Midnight, Octavus Roy Cohen [summer reads txt] 📗

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 arresting me for 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!"

CHAPTER XVIII "AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH—"

Barker's words reverberated through the room—to be succeeded by an almost unnatural stillness; a silence punctured by the ticking of the cheap clock on the mantel, by the crackling of the flames in the grate, by the whistling of the wind around the corners of the gaunt gray stone building which housed the police department.

The accused man looked eagerly upon the faces of the two detectives; then, slowly, his chest expanded with relief: he saw that they believed him.

And Carroll did believe. It was not that he wanted to—he had fought himself mentally away from that conviction time after time; had threshed over every scintilla of evidence, searching futilely for something which would clear this radiant woman whom he had met but once. Carroll's interest—however platonic—was intensely personal. The woman had impressed herself indelibly upon him. It was perhaps her air of game helplessness; perhaps the stark tragedy which he had seen reflected in her eyes when he had first entered her home and saw that she knew why he had come.

And now, driven into the corner which he had hoped to avoid, his retentive memory brought back a circumstance well-nigh forgotten. He addressed Barker, his voice soft-hopeless.

"You mean that Mrs. Lawrence was the woman in the taxicab?"

"Yes, sir." The "sir," which Barker used for the first time was respectful.

"Where had she been during the evening—after dark of the night of the—killing?"

"At home—I believe."

"You believe?"

"Yes, sir."

Carroll's eyes lighted. His voice cracked out accusingly: "Don't you know that that is incorrect?"

Barker shook his head. "Why, no, sir. Of course, I ain't sayin' positive that she was at home all evenin', but—"

"As I understand it," said Carroll slowly—"an accommodation train came in just about that time: isn't that a fact?"

"Some train came in then—I don't know which one it was."

"Isn't it a fact that the woman who got into the taxicab had been a passenger on that train: that she got off with the other passengers, carrying a suit-case?"

"There ain't nobody can see the passengers get off the trains at the Union Station, Mr. Carroll. You go down them steps and approach the waitin' room underground—crossin' under the tracks."

"But you do know that this woman—whoever she was—passed through the waiting room with the passengers who came on that train, don't you?"

"Yes, sir—she done that, but it don't mean nothin'."

"Why don't it?"

"Well, sir, for one thing—ain't it true that the papers said the suit-case she was carryin' wasn't hers at all. Ain't it a fact that she had Mr. Warren's suit-case?"

"Well?" Carroll saw his last hope glimmering.

"You see, sir—Mr. Warren was meetin' Mrs. Lawrence at the station. He got there with his suit-case at about ten minutes to twelve. She got there about ten or fifteen minutes later—"

"How did she come?"

"On the street car. And when she come out—she was alone and it was his suit-case she was carryin'—the same suit-case he had taken into the station. The one you found in the taxicab."

"I see—" Carroll did not want to believe Barker's story, but he knew that the man was telling the truth—or at least that most of what he was saying was true. The detective seemed crushed with disappointment. Leverage, seated in the corner of the room, chewing savagely on a big black cigar—was sorry for his friend: sorry—yet proud of the way he was standing the gaff of his chagrin. Carroll again spoke to Barker—manner almost apathetic—

"You know a good deal more about this thing than you've told us, don't you Barker?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well: let's have your story from the beginning to the end. I'll be honest with you: I believe a good deal of what you've told me. Some of your story I don't believe. Other portions of it need substantiation. But you are mighty close to being charged with murder—and now is your chance to clear yourself. Go to it!"

Barker plunged a hand into his pocket. "Can I smoke, Mr. Carroll?"

"Certainly. And sit down."

They drew up their chairs before the fire. Carroll did not look at
Barker, but Leverage's steady gaze was fixed on the man's crafty face.

"I'm going to come clean with you, Mr. Carroll. I'm going to tell you everythin' I know—and everythin' I think. I didn't want to do it—and I don't want to now. But I'd a heap rather have the job of convincin' you that I ain't mixed up in this murder than I would of makin' a jury believe the same thing. I reckon you'll give me a square deal."

"I will," snapped Carroll. "Go ahead."

"In the first place," started Barker slowly, "it's my personal opinion that Mr. Warren never had no idea of marryin' Miss Gresham. Maybe I'm all wrong there—but it's what I think. I can't prove that, of course—an' no one else can't either.

"Also I happen to know that he's been crazy about Mrs. Lawrence for a long time. He's been hangin' around the house a good deal—an' doin' little things like a man will when he's nuts about a woman. For instance, Mr. Warren wasn't no investing man: s'far's I know he had all his money in gover'ment bonds and such like investments. But he sank some money into them woolen mills that Mr. Lawrence owns. And also he pretended that he liked that kid sister of Mrs. Lawrence's—Evelyn Rogers. But there ain't hardly a doubt in my mind, Mr. Carroll—an' I'm handin' it to you straight—that he was crazy about Mrs. Lawrence. And, not meanin' no impertinence, sir—I ain't blamin' him a bit.

"Also, I reckon she wasn't exactly indifferent to him. She's been up in his apartment twice—which is a terrible risky thing, an' somethin' no woman will do unless she's wild about a feller. Oh! everything was proper while she was there. I was at home all the time and I know. But she was—what you call, indiscreet—that is, in comin' up there at all—no matter how decent she acted when she was there. An' also, sir, she used to write him notes—most every day."

"You have some of those notes?"

"No, sir. I had one—if you want the truth—but when I saw you was watchin' me—sure, I know you've had a couple of dicks shadowing me—I destroyed it."

"Where are the rest of her letters?"

"Mr. Warren used to burn 'em up careful. He wasn't takin' no chances of someone findin' 'em and he bein' caught in a scandal—which is why I think he really cared about her serious. His other lady friends he used to joke about—but never Mrs. Lawrence. An' the one letter of her's that I had—I'm betting that he looked for three days without stopping before he gave it up as a bad job.

"That's the way things was when I seen him begin to make arrangements to get away from town. It wasn't supposed to be none of my business and Mr. Warren never was a feller I could ask questions of. When he had something to tell me, he told it—an' I never got nothin' out of him by askin'. But, bein' his valet, there was certain things I couldn't very well miss knowin'. I know his apartment is sublet for the new tenants to come in on the first of the month, he placed his car with a dealer to be sold and he didn't order a new one an' he drew a whole heap of cash out of the bank the day before he was killed.

"Also that day he sent me downtown to do some shoppin'. While I was downtown I seen him go into the railroad ticket office. I didn't pay much attention to that then and later on he drove by the house for a minute. I had taken his laprobe out of the car the night before and forgot to put it back—so I thought I'd better do it. I went downstairs without his knowing it—and when I put the laprobe in the car I seen he had a suit-case in there. An' the suit-case wasn't his, sir—the initials on it was N.L.—which, if you know, sir—Mrs. Lawrence's name is Naomi.

"That made things pretty clear to me then. He drove off and come back about a half hour later. I looked when he come back and the suit-case wasn't in the car no more. And it was then that he handed me a big wad of wages in advance and told me he wasn't going to need me no more and I could quit any time after five o'clock in the afternoon."

Barker paused, lighted another cigarette from the stump of the one he had been smoking—inhaled a great puff, and continued. His manner was that of a man under great mental stress—as though he was struggling to recall every infinitesimal detail which might possibly have a bearing on the case.

"That sort of carries me along to the night, sir—as I left there at five o'clock and he was still there—tellin' me goodbye and givin' me an excellent reference and sayin' I was a good valet an' all like that, sir.

"After leavin' there I went out and got some supper, and then I went up to Kelly's place and horned into an open game of pool. You know Kelly's place is pretty close to the Union Station and when it come about ten o'clock I got tired and went an' sat down in the corner, eatin' a hot dog from the stand in Kelly's—an' then I sort of got to thinkin' things over.

"An' thinkin' things over that way, Mr. Carroll—I began to think that Mrs. Lawrence was doin' a terrible