Midnight, Octavus Roy Cohen [summer reads txt] 📗

friendly with anyone. But the Greshams and Mrs. Lawrence are pretty intimate."

"And you believe that the alibi Miss Rogers established for Hazel
Gresham is good?"

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 Hazel
Gresham 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—he was 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!"

CHAPTER XVII BARKER ACCUSES

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 she was the 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't know!"

"We don't know anything. 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 what you think we should do?"

"We ought to—but it's rotten! Absolutely rotten!"

"Trouble with you, David," said Leverage kindly—"is that you're too damned human!"

"I can't help it. It isn't my fault. And if I was sure that Naomi Lawrence was the woman in that taxi, I'd arrest her immediately. But I'm not sure, Leverage—and neither are you. Let's admit that it's a ten to one bet—we're still not positive. And I wonder if you realize what her arrest would mean?"

"What?"

"We can't arrest a woman of her prominence socially without a reason—and a darned good reason. Therefore, when we arrest her we have to tell the public why we're doing it. And what do we tell '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."

"It is tough. But this is a murder case—and, anyway, I don't think she killed Warren."

"Even if she didn't—I fancy she'd rather be convicted of murder—than of what this will lead to. I'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