Midnight | Page 5

a house near
by, wake the residents, telephone headquarters that a murder had been
done? Alarm the neighborhood, and identify himself with the crime?

Spike was afraid, frankly and boyishly afraid--afraid of the present, and
more afraid of the future.
And yet he knew that he must get in touch with the police, else the
police would eventually get in touch with him. He thought then of
taking the body in to headquarters; but he feared that his cab might be
stopped en route to the city and the body discovered. They would never
believe, then, that he had been bound for headquarters.
Almost before he knew that he had arrived at a decision, Spike had
groped his way across the icy street and pressed the bell-button on the
front door of the least unprepossessing house on the block.
For a long time there was no answer. Finally a light shone in the hall,
and the skinny figure of a man, shivering violently despite the
blanket-robe which enfolded him, appeared in the hallway. He flashed
on the porch light from inside and peered through the glass door.
Apparently reassured, he cracked the door slightly.
"Yes. What do you want?"
At sound of a human voice, Spike instantly felt easier. The fact that he
could converse, that he had shed his terrible loneliness, steadied him as
nothing else could have done. He was surprised at his own calmness, at
the fact that there was scarcely a quaver in the voice with which he
answered the man.
"I'm Spike Walters," he said with surprising quietness. "I'm a driver for
the Yellow and White Taxicab Company. My cab is No. 92,381. I have
a man in my cab who has been badly injured. I want to telephone to the
city."
The little householder opened the door wider, and Spike entered. Cold
as the house was, from the standpoint of the man within, its hold-over
warmth was a godsend to Spike's thoroughly chilled body.
The little man designated a telephone on the wall, then started
nervously as central answered and Spike barked a single command into

the transmitter:
"Police-station, please!"
"Police?"
"Never you mind, sir," Spike told the householder. "Hello! Police!" he
called to the operator.
There was a pause, then Spike went on:
"This is Spike Walters--Yellow and White Taxi Company. I'm out at
No. 981 East End Avenue. There's a dead man in my cab!"
The weary voice at the other end became suddenly alive.
"A dead man!"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know. That's why I called you."
"When did he die? How?"
Spike controlled himself with an effort.
"Don't you understand? He has been killed--"
"The devil you say!" replied the voice at headquarters, and the little
householder chimed in with a frightened squeak.
"Yes," repeated Spike painstakingly. "The man is dead--killed. It is
very peculiar. I can't explain over the phone. I called up to ask you
what I shall do."
"Hold connection a minute!" Spike heard a hurried whispered
conversation at the other end, then the voice barked back at him: "Stay

where you are--couple of officers coming, and coming fast!"
It was Dan O'Leary, night desk sergeant, who was on duty at
headquarters that night, and Sergeant Dan O'Leary was a good deal of
an institution on the city's force. He hopped excitedly from his desk
into the office of Eric Leverage, the chief of police.
Chief Leverage, a broad-shouldered, heavy-set, bushy-eyebrowed
individual, looked up from the chess-board, annoyed at this interruption
of a game which had been in progress since ten o'clock that night.
O'Leary grabbed a salute from thin air.
"'Scuse my botherin' ye, chief, but there's hell to pay out at East End."
O'Leary was never long at coming to the point. Leverage looked up. So,
too, did the boyish, clean-shaven young man with whom he was
playing chess.
"An' knowin' that Mr. Carroll was playin' chess with ye, chief--an' him
naturally interested in such things--I hopped right in."
"I'll say you did," commented the chief phlegmatically. "I have you
there, Carroll--dead to rights!"
O'Leary was a trifle irritated at the cold reception accorded his news.
"Ye ain't after understanding" he said slowly. "It's murder that has been
done this night."
"H-m!" Carroll's slow, pleasant drawl seemed to soothe O'Leary.
"Murder?"
"You said it, Mr. Carroll."
Leverage had risen. It was plain to be seen from his manner that the
chess-game was forgotten. Leverage was a policeman first and a
chess-player second--a very poor second. His voice, surcharged with
interest, cracked out into the room.

"Spill the dope, O'Leary!"
The night desk sergeant needed no further bidding. In a few graphic
words he outlined his telephone conversation with Spike Walters.
Before he finished speaking, Leverage was slipping into his enormous
overcoat. He nodded to Carroll.
"How about