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

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 Warren as they seemed—if I'm right in that, maybe 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! 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 Leverage.

"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 thare 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' 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. Leafless trees stretched their ice-covered tentacles into the cold, penetrating air; pedestrians and horses slipped on the glassy pavements; automobiles either skidded dangerously or set up an incessant rattle with their chains.

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 doorbell 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."

"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 famous 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

Carroll was more than amused; he was keenly interested. He motioned his visitor to a chair and seated himself opposite, regarding her quizzically.

She was not exactly the type of person he had anticipated encountering in a murder investigation. From the tip of her pert little hat to the toes of her ultra-fashionable shoes she was expressive of the independent rising generation—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, irrepressible. She sat fidgeting in her chair, trying 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 approval—"I'm terribly tickled with the way you look. You may not believe it, but I've always been 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 great deal about keeping my mind on one subject all the time. You know, it doesn't matter what you concentrate on—even if it's only making 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 concentrate 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! We women have a way of knowing 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-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! Knowing 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 excruciatingly 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—"

"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.

"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 killing 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 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 Rogers 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