Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen (rosie project .TXT) 📕

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, Lawrence 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

Carroll 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 himself 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 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 commencement 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 followed suit, his close-set eyes focused belligerently 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 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 catechism?"

"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 affirm."

"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 what you are!" That dart went home—Lawrence 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 matters.

"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 suspected of Warren's murder?"

Silence! Then a forced, sickly grin creased Lawrence's lips—but his figure slumped, almost 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 Lawrence 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 Warren 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."

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 committed. 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."

"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 answer—yet there was something in Carroll's mesmeric eyes which wrung words unwillingly from his lips—

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

"I don't believe I am here to answer questions, Mr. Lawrence. You invited me to ask them."

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

Carroll swung on her, biting off his words shortly: "Do you know that he didn't?"

"Yes—I—"

"I didn't ask what you thought, Mrs. Lawrence. I am asking what you know!"

"But if he was in Nashville—"

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

"I'm sorry, Carroll," said Lawrence pleadingly. "I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't know how much I knew—or might guess. You saw fit to insult me—"

"I've apologized."

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

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

"Why not?"

"Because I was in Nashville at that time. And while perhaps I can't prove
I was there—you certainly cannot prove I was not."

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

Lawrence flushed. "Sometimes. I used to be a heavy drinker, and—"

"Is that a fact, Mrs. Lawrence?"

"Yes," she answered eagerly: almost too eagerly Carroll thought—"he has had escapades like this—several times."

"And you are sure that his story is true?"

"Yes. Of course I'm sure. Why should he kill Mr. Warren? There isn't any reason in the world—"

"For your sake and his, I hope not. But meanwhile—"

"Surely, Mr. Carroll—you don't intend publishing what he has told you—about his drinking—alone—in Nashville?"

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

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

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

Lawrence was silent for awhile, and then—"You're damned white,
Carroll. The apologies I extended a moment ago—I repeat. And this time
I'm sincere."

"And this time they are accepted."

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

Carroll rose and bowed. "Thank you. And now—I'll go. If you will express my regrets to Miss Rogers—"

Naomi accompanied him to the door. She extended her hand—"You're wrong,
Mr. Carroll", she murmured. "Quite wrong!"

"You are sure?"

"I know! I really believe his story."

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

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