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

sensed the undercurrent of tenseness in the air. Her tongue became reluctantly still although she did break in once with a triumphant—"Ain't he like I told you he was?" to Hazel.

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," he answered gratefully. "You have, of course, heard that there is a woman connected with Mr. Warren's death—the woman in the taxicab."

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

He watched her closely—"Have you the slightest idea—the vaguest suspicion—of that woman's identity?"

"No!" she answered—and he knew that she had spoken the truth.

"You have thought of it—of her—a good deal?"

"Naturally."

"Mind you—I'm not asking if you know—I'm merely asking if you have a suspicion."

"I have not—not the faintest."

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

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

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

"Yet we know that there was a woman in that cab!"

"No-o. We know that the taxi-driver says there was."

"That's true—"

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

"I couldn't do that, Miss Gresham."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Warren's murderer is still at large—and as a matter of duty—"

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

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

"She has had enough—" broke in Garry Gresham. "She's been through hell since—that night."

"I'm afraid, though—"

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

David Carroll was puzzled. But he was honest—"I'm afraid I cannot, Miss
Gresham. I must, at least, try to solve it."

She paused before him: figure tensed—

"Then let me say, Mr. Carroll—that I hope you fail!"

CHAPTER XVI THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carroll shook his head. "You know I don't like to answer questions of that sort."

"But you can tell me—"

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

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

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

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

Carroll was genuinely impressed. "You don't?"

"No. Don't believe any woman—I don't care who—would have killed him under those circumstances."

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

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

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

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

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

"Might have—yes. But something tells me it didn't. It's asking too much—"

"Then what do you think happened?"

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

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

Leverage rubbed his chin. "Funny about Spike, Carroll—I think the kid's story is true."

"So do I."

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

"It is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"G'wan wid ye! Fishing for compliments—that's what you are."

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

"And Garry Gresham. You say he didn't want you to discuss the case with his sister."

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

"You think one of them is in on the know?"

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

"M-m-m—They're pretty good friends to the Lawrences, aren't they!"

"Yes—with Naomi Lawrence, anyway. I don't believe Gerald Lawrence is especially