Midnight | Page 6

about the case, and they were both too well versed in criminology to attempt a discussion of something with which they were unfamiliar.
Spike Walters saw them coming--saw their headlights splitting the frigid night. He was at the curb to meet them as they pulled up. He told his story briefly and concisely. Leverage inspected the young man closely, made note of his license number and the number of his taxi-cab. Then he turned to his companion, who had stood by, a silent and interested observer.
"S'pose you talk to him a bit, Carroll."
"I'm David Carroll," introduced the other man. "I'm connected with the police department. There's a few things you tell which are rather peculiar. Any objections to discussing them?"
In spite of himself, Spike felt a genial warming toward this boyish-faced man. He had heard of Carroll, and rather feared his prowess; but now that he was face to face with him, he found himself liking the chap. Not only that, but he was conscious of a sense of protection, as if Carroll were there for no other purpose than to take care of him, to see that he received a square deal.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Carroll, I'll be glad to tell you anything I know."
"You have said, Walters, that the passenger you picked up at the Union Station was a woman."
"Yes, sir, it was a woman."
"Are you sure?"
"Why, yes, sir. I couldn't very well be mistaken. You see--o-o-oh! You're thinking maybe it was a man in woman's clothes? Is that it, sir?"
Carroll smiled.
"What do you think?"
"That's impossible, sir. It was a woman--I'd swear to that."
"Pretty positive, eh?"
"Absolutely, sir. Besides, take the matter of the overcoat the--the--body has on. Even if what you think was so, sir--that it was a woman dressed up like a man--and if he had gotten rid of the women's clothes, where would he have gotten the clothes to put on?"
"H-m! Sounds logical. How about the suit-case you said this woman had?"
"Yonder it is--right on the front beside me, where it has been all the time."
"And you tell us that between the time you left the Union Station and the time you got here a man got into the taxicab, was killed by the woman, the woman got out, and you heard nothing?"
"Yes, sir," said Spike simply. "Just that, sir."
"Rather hard to believe, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. That's why I called the police." Chief Leverage was shivering under the impact of the winter blasts.
"S'pose we take a look at the bird, David," he suggested, nodding toward the taxi. "That might tell us something."
Carroll nodded. The men entered the taxi, and Leverage flashed a pocket-torch in the face of the dead man. Then he uttered an exclamation of surprise not unmixed with horror.
"Good Lord!"
"You know him?" questioned Carroll easily.
"Know him? I'll say I do. Why, man, that's Roland Warren!"
"Warren! Roland Warren! Not the clubman?"
"The very same one, Carroll, an' none other. Well, I'm a sonovagun! Sa-a-ay, something surely has been started here." He swung around on the taxi-driver. "You, Walters!"
"Yes, sir?"
"You are sure the suit-case is still in front?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well"--to Carroll--"that makes it easier. It's the woman's suit-case, and if we can't find out who she is from that, we're pretty bum, eh?"
"Looks so, Erie. You're satisfied"--this to Walters--"that that is her suit-case?"
"Absolutely. It hasn't been off the front since she handed it to me at the station."
Carroll swung the suit-case to the inside of the cab. It opened readily. Leverage kept his light trained on it as Carroll dug swiftly through the contents. Finally the eyes of the two men met. Carroll's expression was one of frank amazement; Leverage's reflected sheer unbelief.
"It can't be, Carroll!"
"Yet--it is!"
"Sufferin' wildcats!" breathed Leverage. "The suit-case ain't the woman's at all! It's Warren's!"
CHAPTER III
"FIND THE WOMAN"
The thing was incomprehensible, yet true. Not a single article of feminine apparel was contained in the suit-case. Not only that, but every garment therein which bore an identification mark was the property of Roland Warren, the man whose body leered at them from the floor of the taxicab.
The two detectives again inspected the suit-case. An extra suit had been neatly folded. The pockets bore the label of a leading tailor, and the name "Roland R. Warren." The tailor-made shirts and underwear bore the maker's name and Warren's initials. The handkerchiefs were Warren's. Even those articles which were without name or initials contained the same laundry-mark as those which they knew belonged to the dead man.
Carroll's face showed keen interest. This newest development had rather startled him, and made an almost irresistible appeal to his love for the bizarre in crime. The very fact that the circumstances smacked of the impossible intrigued him. He narrowed his eyes and gazed again upon the form of the dead man. Finally he nudged Leverage and designated three initials on the end of