 15 A talk with Hazel Gresham. Carol tried to appear disinterested, strove to make his manner casual, jocular even. Gresham was piecing the threads of circumstances together, and the events surrounding the Warren murder were slowly clarifying in Carol's brain. But he knew that now, of all times, he must keep her from thinking that he had any particular interest in her chatter. She was completely 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 kidding. "'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 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 Ciss was packing 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. Ciss was out a couple of times that day, so I guess she did. "'Carol shrugged. She was probably sending some of Mr. Lawrence's belongings to him in Nashville.' "'Huh! There's some things even a great detective like you don't know. Don't you suppose I noticed that the clothes she was packing in that suitcase were hers?' "'Really? You bet your life I noticed. You see,' she grew suddenly confidential. "'There's a certain kind of perfume Ciss uses. Awful expensive. Roland Warren used to bring it to her. Well, I've been using it, too, and Ciss never did get 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. Carol. 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 cost twelve dollars an ounce.' "'No. Yeah. Goodness knows how much a pound would cost. I use it all the time. I knew when he gave it to Ciss 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 Ciss and Gerald.' "'I fancy it did,' Carol summoned a waiter. "'A little baked Alaska for dessert?' "'Baked Alaska? Oh, boy! You sure spoke a mouthful that time. I am simply insane over it.' "'She evidently had not exaggerated. She absorbed enough of the dessert to have satisfied two growing men. It did Carol good to witness her frank enjoyment of his luncheon.' She glanced at her wristwatch and rose hastily. "'Goodness me! I've simply got to be going!' "'Where?' she made a rye face. Hazel Greshams. Honestly, women get queer when they grow up, get older than twenty. Hazel has been acting so peculiarly lately.' "'That's natural, isn't it, Miss Rogers?' Her fiancee 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. Carol, if there's one person in the whole world who always minds their own business and who doesn't pay the slightest attention to other people's affairs, that person is me. I started that a long time ago when I read something someone wrote in a book about how much happier folks could be if they never bothered with other folks' business. And it struck me as awfully logical. And so that's what I've always done. Don't you think I'm sensible?' "'I certainly do. Very sensible. And I'm sorry Miss Gresham isn't feeling well.' "'Oh, she feels well enough. She's just acting nutty. And as for when your name is mentioned, whoa! My name?' Carol was genuinely surprised.' "'Yes, sir, E. Bob. I started telling her all about what good friends you and I have gotten to be. And would you believe it? She jumped all over me, just like Sis did when I told her, and said I shouldn't associate with professional detectives, and it was immoral and all that sort of thing.' "'Indeed.' "'You bet she did. It was scandalous. Of course I told her what a ducky you are, but she begged me not to go with you any more. I told her she was crazy, because I really don't think there's anything so very terrible about you, do you?' "'At least,' smiled Carol, 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 fiancee?' "'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 unbalanced, 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 unconsciously braced against the biting wind, which shrieked around the corner and cut to the bone, giving the light of the bright sunshine and its promise of warmth. Shivered Evelyn, and Carol 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 splendiferous, and I'd like Hazel to meet you. Then 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 in the side of the mountain at the extreme southern end of the city, Evelyn did about a hundred and one percent 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 prohibition, 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 sisters. It was the grandest in the city, that. She orated at length on any subject which occurred to her tireless mind, securing his dumb OK 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 of something. They pulled up at the curb of the Gresham home. As they did so, Gary Gresham swung out of the gate, paused, and his eyes widened in astonishment at the sight of Carol. Then he stepped quickly to the curb as Carol and the girl alighted. Hello, Gary! greeted Evelyn boldly. It was the first time she had ever called him by his first name, but Gresham did not notice. He nodded a curt, Hello, Evelyn, and addressed himself to Carol, eyes level, manner, direct. What do you want here, Carol? There was an undertone of earnestness in the young man's words which the detective did not miss. He simulated innocence. I? Nothing. Gary Gresham frowned. You had no particular reason for coming here? None, whatever. Why? I fancied it was peculiar, after your original suspicion of my sister. Carol laughed good-naturedly. Read your mind of that, my friend. I merely happened to be downtown with Miss Rogers, and drove her up here in my car. As a matter of fact, if you have no objection, I'd like very much to meet your sister. Why? Because she was Roland Warren's fiance. Because she can tell me some things about Warren which no one else can tell me. Because 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, Carol, that you are convinced that my sister is not connected 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 during the interview. Carol bowed. As you will, Gresham. They walked to the house, and Gary led the way to the front hall. Evelyn, considerably peaked 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 verbal barrage that Gresham appeared at the far end of the hall with his sister. Carol 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, reflected Carol 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 Carol, her eyes meeting his squarely, and they mutually acknowledged Evelyn's gushing but unheard introduction. Miss Gresham! Mr. Carol! They seated themselves about a small table which stood in the centre of the reception hall, and even Evelyn 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? Too hazel. It was Gary who introduced the subject. Mr. Carol wants to ask you something about Rowland, he said softly, and Carol, 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. Carol? 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. Carol. 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 taxi cab? 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 this engagement to you, Mr. Warren was, well, that he was carrying on no affair with another woman? I say, Carol! It was Gary Gresham who interrupted, and his voice was harsh. But his sister halted him with a little affectionate gesture. Mr. Carol is right, Gary. He must know these things. She turned again to Carol. No, Mr. Carol, 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, we know that the taxi driver says there was. That's true. Hazel Gresham leaned forward, her manner that of a suppliant. Mr. Carol, 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 role into 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, broken Gary Gresham. She's been through hell since that night. I'm afraid, though. Mr. Carol, 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 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 tense. Then let me say, Mr. Carol, that I hope you fail. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 16 of Midnight. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen. Chapter 16. 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 Rowland Warren. Eric Leveridge 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 Leveridge's opinion, even though the minds of the two men were as far apart as the polls. But Leveridge 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 subtlety 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 Leveridge worked hand in hand with implicit confidence in one another. Leveridge 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 Leveridge even tweeted 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 cataloged 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, determined upon some course of action. Yes, responded Leveridge slowly, perhaps we can. Only trouble is, there are so many different ways of spilling the beans that we're taking a chance no matter what we do. Answer me this, David, if you had to point out one person right now is the guilty one, which would you choose? Carroll shook his head. You know I don't like to answer questions of that sort. But you can tell me. No. 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 today, I'd nab Mr. Gerald Lawrence, and haul in William Barker for good measure. Hmm, Carroll nodded approvingly. Sounds reasonable. How about the woman? That's what's got me puzzled. I've worked on that. 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 to the woman in the taxi. 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 taxi cab? 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 RLNT 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 in a fair 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 wail 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 Carol, 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. Taint 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 would have had the common sense to do what you did, to know that it would be a sensible move. Some day, Eric, grinned Carol, 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 madish detective. Go on, witchy. Fishin' for compliments. That's what you are. Carol grew serious again. I think we're safe in eliminating Evelyn Rogers from our calculations, except as a goldmine of information. Which takes us to her friend, Hazel Gresham. And Gary Gresham. You say he didn't want you to discuss the case with his sister? They both acted mighty peculiarly, agreed Carol. 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. Mmm, they're pretty good friends to the Laurences, 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? Carol hesitated a moment before replying. When he did speak, it was with obvious reluctance. 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 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 the husband, or both, are mixed up in this case. Events dovetail too perfectly 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 leverage grimly, that Hazel Gresham was engaged to Mary Warren. No, nor am I. It's a puzzling combination 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 tabletop, forehead corrugated in a frown of intensive thought. When he did speak, it was in a manner well-nigh abstract. Gerald Lawrence probably lied when he said he didn't leave Nashville until the two AM 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 Carol. When he made the discovery that his alibi was no good, he was the most surprised person in the room. And your 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 investigation began. He has one of the most unpleasant personalities I have ever known. He is a congenital grouch. But he told his Nashville story so frankly, and then became so panicky with surprise, when my questioning showed him that his alibi was rotten, that we must not fasten definitely upon him. Except to be pretty darn sure that he knows more about it than he is told. Yes, perhaps. Perhaps. Ain't you sure he does? I'm not sure of anything. I haven't one single item of information save that regarding the one person whom I would prefer to see left clear. And that is Mrs. Naomi Lawrence. Leverage not at agreement. Things do look pretty tough for her. More so than you think, Eric. Carol designated on his fingers. Count the facts against her as we know them, irrespective of their weight or significance. First, she is a beautiful woman, twelve years younger than her husband, and very unhappy in her domestic life. Second, she was very friendly with Roland Warren. Of course, Miss Rogers' fatuous belief that Warren was crazy about her is pure rot. He called at that house to see either Gerald or Naomi Lawrence. We must admit that the chances are the woman was the person in whom he was interested. Third, in substantiation of that belief, we know that he frequently gave her presents. It doesn't matter how valuable the presents were, he gave them. That proves a certain amount of interest. Carol paused for a brief explanation. Mind you, Leverage, I'm not trying to make out a case against Naomi Lawrence. I'm only being honest. To continue, fourth, we know that in spite of the fact that she is afraid to remain in a house alone at night, she suggested that her sister visit at the home of Hazel Gresham on the night Warren was killed. Her husband was supposed, according to his story, to be in Nashville. It is absurd to presume that when she let Evelyn go out for the night, she expected to remain alone until morning. Therefore, for the sake of argument, we will assume that she knew her husband would be back that night. If that is the case, we are also forced to believe that there was something sinister about it. Fifth, we are fairly positive that she packed a suitcase the morning before the murder, that the suitcase left the house that morning, and that two days later it mysteriously reappeared. Yes, interrupted Leverage, and we know that Warren was planning to make a trip with someone else. Exactly. Which makes it pretty clear, finished Leverage positively, that Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxi cab. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 17 of Midnight. This Liverbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen. Chapter 17. Barker accuses. The men looked at each other in silence for a minute. Leverage was sorry for Carol. Sorry because he knew that Carol was disappointed, that the boyish detective 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 Carol had become infatuated 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 taxi cab 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 someone. There was the fact that he had purchased a drawing-room and two railroad tickets, only one of which later had been found in his pockets at midnight that night. Then there was the circumstance of Mrs. Lawrence packing her suitcase and taking it, or sending it, from the house during the day, and its reappearance a couple of days later. It also explained her willingness that Evelyn spend the night with Hazel Gresham. Knowing that she, Naomi, was going to leave her home before midnight, she had not wanted her youthful sister to spend the balance of the night alone, and so had sent her to the house of a friend. That much was clear. It's hell, burst out Carol. You said it. Suppose she was the woman in the taxi cab. Yes, suppose she was. It doesn't prove that she killed Warren. No, but it proves something a good deal worse, leverage. It proves that she was going to elope with him. It may, we don't know. We don't know anything. But there is a certain logic which is irrefutable, and confounded, man, what are we going to do now? Leverage refused to meet his friend's eyes. Well, David, suppose you tell me what you think we should do. We ought to, but it's rotten, absolutely rotten. Trouble with you, David, said Leverage kindly, is that you're too damned human. I can't help it. It isn't my fault. And if I was sure that Naomi Lawrence was the woman in that taxi, I'd arrest her immediately. But I'm not sure, Leverage, and neither are you. Let's admit that it's a ten to one bet. We're still not positive. And I wonder if you realize what her arrest would mean. What? We can't arrest a woman of her prominence socially without a reason, and a darned good reason. Therefore, when we arrest her, we have to tell the public why we're doing it. And what do we tell them? That she was, or might have become, Warren's light of love? That she was going to elope with him? And yet, David, all of that is probably true. Probably, yes, but not positively. We haven't proved anything. And once we explode that social bomb, we've started something that she'll never live down. We've done more than 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 him 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 altogether, and figure where Evelyn comes in in 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 am 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's sister will suffer too. You don't think, Carol, that she looked like that kind. Good God, no! And even if we prove that she was the woman in the taxi cab, 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, leverage. 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 something. No answer. Carol had lighted a cigarette and was puffing fiercely upon it. Leverage spoke again softly. Haven't we? I suppose we have. Well? 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. Perhaps 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 therefore. Leverage shook his head. He was disappointed in his friend. Not that Carol would flinch from duty, but Leverage considered it a weakness that Carol 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 Carol, 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 work together, and I'm game to stick to it now. Carol flushed. Yet you're disappointed in me? 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 Carol grimly. No, as Leverage started for the door. Don't go. I want to think for a minute. Leverage sank obediently into a chair. Carol 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 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 connection the Lawrence's 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 Carol was still seated motionlessly before the great fire, an extinguished cigar between his teeth, eyes focused intently on the dancing flames. Leverage spoke. I've got Barker. Where is he? Downstairs. Bring him in. You stay here when he comes. Send everybody else out. Cartwright brought Barker into the room and Leverage dismissed the plainclothesman. Barker, eyes wide with fear, face pallid, yet with a certain belligerence in his attitude, confronted the two detectives. I say, he started, what does this mean? It means, said Carol coldly, that you are under arrest for the murder of Roland Warren. That I'm— Barker fell back a step. It was plain that he was surprised. You're arresting me for Warren's murder? Yes. But I didn't do it. I'll swear I didn't. Of course you'll swear it. Carol's steely voice excited a vast admiration and Leverage's breast. Many times before he had seen the transformation in his friend, from all too human softness to almost inhuman coldness. Yet he never failed of surprise at the phenomenon. But we know you did do it. You don't know nothing 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 nothing on me. That's 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 to. You know bloody well that I didn't do it. Why do we know that? Because you know he was killed by a woman. 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 gonna be trapped. I don't know nothing about it, like I said from the first. But you do know something about it, insisted Carol icily, and I'd advise you to come clean with us. There ain't nothing to come clean about. 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? Carol's voice fairly snapped. It was Miss Hazel Gresham, Carol 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 Carol, then at leverage. 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. Carol, that be in the case, I ain't gonna stick my head in the news 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. Who was it? Barker's face went white. Leverage and Carol leaned forward eagerly, nervously. It seemed an eternity before Barker's answer came. But when it did, his words rang with conviction. He uttered a name. Mrs. Naomi Lawrence. End of Chapter 17. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 18 of Midnight. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen. Chapter 18. And nothing but the truth. Barker's words reverberated through the room to be succeeded by an almost unnatural stillness. A silence punctured by the ticking of the cheap clock and the mantle. By the crackling of the flames in the grate. By the whistling of the wind around the corners of the gaunt gray stone building which housed the police department. The accused man looked eagerly upon the faces of the two detectives. Then, slowly, his chest expanded with relief. He saw that they believed him. And Carol did believe. It was not that he wanted to. He had fought himself mentally away from that conviction time after time. Had threshed over every scintilla of evidence. Searching futilely for something which would clear this radiant woman whom he had met but once. Carol's interest, however platonic, was intensely personal. The woman had impressed herself indelibly upon him. It was perhaps her air of game helplessness. Perhaps the stark tragedy which he had seen reflected in her eyes when he had first entered her home and saw that she knew why he had come. And now, driven into the corner which he had hoped to avoid, his retentive memory brought back a circumstance well nigh forgotten. He had dressed Barker, his voice soft hopeless. You mean that Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxi cab? Yes, sir. The sir which Barker used for the first time was respectful. Where had she been during the evening, after dark of the night of the killing? At home, I believe. You believe? Yes, sir. Carol's eyes lighted. His voice cracked out accusingly. Don't you know that that is incorrect? Barker shook his head. Why, no, sir. Of course, I ain't saying positive that she was at home all evening, but... As I understand it, said Carol slowly, an accommodation train came in just about that time. Isn't that a fact? Some train came in then, I don't know which one it was. Isn't it a fact that the woman who got into the taxi cab had been a passenger on that train, that she got off with the other passengers, carrying a suitcase? There ain't nobody can see the passengers get off the trains at the Union Station, Mr. Carol. You go down them steps and approach the waiting room underground, crossing under the tracks. But you do know that this woman, whoever she was, passed through the waiting room with the passengers who came on that train, don't you? Yes, sir. She'd done that, but it don't mean nothing. Why don't it? Well, sir, for one thing, ain't it true that the paper said the suitcase she was carrying wasn't hers at all? Ain't it a fact that she had Mr. Warren's suitcase? Well, Carol saw his last hope glimmering. You see, sir, Mr. Warren was meeting Mrs. Lawrence at the station. He got there with his suitcase at about ten minutes to twelve. She got there about ten or fifteen minutes later. How did she come? On the streetcar. And when she come out, she was alone, and it was his suitcase she was carrying, the same suitcase he had taken into the station, the one you found in the taxi cab. I see. Carol did not want to believe Barker's story, but he knew that the man was telling the truth, or at least that most of what he was saying was true. The detective seemed crushed with disappointment. Leverage, seated in the corner of the room, chewing savagely on a big black cigar, was sorry for his friend. Sorry, yet proud of the way he was standing the gaff of his chagrin. Carol again spoke to Barker, manner almost apathetic. You know a good deal more about this thing than you've told us, don't you, Barker? Yes, sir. Very well. Let's have your story from the beginning to the end. I'll be honest with you. I believe a good deal of what you've told me. Some of your story I don't believe. Other portions of it need substantiation. But you are mighty close to being charged with murder, and now is your chance to clear yourself. Go to it. Barker plunged a hand into his pocket. Can I smoke, Mr. Carol? Certainly, and sit down. They drew up their chairs before the fire. Carol 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. Carol. I'm going to tell you everything I know, and everything 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 convincing you that I ain't mixed up in this murder, than I would have making a jury believe the same thing. I reckon you'll give me a square deal. I will, snapped Carol. Go ahead. In the first place, started Barker slowly. It's my personal opinion that Mr. Warren never had no idea of marrying Miss Gresham. Maybe I'm all wrong there, but it's what I think. I can't prove that, of course, and 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 hanging around the house a good deal, and doing little things like a man will when he's nuts about a woman. For instance, Mr. Warren wasn't no investing man. So far as I know he had all his money in government bonds and such like investments. But he sank some money into them woollen mills that Mr. Lawrence owns. And also he pretended that he liked that kid's sister of Mrs. Lawrence's, Evelyn Rogers. But there ain't hardly a doubt in my mind, Mr. Carol, and I'm handing it to you straight, that he was crazy about Mrs. Lawrence, and not mean of no impertinence, sir. I ain't blaming 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, and something no woman will do unless she's wild about a fella. 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 coming up there and all, no matter how decent she acted when she was there. And 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 watching me, sure, I know you've had a couple of dicks shadowing me. I destroyed it. Where are the rest of her letters? Mr. Warren used to burn them up careful. He wasn't taken no chances of someone finding them, and he being 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. And the one letter of hers 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 business, and Mr. Warren never was a fella I could ask questions of. When he had something to tell me, he told it, and I never got nothing out of him by asking. But, being his valet, there was certain things I couldn't very well miss knowing. I know his apartment is sublet for the new tenants 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, and 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 shopping. When I was downtown, I seen him go into the railroad ticket office. I didn't pay much attention to that then, and later on he drove by the house for a minute. I had taken his lap-robe 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 lap-robe in the car, I seen he had a suitcase in there. And the suitcase 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 came back, and the suitcase 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 smoking, 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, telling me good-bye, and giving me an excellent reference, and saying I was a good valet, and all like that, sir. After leaving 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 Station, and when it comes about ten o'clock, I got tired and went and sat down in the corner, eating a hut dog from the stand in Kelly's. And then I sort of got to thinking things over. And thinking things over that way, Mr. Carroll, I began to think that Mrs. Lawrence was doing a terrible, foolish thing, and I was kind of sorry about it. Now don't get no idea that I'm wanting you to believe I got a soft heart or anything 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 thinking about that, sir, it struck me that maybe something could be done to keep them from eloping with each other that way. Not that I was planning to do anything, but curiosity 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 something to happen. Sort of hoping 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 suddenly a taxi cab came up to the curb, and Mr. Warren got out. Then the taxi cab beat it downtown again, and Mr. Warren went in the station. And as he come in one door, I beat it out of the other. Why? snapped leverage. Because him seeing me there was certain to start something, and I wasn't hankering for nothing 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. And it was cold. I ain't seen such a cold night in my life. I almost froze to death. And yet you continued to stand there? Sure, I was curious. Kind or foolish maybe, 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 streetcar stopped and Mrs. Lawrence got out. And the first thing I noticed was that she wasn't carrying no suitcase. I noticed that on account of having seen her suitcase in Mr. Warren's car that day. She didn't carry nothing but one of these handbag things that women lug around with them. How was she dressed? Fur coat and hat and a heavy veil. You could see the veil from across the street at midnight? No, sir, not from there. But when she went in the depot, I followed across the street and looked inside to see what was going to happen. He paused a moment and then Carol prodded him on. Well, what did happen? The minute Mr. Warren seen her come in, he beat it through the opposite door from where I was standing, out to the platform that runs parallel to the tracks. And he nodded to her to follow him. She sort of nodded like she was wise and took a seat so as nobody would think anything in case there was anyone there looking for something. Mr. Warren walked off down the outside platform towards the baggage room, and after about three minutes she gets up, kind of casual like, and follows. Soon as she went through the door to the platform, I went in the waiting room. What did you do then? Nothing. Just made a beeline for the steam radiator and tried to get warm. I was so cold it hurt. And I stood there for about ten minutes. Then I heard that train coming in, and I went outside into the street again. Carol'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 coming in. And then the passengers from it began to come through, and I was surprised to see Mrs. Lawrence coming with them, and she was carrying his suitcase. Who's suitcase? Mr. Warren's. She come on out to the curb and called a taxi cab. Where was the taxi cab 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? Kind of nervous-like. Noticing her come out, I seen the taxi driver when he climbed back into his cab, and when he started her up. He picked up Mrs. Lawrence, and she put the suitcase in front beside him. Then they drove off. And that's all I know, sir. Carol rose and walked slowly the length of the room. What did you think when you saw Mrs. Lawrence come out of the station alone carrying Mr. Warren's suitcase? When she did that and called a taxi cab and went off in it alone? Not knowing about no killing, Mr. Carol, I thought they'd got together and talk things over and decided to call off the elopement. You did, Carol paused. And the first time you knew of Warren's death was when I read the newspapers the next morning. Then why, barked the detective, did you make the blunt statement that Mrs. Lawrence killed Warren? Because, said Barker simply, I believe she did. How could she have killed him? When and how? That's easy, explained Barker quietly. If I'm right in thinking that they was going to call off the elopement, they could have seen that taxi standing against the curb and he could have got in without being seen. It was awful dark where the taxi was standing and the driver says himself that he was over in the restaurant getting warm. So what I thought right away was that Warren got in the taxi and she called it. That was so they wouldn't be seen getting in together at that time of night. Then I thought they drove off. And then, yes, and then, it was while they were alone together in that taxi that she killed him. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 19 of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight by Octavis Roy Cohen Chapter 19 Labyrinth Long after William Barker left the room, held in custody under special guard, David Carroll and Chief of Police Eric Leveridge maintained a thoughtful silence. Leveridge wanted a 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. Rec and I did, David. It looks mighty 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 domestic positions, they don't go to the front door. And Barker did on both occasions he visited that house. No, Leveridge, I don't think he told the truth there. Then what was he doing at the house? Hmm. Just struck me, Eric, that he may have been trying a little private blackmail. Leveridge 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 killing, then we know he is the only person who, until now, had any knowledge of the identity of the woman in the taxi cab. That being the case, and Barker being obviously not a high type of man, it is certainly not unreasonable to presume that he was capitalizing his information. Seems plausible, grunted Leveridge. But where does it get us? Just this far, explained Carol. Unless Barker was applying for a position at the Lawrence's, where they not only do not employ a male servant, but have never employed one, he was not seeking employment anywhere. He 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. Leveridge held Carol 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 taxi cab? I've got to believe it. Do you believe she killed him? Evidence points to that answer, Leveridge. 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 taxi cab. What Barker tells us is perfectly plausible. Carol 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 unbearable that she would entertain the idea of eloping with Warren, that she went so far as to attempt to carry that idea into execution. But I 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. Lawrence 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 taxi cab on duty. For all they know, the last streetcar has passed. They conceive the idea of making a single taxi cab due 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 accommodation rolls in. She picks up Warren's suitcase, 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 Leveridge. Go ahead. Walters gets the signal and drives up. Mrs. Lawrence gets in. He drives away. And then, Leveridge leaped forward eagerly. Yes, and then? Well, said Carol slowly. We don't know what happened in that taxi cab. We believe that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman. We know that Warren would have gone through with the allotment. That being the case, we can fancy his keen disappointment. Under those circumstances, Eric, a good many things could have occurred in that taxi cab, which might have justified Warren's death at her hands. Leveridge crossed to his desk from the top drawer of which he took a box of cigars. He was frowning as he recrossed to Carol and offered him one. Then, with almost exasperating 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 his post before the fire, with his back to it so that he could watch Carol's face. You really want to believe that story, don't you, David? He asked gently. Yes. And yet you know it is shot all full of holes. How? For one thing, said Leveridge slowly. How do you explain the fact that it was a 32 that killed him? Not that a 32 is any big gun, it isn't, but it does make a considerable racket. The shooting probably took place at the RL&T crossing while the train was passing. The sound of the shot may have been drowned in the roar of the train, not entirely smothered, of course, but sufficiently blended with the other noise not to attract the attention of the half frozen driver. And the cab being stopped there, it must have been at that point that Mrs. Lawrence, panicky over what had occurred, left the taxi. You're a dandy little old explainer, Carol, but you've forgotten one other important item. What is it? The address Mrs. Lawrence gave, 981 East End Avenue. That address was a stall. We know it was a stall. We were hot on that end of it the night the body was found. And if those two people were trying to get home, Carol, if Warren was already in the cab and Mrs. Lawrence gave the address, and if she wanted to get away from Warren and safe at home as soon as she could, she'd never have ordered Walters to drive to 981 East End Avenue. Carol did not answer. There was no answer possible. Leverage's logic was irrefutable. And finally Carol rose to his feet and slipped into his heavy overcoat. Leverage's eyes were turned kindly upon him. Where are you going, David? I'm going to play my last trump. If it doesn't uncover something, I throw up my hands. Laugh at me if you will, Eric. Rail at me for being chicken hearted, for playing hunches too strongly. But I have an idea that Mrs. Lawrence did not kill Warren. Don't ask me how or why. I don't know. I admit that, frankly. But I've always banked on my knowledge of human nature, Leverage. And my instinct has never yet betrayed me. Just now it is forcing me to give this woman every chance in the world to clear herself. I am hoping that circumstances will allow me to bring this case to a conclusion without making public her connection with it, the allotment she was planning. You do believe that part of the story, then, that she was going to elope with Warren? I do. I don't want to, but I'm honest with myself. Then exclaimed Leverage, with a slight touch of exasperation in his manner. Who in thunder could have killed Warren if she didn't? And when? That, said Carol simply, is what I hope to find out. From where? From the lips of Mrs. Lawrence. I'm going to have a talk with her. Carol was far from happy during his drive to the Lawrence home. The Warren mystery seemed to be verging on a solution, but in Carol's breast there was none of the pardonable surge of elation, which normally was his under these circumstances. It had been a peculiar case from the first. The dramatic persona had all been of the better type, with the single exception of William Barker. They had been persons against whom the detective was loathed to believe ill, and most eagerly he had shied from the belief that Mrs. Lawrence was connected 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 Carol had admitted to his friend that he hoped to find Naomi innocent, he was yet honest and fearless, and failure of the woman to clear herself meant her arrest. Carol 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. Carol, it's just simply scrumptious 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'd have been a death in the family, or something. It's been simply graveyard-y. And now you come in, like a darling angel, and save me from the willy-woggles. You're a deer, and— but—but I really came to see your sister. Oh, pfft! That's what poor deer 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 privately. Evelyn Rose, and started reluctantly toward the door. I suppose it's up to me to make myself very scarce, but it's 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 you if you wanted. But I suppose you've got something terribly dry to discuss, and so she left the room and Carol 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 focused 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. Carol. 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. Lawrence. I've come. I know why you have come, Mr. Carol. 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! Carol fidgeted nervously. I must warn you to be careful in what you say to me, my friend. I am the detective in charge of this case, and there is no use in concealment, Mr. Carol. I have been driven almost crazy since that night. I have almost reached the end of my rope. It was the scandal I have been fighting to avoid, not so much for my own sake as for Evelyn and my husband. Publicity of this kind would be very, very awkward for both of them. I'm sorry, Carol hesitated. If you don't care to talk to me— she shrugged slightly. It makes no difference now. I'd rather talk to you than someone who might understand less readily or more harshly. I may question you? Yes. I regret it and rest assured that I am trying to find a way out for you. There is no way out from the scandal, but that is my own fault. Somewhere down the block an auto-horn shrieked. In another room of the house an old grandfather's clock chimed sonorously. You admit that you were the woman in the taxi cab? Yes, certainly. Do you admit that you killed Roland Warren? Her startled eyes flashed to his. The color drained from her cheeks. Her answer was almost inaudible. No. You did not kill him? Carol was impressed with the nuance of truth in her answer. No, I did not kill him. But when you got into the taxi cab, isn't it a fact that he was already there? Yes, he was there, Mr. Carol. But he was already dead. End of Chapter 19 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 20 Of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight By Octavus Roy Cohen Chapter 20 A Confession Already Dead Carol did not know if his lips framed the words or if the walls of the room had echoed. He was startled at a time when he fancied that there could be no further surprise in store for him. He found himself eyeing the woman, and he wondered that he gave credence to her statement. Naomi was sitting straight, large, black eyes dilated, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly. Lips slightly parted. Even under the stress of the moment Carol was actually conscious of her feminine allure, unable to free himself of her hypnotic personality. She spoke, but he scarcely heard her words through his chaos of thought. He was dead before I got into the taxi cab. He saw that she was fighting to impress upon him the truth of her well-nigh unbelievable 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, the 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 husband. You love your husband? Carol bit his lips. The question had slipped out before he realized that he informed the words. But she did not evade the issue. I despise him, Mr. Carol, 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. I see. And Mr. Warren? She spread her hands in a helpless, hopeless gesture. What's the use, Mr. Carol? Why should I rack 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 taxi cab Roland had already been killed. I do believe that, returned Carol gently. She inbreathed sharply, then her eyes narrowed a trifle. Do you mean that, or is it bait to make me talk? I cannot 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 unconsciously, can establish that there may be some way of keeping the details from the public. 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 virginity. I am not that, that kind of a woman, Mr. Carroll. I should not have married that type of man. 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, 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 common. 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 unsexed. No need to go into further detail. sufficient to say that I became desperate for a little affection, 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 understand what Roland Warren meant to me. You 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 neglected by my husband seems absurd, trivial. But it is not absurd. It is not trivial. Mr. Warren was kind to me. He was attentive, 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 protestations. 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 plan to elope. Don't ask me how I could consider such a thing. There is no answer possible. It wasn't a sane decision, but I decided that I would. There was the craving to get away from things, to try to start over, to reveal in the richest things of life for a while. I was selfish, unutterably so. I didn't think then of the effect on my husband or of the effect on Evelyn. I was selfish, yes. But immoral? No. What I planned to do, under the circumstances, was not immoral. Even yet I cannot convince myself that it was. Rowland laid all his plans to leave the city. In all my delirium of preparation, the hiding in the secrecy, I felt sincerely sorry for only one person. And that person was Hazel Greshan to whom Mr. Warren was engaged. I believe she was in love with him. But so was I. And if he loved me, as I said before, Mr. Carroll, I was selfish. On the morning of the day we were to go, my husband was in Nashville, you know. Mr. Warren came to the house in his car. He showed me that he had reserved a drawing-room for us to New York. In order that we would not be seen together, he gave me one of the railroad tickets. I was to reach the Union Station ten minutes before train time. If you recall, the train on which we were to go was quite late that night. We planned not to talk to one another at the station until after boarding the train. Morning would have published news of the scandal broadcast, but until the irrevocable step had been taken we determined to avoid gossip. And, Mr. Carroll, I was then what is called a good woman. My faithlessness up to that time and to this moment had been mental and mental only. When he left me that morning he took with him my suitcase. We had agreed that I was not to take a trunk, that I was to buy a trousseau in New York. I looked upon it almost as a honeymoon. He took my suitcase to the Union Station and checked it there. I did not see him again that day. Toward evening, knowing that my husband was not due back until the following morning, and realizing that I could not leave Evelyn alone in the house, I suggested that she spend the night with Hazel Grasham. She was surprised, knowing that I dreaded to be alone at night, but was ready enough to go. I was not overcome with either emotion or shame when I told her good-bye that afternoon. I was so 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 Rowland 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 a while, then, as casually as I could, followed him on to the station platform. I saw him down at the far end and 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 understand where I mean? It is in that section of the railroad yards where, through trains, leave their early-morning pull-mans. The tracks are parallel to Atlantic Avenue, and also the main-line tracks running into the Union Station shed. I was conscious of the intense cold, but excitement 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 Rowland. 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 underfoot—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, occasionally, the headlights 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 I distinctly saw the figure of a man coming into the yards from under the railing, and I was afraid I'd be caught in the glare. From the moment I noticed him I had the peculiar impression that the man had not only seen Mr. Warren and intended speaking to him, but also that the meeting was not unexpected. I stopped where I was and strained my eyes through the darkness. I could not see much, save that they were talking. Of course I could hear nothing. I was shivering, but more with premonition of tragedy than with the terrific cold. Then suddenly I saw the two shadows merge, the combined shadows whirled strangely. I knew that Mr. Warren was fighting with this other man. I started forward again. Then I saw one of the shadows step back from the other. There was the flash of a revolver, no noise, because a train was rolling under the shed at the moment. But I saw the flash of the gun. I stood motionless, horrified. I didn't advance, didn't run. I knew that the man who had been shot was Mr. Warren. I didn't know what to do. I felt suddenly lost, hopeless. And watching I saw one figure stoop and lift the prostrate man. He dragged him across the tracks to the inky darkness between the Pullman offices and the rear of the baggage room. I don't know what he did there, but I remember looking toward Atlantic Avenue and seeing a yellow taxi cab parked against the curb. I could see that there was no 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 taxi cab. It was dark in the street, the arc light in the corner was out. I saw him throw Mr. Warren's body into the taxi cab. 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 necessary to get to him. By that time I had reached the waiting room. I saw his suitcase, and then, Mr. Carroll, 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 suitcase. He had checked it himself that day. I realized in a flash that there would be a police investigation, and the minute that check-room stub was found, the detectives would have followed it up. They would have discovered my suitcase. My name would then have been indelibly linked with his, in that way. So there were two reasons why I knew I must get into that taxi cab. To recover the suitcase 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 suitcase, which he had left on the floor of the waiting-room. I left the station along with several passengers who had come in on the local train. I called the taxi cab. 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 doctor's, and if he was, to find the check, the finding 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 taxi cab when it slowed down at a railroad crossing. I walked half the distance back to town, then caught the last streetcar home. Her voice died away. Carol 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. Carol's gaze grew steely. He made a note of the expression of horror in her eyes. About your husband's size, he repeated softly, end of Chapter 20, Recording by Roger Maline.