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

his visits, and his plentiful supply of money?"

"Yes. Oh! it was shameful—that I should be so helpless before his demands. It didn't matter that I had nothing to do with the killing—it was enough that I had to pay any price to keep my name clear of scandal. Looking back on the affair now, Mr. Carroll—I cannot understand my own weakness. But I felt that I owed it to my husband and my sister to protect them from scandal at any cost—and I have paid Barker a good deal of money—"

"I see." Carroll rose. "I want you to understand, Mrs. Lawrence, that you have helped me tremendously. And to know, also, that I shall probably succeed in keeping your name out of any disclosures which might have to be made to the public."

"But if my husband did it—"

"In that event, it will be impossible not to tell."

"And if he didn't do it?"

"Then you will be safe. But," finished the detective seriously, "if your husband didn't do it—I don't know who did. I have followed every possible trail and unless guilt can be fastened on either your husband or Barker, there isn't the faintest shadow of suspicion attached to anyone else. It will make things very difficult—for me."

During his ride to headquarters Carroll was busy with his thoughts. He was worried about the possible complicity of Gerald Lawrence in the shooting of Warren. He was more than halfway convinced that Lawrence knew a good deal about it—and the obvious method was to order Lawrence's arrest and make him prove an alibi. But such a procedure was impossible in view of his determination to protect Naomi's name to the ultimate moment.

He was greeted at headquarters by a reporter for one of the two evening papers. The reporter was eager for an interview. There had been an appalling dearth of local news, and the Warren story had been long since played beyond the point of public interest. The readers, explained the reporter, were growing tired of theories and column after column of conjecture. They wanted a few facts.

Carroll shook his head. "Nothing definite to give out yet."

The reporter was persistent. "You have made no new discoveries at all?"

"Well—I'd hardly say that."

"Then you have?"

"Yes," answered Carroll frankly, "I have."

"You think you know who killed Warren?"

Carroll, his mind still busy with Naomi's story, answered casually. "I believe I do. That is just a belief, mind you. But there is an outside chance that there will be important developments within the next twenty-four hours."

"Something definite, eh?"

"If anything at all happens, it will be definite."

Then Carroll excused himself and sought Eric Leverage. Under pledge of secrecy he told Leverage the entire story as he had heard it from Naomi Lawrence's lips. When he finished Leverage slammed his hand on the arm of his chair—

"Gerald Lawrence, or I'm a bum guesser," he stated positively.

"Looks that way," admitted Carroll. "What I hate about the idea is that if Lawrence is the man there will be no way on earth to keep Mrs. Lawrence's name out of it."

"You're right—How about Barker?"

"I believe Barker's story. So does Mrs. Lawrence. She believes that
Barker thinks she killed Warren in the taxi."

Leverage glanced keenly at his friend. "You are going to arrest
Lawrence?"

"No-o. Not yet. He may not have done it—"

"Well," sizzled the chief of police, "if he didn't and Barker didn't—who the devil did?"

Carroll shook his head hopelessly. "I don't know, Eric. If neither of those two men did, we'll be left hopelessly in the air."

"Exactly. We know that one of 'em did the shooting. We've covered this case from every angle, and if we believe that the shooting was not done by Mrs. Lawrence, we must suspect one of the two men involved. And if you are sure it wasn't Barker—"

"Let's wait a little while longer," counseled Carroll. "I want to be absolutely sure of my ground."

The two men sat in Leverage's office and talked. They discussed the case again from the beginning to its present status—threshing out each detail in the hope that they might have overlooked some vital fact which would give them a basis upon which to proceed. Their efforts were fruitless. The investigation had developed results—true enough—but those results were not at all satisfactory.

And it was about an hour later that a knock came on the door. In response to Leverage's summons, an orderly entered. In his hand he carried an evening paper—

"Just brought this in, sir. Thought you and Mr. Carroll might like to read it."

The orderly retired. Carroll spread the paper—then did something very rare. He swore profoundly. His eyes focused angrily on the enormous first page headlines:

"CARROLL HAS SOLVED WARREN MYSTERY

"Identity of Clubman's Slayer Known to Famous Detective

"WILL MAKE ARREST WITHIN 24 HOURS

"Sensational Developments Promised by David Carroll in Exclusive
Interview with Reporter for The Star."

It all came back to Carroll now. The eager reporter, the news-hunger, his non-committal statements. He read furiously through the story. It proved to be one of those newspaper masterpieces which uses an enormous number of words and says nothing. Carroll was quoted as saying only what he had actually said. It was the personal conjecture of the reporter writing the story which had given spur to the vivid imagination of the headline writer.

"So now," questioned Leverage—"what are you going to do: deny it?"

"No!" snapped Carroll—"I can't. He hasn't misquoted a single line of what I said. It just makes things—makes 'em mighty embarrassing."

He sat hunched in his chair staring at the screaming headlines and re-reading the lurid story. Again an orderly entered.

"Young lady out there," he announced, "who wants to know if Mr.
Carroll is here."

Instantly the mind of the detective leaped to the tragic figure of Naomi
Lawrence. "She wants to see me?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir."

"Show her in." He motioned to Leverage to remain. The orderly disappeared—and in a minute, the door opened and a woman entered. Carroll sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.

"Miss Gresham!"

Hazel Gresham nodded. She advanced toward Carroll. Every drop of color had been drained from her cheeks. Her manner indicated intense nervous strain. Her eyes were wide and fixed—

"I would like to speak to you alone, Mr. Carroll."

"Yes—This is Chief Leverage, Miss Gresham."

Leverage acknowledged the introduction and would have left but the girl stopped him. "On second thought, Mr. Leverage—you might remain."

Eric paused. His eyes sought Carroll's face. Both men knew that something vitally unexpected was about to be disclosed. They waited for the girl to speak—and when she did her voice was so low as to be almost unintelligible.

"About a half hour ago, gentlemen—I read the story in The Star. I—I—" she faltered for a moment, then went bravely on—"I came right down—to save you the trouble of sending for me!"

Silence: tense—expectant. "You did what?" queried Carroll.

"I came down—to save you the trouble—the embarrassment—of sending for me." She looked at them eagerly. "I have come to give myself up!"

Carroll frowned. "For what?"

"For—for the murder of—Roland Warren!"

The detective shook his head. "I don't understand, Miss Gresham. Really I don't. Do you mean to tell me that you were the woman in the taxicab?"

She was biting her lips nervously. "Yes."

"And that you shot Roland Warren?"

"Y-yes—And when I read in the paper that you knew who did it—I came right down here. I didn't want to—to—to be brought down—in a patrol wagon."

"I see—" Wild thoughts were chasing one another through Carroll's brain. He was beginning to see light. "You are quite sure that you killed Mr. Warren?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why do you doubt me? Don't you suppose that I know whether I killed him? Don't you suppose I can prove that I did it—"

"Yes—I suppose you can. I wonder, Miss Gresham," and Carroll's voice was very, very gentle, "if you would wait in that room yonder for a few minutes?"

"Certainly—" She raised her head pleadingly: "You do believe me, don't you?"

Carroll dodged the issue. "I want to think."

Alone with Leverage, Carroll clenched his fist—"If that isn't the most peculiar—"

"She's not telling the truth, is she, David?"

"Certainly not. She couldn't smash her own alibi if she tried a million years."

He paced the room, walking in quick, jerky steps. Finally his face cleared and he stopped before Leverage's chair.

"I've got it!" he announced triumphantly.

"Got what?"

"Never mind," Carroll was surcharged with suppressed excitement. "I want you to do something for me, Leverage—and do it promptly."

"Sure—"

"Send Cartwright and bring Garry Gresham here."

"Garry Gresham?"

"Yes—the young lady's brother."

Leverage was bewildered. "What in the world do you want with him?"

"I want him," explained Carroll confidently—"because Garry Gresham is the man who shot Warren!"

CHAPTER XXII THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED

Within an hour Garry Gresham appeared at headquarters in the company of
Cartwright. The officer left the room and the three men were alone.

Gresham's manner was nervous, but he showed no fright. Leverage, regarding him keenly, found reason to doubt Carroll's positive statement that Gresham was the person they sought. The young man stood facing them bravely, waiting—

"Gresham," said Carroll softly, "Your sister is in that room yonder. She read the afternoon paper—the report that I knew who killed Roland Warren. She immediately came here to give herself up."

An expression of utter bewilderment crossed young Gresham's face. Then he started forward angrily: "Why are you lying to me—"

"Easy, Gresham—easy there. I am not lying to you."

He saw Garry's eyes dart to the door behind which the sister was seated.
"What did she give herself up for, Carroll?"

"For killing Roland Warren."

Gresham took a firm grip on himself. "She didn't do it," he stated positively.

"Of course not," returned Carroll with equal assurance. "You did! And so that you will be quite convinced that I am not trying to trick you into the confession which I am sure you will make—" He crossed the room and flung open the door. "Come in, please, Miss Gresham."

The girl entered quietly—then saw her brother. Instantly her manner softened. She stepped swiftly to his side and took his hand in hers. "Please, Garry—"

Gresham smiled; a tender, affectionate smile.

"Good scout, aren't you, Sis? But tell me," his tone was conversational, "how did you know that I shot Roland Warren?"

"You didn't!" She flung around on Carroll—"Don't believe him. I shot
Mr. Warren—"

"I knew from the first that you didn't do it, Miss Gresham. I know that Miss Rogers spent the night with you. More than that, I know the identity of the woman in the taxicab."

"Who was she?" It was Gresham who questioned.

Carroll shook his head. "It doesn't matter who she was, Gresham. We're going to keep her name out of this case. She was a woman who loved Roland Warren—and his death saved her from a great mistake. There's no necessity to ruin her life, is there?"

"How did you know—it was Garry—who did the shooting?" asked the girl.

"The minute you confessed," answered the detective quietly, "I knew that you were doing it to shield someone. You could have had no possible motive for shielding either of the other two men under suspicion. I knew that it must be your brother. He had motive enough—he knew that you were in love with Mr. Warren—engaged to him. He knew that Warren was about to elope with another woman, that it would cause you intense misery. So he went to the station that night to prevent the elopement. Isn't that so, Gresham?"

The young man nodded. "Yes. When I went to your apartment the morning after the killing, it was for the purpose of confessing. But then when you assured me that my sister was not under suspicion—I decided to wait awhile before saying anything." He paused—"And as to that night—I parked my car a couple of blocks away and walked to the station through Jackson Street, intending to cut through the yards and approach the waiting room from the passenger platform. I had no idea that—that there would be—a tragedy. I wanted to reason with Warren; to beg him to save my sister from suffering which I knew would be attendant on—his elopement.

"He was walking in the yards as I entered from between the Pullman building and the baggage room. I don't know what he was doing there—but I spoke to him. He seemed startled at seeing