Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen (rosie project .TXT) 📕

foolish thing, and I was kinder sorry about it. Now don't get no idea that I'm wantin' you to believe I got a soft heart or anythin' like that—but then I sort of liked Mr. Warren and I knew Mrs. Lawrence was a decent woman—and I knew once she got on the train with Mr. Warren she was done for. And when I got to thinkin' about that, sir—it struck me that maybe somethin' could be done to keep 'em from eloping with each other that way. Not that I was plannin' to do anything—but curiosity sort of got me, and along about eleven o'clock or a little while after I went out of Kelly's and up to the Union Station. I sat down over in the corner and waited for somethin' to happen—sort of hopin' maybe I had been wrong all the time and there wasn't going to be no elopement.

"I waited there a long time, and then suddenly a taxicab came up to the curb and Mr. Warren got out. Then the taxicab beat it down-town again and Mr. Warren went in the station. And as he come in one door, I beat it out of the other."

"Why?" snapped Leverage.

"Because him seein' me there was certain to start somethin'. And I wasn't hankerin' for nothin' like that to happen. So I went across the street and tried to get shelter against the wall of that dump of a hotel over there. An' it was cold: I ain't seen such a cold night in my life. I almos' froze to death."

"And yet you continued to stand there?"

"Sure—I was curious. Kinder foolish, maybe, but I wanted to see had I figured right about him eloping with Mrs. Lawrence. So I stood there, darn near dead with the cold, when the midnight Union Station street car stopped an' Mrs. Lawrence got out. An' the first thing I noticed was that she wasn't carryin' no suit-case. I noticed that on account of havin' seen her suit-case in Mr. Warren's car that day. She didn't carry nothin' but one of these handbag things that women lug around with 'em."

"How was she dressed?"

"Fur coat and hat and a heavy veil."

"You could see the veil from across the street at midnight?"

"No sir. Not from there. But when she went in the depot, I followed across the street and looked inside to see what was goin' to happen." He paused a moment and then Carroll prodded him on—

"Well—what did happen?"

"The minute Mr. Warren seen her come in he beat it through the opposite door from where I was standin' out to the platform that runs parallel to the tracks. An' he nodded to her to follow him. She sort of nodded like she was wise, an' took a seat so's nobody would think anything in case there was anyone there lookin' for something. Mr. Warren walked off down the outside platform towards the baggage room an' after about three minutes she gets up, kinder casual-like and follers. Soon as she went through the door to the platform I went in the waitin' room."

"What did you do then?"

"Nothin'. Just made a bee line for the steam radiator an' tried to get warm. I was so cold it hurt. An' I stood there for about ten minutes. Then I heard that train comin' in an' I went outside into the street again."

Carroll's voice was tense. "In all that time did you hear anything—anything at all?"

Barker shook his head. "No sir—not a thing—except that train comin' in. And then the passengers from it began to come through, and I was surprised to see Mrs. Lawrence comin' with them, an' she was carryin' his suit-case."

"Whose suit-case?"

"Mr. Warren's. She come on out to the curb an' called a taxicab."

"Where was the taxicab standing?"

"Parked against the curb on Atlantic Avenue about a hundred yards from the entrance in the direction of Jackson street."

"How did she act?"

"Kinder nervous like. Noticin' her come out I seen the taxi driver when he climbed back into his cab an' when he started her up. He picked up Mrs. Lawrence an' she put the suit-case in front beside him. Then they drove off. And that's all I know sir."

Carroll rose and walked slowly the length of the room.

"What did you think when you saw Mrs. Lawrence come out of the station alone carrying Mr. Warren's suit-case? When she did that and called a taxicab and went off in it alone?"

"Not knowin' about no killin', Mr. Carroll—I thought they'd got together and talked things over an' decided to call off the elopement!"

"You did—" Carroll paused. "And the first time you knew of Warren's death?"

"Was when I read the newspapers the next morning."

"Then why," barked the detective, "did you make the blunt statement that
Mrs. Lawrence killed Warren?"

"Because," said Barker simply, "I believe she did."

"How could she have killed him? When and how?"

"That's easy," explained Barker quietly. "If I'm right in thinkin' that they was goin' to call off the elopement—they could have seen that taxi standin' against the curb and he could have got in without bein' seen. It was awful dark where the taxi was standin' an' the driver says himself that he was over in the restaurant gettin' warm. So what I thought right away was that Warren got in the taxi, an' she called it. That was so they wouldn't be seen gettin' in together at that time of night. Then I thought they drove off. And then—"

"Yes—and then?"

"It was while they were alone together in that taxi, that she killed him!"

CHAPTER XIX LABYRINTH

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