Midnight | Page 6

trotting out there with me, David?"
Carroll smiled agreeably.
"Thank goodness my new coupé has a heating device, chief!"
That was all. It wasn't David Carroll's way to talk much, or to show any
untoward emotion. It was Carroll's very boyishness which was his
greatest asset. He had a way of stepping into a case before the
principals knew he was there, and of solving it in a manner which
savored not at all of flamboyance. A quiet man was Carroll, and one
whose deductive powers Eric Leverage fairly worshiped.
On the slippery, skiddy journey to East End the two men--professional
policeman and amateur criminologist--did not talk much. A few
comments regarding the sudden advent of fiercest winter; a remark,
forcedly jocular, from the chief, that murderers might be considerate
enough to pick better weather for the practice of their profession--and
that was all. Thus far they knew nothing 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!