Midnight, Octavus Roy Cohen [summer reads txt] 📗

course. Starved as I was for the affection of a man, I may have been blind to the sincerity of his protestations. But I believed him.

"As to how I felt toward him: I don't know. I liked him—admired him. I believe that I loved him. But again we are faced with the abnormal condition in which I found myself. I believe I loved him as I believe he loved me. He represented a chance for life when for three years I had been dead—living and breathing—yet dead as a woman. And that is the most terrible of all deaths.

"We planned to elope. Don't ask me how I could consider such a thing. There is no answer possible. It wasn't a sane decision—but I decided that I would. There was the craving to get away from things—to try to start over. To revel in the richest things of life for awhile. I was selfish—unutterably so. I didn't think then of the effect on my husband—or of the effect on Evelyn. I was selfish—yes. But immoral—no! What I planned to do—under the circumstances—was not immoral. Even yet I cannot convince myself that it was.

"Roland laid all his plans to leave the city. In all my delirium of preparation—the hiding and the secrecy—I felt sincerely sorry for only one person, and that person was Hazel Gresham to whom Mr. Warren was engaged. I believe she was in love with him. But so was I—and if he loved me—as I said before, Mr. Carroll—I was selfish!

"On the morning of the day we were to go—my husband was in Nashville, you know—Mr. Warren came to the house in his car. He showed me that he had reserved a drawing-room for us to New York. In order that we would not be seen together, he gave me one of the railroad tickets. I was to reach the Union Station ten minutes before train time. If you recall—the train on which we were to go was quite late that night.

"We planned not to talk to one another at the station until after boarding the train. Morning would have published news of the scandal broadcast, but until the irrevocable step had been taken—we determined to avoid gossip. And, Mr. Carroll—I was then—what is called a 'good woman'. My faithlessness up to that time, and to this moment, had been mental—and mental only.

"When he left me that morning he took with him my suit-case. We had agreed that I was not to take a trunk: that I was to buy—a trousseau—in New York. I looked upon it almost as a honeymoon. He took my suit-case to the Union Station and checked it there. I did not see him again that day."

"Toward evening—knowing that my husband was not due back until the following morning, and realizing that I could not leave Evelyn alone in the house—I suggested that she spend the night with Hazel Gresham. She was surprised—knowing that I dread to be alone at night—but was ready enough to go. I was not overcome with either emotion or shame when I told her good-bye that afternoon. I was so hungry for happiness that I was dead to the other emotions.

"I went to the station that night in a street car. I had telephoned in advance and learned that the train was late. The night was the worst of the winter—bitterly cold. When I reached the station, I saw that Roland was already there, and as he saw me enter, he left through the opposite door—walking out to the platform which parallels the railroad tracks.

"Then from the outside, he motioned me to follow. He wanted to talk to me, but would not risk doing so where we might be seen. I sat down for awhile, then, as casually as I could, followed him onto the station platform. I saw him down at the far end near the baggage room. Again he motioned to me to follow him. And he started out past the baggage room into the railroad yards.

"I was very grateful to him. He was taking no risk of our being seen together. I followed slowly—not seeing him, but knowing that he would be waiting for me out there. You understand where I mean? It is in that section of the railroad yards where through trains leave their early morning Pullmans—the tracks are parallel to Atlantic Avenue—and also the main line tracks running into the Union Station shed.

"I was conscious of the intense cold, but excitement buoyed me up. I passed through the gate which ordinarily bars passengers from the tracks, but which that night had either been left open or opened by Roland. The wind, as I stepped from under the shelter of the station shed, was terrific: howling across the yards, stinging with sleet. It was very slippery under foot—I had to watch closely. And I was just a trifle nervous because here and there through the yards I could see lanterns—yard workers and track walkers, I presume. And occasionally the headlight of a switch engine zigzagged across the tracks—I was afraid I'd be caught in the glare—

"Finally, I saw Warren. He had walked about a hundred and fifty yards down the track and was standing in the shelter of the Pullman office building. It was very dark there—just enough light for me to make out his silhouette. I started forward—then stopped: frightened.

"For I distinctly saw the figure of a man coming into the yards from Atlantic Avenue. From the moment I noticed him I had the peculiar impression that the man had not only seen Mr. Warren and intended speaking to him—but also that the meeting was not unexpected. I stopped where I was and strained my eyes through the darkness—

"I could not see much—save that they were talking. Of course I could hear nothing. I was shivering—but more with premonition of tragedy than with the terrific cold. Then suddenly I saw the two shadows merge—the combined shadow whirled strangely. I knew that Mr. Warren was fighting with this other man.

"I started forward again. Then I saw one of the shadows step back from the other. There was the flash of a revolver—no noise, because a train was rolling under the shed at the moment. But I saw the flash of the gun. I stood motionless, horrified. I didn't advance, didn't run—

"I knew that the man who had been shot was Mr. Warren. I didn't know what to do. I felt suddenly lost; hopeless—And watching, I saw one figure stoop and lift the prostrate man. He dragged him across the tracks to the inky darkness between the Pullman offices and the rear of the baggage room. I don't know what he did there—but I remember looking toward Atlantic Avenue and seeing a yellow taxicab parked against the curb. I could see that there was no one in the driver's seat—and while I watched I saw the man who had done the shooting drag Mr. Warren's body to the taxicab. It was dark in the street—the arc light on the corner was out—

"I saw him throw Mr. Warren's body into the taxicab. It was then that I turned and fled toward the station.

"I can't tell you how I felt. At a time like that one doesn't pause to analyze one's emotional reactions. I was conscious of horror—of that and the idea that I must save myself. And then the thought struck me that perhaps Mr. Warren was not dead. Perhaps he was only badly wounded. If that were the case I knew that he would freeze to death in the cab. It was necessary to get to him—

"By that time I had reached the waiting room. I saw his suit-case—and then, Mr. Carroll—I thought of something else: something which made it imperative that I get to Mr. Warren—" She stopped suddenly. Carroll—eyes wide with interest—motioned her on.

"You thought of something—something which made it necessary for you to get to him?"

"Yes. I remembered that he had in his pocket the check for my suit-case! He had checked it himself that day. I realized in a flash that there would be a police investigation—and the minute that checkroom stub was found, the detectives would have followed it up. They would have discovered my suit-case. My name would then have been indelibly linked with his—in—in that way—

"So there were two reasons why I knew I must get into that taxicab: to recover the suit-case check—and to either assure myself that he was dead, or else take him where he could get expert medical attention. Almost before I knew what I was doing I seized his suit-case, which he had left on the floor of the waiting room. I left the station along with several passengers who had come in on the local train. I called the taxicab—I told him to drive me to some place on East End Avenue—gave him some address which I knew was a long distance away—so that I would have time to learn if he was dead—and if he wasn't, to get him to a doctor's; and if he was, to find the check—the finding of which in his pocket would have connected me with the affair.

"He was dead!" She paused—choked—and went on gamely. "I got out of the taxicab when it slowed down at a railroad crossing. I walked half the distance back to town, then caught the last street car home—"

Her voice died away. Carroll relaxed slowly. Then a puzzled frown creased his forehead—

"The man who did the actual shooting," he said quietly—"have you the slightest idea as to his identity?"

"No." Her manner was almost indifferent: the strain was over—she was hardly conscious of what she was saying. "He was smaller than Mr. Warren—a man of about my husband's size—"

She stopped abruptly! Carroll's gaze grew steely—he made a note of the expression of horror in her eyes.

"About your husband's size!" he repeated softly.

CHAPTER XXI CARROLL DECIDES

For a moment she was silent. It was patent that she was groping desperately for the correct thing to say. And finally she extended a pleading hand—

"Please—don't think that!"

"What?"

"That is was—was my husband. He wouldn't—"

"Why not?"

"Anyway—it is impossible. He was in Nashville. He didn't get home until morning."

Carroll shook his head. "I hope he can prove he was in Nashville. We have tried to prove it, and we cannot. And you must admit, Mrs. Lawrence, that had he known what you planned he would have had the justification of the unwritten law—"

Her eyes brightened. "You think, then—that if he did—he would be acquitted?"

"Yes. More so in view of your story that there was a fight between the two men. That would probably add self-defense to his plea. However, I may be wrong in that—"

"You are indeed, Mr. Carroll. My husband—isn't that kind of a man. And even if he had done the shooting—he could not have concealed it from me for this length of time. He would have given a hint—"

"No-o. He wouldn't have done that. If he shot Warren he would have been afraid of telling even you."

She walked to the window where she stood for a moment looking out on the drear December day. Then she turned tragically back to Carroll.

"You are going to arrest me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe your story, Mrs. Lawrence. And so long as there is any way to keep your name clear of the whole miserable mess, I shall do so."

"But if you arrest my husband—"

"I have no intention of doing that, either—unless I am convinced that he was in the city when the shooting occurred. I am not in favor of indiscriminate arrests. In this case, they can do nothing but harm."

"You are very good," she said softly. "I didn't imagine that a detective—"

"Some of us are human beings, Mrs. Lawrence. Is that so strange?"

She did not answer, and for several minutes they sat in silence—each intent in thought. It was Carroll who broke the stillness:

"Do you know William Barker?"

"Barker? Why, yes—certainly. He was Mr. Warren's valet."

"I know it. Have you seen Barker since the night Mr. Warren was killed?"

"Yes." He could scarcely distinguish her answer. "Twice."

"He called here?"

"Yes."

"Was your husband at home on either occasion?"

"No."

"Why did he come here?"

She hesitated, but only for the fraction of a second. "It was Barker who was driving me to distraction. He knew that I was the woman in the taxicab. He really believes that I killed Mr. Warren. He has been blackmailing me."

"A-ah! So that explains