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Midnight

<h2 id="id01652" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h5 id="id01653">LABYRINTH</h5> Long after William Barker left the room—held in custody under special guard—David Carroll and Chief of Police Eric Leverage maintained a thoughtful silence. Leverage wanted to talk—but refused to be the first to broach the subject which each knew was uppermost in the mind of the other. And it was Carroll who spoke first— "Well, Eric," he said dully, "you called the turn that time." "Reckon I did, David." "It looks mighty bad for Mrs. Lawrence—mighty bad." He hesitated. "I wonder whether Barker told the truth when he said he had been calling on Mrs. Lawrence to apply for a job?" "Why not?" "Because when valets or butlers apply for domestic positions they don't go to the front door, and Barker did on both occasions he visited that house. No, Leverage—I don't think he told the truth there." "Then what was he doing at the house?" "Mmm! Just struck me, Eric—that he may have been trying a little private blackmail." Leverage arched his eyebrows: "On Mrs. Lawrence?" "Yes—on Mrs. Lawrence. You see, it's this way: according to Barker's own story he knew everything which transpired at the station. If we believe what he told us, and if he is correct in his belief that Mrs. Lawrence did the killing, then we know he is the only person who—until now—had any knowledge of the identity of the woman in the taxicab. That being the case, and Barker being obviously not a high type of man, it is certainly not unreasonable to presume that he was capitalizing his information." "Seems plausible," grunted Leverage. "But where does it get us?" "Just this far," explained Carroll. "Unless Barker was applying for a position at the Lawrences—where they not only do not employ a male servant, but have never employed one—he was not seeking employment anywhere. He has been taking life pretty easy, all of which is indicative of a supply of money from outside. And I fancy that Mrs. Lawrence would pay a pretty fancy price to have her name left out of this rotten scandal." Leverage held Carroll with his eyes: "Do you believe Barker's story, David?" "Believe it? Why, yes. Most of it anyway." "You believe Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxicab?" "I've got to believe it." "Do you believe she killed him?" "Evidence points to that answer, Leverage. You see, Barker's story impressed me this way: it is the only sane, logical solution of the killing which has yet been advanced. Neither of us has ever yet hit upon an answer to the puzzle of the body in the taxicab. What Barker tells us is perfectly plausible—" Carroll paused— "You see," he continued, "from the first I have maintained that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman—innately decent. I will even admit that her domestic life was so miserably unbearable that she would entertain the idea of eloping with Warren: that she went so far as to attempt to carry that idea into execution. But I am also ready—and eager, too, if you will, to believe that when she reached the stepping off place she must have reneged. That woman couldn't have done anything else. "We are fairly well satisfied—from Barker's own story—that there had been nothing wrong in the relations between Warren and Mrs. Lawrence up to that night. But we are pretty sure that they met at the station to go away together. What is more reasonable than to presume that she lost her nerve at the eleventh hour: that, unhappy as she was at home, she was unable to take the step which would forever make her a social outcast? "Very well. If that is true, we have them at the station at midnight. The weather is the worst of the year. They are standing in the dark passageway between the main waiting room and the baggage room. No light is on the corner of Jackson street. They see only one taxicab on duty. For all they know—the last street car has passed. They conceive the idea of making a single taxicab do double duty—and, knowing that the driver is across the street drinking coffee and getting warm—Warren gets into the cab from the blind side, Mrs. Lawrence returns to the waiting room as the accommodation rolls in, she picks up Warren's suit-case which had been left there, steps to the curb and summons the cab, in which Warren is hiding all the time. Sounds all right so far?" "Perfectly," said Leverage. "Go ahead." "Walters gets the signal and drives up. Mrs. Lawrence gets in. He drives away. And then—" Leverage leaped forward eagerly: "Yes—?? and then?" "Well," said Carroll slowly, "we don't know what happened in that taxicab. We believe that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman. We know that Warren would have gone through with the elopement. That being the case, we can fancy his keen disappointment. Under those circumstances, Eric—a good many things could have occurred in that taxicab which might have justified Warren's death at her hands." Leverage crossed to his desk, from the top drawer of which he took a box of cigars. He was frowning as he recrossed to Carroll and offered him one. Then, with almost exasperating deliberation, the head of the police force clipped the end of his own cigar, held a match to it, replaced the box in his desk and took up his post before the fire—with his back to it so that he could watch Carroll's face. "You really want to believe that story, don't you, David?" he asked gently. "Yes." "And yet you know it is shot all full of holes." "How?" "For one thing," said Leverage slowly—"how do you explain the fact that it was a.32 that killed him. Not that a .32 is any big gun—it isn't—but it does make a considerable racket." "The shooting probably took place at the R.L.&T. crossing while the train was passing. The sound of the shot may have been drowned in the roar of the train—not entirely smothered of course, but sufficiently blended with the other noise not to attract the attention of the half-frozen driver. And, the cab being stopped there, it must have been at that point that Mrs. Lawrence—panicky over what had occurred—left the taxi." "You're a dandy little ol' explainer, Carroll. But you've forgotten one other important item." "What is it?" "The address Mrs. Lawrence gave—981 East End avenue. That address was a stall—we know it was a stall. We were hot on that end of it the night the body was found. And if those two people were trying to get home, Carroll—if Warren was already in the cab and Mrs. Lawrence gave the address—and if she wanted to get away from Warren and safe at home as soon as she could—she'd never have ordered Walters to drive to 981 East End avenue!" Carroll did not answer. There was no answer possible. Leverage's logic was irrefutable. And finally Carroll rose to his feet and slipped into his heavy overcoat. Leverage's eyes were turned kindly upon him. "Where are you going, David!" "I'm going to play my last trump. If it doesn't uncover something—I throw up my hands. Laugh at me if you will, Eric—rail at me for being chicken-hearted, for playing hunches too strongly—but I have an idea that Mrs. Lawrence did not kill Warren. Don't ask me how or why? I don't know—I admit that frankly. But I've always banked on my knowledge of human nature, Leverage—and my instinct has never yet betrayed me. Just now it is forcing me to give this woman every chance in the world to clear herself. I am hoping that circumstances will allow me to bring this case to a conclusion without making public her connection with it—the elopement she was planning." "You do believe that part of the story, then: that she was going to elope with Warren?" "I do. I don't want to—but I'm honest with myself." "Then," exclaimed Leverage with a slight touch of exasperation in his manner—"who in thunder could have killed Warren if she didn't? And when?" "That," said Carroll simply, "is what I hope to find out." "From where?" "From the lips of Mrs. Lawrence. I'm going to have a talk with her." Carroll was far from happy during his drive to the Lawrence home. The Warren mystery seemed to be verging on a solution, but in Carroll's breast there was none of the pardonable surge of elation which normally was his under these circumstances. It had been a peculiar case from the first. The dramatis personae had all been of the better type, with the single exception of William Barker—they had been persons against whom the detective was loath to believe ill. And, most eagerly, he had shied from the belief that Mrs. Lawrence was connected in a sinister way with the death of Roland Warren. Yet he found himself en-route to her home, facing the ordeal of an interview with her—an ordeal for her as well as for him—and one through which he feared she could not safely come. For, frankly as Carroll had admitted to his friend that he hoped to find Naomi innocent—he was yet honest and fearless, and failure of the woman to clear herself meant her arrest. Carroll was determined upon that—yet he dreaded it as a child dreads the dentist—as something painful beyond belief. He rang the bell—then groaned as Evelyn Rogers greeted him effusively. She ushered him ostentatiously into the parlor and drew up a chair close to his— "Mr. Carroll—it's just simply scrumptuous of you to call on me informally like this. I can't tell you how tickled I am. I was sitting upstairs, simply bored to extinction. Sis has been a terrible drag on me recently—really you'd have thought there had been a death in the family. Or something! It's been simply graveyardy! And now you come in—like a darling angel—and save me from the willywoggles. You're a dear, and—" "But—but—I really came to see your sister." "Oh! pff! That's what poor dear Roland used to say all the time. But I always knew I was the one he wanted to see. Goodness, he was simply crazy about me—but of course Sis never understood that. She hasn't yet realized that I'm grown up." "Peculiar how blind some folks are. But this time, Miss Rogers—I really do want to chat with your sister. Not that I wouldn't prefer a talk with you. So if you'll tell her I'm here—and would like to see her privately—" Evelyn rose and started reluctantly toward the door. "I suppose it's up to me to make myself very scarce. But it is simply precious of you to admit you'd rather talk to me. Poor Roland used to say that—but he always said it as though he was kidding. I believe you!" "I assure you I'm serious." "I know it. And anyway, I was thinking of running out for a minute—and I suppose this is a good chance. Of course, I'd stay and see you if you wanted—but I suppose you've got something terribly dry to discuss and so—" She left the room and Carroll heaved a sigh of infinite relief. A few minutes later the hall door swung back and Naomi and Evelyn entered. He was immensely relieved to see that the youngster was cloaked for the street and murmured a few idle words to her before she went. And until the front door banged behind her he remained standing before the fireplace, his eyes focused on the tragic figure of Naomi. She faced him bravely enough, but in her eyes he read the message of knowledge. There was no need for words between them. She knew why he had come—and he knew that she knew. "Sit down, please, Mr. Carroll." He waited until she had seated herself and then followed suit. He controlled his voice with an effort—his words came softly, reassuringly. "I'm sorry I've come this way, Mrs. Lawrence. I've come—" "I know why you have come, Mr. Carroll. You need not mince matters." He drew a long breath. "Isn't it true, Mrs. Lawrence, that you were the woman in the taxi-cab the night Mr. Warren was killed?" She inclined her head. "Yes." Carroll fidgeted nervously. "I must warn you to be careful in what you say to me, my friend. I am the detective in charge of this case, and—" "There is no use in concealment, Mr. Carroll. I have been driven almost crazy since that night. I have almost reached the end of my rope. It was the scandal I have been fighting to avoid—not so much for my own sake as for Evelyn and my husband. Publicity—of this kind—would be very—very—awkward—for both of them." "I'm sorry—" Carroll hesitated. "If you don't care to talk to me—" She shrugged slightly. "It makes no difference—now. I'd rather talk to you than someone who might understand less readily—or more harshly." "I may question you?" "Yes." "I regret it—and rest assured that I am trying to find—a way out—for you." "There is no way out—from the scandal. But that is my own fault—" Somewhere down the block an auto horn shrieked: in another room of the house an old grandfather's clock chimed sonorously. "You admit that you were the woman in the taxicab?" "Yes. Certainly." "Do you admit that you killed Roland Warren?" Her startled eyes flashed to his. The color drained from her cheeks. Her answer was almost inaudible— "No!" "You did not kill him?" Carroll was impressed with the nuance of truth in her answer. "No—I did not kill him." "But when you got into the taxicab—isn't it a fact that he was already there?" "Yes—he was there, Mr. Carroll. But he was already dead!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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