Carroll drove direct to his apartments, despite his original intention of dropping by headquarters for a chat with Leverage. He wanted to be alone—to think—
The evening had borne fruit beyond his wildest imaginings. Fact had piled upon fact with bewildering rapidity. As yet he had been unable to sort them in his mind, to catalogue each properly, to test for proper value.
He reached his apartment and found it warm and comfortable. He donned lounging robe and slippers which the thoughtful Freda had left out for him, settled himself in an easy chair, lighted a fire which he kept always ready in the grate and turned out the lights. Then, with his cigar glowing and great clouds of rich smoke filling the air—he sank into a revelry of thinking.
Certain disclosures of the evening stood out with startling clarity. Chief among them was the inevitable belief that Gerald Lawrence had either killed Roland Warren or else knew who had done so—and how it was done. Yet Carroll tried not to allow his thoughts and personal prejudices to run away with him. He knew that now, of all times, he must keep a tight grip on himself.
Great as was the dislike which he had conceived for Lawrence—an instinctive repugnance which still obtained—he was grimly determined that he would not be swayed by his emotions. Therefore he deliberately reviewed Lawrence's story in the light of its possible truth.
Lawrence claimed that he belonged to that none too rare class of prominent citizens who once every so often respond to the call of the wild within them by going to a nearby city where they are not known and giving themselves over to the dubious delights of a spree. Publication of this fact alone would prove sufficient to injure Lawrence socially and in the commercial world. The old case of the Spartan lad—Carroll reflected. The disgrace lay in being discovered.
Also, it was perfectly plain to Carroll that at the outset of his conversation Lawrence had been smugly satisfied that he was possessed of a perfect alibi. It was only under Carroll's merciless grilling that he had been brought abruptly to realization that he had no alibi whatever. The same logic applied there, as in Leverage's theory that Barker's arrest would be an excellent strategic move. All Carroll had to do now was to arrest Lawrence for Warren's murder—and the burden of proof would have been shifted from the shoulders of the detective to that of the suspect. It would then devolve upon Lawrence to prove an alibi that Carroll knew perfectly well he could not prove—save by merest accident.
But that was a procedure which Carroll abhorred. Those were police department methods: wholesale arrests in the hope of somewhere in the net trapping the prey. Such a course was at the bottom—and Carroll knew it—of an enormous number of convictions of innocent men. And Carroll had no desire to injure Lawrence provided Lawrence was free of guilt in this particular instance. He didn't like the man—in fact his feelings toward him amounted to a positive aversion. But through it all he tried to be fair-minded—and he could not quite rid himself of the picture of Naomi Lawrence—Carroll was far from impervious to the appeal of a beautiful woman.
So much for the probable truth of Lawrence's story. The reverse side of the picture presented an entirely different set of facts. There was not alone the strange procedure of checking out of the big hotel at four o'clock in the afternoon when he intended catching an early morning train: but there was the information so innocently dropped by the loquacious Evelyn Rogers regarding Naomi's actions on the night of the murder.
According to Evelyn, her sister was an intensely nervous woman: one who stood in fear of being alone at night. And yet this sister had volunteered the suggestion that Evelyn spend the night with Hazel Gresham when her husband was supposed to be out of the city.
Carroll, well versed in applied psychology, knew that in such a combination of facts there lay an important clue. He was well satisfied that Naomi Lawrence had been satisfied that she was not to be alone that night!
Arguing with himself from that premise, the conclusion was inevitable: she knew that her husband would return from Nashville at midnight. She did not wish anyone—even Evelyn, to learn that he had done so. Therefore she got Evelyn out of the house!
The conclusion developed a further train of reasoning—one which Carroll did not at all relish, but which he faced with frank honesty. If he was right in his argument—then Naomi Lawrence had known of the murder before it was committed!
He shrank from the idea, but it would not down. He was not ready to admit its truth—but there was no denying its logic. There was something inexpressibly repugnant in the thought. He infinitely preferred to believe that Naomi hated her husband—was miserable with him—he preferred that to the idea that they were accomplices in the murder of a prominent young man.
Then, too, there were the strange visits of William Barker, former valet to Warren, to the home of the Lawrences. There was no doubt remaining in Carroll's mind that Barker knew a very great deal about Warren's murder. That being the case it was fairly well established that he was cognizant of the Lawrences' connection with the crime.
Carroll had started off with the idea that someone, in addition to the woman in the taxi-cab, had been instrumental in ending Warren's life. Here, following a casual line of investigation, he had uncovered the tracks of two men, both of whom he was convinced knew more about it than they had cared to tell.
Both men—Barker and Lawrence—had acted peculiarly under the grilling of the detective. The former had been surly and non-informative, only to leap eagerly upon the first verbal trend which tended to throw suspicion upon a person whom Carroll knew—and whom Carroll knew Barker knew—was innocent. Gerald Lawrence, on the other hand, had been downright antagonistic until he made the startling discovery that his supposed alibi was no alibi at all—at which his attitude changed from open hostility to something closely akin to suppliance.
Then, too, there was the danger of injuring an innocent man because of his inability to prove an alibi. If Lawrence's story was true, it was perfectly natural that even in a condition of intoxication he would maintain his instinct for concealment of a personal weakness. The chances were then that no one had seen him either in Nashville—after the four o'clock train had left, or on the two a.m. train homeward bound.
Matters could not right themselves in Carroll's mind. He knew one thing, however—Evelyn Rogers was a wellspring of vital information. The very fact that she talked inconsequentialities incessantly—and occasionally let drop remarks of vital import—made her the more valuable. He knew that he had not seen the last of the seventeen-year-old girl. And he felt a consuming eagerness to be with her again, for now he had a definite line of investigation to pursue.
He slept soundly that night, and the following morning dropped in on Leverage. The Chief of Police had a little information—with all of which Carroll was already familiar. He told Carroll that Lawrence had been in Nashville and that he had checked out of the Hermitage hotel in time to catch the four o'clock train on the afternoon preceding the murder. Carroll satisfied Leverage by accepting it as information, made sure that nothing else of importance had developed, requested Leverage to ask the Nashville police to determine whether Lawrence had been seen in Nashville after 4:30 p.m.—if necessary to send one of his own men there—and left headquarters.
He made his way directly to a public telephone booth. He telephoned the Lawrence home and asked for Evelyn Rogers. A maid answered and informed him that Evelyn had left home fifteen minutes previously.
"Any idea where she was going?" questioned Carroll.
The answer came promptly: it mentioned the city's leading department store—"she's gone there to get a beauty treatment," vouchsafed the maid.
Carroll was not a little chagrined. Evelyn Rogers had put him in more hopeless positions in their brief acquaintanceship than he had experienced in years. There was his call upon her the previous night with its role of dual entertainer to the young lady with a nineteen-year-old college freshman. And now a vigil outside a beauty parlor.
But he went grimly to work. He located the beauty parlor on the third floor of the giant store, and paced determinedly back and forth before its doors.
A half hour passed; an hour—two hours. He concluded that Evelyn must be purchasing her beauty in job lots. When two hours and thirty-five minutes had elapsed Evelyn emerged—and Carroll groaned. With her were three other girls, as chattery, as immature, as Evelyn herself.
She swept down upon him in force—tongue wagging at both ends—
"You naughty,naughtyman!" she chided. "You abso_lute_ly deserted me last night. Why, I didn't even know that you had gone—until Sis came in and said you had asked her to extend your respects. Good gracious! I almostdied!"
"I'm sorry—really," returned Carroll humbly—"But you seemed so interested in that young man—and I had gotten into an absorbing conversation with your sister and brother-in-law. I'm not used to girls, you know."
"Kidder! I think you're simply elegant!" She turned to her giggling friends and introduced them gushingly. Carroll was in misery—a martyr to the cause. But Evelyn would not let him get away. Through her sudden friendship with the great detective, Evelyn was building up a reputation that was destined to survive for years, and she was not one to fail to make the most of her opportunities.
It was not until almost an hour later, when the other three girls had left for their homes—left only after they had hung around until the ultimate moment before lunch—that Carroll found himself alone with his little gold mine of data. He bent his head hopefully—
"Were you planning to eat lunch downtown?"
She nodded. "Uh-huh!"
"Suppose we eat together?"
"Scrumptious!" There was no hint of hesitation in her manner. "I've been hoping ever since we met that you'd ask me."
They found a table mercifully secluded in the corner of the main dining room of the city's leading hotel. For once Carroll felt gratitude for the notoriously slow service. He begged her to order—and she did: ordered a meal which contained T.N.T. possibilities for acute indigestion. Carroll smiled and let her have her way—he was amused at her valiant efforts to appear the blasé society woman.
"I really did enjoy our conversation last night, Miss Rogers."
"Oh! piffle! I don't fall for that."
"I did."
"Then why did you beat it so quick?"
"Well, you see—I suppose I was jealous of your elegantly dressed young friend."
"Him? He's just a kid. A merechild!"
"He seemed very much at home."
"Kids like him always do. They make me sick—always putting on as though they were grown up."
She secured an olive and bit into it with a relish. "Awful good—these olives. I love queen olives, don't you. I used to be crazy about ripe olives, but I read in a book once that sometimes they poison you, and when they do—there just simply isn't any anecdote in the world that can save you. So I figured there wasn't any use taking chances—"
Carroll let her run on until the meal was served. And it was then when she was satisfying a normal youthful appetite that he drove straight to the subject which had led to this masculine martyrdom.
"The day before Mr. Warren died," he said mildly—"are you sure that your sister made the suggestion that you spend the night with Miss Gresham?"
"Her? Sure she did."
"Didn't it strike you as peculiar—knowing that she'd be in the house alone all that night?"
"I'll say it did. I asked her was she nutty and she scolded me for being slangy. So I told her I should worry—if she wanted to suffer alone, and I went with Hazel. And it's an awful good thing I did, because if I hadn't she would have been arrested and tried and convicted and hanged—or something, and—"
"Oh! hardly that bad. You're sure your sister was alone in the house that night?"
"Sure. Who could have been there with her?"
"I'm not answering riddles. I'm asking them."
"I've got my fingers crossed. The answer is that there wasn't any one there. At first I thought she was going out—but she wasn't, and when I asked her was she, she got real peeved at me."
"Aa-a-h! You thought she was going out that night?"
"Uh-huh," came the answer between bites at a huge lobster salad.
"What made you think that?"
"Oh! just something. You know, I don't get credit for having eyes, but I sure have. And I never did understand that business anyway. But then Sis always has been the queerest thing—ever since she married Gerald. Say—" she looked up eagerly—"ain't he the darndest old crab you ever saw in your life?"
"Why, I—"
"Ain't he? Honest?"
"He's not exactly jovial."
"He's a lemon! Just a plain juicy lemon. And I think she was a nut for marrying him."
"But—" Carroll proceeded cautiously—"you made the remark just now that something was the queerest thing. What did you mean by that?"
"Oh! I guess I was crazy—or something. But she got sore at me when I asked her—"
"Who?"
"Sis."
"What did you ask her?"
"Why—" she looked up innocently—"about that suit-case!"
"What suit-case? When was it?"
"It was the day before Mr. Warren died—I always remember everything now by that date. Anyway—I went in her room that morning to ask something about what I should take to Hazel's—and what do you think she was doing?"
"I'll bite," he answered with assumed jocularity—"what was she doing?"
"Packing a suit-case!"
"No?" Carroll was keenly interested—struggling not to show it.
"Yes, sir. I asked her what was she doing it for—and that's when she got peeved. I told you she was a queer one."
"Indeed she must be. Packing a suit-case—"
"And that ain't all that was funny about that, either, Mr. Carroll."
"No? What else about it was peculiar?"
"That suit-case—" and Evelyn lowered her voice to an impressive whisper—"was gone from the house the next day—and the day after it showed up again and when I asked Sis wasn't that funny she told me to mind my own business!"
Carroll tried to appear disinterested—strove to make his manner casual; jocular even. Evelyn was piecing the threads of circumstances together and the events surrounding the Warren murder were slowly clarifying in Carroll'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 amterriblynoticing.There ain't many things that happen which I don't get wise to."
"Not even vanishing suit-cases, eh?"
"No: not even that. It was funny about that, though. At first I thought maybe Sis 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 suit-case left the house after she packed it?"
"Sure pop."
"Who took it?"
"I don't know. Sis was out a couple of times that day—so I guess she did."
Carroll shrugged. "She was probably sending some of Mr. Lawrence's belongings to him in Nashville."
"Huh! There're 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 suit-case werehers?"
"Really?"
"You bet your life, I noticed. You see," she grew suddenly confidential. "There's a certain kind of perfume Sis uses—awful expensive. Roland Warren used to bring it to her. Well, I've been using it too—and Sis 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 suit-case was back and it surely was."
"But perhaps it never left the house?"
"Guess again, Mr. Carroll. 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 suit-case wasn't there. Believe me—it'ssomeperfume, too!"
"You say Mr. Warren gave it to her?"
"He sure did. That man wasn't any piker, believe me. It costs twelve dollars anounce!"
"No?"
"Yeh—goodness knows how much a pound would cost. I used it all the time—I knew when he gave it to Sis 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 Sis and Gerald."
"I fancy it did—" Carroll summoned a waiter—"A little baked Alaska for dessert?"
"Baked Alaska! Oh! boy! you sure spoke a mouthful that time. I'm simplyinsaneover it!"
She evidently had not exaggerated. She absorbed enough of the dessert to have satisfied two growing men. It did Carroll good to witness her frank enjoyment of his luncheon. She glanced at her wrist watch and rose hastily—
"Goodness me, I've simplygotto be going."
"Where?"
She made a wry face: "Hazel Gresham's. Honestly, women get queer when they grow up—get older than twenty. Hazel has been acting sopeculiarlylately—"
"That's natural, isn't it, Miss Rogers? Her fiancé 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. Carroll—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 peoples' affairs—that person is me. I started that a long time ago when I read something some one wrote in a book about how much happier folks could be if they never bothered with other folk's 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—O-o-oh!"
"Myname?" Carroll was genuinely surprised.
"Yes siree-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 Carroll, "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 fiancé?"
"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 thelongesttime 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 lie to the bright sunshine and its promise of warmth.
"Brrrr!" shivered Evelyn—and Carroll 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 on the side of the mountain at the extreme southern end of the city—Evelyn did about a hundred and one per cent 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 sister's—it was thegrandestin the city, that—she orated at length on any subject which occurred to her tireless mind; securing his dumb Okeh 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 something.
They pulled up at the curb of the Gresham home. As they did so GarryGresham swung out of the gate, paused—and his eyes widened inastonishment at sight of Carroll. Then he stepped quickly to the curb asCarroll and the girl alighted.
"Hello, Garry," 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 Carroll—eyes level, manner direct.
"What do you want here, Carroll?"
There was an undertone of earnestness in the young man's words which the detective did not miss. He simulated innocence: "I? Nothing—"
Garry 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—"
Carroll laughed good-naturedly. "Rid 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 fiancée. 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, Carroll, 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."
Carroll bowed. "As you will, Gresham."
They walked to the house and Garry led the way to the front hall. Evelyn, considerably piqued 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.
Carroll 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 Carroll 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 Carroll—her eyes meeting his squarely—and they mutually acknowledged Evelyn's gushing, but unheard, introduction—
"Miss Gresham—"
"Mr. Carroll—"
They seated themselves about a small table which stood in the center 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?" to Hazel.
It was Garry who introduced the subject. "Mr. Carroll wants to ask you something about Roland," he said softly—and Carroll, intercepting the look which passed between brother and sister, felt a sense of warmth—a pleasant glow; albeit it was tinged with guilt—as though he had blundered in on something sacred.
The girl's voice came softly in reply: her gaze unwavering.
"What is it you wish to know, Mr. Carroll?"
The detective was momentarily at a loss. He conscripted his entire store of tact—"I don't want to cause you any embarrassment, Miss Gresham—"
"This is no time for equivocation, Mr. Carroll. You may ask me whatever you wish."
"Thank you," he answered gratefully. "You have, of course, heard that there is a woman connected with Mr. Warren's death—the woman in the taxicab."
Her face grew pallid, but she nodded. "Yes. Of course."
He watched her closely—"Have you the slightest idea—the vaguest suspicion—of that woman's identity?"
"No!" she answered—and he knew that she had spoken the truth.
"You have thought of it—of her—a good deal?"
"Naturally."
"Mind you—I'm not asking if youknow—I'm merely asking if you have a suspicion."
"I have not—not the faintest."
"You were quite satisfied—pardon the intense personal trend of my questions, Miss Gresham—that during his engagement to you, Mr. Warren was—well, that he was carrying on no affair with another woman?"
"I say, Carroll—" It was Garry Gresham who interrupted and his voice was harsh. But his sister halted him with a little affectionate gesture—
"Mr. Carroll is right, Garry: he must know these things." She turned again to Carroll. "No, Mr. Carroll—I knew of no such affair—nor did I suspect one. When I became engaged to Mr. Warren I placed my trust in him as a gentleman. I still believe in him."
"Yet weknowthat therewasa woman in that cab!"
"No-o. We know that the taxi-driversaysthere was."
"That's true—"
Hazel Gresham leaned forward: her manner that of a suppliant. "Mr. Carroll—why don't you abandon this horrible investigation? Why aren't you content to let matters rest where they are?"
"I couldn't do that, Miss Gresham."
"Why not?"
"Mr. Warren's murderer is still at large—and as a matter of duty—"
"Duty to whom? I am content to let the matter rest where it is. All of your investigation isn't going to restore Roland to life. You can only cause more misery, more suffering, more heartbreak—"
"It is a duty to the State, Miss Gresham. And, frankly, I cannot understand your attitude—"
"She has had enough—" broke in Garry Gresham. "She's been through hell since—that night."
"I'm afraid, though—"
"Mr. Carroll—youcancall it off, if you will." Hazel Gresham rose and paced the room. "The case is in your hands. You can gain nothing by finding the person who committed the—the—deed. Let's drop it. Do me that favor, won't you? Let's consider the whole thing at an end!"
David Carroll was puzzled. But he was honest—"I'm afraid I cannot, MissGresham. I must, at least, try to solve it."
She paused before him: figure tensed—
"Then let me say, Mr. Carroll—that I hope you fail!"
From the Gresham home, David Carroll went straight to headquarters. Developments had been tumbling over each other so fast that he found himself unable to sort them properly. He wanted to talk the thing over with someone, to place each new lead in the investigation under the microscope in an attempt to discern its true value in relation to the killing of Roland Warren.
Eric Leverage was the one man to whom he could talk. And, locked in the Chief's office, he told all that he knew about the case, detailing conversations, explaining the situation as he understood it, reserving his suspicions and watching keenly for the reaction on the stolid mind of the plodding, practical Chief.
Carroll placed an exceedingly high valuation on Leverage's opinion—even though the minds of the two men were as far apart as the poles. But Leverage was a magnificent man for the office he held: competent, methodical, intensely orthodox—but typical of the modern police in contradistinction to the modern detective.
Carroll knew that modern police methods have received a great deal more than their share of unjust criticism. He knew that the entire theory of national policing is based on an exhaustive system of records and statistics. It operates by brute force and all-pervading power rather than by any attempt at sublety or keen deduction. The former is so much safer as a method. And the combination of the two—keen analysis, logical deduction and plodding investigation—can perform wonders, which explains why Carroll and Leverage worked hand-in-hand with implicit confidence in one another.
Leverage listened with rapt attention to the report of his friend. Occasionally the corners of his large humorous mouth twitched as Carroll touched on one or two of the lighter phases of his investigation—and once Leverage even twitted him about becoming "one of these here butterfly investigators"—but Carroll knew that no word of his escaped the retentive brain of the chief of the city's police force, and that each was being carefully catalogued with truer knowledge of its proper importance than Carroll had yet been able to determine.
"And so," finished Carroll, "there you are. The thing is in as pretty a mess as I care to encounter. Frankly, I don't know which way to turn next—which is why I wanted to talk things over. Perhaps, between us, we can arrive at some solution of the affair—determine upon some course of action."
"Yes," responded Leverage slowly, "perhaps we can. Only trouble is—there are so many different ways of spillin' the beans that we're takin' a chance no matter what we do. Answer me this, David: if you had to point out one person right now as the guilty one—which'd you choose?"
Carroll shook his head. "You know I don't like to answer questions of that sort."
"But you can tell me—"
"No-o. It might start your mind working along lines parallel to mine—andI prefer to have you buck me. But, in perfect honesty, I'll tell you thatI'm all at sea. I couldn't conscientiously make an arrest now."
"Well—I'm willing to air my opinions," volunteered the Chief. "And I'm telling you that if it was up to me to make an arrest to-day I'd nab Mr. Gerald Lawrence—and haul in William Barker for good measure."
"M-m-m!" Carroll nodded approvingly. "Sounds reasonable. How about the woman?"
"That's what's got me puzzled. I've worked on that end of it, and I've had several of my best men circulating around trying to gather dope from the gossip shops—but there doesn't seem to be a clue from this end. Anyway—I don't believe Warren was killed by the woman in the taxi!"
Carroll was genuinely impressed. "You don't?"
"No. Don't believe any woman—I don't care who—would have killed him under those circumstances."
"You mean you believe the woman in the taxi had nothing to do with it?"
"I don't mean anything of the kind. I know darn well she had something to do with it—but I don't believe she did the actual killing. That's why I'd arrest this bird Lawrence and also William Barker. They either killed the man or they know all about it."
"But," suggested Carroll slowly, "suppose we admit that your theory is correct—and I've thought of it myself: how and where was that body put into the taxicab?"
Leverage shrugged: "That's where you come in, Carroll. I ain't the sort of thinker who can puzzle out something like that. Of course I'd say the only place the shift could have been made was when the taxi stopped at the R. L. & T. railroad crossing—and every time I think that it strikes me I must be wrong. Because any birds working a case like that couldn't have counted on such a break in luck."
"It might have been," suggested Carroll, "that two men entered the cab at that crossing: Warren and another—both alive, and the killing might have occurred between then and the time the cab reached number 981 East End Avenue."
"Might have—yes. But something tells me it didn't. It's asking too much—"
"Then whatdoyou think happened?"
"I don't think. There just simply isn't anything you can think about an affair like that. You either know everything or you don't know a thing!"
"I think you're about right, Leverage. And now—let's run over the list we have in front of us. Spike Walters—the taxi driver—comes first. What about him?"
Leverage rubbed his chin. "Funny about Spike, Carroll—I think the kid's story is true."
"So do I."
"But unless there's some other answer to this affair—it's damned hard to believe that the body could have been dumped into that cab, or that the killing could have occurred there, without Spike knowing about it. Ain't that a fact?"
"It is."
"And if he knows anything he hasn't told, the odds are on him to know a whale of a sight more. And if he knows a whole heap—then the chances are he knows enough to justify us in keeping him in jail."
"You're right, Leverage. If Spike is innocent he's not undergoing any enormous hardship. But if his story is untrue in any particular—then it is probably entirely false. And since we cannot understand how that body got into the cab or where the murderer went—we've got to hold on to Spike. Meanwhile, we both believe him."
"You said it, David. Now, next on the list we have Barker. What about him?"
"I don't like Barker particularly," said Carroll frankly. "He hasn't what you would call an engaging personality. Not only that, but we are agreed that he knows a great deal about the case which he hasn't told—and doesn't intend to tell unless we force him to it. But we'll go back to him later: he's too important a link in the chain to pass over casually when we're trying to hit on a definite course of action. Remembering, of course, that his visits to the Lawrence home have a certain degree of significance."
Leverage chuckled grimly. "You're coming around to my way of thinking, David Carroll. Remember, I wanted to stick that bird behind the bars the first day we talked to him—when we first knew he was lying to us."
"Yes—but we wouldn't have gained anything—then. Perhaps now the time is ripe to try some of that third degree stuff. But let's take up the others. My little friend, Miss Evelyn Rogers, for instance."
Leverage chuckled. "Go to it, David. You know more about that kid than I ever will—or want to. Ain't suspecting her of being the woman in the taxi, are you?"
"Good Lord! no! She hasn't that much on her mind. And if we manage to solve this case, we can thank her. That little tongue of hers wags at both ends—and out of the welter of words that drip from her lips—I've managed to extract more information than from every other source we've tapped. I've been awfully lucky there—"
"Don't talk like a simp, David—'tain't luck. That's your way of working. And because there isn't anything flashy about it—you call it luck. Why, you poor fish—there isn't any other man in the country who'd have had the common sense to do what you did—to know that it would be a sensible move."
"Some day, Eric," grinned Carroll, "I'm going to throw you down—I'm going to flunk on a case. And then you'll say to my face what you must often have thought—that I'm a lucky, old-maidish detective."
"G'wan wid ye! Fishing for compliments—that's what you are."
Carroll grew serious again. "I think we're safe in eliminating Evelyn Rogers from our calculations except as a gold mine of information. Which takes us to her friend—Hazel Gresham."
"And Garry Gresham. You say he didn't want you to discuss the case with his sister."
"They both acted mighty peculiarly," agreed Carroll. "One of them, I'm sure, knows something about that case—has some inside dope on it. And the one who knew has told the other one—the affection between them is something pretty to look at, Leverage."
"You think one of them is in on the know?"
"Yes, I think so. And I think that their information touches someone pretty close to them. That's obviously why they pleaded so hard with me to call off the investigation."
"M-m-m—They're pretty good friends to the Lawrences, aren't they!"
"Yes—with Naomi Lawrence, anyway. I don't believe Gerald Lawrence is especially friendly with anyone. But the Greshams and Mrs. Lawrence are pretty intimate."
"And you believe that the alibi Miss Rogers established for HazelGresham is good?"
Carroll 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 her 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 HazelGresham was engaged to marry 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 a.m. 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 Carroll—"when he made the discovery that his alibi was no good—hewas the most surprised person in the room!"
"And you're 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 has 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 nodded agreement. "Things do look pretty tough for her."
"More so than you think, Eric." Carroll 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."
Carroll 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 suit-case the morning before the murder, that the suit-case 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 taxicab!"
The men looked at each other in silence for a minute. Leverage was sorry for Carroll—sorry because he knew that Carroll 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 Carroll 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 taxicab 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 suit-case 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 Carroll.
"You said it."
"Suppose shewasthe woman in the taxicab—?"
"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'tknow!"
"We don'tknowanything. But there is a certain logic which is irrefutable—and, confound it! man—what are we going to do now?"
Leverage refused to meet his friend's eyes. "We-e-ll, David—suppose you tell me whatyouthink 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 'em? That she was—or might have become—Warren's light-o'-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 'em—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 on the backwash."
"Itistough. 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'm 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 sister will suffer too—"
"You don't think, Carroll—that she looked like that kind?"
"Good God!no!And even if we prove that she was the woman in the taxicab—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. Carroll had lighted a cigarette and was puffing fiercely upon it. Leverage spoke again softly—
"Haven't we?"
"I suppose we have—"
"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 therefor."
Leverage shook his head. He was disappointed in his friend. Not that Carroll would flinch from duty—but Leverage considered it a weakness that Carroll 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 Carroll, 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 worked together—and I'm game to stick to it now."
Carroll 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 Carroll grimly. "No—" as Leverage started for the door; "Don't go! I want to think for a minute—"
Leverage sank obediently into a chair. Carroll 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 Lawrences 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, Carroll was still seated motionlessly before the grate 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 Carroll 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 arrestingmefor Warren's murder?"
"Yes."
"But I didn't do it. I'll swear I didn't."
"Of course you'll swear it—" Carroll's steely voice excited a vast admiration in 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 nothin' 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 nothin' on me."
"That 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 too—you know bloody well that I didn't do it."
"Why do we know that?"
"Because you know he was killed by a woman!"
"Aa-a-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 going to be trapped. I don't know nothin' about it. Like I said from the first."
"But you do know something about it," insisted Carroll icily. "And I'd advise you to come clean with us."
"There ain't nothin' 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?" Carroll's voice fairly snapped.
"It was—Miss Hazel Gresham!"
Carroll 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 Carroll—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. Carroll, that bein' the case—I ain't goin' to stick my head in a noose 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 Carroll 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!"