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Midnight

<h2 id="id00606" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VII</h2> <h5 id="id00607">THE VALET TALKS</h5> 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. You are William 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 David Carroll—" "O-o-oh! So you're David 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 in Brooklyn." "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, he was all 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!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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