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, ofcourse. She's one of the city's social leaders. Of course, she's kind of frumpy andterriblyold. She must be—why, I suppose she's every bit of thirty! And that's simplyawful!"
"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 simplyadorable!I do, really. And I simplydespiseboys of twenty-two who try to look like thirty-eight. Don't you?"
"M-m! Not always."
"Well,Ido! 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 soold!"
"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—justlots!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 beenatrociouslyin love with you."
"No?"
"Yes, indeed! You're such awonderfulman—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 simplyincorrigiblein 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 utterlymarvelous, wouldn't they?"
"I suppose they would. And now let's try concentrating on theWarren 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 thoughtshewas 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 irresistiblyabsurd!Why in the world should Hazel kill the man she was engaged to?"
"I don't know."
"And besides, what doessheknow 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 shecouldn'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, "Iknowshe wasn't—that's all."
"Youknow?"
"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 turned it over. From the first Carroll had scouted the idea that the dead man's fiancee might have been responsible for his death; but still it was a line of investigation which demanded examination, and his pretty young visitor was making that road exceedingly simple. He injected all the warmth of his friendly, sunny nature in the smile which he bestowed upon her.
"You have helped me tremendously with that piece of information,Miss Rogers."
"I don't see how, particularly. No one with any sense—provided they knew Hazel, of course—could even imagine her killing any one, and least of all an adorable boy like Roland. She was so much in love with him!"
"Of course, I haven't the pleasure of Miss Gresham's acquaintance."
"Of course not. You'll have to meet her, though. She's a darling! Naturally, she's all broken up this morning because her wedding date was all set. Now all her plans have gone smash, and she really wasterriblyfond—"
"You say you spent the night with Miss Gresham?"
"Certainly, and—"
"Where?"
"At her house."
"And you are sure she was there all night?"
"Of course! We slept in the same bed—and that's certainly proof enough, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"Yousuppose? My goodness gracious! Don't youknow?"
"Well—yes. If you're sure—"
"Why, my dear Mr. Carroll, we didn't even actually go to bed until a quarter before twelve. At ten o'clock we made some waffles downstairs—Hazel has just bought a perfectlydarlingaluminum electric waffle-iron. It makes the most toothsome waffles—all crisp and everything. And you know when you use aluminum you don't need any grease, so that makes the waffles much nicer. I'm getting horribly domestic since Hazel became engaged, because she is learning—"
"And after you made the waffles?"
"Oh! After that we went up-stairs to her room, and put on our kimonos, and had a heart-to-heart talk. I can't tell you what we talked about, because sometimes—well, it was atrociously risqué—as women will, you know, and—"
"At a quarter before twelve you were still sitting up talking, and you had your kimonos on?"
"Yes, and—oh, you just ought to see Hazel's new kimono—pinkcrêpe de chine, trimmed with satin. She looks simply ravishing in it. I told Sis I wanted one like it, but—"
"And then you went to bed?"
"Yes, just about then."
"You are sure Miss Gresham didn't get up!"
"Oh, I'm positive she didn't! I didn't get to sleep until after one o'clock, anyway, and I would have known."
"You've given me some valuable information, Miss Rogers; and I'll see to it that the newspapers correct any impression they may have left that Miss Gresham might have been connected with the crime. Meanwhile"—he rose—"I'm a bit overdue down at headquarters; so if you'll excuse me—"
Evelyn Rogers rose and stood before him. Her pretty little face was eager.
"I've really helped you, Mr. Carroll?"
"Enormously."
"Well, I wonder—you know I'm justfiendishlyanxious to be helpful in the world—I wonder if you'd let me help you some more?"
"I'd be delighted."
"Would youreally?"
"Really!"
"And I can come to you any time to talk things over?"
"Whenever you get ready."
She clapped her hands.
"That's simplyexquisite! You know, Mr. Carroll, I'm just simply crazy about you! I always have been, but I'm more so now than ever—justhopelessly!"
"Thank you."
She made her way to the door. There she turned, and there was a peculiar light in her eyes.
"Mr. Carroll!"
"Yes?"
"I wish you had been nineteen years old just now."
"Why?"
"Because," she flashed, "if you had been nineteen years old when I told you what I did, you would have kissed me!"
For a long time after Evelyn departed, Carroll remained seated, puffing amusedly on the cigar which followed his matutinal cigarette. Time had been long since the detective had come in contact with so much youthful spontaneity, and he found the experience refreshing. Then he rose and would have left the apartment for headquarters, but again Freda announced a caller.
"Another young lady?" questioned Carroll.
"No, sir. It bane young feller."
"Show him in."
The visitor entered, and Carroll found himself gazing into the level eyes of a slightly disheveled and obviously excited young man of about twenty-eight years of age. The man was slight of stature, but every nervous gesture bespoke wiriness.
"Are you Mr. Carroll?"
"Yes."
"I'm Gresham—Garrison Gresham."
"A-a-ah! Won't you be seated!"
"Yes. I came to have a talk with you."
Carroll seated himself opposite his caller. Then he nodded.
"You came to see me?"
"About the Warren case."
"You know something about it?"
"Yes!" The young man seemed to bite the word. "I do."
"What?"
"You're in charge of the case, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"You've seen this morning's papers?"
"I have."
"Well, they're rotten—absolutely rotten. They don't say it in so many words, but the impression they create is that my sister, Hazel, was the woman in the taxi who killed Roland Warren. It's a damned lie!"
The young man was growing more excited. Carroll put out a restraining hand.
"I quite agree with you, my friend—itwasa pretty rotten impression to create; but I shall see that all doubt is removed from the mind of the public when this afternoon's papers appear. I have just learned that your sister has an ironclad alibi."
"You have already learned that?"
"Yes."
Gresham leaned forward eagerly.
"What makes you sure—that she did not—was not—"
"Suppose I question you—if you have no objections."
"Fire away."
"Where was your sister at midnight last night?"
"At home."
"Alone? I mean was any one besides your family there?"
"Yes," replied Gresham, showing surprise at Carroll's evident knowledge of facts.
"Who?"
"Evelyn Rogers spent the night with her. Evelyn's a seventeen-year-old kid who has had what I believe you call a crush on my sister. They were together in that house from ten o'clock last night, or earlier, until this morning. And if you don't believe that—"
"But I do. I have just had a visit from Miss Rogers, and she told me exactly what you have just repeated; so I'm pretty well satisfied that your sister had nothing whatever to do with the affair. I will take pains to see that this evening's papers make that quite clear."
Gresham rose. A load seemed to have dropped from his shoulders.
"That's white of you, Carroll! I appreciate it."
"Not at all. I have no desire to cause annoyance or inconvenience where it is unnecessary. And Miss Rogers told me, with great attention to detail, just why and how it was impossible for your sister to have been anywhere except at home last night."
"Evelyn's considerable of a brick, in spite of the fact that she's more or less minus in the upper story. And now, if you're really satisfied, I'll be going."
The two men walked to the door together. They were about of a height;Carroll slightly the heavier of the two.
"You've no idea as to the identity of the woman in the taxicab, have you, Gresham?"
"No. Have you?"
"None whatever; though I fancy something ought to develop in the near future. The city is discussing it pretty freely?"
"The town's wild about it. They don't understand anything. It's tough on my sister. Hazel is only a kid, and I think she was in love with Warren. Well, good day, Carroll." He extended a firm hand. "Any time I can be of any help—"
"Thanks, Gresham."
Five minutes after Gresham's departure, Carroll was in his car, headed for the police-station. He turned the case over and over in a keen, analytic mind which had been refreshed by a night of untroubled sleep.
There were a good many features about it which puzzled him considerably. While he had not expected that the trail of the mysterious midnight woman would lead to the fiancée of the dead man, the sudden dissipation of that as a clue rather threw him off his balance. He had reached the end of a trail almost before setting foot upon it.
Thus far he had refused to allow himself to be worried by the strangest feature of the case—the appearance of the dead body in a taxicab which, according to its driver's story, could not have been other than empty. It was always easy to explain the disappearance of a person from an automobile; but, he figured, it was patently impossible to enter one without the driver's knowledge.
He reached headquarters and closeted himself with Leverage. They plunged at once into a discussion of that phase of the case.
"There are only two things which could have happened," said the chief of police slowly. "One is that some one croaked that bird Warren and shoved him into the cab while the woman was ridin' in it. The other is that he slipped into the cab and she killed him. While I ain't jumpin' on no set ideas, I have a hunch that the last one is right."
"Why?"
"Because the other—that idea of puttin' a dead body into a cab without the driver knowing it—it just naturally ain't possible."
"Then you are quite convinced, Leverage, that Walters didnotknow anything about it?"
"Now, say, Carroll, that's putting it up to me rather strong; but since you're asking, I'm here to say that I believe the kid. Of course it's possible that he was in on the deal—but I'm betting Liberty bonds against Russian rubles that he'd have slipped somewhere if that had been the case. Nobody that's in on a murder deal is going to frame a lie that sticks his bean as close to a noose as Walter's would be if he's not tellin' the truth!"
"Sounds reasonable; and yet—"
"I'm surprised at you suspectin' the kid."
"I don't suspect him."
"But you said—"
"We can't overlook anything—that's what I said. It's what I was driving at, anyway. So far, Walters is the only tangible clue we've had to work with. As I told you, the Hazel Gresham trail died a-borning. The kid who came to see me this morning cleared her; and then her brother came along right afterward, red-hot over the insinuations against his sister in the papers. As matters stand now, there's nothing to tie to but Spike Walters."
"I'm glad you're handling it," said Leverage fervently. "And as you are,I'm making so bold as to ask what you're going to do next?"
"A little general inquiring. You can help me on that. For one thing, I want to get hold of every bit of dope I can regarding Warren—who he was, where he came from, what he did, the size of his bank deposits, his business connections, his social life, and especially every morsel of gossip that's ever been circulated about him in connection with women."
"H-m! You think this dame was a society sort?"
"Probably. He was undoubtedly going away with her; and a man of his stamp doesn't often elope with a woman of the other type."
"True enough! Well, I'll get you what dope I can."
"I want it all. I'm afraid this is going to resolve itself into a contest of elimination. The city is buzzing about the case to-day, and it ought to be pretty easy to get hold of a world of gossip concerning Warren's love-affairs—provided he had any. Everybody's concerned over the identity of that woman, and every woman Warren has ever been mixed up with, even in the most innocuous way, is going to be dragged into the case."
Carroll made his way from headquarters direct to the consolidated railroad ticket office. He introduced himself to the chief clerk and stated his business. The other showed keen interest.
"The tickets were sold to him in this office, Mr. Carroll. This young man here sold them."
Carroll smiled genially at the skinny young chap who bustled forward importantly, proud of his temporary spotlight position.
"You sold some tickets to Roland Warren?"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Day before yesterday."
"You are sure it was Mr. Warren?"
"Yes, sir. I have known him by sight for a longtime."
"About the tickets—what did he buy?"
"Two tickets and a drawing-room on No. 29 for New York—due to leave at 11.55 last night."
"You're sure he boughttwotickets and a drawing-room? Or was it one ticket?"
"It had to be two. We can't sell a drawing-room unless the purchaser has double transportation."
"You delivered both tickets to him personally?"
"Yes, sir—gave them both to him."
From the ticket office Carroll went back to headquarters, and from there to the coroner's office, and, accompanied by that dignitary, to the undertaking establishment where the body was being kept under police guard. Nothing had yet been touched. The inquest had resulted in a verdict of "death by violence, inflicted by a revolver in the hands of a person unknown."
Carroll again ran through the man's pockets. In a vest pocket he discovered what he sought. He took the trunk check to the Union Station, and through his police badge secured access to the baggage-room. The trunk was not there. He compared checks with the baggage-master, and learned that the trunk had duly gone to New York. He left orders for it to be returned to the city.
From there he went to the office of the division superintendent, and left a half-hour later, after an exchange of telegrams between the superintendent and the conductor of the train for New York, which informed him that the drawing-room engaged by Warren had been unoccupied, nor had there been an attempt on the part of any one to secure possession of it. Also that the only berth purchased on the train had been at a small-town stop about four o'clock in the morning.
Obviously, then, the person who was to share the drawing-room with Warren, and for whom the second ticket had been bought, had never boarded the train. The trail had doubled back again to the woman in the taxicab.
It was not until two o'clock in the afternoon that Carroll returned to headquarters. He found Leverage ready with his report.
"For one thing," said the chief, "there isn't a doubt that Warren was getting ready to leave town—and for good."
"How so?"
Leverage checked over his list.
"First, he had sublet his apartment. Second, he had with him eleven hundred dollars in cash. Third, he left his automobile with a dealer here to be sold, and did not place an order for any other car. And fourth—" Leverage paused impressively.
"Yes—and fourth?"
"He fired his valet yesterday!"
There was a triumphant ring to Leverage's statement that the dead man's valet had been discharged at some time during the twenty-four hours which immediately preceded the killing. It was as if his instinct recognized a combination of circumstances which could not be ignored. Carroll looked up interestedly.
"Have you talked to this fellow?"
"No. I figured I'd better leave that phase of it to you; but I'm having him watched. Cartwright is on the job. Right now the man is at his boarding-place on Larson Street."
Carroll started for the door.
"Let's go," he suggested laconically.
It was but a few minutes' drive from headquarters to the boarding-house of Roland Warren's former valet. Carroll parked his car at the curb and inspected the place closely from the outside.
There was little architectural beauty to recommend the house. It was a rambling, dilapidated, two-story structure, sadly in need of paint and repairs, and bespeaking occupancy by a family none too well blessed with the better things of existence. They proceeded to the door and rang the bell. A slatternly woman answered their summons, and Leverage addressed her:
"We wish to see William Barker, please."
"William Barker?"
"Yes. I believe he moved here yesterday."
"Oh, that feller!" The woman started inside. "Wait a minute," she said crossly, and shut the door in their faces.
While they stood waiting, Leverage glanced keenly up and down the street, and his eye lighted on the muscular figure of Cartwright, the plainclothes man, shivering in the partial shelter of an alley across the way. The policeman signaled them that all was well, and resumed his vigil. At that minute the door opened and the woman reappeared.
"He ain't home!" she said, and promptly closed the door again.
Carroll looked at Leverage and Leverage looked at Carroll. Leverage crossed the street and interrogated Cartwright.
"The landlady says he's out, Cartwright. How about it?"
"Bum steer, chief! The bird's there—I'll bet my silk shirt on it!"
Leverage recrossed the street and reported to Carroll.
"You're pretty sure Cartwright has the straight dope!"
"Sure thing," said the chief. "He's one of the most reliable men on the force, and when he says a thing, he knows it."
Carroll stroked his beardless chin. There was a hard, calculating light in his eyes—eyes which alternated between a soft, friendly blue and a steely gray. Finally he looked up at Leverage.
"What's your idea, Eric?"
"About him sendin' word he was out when we know he ain't?"
"Exactly."
"It looks darn funny to me, Carroll! 'Pears like he didn't want to discuss the affair with us."
"He don't know who we are."
"He can guess pretty well. Any guy with a head on his shoulders knows the valet of a murdered man is going to be quizzed by the police."
"Good! Come on."
Carroll put a firm hand on the knob and turned it. Then he stepped into the dingy reception hall, followed by the city's chief of police.
At the sound of visitors, the angular frame of the boarding-house-keeper appeared in the doorway, her eyes flashing antagonistically. Leverage turned back the lapel of his coat and disclosed the police badge.
"Listen here, lady," he said in a voice whose very softness brooked no opposition; "that bird Barker is here, and we're going to see him. Police business! Where's his room?"
The woman's face grew ashen.
"What's he been doin'?" she quavered. "What's he been up to now?"
"What's he been up to before this?" countered Leverage.
"I don't know anything about him. Swear to Gawd I don't! He just come here yesterday an' took a room. Paid cash in advance."
"He's in his room, ain't he?"
"What if he is? He told me to tell anybody who come along that he was out. I didn't know you was cops. Oh, I hope there ain't nothin' goin' to ruin the reputation of this place! There ain't a woman in town who runs a decenter place than this."
"Nobody's going to know anything," reassured Carroll, "provided you keep your own tongue between your teeth. Now take us to Barker's room."
The boarding-house-keeper led the way up a flight of dark and twisting stairs, along a musty hall. She paused before a door at the far end.
"There it is, sirs—and—"
"You go downstairs," whispered Carroll. "If we should find you trying to listen at the keyhole—"
His manner made it unnecessary to finish the threat. The woman departed, fluttering with excitement. Leverage's hand found the knob, and Carroll nodded briefly. The door was flung open, and the two men entered.
"What the—"
The occupant of the room leaped to his feet and stood staring, his face gone pasty white, his demeanor one of terror, which Carroll could see he was fighting to control. Leverage closed the door gently and gazed at the man upon whom they had called.
William Barker was not a large man; neither was he small. He was one of those men of medium height, whose physique deceives every one save the anatomical expert. To the casual observer his weight would have been catalogued at about a hundred and forty. At a glance Carroll knew that it was nearer a hundred and eighty. Normal breadth of shoulder was more than made up for by unusual depth of chest. Ready-made trousers bulged with the enormous muscular development of calf and thigh. The face, clean-shaven, was sullen with the fear inspired by the sudden entrance of Carroll and Leverage; and there was more than a hint of evil in it. As they watched, the sullenness of expression was supplanted by a leer, and then by a mask of professional placidity—the bovine expression which one expects to find in the average specimen of masculine hired help.
The man's demeanor was a combination of abjectness and hostility. He was plainly frightened, yet striving to appear at ease.
Carroll and Leverage maintained silence. Barker fidgeted nervously, and finally, when the strain became too great, burst out with:
"Who are you fellers? Whatcha want?"
Carroll spoke softly.
"William Barker?"
"What if that is my name?"
Carroll's hands spread wide.
"Just wanted to be sure, that's all. YouareWilliam Barker?"
"An' what if I am? What you got to do with that?"
Carroll showed his badge.
"And this gentleman," he finished, designating Leverage, "is chief of police."
Barker's voice came back to him in a half whine, half snarl.
"I ain't done nothin'—"
"Nobody has accused you yet."
"Well, when you bust in on a feller like this—"
Carroll seated himself, and Leverage followed suit. He motioned Barker to a chair.
"Let's talk things over," he suggested mildly.
"Ain't nothin' to talk over."
"You're William Barker, aren't you?"
"I ain't said I ain't, have I?"
Carroll's eyes grew a bit harder. His voice cracked out:
"What's your name?"
Barker met his gaze; then the eyes of the ex-valet shifted.
"William Barker," he answered almost unintelligibly.
"Very good! Now, sit down, William."
William seated himself with ill grace. Carroll spoke again, but this time the softness had returned to his tones. His manner approached downright friendliness.
"We came here to talk with you, Barker," he said frankly. "We don't know a thing about your connection with this case; but we do know that you were valet to Roland Warren, and therefore must possess a great deal of information about him which no one else could possibly have. All we want is to learn what you know about this tragedy—what you know and what you think."
Barker raised his head. For a long time he stared silently at Carroll.
"I don't know who you are," he remarked at length; "but you seem to be on the level."
"I am on the level," returned Carroll quietly. "My name is DavidCarroll—"
"O-o-oh! Soyou'reDavid Carroll?" The query was a sincere tribute.
"Yes, I'm Carroll, and I'm working on the Warren case. I don't want to cause trouble for any one, but there are certain facts which I must learn. You can tell me some of them. No person who is innocent has the slightest thing to fear from me. And so—Barker—if you have nothing to conceal, I'd advise that you talk frankly."
"I ain't got nothin' to conceal. What made you think I had?"
"I don't think so. I don't think anything definite at this stage of the game. I want to find out what you know."
"I don't know nothin', either."
"H-m! Suppose I learn that for myself! I'll start at the beginning. Your name is William Barker?"
"Yes. I told you that once."
"Where is your home? What city have you lived in mostly?"
The man hesitated.
"I was born in Gadsden, Alabama, if that's what you mean. Mostly I've lived in New York and around there."
"What cities around there?"
"Newark."
"Newark, New Jersey?"
"Yes. An' in Jersey City some, and Paterson, and a little while inBrooklyn."
"You met Mr. Warren where?"
"In New York. I was valet for a feller named Duckworth, and he went and died on me—typhoid; you c'n find out all about him if you want. Mr. Warren was a friend of Mr. Duckworth's, an' he offered me a job. We lived in New York for a while and then we come down here."
"How long ago?"
"'Bout four years—maybe five."
"What kind of a man was he—personally?"
Carroll watched his man closely without appearing to do so. He saw Barker flush slightly, and did not miss the jerky nervousness of his answer—that or the forced enthusiasm.
"Oh, I reckon he is all right. That is, hewasall right. Real nice feller."
"You were fond of him?"
"I didn't say I was in love with him. I said he was a nice feller."
"Treated you well?"
"Oh, sure—he treated me fine."
"And yet he discharged you yesterday." Then Carroll bluffed."Without notice!"
Barker looked up sharply. His face betrayed his surprise; showed clearly that Carroll's guess had scored.
"How'd you know that?"
"I knew it," returned Carroll. "That's sufficient."
Barker assumed a defensive attitude.
"Anyway," said he, "that didn't make me sore at him, because he give me a month's pay; and that's just as good as a notice, ain't it?"
"Ye-e-es, I guess it is." Carroll hesitated. "Did he pay you in cash?"
"Yeh—cash."
Again Carroll hesitated for a moment, while he lighted a cigarette. When he spoke again, his tone was merely conversational, almost casual.
"You've read the papers—all about Mr. Warren's murder, haven't you?"
"I'll say I have."
"What do you think about it?"
Again that startled look in Barker's eyes. Again the nervous twitching of hands.
"Whatcha mean, what do I think about it?"
"The woman in the taxicab—do you think she killed him?"
Barker drew a deep breath. One might have fancied that it was a sigh of relief.
"Oh,her? Sure! She's the person that killed him!"
"He knew a good many women?" suggested Carroll interrogatively. "He got along pretty well with them?"
"H-m!" William Barker nodded. "You said it then, Mr. Carroll. Mr.Warren—he was a bird with the women!"
No slightest move of Warren's erstwhile valet—no twitching of facial muscles, no involuntary gesture of nervousness, however slight—escaped Carroll's attention; but with all his watchfulness, the boyish-looking investigator was unostentatious, almost retiring in his manner.
And this modest demeanor was having its effect on William Barker, just as Carroll had known it would have, and as Leverage had hoped. Eric Leverage had worked with Carroll before, and he had seen the man's personal charm, his sunny smile, his attitude of camaraderie, perform miracles. People had a way of talking freely to Carroll after he had chatted with them awhile, no matter how bitter the hostility surrounding their first meeting. Carroll was that way—he was a student of practical every-day psychology. He worked to one end—he endeavored to learn the mental reactions of every one of hisdramatis persoaetoward the fact of the crime he happened to be investigating; that and, as nearly as possible, their feelings at the moment of the commission of the crime, no matter where they might have been.
"It doesn't matter what a suspect says," he had told Leverage once. "Some of them tell the truth and some of them lie. Often the truth sounds untrue, while the lies carry all the earmarks of honesty. It's a sheer guess on the part of any detective. What I want to know is how my man felt at the time the crime was committed—not where he was; and how he feels now about the whole thing."
"But the facts themselves are important," argued the practical chief of police.
"Granted! But when you have facts, you don't need a detective. I'd rather have a suspect talk freely and never tell the truth than have him be reticent and stick to a true story."
Leverage's reply had been expressive of his opinion of Carroll's almost uncanny ability.
"Sounds like damned nonsense," said he; "but it's never failed you yet.And even you couldn't get away with it if you lost that smile of yours!"
Right now he was witnessing the magic of Carroll's smile. He had seen the antagonism slowly melt from Barker's manner. The nervousness was still there, true; but it seemed tinged with an attitude which was part friendliness toward Carroll and part contempt for his powers. That, too, was an old story to Leverage. More than one criminal had tripped over the snag of underrating Carroll's ability.
Barker's last statement—"Warren, he was a bird with the women!"—was true. Leverage knew it was true. Carroll knew it was true. There was the ring of truth about it. It mattered not whether Barker had an iron of his own in the fire—it mattered not what else he said which was not true—the two detectives knew that they had extracted from him a fact, the relative importance of which would be established later.
Just at present, knowledge that the dead man had been somewhat of a philanderer seemed of considerable importance. For one thing, it established the theory that he had been planning an elopement with the woman in the taxicab. That being the case, a definite task was faced—first, find the woman; then find some man vitally affected by her elopement with Warren.
Carroll betrayed no particular interest in Barker's statement. Instead, he smiled genially, a sort of between-us-men smile, which did much to disarm Barker.
"A regular devil with 'em, eh, Barker?"
"You spoke a mouthful that time, Mr. Carroll! What he didn't know about women their own husbands couldn't tell him."
"Married ones?"
"Oh, sure! He was a specialist with them."
"Then most of this gossip we've been hearing has a basis of fact?"
A momentary return of caution showed in Barker's retort.
"I don't know just what you've been hearin'."
"A good many stories about his love affairs—with women who were prominent socially."
Barker shrugged.
"Most likely they're true; although it's a safe bet that a heap of 'em was lies. Men folks have a way of lyin' about women that way, even where they'll tell the truth about everything else. They've got women beaten ninety-seven ways gossiping about that sort of thing."
"You know a thing or two yourself, Barker?"
The man flushed with pleasure.
"Oh, I ain't nobody's pet jackass, when it comes to that!"
"Now you"—Carroll's tone was gentle, almost hypnotic—"of course you know who the woman is that Mr. Warren was planning to elope with?"
"I know—"
Suddenly Barker paused, and his face went white. He compressed his lips with an effort and choked back the words. Leverage, leaning forward in tense eagerness—knowing the verbal trap that Carroll had been planting—sighed with disappointment, and relaxed.
"Say, what the hell are you driving at!"
"Nothing." One would have sworn that Carroll was surprised at Barker's flare of anger—or else that it had passed unnoticed. "I just figured that you, having been his valet, and knowing a good deal about him, would have knowledge of this."
"He wasn't in the habit of discussin' his lady friends with me," growled the ex-valet surlily.
"Of course he wasn't; but you know, of course? You guessed?"
"No, I didn't do nothin' of the kind. Say, what are you tryin' to do—trip me up or somethin'?"
"Of course not. Why should I be interested in tripping you up?"
"You was sayin'—"
"Don't be foolish, Barker! It wouldn't do me a bit of good to—er—trip you up. All I want is whatever knowledge you have which may prove of interest in solving this case."
The man's eyes narrowed craftily.
"You ain't got no suspicions yourself, have you?"
"Suspicions of what?"
"Who that dame in the taxicab was."
Carroll laughed infectiously.
"Goodness, no! If I had, I wouldn't be seated here chatting with you."
Again the expression of relief flashed across Barker's face—a bit of play lost by neither detective. Carroll was toying idly with a gold pencil on the end of his waldemar. His outward calmness exasperated Leverage. From this point of the interview, the chief of police would have dropped the attitude of trustful friendliness and resorted to a little practical third-degree stuff. He was fairly quivering with eagerness to bluster about the room and extract information by main force.
And a hint of Leverage's mental seethe must have been communicated to Carroll, for the younger man turned the battery of his sunny gaze upon the chief of police and nodded reassuringly. The effect was instantaneous. Leverage's temporary resentment departed much as the gas escapes from a pin-punctured balloon. He gave ear to Barker's speech.
"N'r you ain't the only one who don't know who that woman was.Idon't!"
"You knew he was planning to elope, though?"
The man shook his head doggedly.
"I knew he was leavin' the city for good, if that's what you mean."
"No-o, not exactly. I knew that much myself. What interests me is this—was he planning to leave with some woman?"
Barker hesitated before replying, and when he did answer it was patent that his words were chosen carefully.
"I don't hardly reckon he was, Mr. Carroll. Mind you, I'm not sayin' he wasn't; but then again I ain't sayin' he was. I can't do nothin' only guess—same as you can."
"I see!" Carroll was apparently unconscious of Barker's flagrant evasion. "What I don't understand is this—when Mr. Warren was publicly engaged to Miss Gresham, why did he try to elope with her?"
"Elope with Miss Gresham?" Barker paused; then a slow, calculating smile creased his lips. "Miss Gresham—her he was engaged to! Dog-gone if I don't believe you've hit the nail on the head, Mr. Carroll!"
"What nail?"
"About her bein' the woman in the taxi. You know some fellers is like that—they'd a heap rather elope with a woman they're crazy about than stand up in a church and get married. They're sort of romantic." Barker was waxing loquacious. "You know, you must be right. Fact, if you put it right up to me, I'd say there wasn't no doubt that Miss Gresham was the woman in the taxicab."
"I had that idea," responded Carroll slowly. "But what I can't understand, Barker, and what you might help me figure out, is this—why should Miss Gresham kill Mr. Warren?"
"Huh! Ask me somethin' easy, will you? I never was good at riddles."
Leverage marveled at the change in the two men. Apparently Carroll had swallowed hook, line, and sinker. Of course, Leverage was pretty sure that he had not; but he was also sure that Barker thought he had. And Barker was volunteering information—plenty of it—that was absolutely valueless. For the first time he was forcing the conversational pace, and Carroll seemed serenely content to drag limply along.
"Reckon she might have been jealous of him?" drawled Carroll.
"Jealous? Maybe. I ain't sayin' she wasn't. Of course, she must have heard a good many things about him and other women; and when a woman gets downright jealous there ain't much sayin' what she wouldn't do. Not that I'm sayin' Miss Gresham croaked him. I ain't sayin' nothin' positive; but if you're askin' me who he'd most naturally elope with, why I'd say it was the girl he was engaged to marry. If he wasn't going to marry her, what did he ever get engaged to her for?"
Carroll nodded.
"Certainly sounds reasonable." He paused, and then: "Where were you about midnight last night?"
"I was"—Barker's figure stiffened defensively, and his eyebrows drew down over the deep-set eyes—"I was just shootin' some pool."
"Shooting pool?"
"Un-huh!"
"Where?"
"At Kelly's place."
"Where is that?"
The man hesitated, flushed, and then, somewhat sullenly:
"On Cypress Street."
"That's pretty close to the Union Station, isn't it?"
"Not so close."
"About how far away?"
Again the momentary hesitation.
"'Bout a half-block."
"And you were shooting pool there?"
"Sure I was! I c'n prove it."
Carroll grinned disengagingly.
"You don't need to prove anything to me, Barker. And for goodness' sake get the idea out of your head that I'm suspecting you of anything. I had to talk matters over with you. You knew more about the dead man than any one else; but I couldn't think you had anything to do with it, could I? You're not a woman!"
Barker grinned sheepishly.
"That's all right, Mr. Carroll. And as for me bein' a woman—well, you're sure a woman killed him, ain't you?"
"As sure as any one can be. And now"—Carroll rose—"I'm tremendously obliged for all the information you've given me. Any time you run across anything more that you think might prove of interest, look me up, will you?"
"Sure! Sure!" Barker's tone was almost hearty. "You're a regular feller,Mr. Carroll—a regular feller!"
The two detectives departed. Carroll spoke to Cartwright as he passed:
"Keep both eyes on that fellow Barker," he ordered curtly. "I'll send Reed up to team with you. Don't let him get away. Nab him if he tries it."
Cartwright nodded briefly, and Carroll and Leverage climbed into the former's car. As they rounded the corner, Leverage turned wide eyes upon his professional associate.
"Carroll?"
"Yes?"
"You beat the Dutch!"
"How so?"
"You didn't swallow that bird's yarn, did you?"
"Of course not," answered Carroll calmly.
"I didn't think so; but you had me worried, with that innocent look of yours. Me, if I was wantin' to play safe on this case, I'd arrest William Barkerpronto."
"Why?"
"Because," snapped Leverage positively, "I think he was mixed up inWarren's murder!"
"Aa-ah!" Carroll refused to become excited. "You do?"
"Yes, I do. What do you think?"
"I think this," answered Carroll. "I think that Mr. William Barker knows a great deal more about the case than he has told!"
They drove in silence to headquarters, each man busy with his thoughts. It was not until they were alone in Leverage's sanctum that the subject of the recent interview was again broached. It was Leverage who brought it up, in his characteristically gruff way.
"I reckon you're wonderin', Carroll, about what I said back yonder in the car?"
"About arresting Barker?"
"Yes. I guess you're figuring what I'd arrest him for, eh?"
"I'm interested—yes."
"I'd arrest him for this." Leverage leaned forward earnestly, his attitude that of a man eager to convince. "Let's admit right off the reel that the skirt in the taxicab croaked Warren. Looks like she did, anyway; but whether she did or not, it's an even bet that there was a man mixed up in it somewhere. And if that man isn't Mr. William Barker, then I'll eat a month's pay."
"You're sure there was a man mixed up somewhere?"
"Certainly. This murder deal was planned in advance. It must have been. Things couldn't just work out that way. And no woman, no matter how much she wanted to bump Warren off, could think of a thing that complicated. Even if she did think of it, she wouldn't have the nerve to carry it out that way. Ain't I right?"
"You may not be right, Leverage; but you're certainly logical."
"Good! Now, so far, we ain't got any man in this case except Barker."
Carroll shook his head.
"You're wrong there."
"How?"
"Somewhere in this town is some man who is interested in the woman with whom Warren was planning to elope. Don't forget this, Leverage—I let Barker ramble on. I like to hear 'em talk. The minute he jumped at the idea that the woman in the taxi was Miss Gresham, I knew perfectly well that he knew she was not. I also believe that he knows who the woman was. Further, I believe that she is socially prominent. That being the case, it is a safe guess that there is some man who might commit a murder, provided he knew in advance of the elopement. Our task now is to discover that woman and, through her, the man interested."
Leverage frowned thoughtfully.
"Listens good," he volunteered at length. "Another thing—Barker admits he was shooting pool in Kelly's place last night around midnight; and Kelly's place is only half a block from the Union Station. That sounds significant!"
"It does; and then again it may mean nothing. What I am striving for is to make William Barker feel that he is safe. The safer he feels, the more readily he will talk. No matter how many lies he tells, everything that he says is of value. He didn't know, of course, that we already had a perfect alibi for Miss Gresham; but even if we hadn't, his assumed belief that she committed the crime would have assured me that she did not. No-o, I think we'd better not arrest the man unless he forces our hand—tries to jump town, or something like that. Better let him remain at large and talk frequently. If he has anything to betray, there's more chance that he'll do it that way. Don't you think I'm right?"
"I wouldn't admit it if I didn't, Carroll. I've seen you in action too often to believe you're ever wrong."
Carroll flushed boyishly.
"Don't be absurd, Leverage! I'm often wrong—very wrong. And don't think that I'm a transcendent detective; they don't really exist, you know. I'm merely trying to be human, to learn the nature of the people with whom I'm dealing. I try to learn 'em as well as they know themselves—maybe a little better; and then I try to separate the wheat of vital facts from the chaff of the inconsequential."
"Just the same," insisted Leverage loyally, "you always get 'em!"
"And when I do, it is because I have used nothing more than plain common sense. Don't think that I attach no importance to physical clues. They're immensely valuable; but the one weakness in a criminal is his lack of common sense. His perspective is awry, his sense of values distorted. Usually he bothers his head about a myriad minor details, and pays but scant attention to the genuinely important things. It is upon that weakness that I am banking—particularly so in the case of Barker."
"I insist that you're a wonder, Carroll!"
"And I insist that you're foolishly complimentary. Did you ever stop to realize, Eric, that when a crime is committed the advantage lies entirely with the detective? The detective can make a thousand mistakes during the course of his investigations and still trap his man; but the criminal cannot make one single error—notone!"
"Maybe so, David; but it takes a good man to recognize that one, and to know what to do with it."
Carroll grinned and left, and then for two days devoted himself to a study of the conditions surrounding the murder—that and routine matters. The trunk, for instance, was duly returned by the railroad from New York, and Carroll and his friend made a minute investigation of every article contained therein. Their search was well-nigh fruitless. The trunk contained little save the wardrobe of a well-dressed man—suits, shirts, underwear, shoes, caps. There were also golf and tennis togs; a few books; a handsome leather secretary, containing a good many personal letters and one or two business missives which were of little interest. Altogether the examination of the trunk—a process which occupied three hours—established nothing definite, save that there was nothing to be discovered. Its results were hopelessly negative.
Meanwhile the city sizzled with gossip of the Warren murder. The seemingly impenetrable mystery surrounding the case, its many sensational features, the admission of the police department that the woman in the case was not Hazel Gresham, fiancée of the dead man, yet the certainty that there was a woman, and that she was of the better class—all this served to keep the tongues of men and women alike wagging at both ends.
Carroll was besieged with anonymous letters. Dozens of prominent married women were mentioned as having been, at one time or another, the object of Warren's amorous attentions. Carroll read each one carefully and filed it away. He had hoped for this, but the results had far exceeded his expectations, and he found himself bewildered rather than assisted by the response from nameless individuals who were morbidly eager to be of help.
The detective knew that the running down of each individual trail—the investigation of each of Warren's supposed affairs of the heart—would be an interminable procedure. And so far not a single one of the letters had varied from another. They connected Warren's name with that of some married woman, and let it go at that. It was quite evident that the dead man had been very much of a Lothario; too much so for the mental ease of the investigator who was struggling to link the cause of his death with one particular affair.
The reporters allowed their imaginations to run wild. The story was what is known, in the parlance of the newspaper world, as a "space-eater." City editors turned their best men loose on it and devoted columns to conjecture. There was little definite information upon which to base the daily stories that were luridly hurled into type. Thus far Spike Walters, driver of taxicab No. 92,381, was the only person under arrest, and only those persons too lazy to exercise their minds were willing to believe that Spike was guilty or that he knew more of the crime than he had told.
Carroll read each news story attentively. No wild theory of a pop-eyed reporter, hungry for fact, was too absurd to receive his careful attention. But they proved of little assistance. With the spot-light of publicity blazing on the crime, the investigation seemed to have become static. There was no forward movement; nothing save that in the brain of David Carroll salient facts were being seized upon and meticulously catalogued for future reference.
Cartwright and Reed, the plain-clothes men detailed to shadow William Barker, reported nothing suspicious in that gentleman's movements. He seemed to be making no effort to secure employment, but, on the other hand, there was little of interest in what he did do. Again the stone wall of negative action.
Barker spent his mornings in his boarding-house, apparently luxuriating in long slumbers; he ate always at the same cheap restaurant; and his afternoons and evenings were devoted largely to the science of eight-ball pool at Kelly's place. There may have been significance in his loyalty to Kelly's place; but if there was, it was too vague for Carroll to consider. He merely remembered the fact that Barker was a steady patron of the pool-room near the Union Station, and filed it away with his other threads of information concerning the murder.
Carroll was frankly puzzled. The case differed widely from any other with which he had ever come in contact. Usually there was an array of persons upon whom suspicion could be justly thrown; a collection of suspects from whom the investigator could take his choice, or from whom he could extract facts which eventually might be used to corner the guilty person. In the present case there was no one to whom he could turn an accusing finger.
Of course, he was convinced that William Barker knew a great deal about the crime and the events which preceded it; but Barker wouldn't talk—and he, Carroll, had no evidence that enabled him to bluff, to draw Barker out against his will.
The crime seemed to have lost itself in the sleety cold of the December midnight upon which it was committed. The trails were not blind—there were simply no trails. The circumstances baffled explanation—a lone woman entering an empty taxicab; a run to a distant point in the city; the discovery of the woman's disappearance, and in her stead the sight of the dead body of a prominent society man—that, and the further blind information that the suit-case which the woman had carried was the property of the man whose body was huddled horribly in the taxicab.
The woman, whoever she was, had either been unusually clever or unusually lucky. Minute examination of the interior of the cab had revealed nothing—not a fingerprint, nor a scrap of handkerchief. There was absolutely nothing which could serve as a clue in establishing her identity.
And yet, somewhere in the city—a city of two hundred thousand souls—was the woman who could clear up the mystery.
Convinced that she was prominent socially, Carroll kept a close eye upon the departures of society women for other cities. His vigil had been unrewarded thus far. And the public as a whole waited eagerly for her apprehension, for the public was unanimous in the belief that the woman in the taxicab was the person who had ended Warren's life.