fizz— Help me out,
please.”
She, too, plunged into the labyrinth of tooth-
some titles. Finally she emerged smiling.
“Have you ever tasted a chocolate fudge
sundae?”
“No-o, I'm afraid not.”
“Well, it’s just the elegantest thing—vanilla
ice-cream with hot fudge poured over it, and as
soon as they pour the fudge—it’s steaming hot,
you know—simply scalding—it forms into a
sort of candy, and then when they serve it—”
“I fancy you want one, too, don't you?”


A DISCOVERY 113
“Oh, goodness me, yes! I always eat chocº-
late fudge Sundaes. They’re simply scrump-
tious—but they do take the edge off one's dinner
appetite. Personally, I don’t care so very
much. I believe we eat too much anyway, don’t
you, Mr. Carroll? I read in a book once that
after you reach a certain point in eating—that
is, after you’ve swallowed just the right number
of calories—the rest don't do you a single
particle of good. And besides, ice-cream is
healthy, and certainly there’s nothing with
more nourishment in it than chocolate—unless
it is raisins. I like raisins well enough—”
Carroll turned to the boy.
“Two chocolate fudge sundaes,” he ordered;
“and put a few raisins on one of them.”
He found the large eyes of the girl turned
upon him adoringly.
“Do you know,” she said, “that when I said
the other day that you were the most wonderful,
the most marvelous man in the world, I didn’t
even know half how wonderful or marvelous
you really were?”
“Thanks! And what caused the discovery?”
“The way you acted just now. Why, I’m sure
those girls think that you’ve known me all your
life—or that we’re engaged, or something!”


114 MIDNIGHT
Carroll was a trifle startled.
“Engaged?”
“Why not? You don't look like an old
man.”
The detective chuckled.
“Nor do I feel like one when I'm with you.
You're deliciously refreshing.”
“And you are—are—exquisite! Do you
know, when I'm with you, I feel inspired to
great deeds—to noble—er—attainments.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh ! Honest to goodness. And did I
really help you by what I told you the other
day?”
“You certainly did, Miss Rogers. There
isn’t a doubt of it.”
She lowered her voice and leaned confiden-
tially across the table.
“Will you tell me something?”
“Surely?”
“Who really killed Mr. Warren?”
“Eh!”
“Who really did kill him?”
“Why, I'm sure I don’t know. I’m trying to
find out.”
“Oh, pshaw! You can’t pull the wool over
my eyes! You couldn't have been working on


116 MIDNIGHT
time. It was funny, too. Gerald used to think
he was the one Roland was coming to see, and
Naomi—she’s my sister—used to think that he
was coming to see her; and all the time I knew
that I was the person he was calling on. It's
funny, isn’t it, how old folks will get those queer
ideas?”
“Your sister is so very old?”
“Terribly. She was thirty on her last birth-
day.”
“Horrors! She is ancient, isn’t she?”
“Awfully! Although Naomi isn’t so bad.
looking—”
“Your sister couldn't be.”
“Aw, quit kidding! But she isn’t bad-look-
ing, really. Lord knows she deserves a better
husband than she drew. Honestly, when the
divine providence was handing out shrubbery,
they planted a lemon-tree in his yard just
before he was born.”
“Probably your sister doesn't agree with
your opinion.”
“Oh, yes, she does! Of course, she doesn’t
talk to me about it, but I know she ain’t wild
about Gerald. How could she be? He's old
enough to be her father—forty-two, if he’s a
minute. Don’t think of anything but business
**
º


A DISCOVERY 117
and making money. And he's terribly jeal-
ous!”
“A very complimentary picture you draw of
him.”
“If I wrote what I thought about him, I could
be arrested for sending it through the mails.
Goodness knows, no husband at all is a hundred
per cent better than a man like that. Not that
he beats Naomi. Fact is, I’d think he was more
human if he did. Only time I ever like him is
when he flies up in a rage. He swears simply
elegantly!”
“Indeed?”
“I love it. And I don’t think it’s wicked to
love swearing, do you? I was reading in a book
once something about swearing being a per-
fectly natural mental reaction, or something—
like a safety-valve on a steam-engine. If the
engine didn’t have the safety-valve, it would
blow up. So if it's true that swearing is like
that, then there can’t be any harm in it; because
anything that keeps a person from blowing up
must be pretty good, don’t you think?”
“It does sound reasonable.”
“Not that I swear myself—not out loud, any-
way, but sometimes, when I’m right peeved at
Gºld or Naomi or somebody, I get in my room
$º,


A DISCOVERY 119
“Well!” positively. “If I was that woman,
I’d hate to meet Hazel Gresham—if Hazel knew
it!”
“But she has no suspicion of any certain
person?”
“Goodness, no! How could she have? Of
course, we agreed that it was some vampire;
but we can’t decide which one. Most of the
women we know don’t go in for killing men; and
a heap of them are married, anyway.”
“Anyway?”
“Yes. You wouldn’t expect a nice chap like
Roland to be eloping with a married woman,
would you? Not in real life?”
Carroll with difficulty concealed a smile. The
girl was a refreshing mixture of world-old wis-
dom and almost childish innocence. She was a
type new to him, and, as such, absorbingly
interesting.
“How about Miss Gresham's brother?” he
inquired idly. “How does he take it?”
“Oh, Garry seems all upset, too; but then the
more I talk to people, the more I think I’m the
only level-headed one in the world. I haven’t
got a bit excited over it, have I?”
“Not a bit. And now”—Carroll rose and
reached for the check—“suppose we go?”


120 MIDNIGHT
“Where?” she asked naively.
The opening was too obvious.
“Where do you usually go with young gentle-
men who meet you down-town in the after-
noons?”
“Picture show,” she answered frankly.
“Wouldn't you just adore to see that picture at
the Trianon to-day? They say it’s stupen-
dous!”
“Perhaps.”
They walked up the street together. On the
way they passed Eric Leverage. That gentle-
man bowed heavily and stood aside in surprise,
while an exclamation, rather profane, issued
from his lips. David Carroll and a seventeen-
year-old girl headed for a picture show! The
thing was unbelievable. Leverage shook his
head sadly and passed on as Carroll and Evelyn
disappeared behind the din of an orchestrion.
The picture proved not at all bad, although
Evelyn excited adverse comment from specta-
tors unfortunate enough to be sitting within
range of her constant chatter. Apparently
there was no stopping her. She talked and
talked and talked.
The picture ended eventually, and they left
the theater. Night had descended upon the city,


A DISCOVERY 121
and the busy thoroughfare was studded with
thousands of lights, which glared coldly through
the December chill. Principally because he did
not know what else to do, Carroll requested per-
mission to take her home in his car. She
accepted with rather disarming alacrity.
Carroll had about run out of conversation,
and his ears were tired by the incessant din of
the girl’s talk. He followed her directions
mechanically, and eventually they rounded a
corner in the heart of the city’s best residential
district. Evelyn designated a white house
which stood back in a large yard.
“That’s it,” said she. “You’d better turn
first, so you can park against the curb.”
Carroll slowed down and swung around. He
was tired of the loquacious girl, and anxious to
be rid of her; but as he swung his car across the
street on the turn, something happened which
riveted his attention.
The door of Evelyn's home opened. A man
and woman stood framed in the doorway. Then
the door closed, and the man descended the
steps, moved down the walk to the street, and
strode swiftly away. For perhaps three
seconds he had been held clearly in the glare of
Carroll’s headlights.


122 MIDNIGHT
When the detective spoke, it was with an
effort to control his tone, to make his question
casual.
“Did you see that man, Miss Rogers?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him?”
“Goodness me, no! He's been here before,
though.”
Carroll stopped his car at the curb. He
assisted Evelyn to the ground. Then he made
a strange request.
“I wonder, Miss Rogers, whether you'd allow
me to call on you some evening?”
Evelyn's eyes popped open with the marvel
of it.
“You mean you want to come and call on me?
Some evening?”
“If you will allow me.”
“Allow you? Why, David Carroll—I think
you’re simply—simply—grandiloquent! When
will you come?”
“If your sister will permit—”
“Bother Sisſ To-morrow night?”
“Yes, to-morrow night.”
She executed a few exuberant dance steps.
“Oh, what'll the girls say when I tell 'em?”
Carroll climbed thoughtfully back into his


A DISCOVERY 123
car. He saw Evelyn enter the house, but his
thoughts were not with her. He was thinking of
the man who had just left.
Carroll never forgot faces, and he had recog-
nized the visitor.
The man was William Barker, former valet
to Roland Warrent


CHAPTER XI
LOOSE ENDS
( ; ARROLL’S forehead was seamed with
thought as he turned his car townward
and sent it hurtling through the frosty
air. He drove mechanically, scarcely knowing
what he was doing.
He was frankly puzzled, enormously sur-
prised and not a little startled. The afternoon
had been at first amusing, then interesting—
then utterly boring. Evelyn's chatter had put
him in a state of mental coma—a lethargy from
which he had been rudely aroused at sight of
William Barker leaving the residence of Evelyn
Rogers’ sister.
There was something sinisterly significant in
what he had seen. Not for a moment did he
entertain the idea that Barker had been seeking
employment. Negativing that possibility was
the cold statement of the disinterested young
girl that Barker had been there before, and,
124


126 MIDNIGHT
sister with a few words, Carroll remembered
that the girl had described her as being “not so
bad looking” and had also said that Mrs. Law-
rence fancied that when Warren called at the
house, he was calling on her.
There, too, was the matter of Gerald
Lawrence to be considered. Evelyn insisted
that Gerald was “an old crab” and also that he
was of an exceedingly jealous disposition. If
that were true, then his jealousy, coupled with
a possible intimacy between Mrs. Lawrence and
Warren might have been ample motive for the
taxicab tragedy.
It was all rather puzzling. Carroll’s mind
leaped nimbly from one mental trail to another.
He held himself in check, afraid that his deduc-
tions were proceeding too swiftly. He was
acutely conscious of the danger of jumping too
avidly on this single tangible clue which had
come to him after four days of fruitless search.
There was danger, and he knew it, of attaching
untoward importance to a combination of cir-
cumstances which under other conditions might
not have excited him in the slightest degree.
It was there that the case bewildered him—
and he was not slow in confessing his bewilder-
ment. Up to this moment there had been an


LOOSE ENDS 127
appalling dearth of physical clues—of things
upon which a line of investigation could be intel-
ligently based. And he knew that now some-
thing had turned up, he must watch himself lest
the circumstance assume unreasonable and un-
warranted proportions.
The somber outline of police headquarters
bulked in the night. Carroll swung down the
alley, shut off his motor and entered. He
found Leverage in his office and settled at
once to a discussion of developments. But
when he would have spoken Leverage cut
him off. Leverage had news—and Leverage
was frankly proud of the fact that he had
IlewS.
“Just got an interesting report from Cart-
wright,” he announced.
“Regarding Barker?” Carroll hitched his
chair forward eagerly.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Yesterday afternoon at five o'clock William
Barker went to the residence of Mr. and Mrs.
Gerald Lawrence. He was in the house eighteen
minutes.” -
“Why wasn’t this told me last night?”
“Cartwright didn’t think anything of it. He


128 MIDNIGHT
included it in his report which was turned in to
me this morning.”
“Why did he think it was unimportant?”
“Said he thought Barker was probably look-
ing for a job.”
“And he doesn’t think so now?”
“No-o. That is: he thinks circumstances
make an investigation worth while. You see,
just a few minutes ago Barker went to the
Lawrence home again. This time he was there
four minutes.”
“Does Cartwright know who was at home at
that time?”
“He thinks so. He says a maid let Barker in
and that apparently Mrs. Lawrence let him out.
A young girl—whom Cartwright believes to be
Mrs. Lawrence's sister—drove up just as
Barker was leaving. She was in the car with
some man—but he didn’t get out. Then, just a
minute ago, Gerald Lawrence reached home. So
the idea is that Mrs. Lawrence was alone with
the servants when Barker called.”
“And yet he only remained four minutes?”
“That's what Cartwright 'phoned.” Lever-
age paused. “What do you make of it,
Carroll?”
“Off-hand,” answered the youthful-appear-


LOOSE ENDS 129
ing detective, “I’d say that Barker had called
to see Mr. Lawrence.”
“Why?”
“We’ll suppose Lawrence was home on the
occasion of Barker’s first visit—do you know
whether he was?”
“No. I asked. Cartwright doesn’t know.
Couldn’t stay, you know—because he was under
orders to follow Barker. Tonight he sent Reed
after Barker and he watched the Lawrence
house.”
“Good. If it is so that Lawrence was at home
when Barker called yesterday evening and
Barker then remained eighteen minutes; where-
as this afternoon, when we know that no one but
Mrs. Lawrence was there—and he remained
but four minutes—it is fairly reasonable to
suppose that he was calling to see Mr. Law-
rence.”
“I think you’re right, Carroll.”
“I’m not at all convinced about that. But if
we’re proceeding along lines of pure logic, that
is the answer.”
“How about the man who drove up with the
kid Sister?”
Carroll smiled. “I’m sure he had nothing
whatever to do with the murder.”


LOOSE ENDS 131
enormous part in solving crime. In the first
place Evelyn Rogers came to me the day after
Warren was killed to assure me that Miss
Gresham had a perfect alibi. This afternoon
she lassoed me and dragged me into an ice
cream place because she wanted to prove to
some of her school companions that we were
really friends.” Carroll chuckled. “I quaffed
freely from the fountain of youth—and enjoyed
it awhile. Then I got bored stiff. Took her to
the movies—she invited me—and did it only
because I’ve passed beyond the years of ado-
lescence and didn’t know how to crawfish out of
it. After which—because it seemed the proper
thing to do—I volunteered to ride her home in
my car. And it was then that I saw Barker
leaving the Lawrence home. So you see, Lever-
age, my knowledge is the result of pure acci-
dent—and not at all the fruit of keen percep-
tion.”
“Well, anyway—Carroll: you knew And
that takes the edge off what I told you.”
“Not at all,” returned Carroll seriously.
“For while what I discovered is perhaps valu-
able—that combined with the fact that Barker
has been there once before: and that on his first
visit when Lawrence was probably at home he


132 MIDNIGHT
stayed nearly five times as long as he did when
we know that Lawrence was not there—that is
of help—or ought to be.”
“What do you think of it?”
Carroll hesitated. “I don't know what to
think, Eric. I'm afraid I’m thinking about it
more than I have any right. We’ve been so long
without anything to work on, that we’re liable to
let this bit of information throw us off our bal-
ance. But of course we’ll look more deeply into
it.”
“How?”
Again Carroll chuckled. “Our little friend,
Miss Rogers, is suffering from a large case of
hero-worship. I’m it! And so—when I saw
Barker leaving her home—I immediately made
an engagement to call upon her to-morrow
night!”
“You call on that kid—” Suddenly Lever-
age lay back in his swivel chair and gave vent
to a peal of raucous laughter. He banged his
fist on the arm of the chair: Oh! Boy! That’s
the snappiest yet. David Carroll paying a
social call on a seventeen-year-old kid! Mama!
Ain't that the richest—”
Carroll made a wry face. “Needn’t rub it in.
It's bad enough anyway. And”—growing seri-


134 MIDNIGHT
according to what Miss Rogers says. That con-
nects them up. What I want to find out now is
where both of 'em were the night Warren was
killed. Put a couple of your best men out to
gather this dope—there isn’t any of it too minor
to interest me. Meanwhile, I’ll pump the kid.
I have a hunch that this isn’t going to be a cold
trail.”
“It better not be—or Mr. David Carroll is
going to find himself with one unsolved case on
his hands. Yes, sir—if this is a blind lead,
we're up against it for fair.”
“It isn’t going to be entirely blind,” postu-
lated Carroll. “Barker assures us of that!”


CHAPTER XII
A CHALLENGE
T four o'clock the following afternoon
A Carroll received from Chief Leverage
a detailed report on Gerald Lawrence:
“He’s a manufacturer,” said Leverage.
“President of the Capitol City Woolen Mills.
Rated about a hundred thousand—maybe a
little more. He's on the Board of Directors of
the Second National. Has the reputation of
being hard, fearless—and considerable of a
grouch. Age forty-two.
“Married Naomi Rogers about five years ago.
She was twenty-five then—thirty now. Sup-
posed to be beautiful—and would be a society
light except that Lawrence doesn’t care for the
soup-and-fish stuff. Report has it that they’re
not very happy together. His parents and hers
all dead. Evelyn, her kid sister, lives with
them.
“They employ a cook and two maids. No
135


136 MIDNIGHT
man-servant at all. Roland Warren was
pretty intimate at the house, but so far as I can
discover there was no scandal linking the names
of Warren and Mrs. Lawrence. Of course, him
knowing her pretty intimately and being
friendly at the house, you could probably find a
good many folks who would say nasty things.
But there hasn’t been the real gossip about her
and him that there was about a heap of other
women in this town.
“Warren and Lawrence were pretty good
friends. Warren was a stockholder in the
woolen mills. On the other hand it seems as
though Warren was at the house a good deal
more than just ordinary friendship would have
indicated. But that’s just an idea. And there’s
your dope—”
“And on the night of the murder?” ques-
tioned Carroll. “Where were they?”
“Mrs. Lawrence was at home. Lawrence—if
you’re thinking of him in connection with it—
seems to have an iron-clad alibi. He went to
Nashville on a business trip and didn’t get back
until the following morning.”
“Alibi, eh?” Carroll’s eyes narrowed specu-
latively, “are you sure he was in Nashville all
that time?”


A CHALLENGE 137
“Hm-m!” Leverage shook his head. “I
don’t know—but I can find out.”
Carroll rose. “Do it please. And get the
dope straight.”
Carroll went to his apartment where he
reluctantly commenced dressing for the ordeal
of the night. He felt himself rather ridiculous—
a man of his age calling on a girl not yet out
of high school. The thing was funny—of
course—but just at the moment the joke was
too entirely on him for the full measure of
amusement.
At that, he dressed carefully, selecting a new
gray suit, a white jersey-silk shirt and a blue
necktie for the occasion. At six-thirty Freda
served his dinner and at fifteen minutes after
eight o'clock he rang the bell of the Lawrence
home.
The door was opened by Evelyn: palpitant
with excitement, and garbed attractively in the
demi-toilette of very-young-ladyhood.
“Mr. Carroll—so good of you to come. I’m
simply tickled to death. Let me have your hat
and coat. Come right into the living room—I
want you to meet my brother-in-law and my
sister—”
Sheepishly, Carroll followed the girl into the


138 MIDNIGHT
room. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence rose politely to
greet him.
At the sight of the man he had really come to
see, Carroll was conscious of an instinctive dis-
like. Lawrence was of medium height, slightly
stooped and not unpleasing to the eye. But his
brows were inclined to lower and the eyes them-
selves were set too closely together. He was
dressed plainly—almost harshly, and he stared
at Carroll in a manner bordering on the hostile.
The detective acknowledged the introduction
and then turned his gaze upon the woman of the
family. There he met with a surprise as pleas-
ant as his first glance at Lawrence had been
unpleasant.
There was no gainsaying the fact that Naomi
Lawrence was a beautiful woman. Dressed
simply for an evening at home in a strikingly
plain gown of a rich blackmaterial, and with her
magnificent neck and shoulders rising above the
midnight hue—she caused a spontaneous thrill
of masculine admiration to surge through the
ordinarily immune visitor in the gray suit. -
Her face was almost classic in its contour: her
coloring a rich brunette, her hair blue-black. No
jewelry, save an engagement ring, adorned her
perfect beauty, and Carroll felt a loathing at the


A CHALLENGE 139
idea that this magnificent creature was the
wife of the stoop-shouldered, sour-faced
man who stood scowling by the living room
table. -
He gravely acknowledged the introduction of
the young lady upon whom he had called: feel-
ing a faint sense of amusement at Lawrence's
overt disdain—and a considerable embarrass-
ment under Naomi's questioning, level gaze.
For a few moments they talked casually—but
that did not satisfy Evelyn, and she dragged
him into the parlor—
“—just the eleganest jazz piece—” Carroll
heard as through a haze. “—just got it—feet
can’t keep still—play it for you—”
He found himself standing by the piano, the
door between the music room and the living
room unaccountably closed. Evelyn banging
out the opening measures of the “elegant jazz
piece.”
He was still staring moodily at the closed
door when the din ceased and he again heard
Evelyn's voice. “A penny for your thoughts,
Mr. Carroll. A real honest-to-goodness-spend-
able penny!”
“I was thinking,” he remarked quietly, “that
your sister is a very beautiful woman.”


140 MIDNIGHT
“Naomi? Shucks! She isn’t bad looking—
but she's old. Abominably old! Thirty!”
He glanced down on the girl and smiled.
“That does seem old to you, doesn’t it?”
“Treacherously I don’t know what I’d ever
do if I was to get that old. Take up crocheting,
probably.”
The conversation died of dry-rot. Carroll
was not at all pleased. His excuse—the plea
that he had come to call upon Evelyn—had been
taken too literally. He had fancied—in his
blithe ignorance of the seventeen-year-old ladies
of the present day—that he could engineer him-
self into a worthwhile conversation with the
Lawrences. Since meeting them, he was doubly
anxious. There was a thinly veiled hostility
about the man which demanded investigation.
And about the woman there was a subtle atmos-
phere of tragedy which appealed to the mascu-
line protectiveness which surged strong in his
bachelor breast. º
But Carroll was a sportsman. The girl had
carried things her own way—and he was too
game to spoil her evening. Therefore, he
temporarily gave over all thought of a chat with
the Lawrences and devoted himself to her
amusement. He informed her that the jazz


A CHALLENGE 141
music she had strummed was simply “glorious”
and that he regretted he knew very little popu-
lar stuff. She leaped upon his remark—
“Oh! do you play: really?
He was in again. “I have—a little.”
“I wonder if you would? Here's the grandest
little old song I bought downtown—” and she
placed on the piano a gaudy thing with the
modest tittle—“All Babies Need Daddies to
Kiss 'Em.” Its cover exposed a tender love
scene wherein a gentleman in evening clothes
was engaged in an act of violent osculation with
a young lady whose dress was as short as her
modesty. Carroll shrugged, placed his long,
slender fingers on the keys—shook his head—
and went to it.
He played A genuine artist—he tried to
enter into the spirit of the thing and succeeded
admirably. The itchy syncopation rocked the
room. His hostess snapped her fingers deli-
ciously and executed a few movements of a dance
which Carroll had heard referred to vaguely as
the shimmy. In the midst of the revelry he gave
thought to Eric Leverage and chuckled.
He played the chorus a second time—then
stopped on a crashing chord. Evelyn's face
was beaming—


A CHALLENGE 143
said you were too old—and you’re not old at
all—and Gerald said—he said—” she giggled.
“What did Gerald say?”
“He said, “Damned impertinence!’”
“H'm-m! I wonder just what he meant?”
“Oh! goodness! It doesn’t matter what
Gerald means. He makes me weary. He's
simply impossible—and I can’t see what Sis
ever married him for.”
“I suppose she saw more in him than you do.
They must be very happy together.”
“Happy? Poof! Happy as two dead sar-
dines in a can. They can’t get out—so they
might as well be happy. Besides, he’s away a
good deal.”
“He is, eh? When was his last out-of-town
trip?”
Carroll was interested now—he had steered
the conversation back to matters of importance:
“Oh! 'bout four days ago—you know—the
day dear Roland was killed by that vampire in
the taxicab.”
“He was away that night: all night?”
“Uh-huh! All night long. And would you
believe that Sis—who is scared of her shadow
at night—was the one who suggested that I go
spend the night with Hazel? And it’s certainly


146 MIDNIGHT
over in a casual manner. And tonight was his
opportunity. He knew he’d never have another
like it. He didn’t want to be forced to seek
them out in his capacity of detective.
From somewhere in the rear of the house he
heard the clamor of a doorbell, then the sound
of footsteps in the hall, the opening and clos-
ing of the front door—and then Naomi Law-
rence appeared in the music room. Carroll
could have sworn that her eyes were twinkling
with amusement as she addressed Evelyn—
pointedly ignoring him.
“Evelyn—that Somerville boy is here.”
“Oh! bother! What’s he doin’ here?”
“He says he came to call. He’s got a box
of candy.”
“Piffle! What do I care about candy? He's
just a kid!”
Naomi went to the hall door. “Right this
way, Charley.” And as the slender, over-
dressed young gentleman of nineteen entered
the room, Carroll again glimpsed the light of
amusement in Naomi's eyes.
Mr. Charley Somerville expressed himself as
being “Pleaset'meetcha” and tried to conceal
his vast admiration when Evelyn informed him
that this was the David Carroll. Charley was


148 MIDNIGHT
David Carroll, detective, strummed out several
popular airs while the youngsters danced.
Horrible as the situation was, it appealed ir-
resistibly to his sense of humor. He found him-
self almost enjoying it. And he worked care-
fully. Eventually his patience was rewarded.
He succeeded in getting them together on a
lounge with a photograph album between them.
And then, very quietly and positively, and with
a brief—“Excuse me for a moment,” he walked
through the hall and into the living room.
Lawrence and his wife were at opposite sides
of the library table. At sight of Carroll, Law-
rence laid down his paper and rose to his feet.
“Well?” he inquired inhospitably.
Carroll laughed lightly. “It got too much
for me. Too much youth. I dropped in here
for a chat with you folks.”
“I didn’t understand that you had come to
call on us,” said Lawrence coldly.
“Why, I didn't—”
“You did!” snapped Lawrence. “I’m no
fool, Carroll. From the minute I heard you
were coming, I knew what you had up your
sleeve. You wanted to talk about the Warren
case! Now suppose you go ahead and talk—
then get out!”


CHAPTER XIII
NO ALIBI
C ARROLL was rarely thrown from a
mental balance, but this was one of the
exceptions to a rule of conduct where
poise was essential. His eyes half-closed in
their clash with the coldly antagonistic orbs of
his host. His instinctive dislike of the man
flamed into open anger and he controlled him-
self with an effort.
One thing Lawrence had done: he had
stripped from Carroll his disguise as a casual
caller and settled down ominously to brass
tacks. Carroll shrugged, forced a smile—then
glanced at Naomi Lawrence.
She had risen and was staring at her husband
with wide-eyed indignation. Undoubtedly she
was horrified at his brusqueness. For the first
time, she, too, had made it plain that Carroll
was not welcome—that his ruse of calling upon
Evelyn had been seen through plainly—but he
149


150 MIDNIGHT
could see that even under those circumstances
she was not forgetful that he was a guest in her
home and, as such, he was entitled to ordinary
courtesy.
Carroll was more than a little sorry for her,
and also a bit rueful at his own plight. Things
had gone wrong for him from the commence-
ment of the evening. And this—well, the
gage of battle had been flung in his face and
he was no man to refuse the challenge.
But his muscles were taut until the soft
voice of Naomi broke in on the pregnant
stillness—
“Won't you be seated, Mr. Carroll?”
Carroll smiled gratefully at her. With her
words the unpleasant tension had lightened.
He dropped into an arm chair. Lawrence fol-
lowed suit, his close-set eyes focussed belliger-
ently on Carroll’s face, the hostility of his
manner being akin to a personal menace.
Naomi stood by the table, eyes shifting from
one to the other.
“I’d rather,” she suggested softly, “that we
did not discuss the Warren case.”
“It doesn’t matter what you prefer,”
snapped her husband coldly. “Carroll forced
himself upon us for that purpose—with a lack


NO ALIBI 151
of decency which one might have expected.
Let him have his say.”
Carroll gazed squarely at Lawrence. “I’m
sorry,” he said, “that you see fit to act as you
are doing.”
“I asked for no criticism of my conduct.”
“Just the same, dear—” started Naomi,
when her husband interrupted angrily—
“Nor any apologies to him from you, Naomi.
Carroll has placed himself beyond the pale by
what he has done in having the impertinence to
foist himself upon us as a social equal. Now,
Carroll—are you ready with your little cate-
chism?”
“Yes.” The detective’s voice was quite
calm. “I’m quite ready.”
“Well—ask.” Lawrence paused. “You did
come here to inquire about Warren, didn’t
you?”
Carroll could not forbear a dig. “I trust
that you are not putting it upon me to deny
your statement to that effect.”
“I don’t give a damn what you deny or af-
firm.”
“Good! Then we know all about each other,
don’t we. You know that I am a detective in
search of information and I know absolutely


152 MIDNIGHT
what you are!” That dart went home—Law-
rence squirmed. “So I'll come right to the
point. Is it not a fact that you were in this
city at the hour Roland Warren is supposed to
have been killed?”
He heard a surprised gasp from Naomi and
saw that her face had blanched and that she was
leaning forward with eyes wide and hands
clutching the arms of the chair in which she had
seated herself.
Lawrence leered. “As the kids would say,
Carroll—that's for me to know and for you—
super-detective that you are—to find out.”
Carroll was more at ease now. Lawrence's
sneering aggressiveness brought him into his
own element and he was hitting straight from
the shoulder: refusing pointblank to mince mat-
ters.
“I fancy I can,” he returned calmly. “And
now: is it not a fact that you despised Warren
even though you pretended to be his friend?”
“That, too, is my business, Carroll. Do you
think I’m going to feed pap to you?”
Carroll reflected carefully for a moment.
Then suddenly his voice crackled across the
room—“You know, of course, that you are sus-
pected of Warren's murder?”


NO ALIBI 153
Silence! Then a forced, sickly grin creased
Lawrence's lips—but his figure slumped, al-
imost cringed. From Naomi came a choked
gasp—
“Mr. Carroll! Not Gerald—” -
Carroll paid no heed to the woman. He sat
back in his chair, eyes never for one moment
leaving Lawrence's pallid face. Nor did
Carroll speak again—he waited. It was Law-
rence who broke the silence—
“Is—this—what you—detectives—call the
third degree?”
“It is not. Now get this straight, Lawrence
—I came here to find out what you know about
Lawrence and the circumstances surrounding
his death. I wanted to be decent about the
thing—to cause you no embarrassment if I was
convinced that you were unconnected with the
crime. You have forced my hand. You have
driven me to methods which I abhor—”
“You haven’t a thing on me,” said Lawrence
and his tone had degenerated into a half whine.
“You can't scare me a little bit. I’ve got an
alibi—”
“Certainly you have. So, too, have a good
many men who have eventually been proven
guilty.”


154 MIDNIGHT
Lawrence rose nervously and paced the room.
“You asked me a little while ago if I was in
this city at the hour when the crime was com-
mitted. I answered that it was for me to know
and you to find out. I’ll answer direct now—
just to stop this absurd suspicion which has
been directed against me: I was not in the city
at that hour—or within six hours of midnight.
I was in Nashville.”
“At What hotel?”
“At the ” Lawrence paused. “Matter of
fact, I wasn’t at any hotel.”
“You had registered at the Hermitage, hadn’t
you?”
“Yes, but—”
“When did you check out?” Carroll's voice
was snapping out with staccato insistence.
“About four o'clock in the afternoon.”
“Where did you go? Where did you spend
the night?”
Lawrence shook his head helplessly. “I’ll
be honest, Carroll—I took several drinks—”
** Alone?”
“Yes. And at two o'clock in the morning
when my train left I was at the station. I
don’t know what I did in the meantime—I don’t
remember anything much about anything.”


NO ALIBI 155
“In other words,” said Carroll coldly, “You
have no alibi except your own word. On the
other hand we know that you checked out of the
Hermitage Hotel in Nashville at four o'clock.
You could have caught the 4:25 train and
reached this city at ten minutes after eleven
o'clock. You have not 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 an-


156 MIDNIGHT
swer—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 reason-
able?”
“I don’t believe I am here to answer ques-
tions, Mr. Lawrence. You invited me to ask
them.”
Naomi broke in, her voice choked with hys-
teria—“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. Law-
rence. 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 move-
ments very carefully. It strikes me as exceed-
ingly peculiar that he checked out from the


NO ALIBI 157
Hermitage Hotel at four o’clock in the after-
noon when he intended taking a two a.m. train.
Remember, I am accusing your husband of moth-
ing. Our conversation could have been pleas-
ant—he refused to allow it to be so. He classi-
fied me as a professional detective and put me
on that basis in his home. I have merely ac-
cepted 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 plead-
ingly. “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 man-
ner: “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


158 MIDNIGHT
advise you to establish that fact if you can pos-
sibly 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 esca-
pades 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 pub-
lishing what he has told you—about his drink-
ing—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,


NO ALIBI 159
nothing will be made public about my—the
affair—in Nashville?”
“Absolutely. Because you have treated me
discourteously, Lawrence—I don’t consider my-
self justified in injuring your reputation. I am
after the person or persons responsible for the
death of Roland Warren. Your intimate weak-
nesses have no interest to either me or the pub-
lic.” º,
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 when-
ever 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. Car-
roll,” she murmured. “Quite wrong!”
“You are sure?”
“I know! I really believe his story.”
“I hope to-soon. But just now, Mrs. Law-


160 MIDNIGHT
rence—” He saw tears in her fine eyes.
“You have nothing to fear from me if he is in-
nocent.”
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 run-
ning board of his car, he stared peculiarly at the
big white house standing starkly in the moon-
light—
“I wonder,” he mused softly—“I won-
der—”


CHAPTER XIV
THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN
ARROLL drove direct to his apart-
ments, despite his original intention
C of dropping by headquarters for a chat
with Leverage. He wanted to be alone—to
think—
The evening had borne fruit beyond his wild-
est imaginings. Fact had piled upon fact with
bewildering rapidity. As yet he had been un-
able 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 think-
ing.
161


162 MIDNIGHT
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 Car-
roll tried not to allow his thoughts and per-
sonal 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 con-
ceived for Lawrence—an instinctive repug-
nance which still obtained—he was grimly de-
termined 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. Pub-
lication of this fact alone would prove sufficient
to injure Lawrence socially and in the commer-
cial world. The old case of the Spartan lad—
Carroll reflected. The disgrace lay in being
discovered.


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 163
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 mer-
ciless 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 excel,
lent 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 ab-
horred. Those were police department meth-
ods: wholesale arrests in the hope of some-
where in the net trapping the prey. Such a
course was at the bottom—and Carroll knew
it—of an enormous number of convictions of in-
nocent men. And Carroll had no desire to in-
jure 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


164 MIDNIGHT
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 pre-
sented an entirely different set of facts. There
was not alone the strange procedure of check-
ing 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 in-
tensely 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


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 165
- |
her husband would return from Nashville at
midnight. She did not wish anyone—even Eve-
lyn, 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’ connec-
tion with the crime.


166 MIDNIGHT
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 investiga-
tion, 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 antago-
mistic 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


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 167
had left, or on the two a. m. train homeward
bound. -
Matters could not right themselves in Car-
roll's mind. He knew one thing, however—
Evelyn Rogers was a wellspring of vital in-
formation. The very fact that she talked incon-
sequentialities 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 follow-
ing 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 Nash-
ville and that he had checked out of the Hermi-
tage 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 de-
termine whether Lawrence had been seen in
Nashville after 4:30 p.m.—if necessary to send


168 MIDNIGHT
one of his own men there—and left head-
quarters.
He made his way directly to a public tele-
phone 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,” vouch-
safed the maid.
Carroll was not a little chagrined. Evelyn
Bogers had put him in more hopeless positions
in their brief acquaintanceship than he had ex-
perienced in years. There was his call upon
her the previous night with its role of dual en-
tertainer 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


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 169
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 absolutely 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 ex-
tend your respects. Good gracious! I almost
died!”
“I’m sorry—really,” returned Carroll hum-
bly—“But you seemed so interested in that
young man—and I had gotten into an absorb-
ing 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 intro-
duced them gushingly. Carroll was in misery
—a martyr to the cause. But Evelyn would not
let him get away. Through her sudden friend-
ship with the great detective, Evelyn was build-
ing up a reputation that was destined to sur-
vive for years, and she was not one to fail to
make the most of her opportunities.


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 171
“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 satisfy-
ing 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?”


THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN 173
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?”


CHAPTER XV
A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM
C ARROLL tried to appear disinter-
ested—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 par-
ticular interest in her chatter. She was com-
pletely 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 “kid-
ding.”
“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
175


176 MIDNIGHT
things that happen which I don’t get wise to.”
“Not even vanishing suitcases, eh?”
“No: not even that. It was funny about that,
though. At first I thought maybe Sis was pack-
ing 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 suitcase 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 send-
ing 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 sup-
pose 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


A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM -
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 suitcase 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 suitcase 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.”


--
__
_-
178 MIDNIGHT
“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 wit-
ness 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 act-
ing so peculiarly lately—”
“That's natural, isn’t it, Miss Rogers? Her
fiancé 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
*


180 MIDNIGHT
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 fiancé?”
“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 unbal-
anced—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 uncon-
sciously 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 splendifer-
ous! And I’d like Hazel to meet you—then


A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM 181
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 prohibi-
tion, 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


A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM 183
“Because she was Roland Warren's fiancée.
Because she can tell me some things about
Warren which no one else can tell me. Be-
cause 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 con-
nected 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 dur-
ing 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


184 MIDNIGHT
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, re-
flected Carrooll 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,


186 MIDNIGHT
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 in-
tense 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 Car-
roll. “No, Mr. Carroll—I knew of no such
affair—nor did I suspect one. When I be-
came engaged to Mr. Warren I placed my
trust in him as a gentleman. I still believe
in him.”


188 MIDNIGHT
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
ROM the Gresham home, David Carroll
F went straight to headquarters. Devel-
opments 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.
189


THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI 191
was being carefully catalogued with truer
knowledge of its proper importance than Car-
roll 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, “per-
haps 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 consci-
entiously make an arrest now.”
“Well—I’m willing to air my opinions,” vol-
unteered the Chief. “And I’m telling you that


THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI 193
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 kill-
ing 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 any-
thing 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


THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI 195
roll 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 try-
ing to hit on a definite course of action. Remem-
bering, 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 any-
thing—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 l 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


THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI 197
Carroll. “One of them, I’m sure, knows some-
thing 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 reluc-
tance: “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


198 MIDNIGHT
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 per-
fectly 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 Lev-
erage grimly, “that Hazel Gresham was
engaged to marry Warren!”
“No. Nor am I. It’s a puzzling combination l º
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 table-
top, forehead corrugated in a frown of inten-
sive thought. When he did speak it was in a
manner well-nigh abstract—
“Gerald Lawrence probably lied when he
*
* -º


THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI 199
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 Car-
roll—“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 investi-
gation began. He has one of the most unpleas-


CHAPTER XVII
BARKER ACCUSES
HE men looked at each other in silence
for a minute. Leverage was sorry for
- I Carroll—sorry because he knew that
Carroll was disappointed, that the boyish detec-
tive 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 infatu-
ated 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 some-
one: there was the fact that he had purchased
a drawing room and two railroad tickets—only
203


206 MIDNIGHT
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 alto-
gether—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, Lever-


BARKER ACCUSES 207
age—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 some-
thing.”
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—per-
haps 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 disap-


208 MIDNIGHT
pointed 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
Ime?”
“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. Car-
roll 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


BARKER ACCUSES 209
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 con-
nection 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


BARKER ACCUSES 211
human softness to almost inhuman coldness—
yet he never failed of surprise at the phenome-
non. “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,” in-
sisted Carroll icily. “And I’d advise you to
come clean with us.”
“There ain't nothin’ to come clean about.”


212 MIDNIGHT
“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 Lever-
age. 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 l’’


BARKER ACCUSES 213
“Who Was it?”
Barker's face went white. Leverage and Car-
roll leaned forward eagerly—nervously. It
seemed an eternity before Barker's answer
came—but when it did, his words rang with con-
viction— He uttered a name—
“Mrs. Naomi Lawrence!”


218 MIDNIGHT
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. Car-
roll. 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


“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH-” 219
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 invest-
ments. 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 doubtin my mind, Mr. Carroll—an’ I’m
handin’ it to you straight—that he was crazy
about Mrs. Lawrence. And, not meanin’ no im-
pertinence, 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?”


220 MIDNIGHT
“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 busi-
ness and Mr. Warren never was a feller I could
ask questions of. When he had something to
tell me, he told it—an’Inever 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 ten-
ants 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


“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH_” 221
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 smok-
ing—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


222 MIDNIGHT
excellent reference and sayin' I was a goodvalet
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 Sta-
tion 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. Car-
roll—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 any-
thin’ 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 curi-
osity 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


“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH-” 223
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 sud-
denly 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?” snappel 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, may-
be, 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.


“AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH_” 225
radiator an’ tried to get warm. I was so cold it
hurt. An' I stood there for about ten minutes.
Then Iheard that train comin’ in an’ I went out-
side 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 com-
in’ 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.”


CHAPTER XIX
LABYRINTH
ONG after William Barker left the
room—held in custody under special
| A guard—David Carroll and Chief of
IPolice 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 mightly 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 do-
mestic positions they don’t go to the front door,
228


LABYRINTEI 229
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?”
“Mmml 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 kill-
ing, 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 pre-
sume that he was capitalizing his informa-
tion.”
“Seems plausible,” grunted Leverage. “But
where does it get us?” º
“Just this far,” explained Carroll. “Un-
less 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


230 MIDNIGHT
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 unbear-
able that she would entertain the idea of elop-
ing with Warren: that she went so far as to at-
tempt to carry that idea into execution. But I


LABYRINTH 231
!
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. Law-
rence 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 accommoda-


232 MIDNIGHT
tion 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 exasper-
ating 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


236 MIDNIGHT
ception of William Barker—they had been per-
sons against whom the detective was loath to
believe ill. And, most eagerly, he had shied
from the belief that Mrs. Lawrence was con-
nected 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 inno-
cent—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


LABYBINTH 237
the family. Or something! It's been simply
graveyardy! And now you come in—like a
darling angel—and save me from the willywog-
gles. 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 pri-
vately—”
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


238 MIDNIGHT
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 focussed 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. Law-
rence. 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.”


240 MIDNIGHT
“You admit that you were the woman in the
taxicab?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Do you admit that you killed Roland War-
ren?”
Her startled eyes flashed to his. The color
drained from her cheeks. Her answer was al-
most inaudible—
“No !”
“You did not kill him?” Carroll was im-
pressed 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!”


242 MIDNIGHT
upon him the truth of her well-nigh unbeliev-
able 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 hus-
band.”
“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.”


A CONFESSION 243
“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 nar-
rowed 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 uncon-
sciously—“can establish that, there may be
some way of keeping the details from the public.


244 MIDNIGHT
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
IIlan.
“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—


A CONFESSION 245
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 com-
mon. 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 1
“No need to go into further detail. Sufficient
to say that I became desperate for a little affec-
tion, 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 under-
stand what Roland Warren meant to me. You


246 MIDNIGHT
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 neglect-
ed by my husband seems absurd—trivial. But
it is not absurd—it is not trivial!
“Mr. Warren was kind to me. He was atten-
tive—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 pro-
testations. 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


A CONFESSION 249
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 under-
stand where I mean? It is in that section of the
railroad yards where through trains leave their
early morning Pullmans—the tracks are paral-


250 MIDNIGHT
lel to Atlantic Avenue—and also the main line
tracks running into the Union Station shed.
“I was conscious of the intense cold, but excite-
ment 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 occasion-
ally 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 Idistinctly saw the figure of a man com-
ing 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.


252 MIDNIGHT
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 neces-
sary to get to him—
“By that time I had reached the waiting
room. I saw his suit-case—and then, Mr. Car-
roll—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


A CONFESSION 253
checked it himself that day. I realized in a
flash that there would be a police investiga-
tion—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 pas-
sengers 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 doc-
tor’s; and if he was, to find the check—the find-
ing 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


254 MIDNIGHT
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
OR a moment she was silent. It was
F patent that she was groping desper-
ately 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?”
255


CARROLL DECIDES 257
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. Law-
rence. 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 occa-
Sion?”
“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.”


258 MIDNIGHT
“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 kill-
ing—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 pro-
tect 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,


CARROLL DECIDES 259
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 be-
yond 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.”


CARROLL DECIDES 263
statements. He read furiously through the
story. It proved to be one of those news-
paper 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 DECIDES 265
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 be-
ginning 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


CHAPTER XXII
THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED
ITHIN 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 for-
ward angrily: “Why are you lying to me—”
268


THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED 273
eloping on it with some other woman. But the
man who gave me this information cut off be-
fore 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 be-
tween the two buildings. Atlantic Avenue was
deserted. At the curb I saw a yellow taxicab
and noticed that the driver was in the restau-
rant 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 fol-
lowed it closely since. I knew you were osten-
sibly 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


THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED 275
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 l’’
The young man turned back to the detec-
tives—“And what now?” he questioned.


276 MIDNIGHT
“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. Unfortu-
nately, 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.”


278 MIDNIGHT
“Don’t you know?” came the surprised an-
SWeI".
“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. Law-
rence 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


THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED 279
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!”
“Inever 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—


280 MIDNIGHT
and I hate to let you go. But if the Chief is will-
ing 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


THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED 281
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 l’’
THE END