Читать книгу Midnight - Octavus Roy Cohen - Страница 10

Carroll gazed intently upon the face of the dead man. There was a half quizzical light in the detective's eyes as he spoke, apparently to no one.

"I've often thought," he said, "in a case like this, how much simpler things would be if the murdered man could talk."

"H-m!" rejoined the practical Leverage. "If he could, he wouldn't be dead."

"Perhaps you're right. And following that to a logical conclusion, if he were not dead we wouldn't be particularly interested in what he had to say."

"All of which ain't got a heap to do with the fact that your work is cut out for you, Carroll. You're dead sure about that ticket dope, ain't you? I ain't used to traveling in drawing-rooms myself."

"It's straight enough, Leverage. The railroad company won't allow a single passenger to occupy a drawing-room—that is, they demand two tickets. If you, for instance, were traveling alone, and desired a drawing-room, you'd be compelled to have two tickets for yourself. That being so, it is plain that Warren there didn't intend making this trip to New York alone. If he had, he would have had the two tickets along with the drawing-room check. I am certain that two tickets were bought, because the railroad men won't sell a drawing-room with a single ticket. It is obvious, then, that he bought two tickets and gave the other one to the person who was to make the trip with him."

"The woman, of course!"

"What woman?"

"The woman in the fur coat—the one who got into the taxicab."

"Perhaps; but she came in on the accommodation train after the New York train was due to leave. The fast train was late."

"So was the accommodation. They are due to make connection."

"That's true. If we can find that ticket—"

"We'll have found the woman, and when we find her the case will end."

"Probably—"

The door opened, and Sergeant O'Leary entered.

"The coroner, sorr—him an' a reporter from each av the mornin' papers."

"Show the coroner in first," ordered Carroll. "Let the newspapermen wait."

"Yis, sorr. They seem a bit impatient, sorr. They say they're holdin' up the city edition for the news, sorr."

"Very good. Tell them Chief Leverage says the story is worth waiting for."

The coroner—a short, thick-set man—entered and heard the story from

Leverage's lips. He made a cursory examination and nodded to Carroll.

"Inquest in the morning, Mr. Carroll. Meanwhile, I reckon you want to let them newspapermen in."

The two reporters entered and listened popeyed to the story. They telephoned a bulletin to their offices, and were assured of an hour's leeway in phoning in the balance of the story. They were quivering with excitement over what promised to be, from a newspaper standpoint, the juiciest morsel of sensational copy with which the city had been blessed for some time.

To them Carroll recounted the story as he knew it, concealing nothing.

"This is a great space-eating story," he told them in their own language—the jargon of the fourth estate—"and the more it eats the better it'll be for me. We want publicity on this case—all you can hand out big chunks of it. We want to know who that woman was. The way I figure it, this city is going to get a jolt at breakfast. Every one is going to be comparing notes. Out of that mass of gossip we may get some valuable information. Get that?"

"We do. Space in the morning edition will be limited, but by evening, and the next morning—oh, baby!"

They took voluminous notes and telephoned in enough additional information to keep the city rooms busy. When they would have gone, Carroll stopped them.

"Either of you chaps know anything of Warren's personal history?"

The elder of the two nodded.

"I do. Know him personally, in fact. I've played golf with him. Pretty nice sort."

"Rich, isn't he?"

"Reputed to be. Never works; spends freely—not ostentatiously, but liberally. Pretty fine sort of a chap. It's a damned shame!"

"How about his relations with women?"

The reporter hesitated and glanced guiltily at the dead body.

"That's rather strong—"

"It's not going beyond here, unless I find it necessary. I've played clean with you boys. Suppose you do the same with me."

"We-e-ell"—reluctantly—"he was rather much of a rounder. Nothing coarse about him, but he never was one to resist a woman. Rather the reverse, in fact."

"Ever been mixed up in a scandal?"

"Not publicly. He's friendly with a good many men—and with their wives. A dozen, I guess; but the husbands invite him to their homes, so I don't suppose there could be anything in the gossip. You see, folks are always too eager to talk about a man in his position and whatever woman he happens to be friendly with. And anyway, there hasn't been nearly so much talk about him since his engagement was announced."

"He is engaged?"

"Why, yes."

"To a girl in this city!"

"Sure! I thought you knew that. Dandy girl—Hazel Gresham. You've heard of Garry Gresham? It's his kid sister."

"So-o! How long has this engagement been known?"

"Couple of months. Pretty soft on both sides; he's got money and so has she. She's a good scout, too, even if she is a kid."

"How old?"

"Hardly more than twenty; but her family seemed to welcome the match. Warren and Garry Gresham were pretty good friends. Warren was about thirty-three or thirty-four, you know. Gossip had it that the family was going to object because of the difference in ages, but they didn't."

Carroll was silent for a moment.

"Nothing else about him you think might prove interesting?"

"No-o."

"And your idea of the murderer, after what you've heard?"

"The woman in the taxicab killed him."

"When did he get in?"

The reporter threw back his head and laughed.

"What is this—a game? If I knew that I'd have your job, Mr. Carroll. The dame killed him, all right; and when we find out how she did it, and when, and how he got in and she got out, we'll have a whale of a story!"

"No theories as to the identity of this woman, have you?"

"Nary one. A chap like Warren—bachelor, unencumbered—is liable to know a heap of 'em. From what you tell me of the tickets—from the fact that she was going away with him, I sort of figure you might do a little social investigating and discover what woman might have been going off with him."

Eric Leverage had been listening intently. His mind, never swift to work, yet worked surely. His big voice boomed into the conversation:

"Carroll?"

"Yes?"

"This young fellow says Miss Gresham's family didn't have no objections to the marriage. It just occurred to me to ask him is he sure?"

The reporter flushed.

"Why, no, chief; not sure. You never can be sure about things like that; but so far as the public knew—"

"That's it, exactly. How do we know, though, but what they were sore as a pup over it, and just kept their traps closed because they didn't want any gossip? S'posin' they were trying to break things off, an' makin' it pretty uncomfortable for the girl? S'pose that, eh?"

"Yes," argued the reporter. "Suppose all of that. Where does it get you?"

"It gets you just here"—Leverage talked slowly, heavily, tapping his spatulate fingers on the table to emphasize his points—"we know this bird was going to elope with some skirt. All right! Now I ask this—why go all around the block, looking for some one he might have been mixed up with, when the woman a man is most likely to elope with is the girl he's engaged to marry?"

Silence—several seconds of it. Carroll spoke:

"Miss Gresham, you mean?"

"Sure, David—sure! I'm not sayin' she was the woman, mind you. I'm not sayin' anything except that if I'm right in thinkin' that maybe her folks weren't as crazy about this guy Warren as they seemed—if I'm right in that, maybe they was plannin' to take matters in their own hands and elope."

"It's possible."

"Sure, it's possible, and—"

"But, chief," interrupted the reporter who had done most of the talking, "why should Miss Gresham kill Warren?"

"I didn't say she did, did I?"

"If she was the woman in the taxi—"

"If! Sure—if! All I mentioned that for was to show you we might as well start thinking close to home before we go to beatin' through the bushes to follow a cold trail."

The reporters left, and Carroll smiled at Leverage.

"Good idea, Eric—about Miss Gresham."

"'Tain't a hunch," said Leverage. "It just made good talkin'."

"I'm glad you did it, anyway."

"What is thare about it that you like?"

"Those newspaper chaps will play it up. Maybe they won't intend to, but they'll play it up, just the same; and it won't take us long either to connect Miss Gresham with the crime or to link up an iron-clad alibi for her."

"H-m! Not bad! You know, Carroll"—and Leverage smiled frankly—"I'm always makin' these fine suggestions an' pullin' good stunts, an' never knowin' whether they're good or not until somebody tells me."

"A good many folks are like that, Eric, but they don't admit it afterward."

"Neither do I—publicly."

Leverage rose and yawned.

"It's me for the hay, Carroll. I'm played out; and I have a hunch that to-morrow I'm going to be busy as seven little queen bees—and you, too."

Carroll reached for his overcoat.

"A little bit of thinking things over isn't going to hurt me, either.

Good night!"

Thirty minutes later Carroll reached his apartment, and a half-hour after that he was sleeping soundly. The following morning he waked "all over," as was his habit, and turned his eyes to gaze through the window.

During the night the sleety drizzle had ceased, and the sun streamed with brilliant coldness upon a city which shone in a glare of ice. Leafless trees stretched their ice-covered tentacles into the cold, penetrating air; pedestrians and horses slipped on the glassy pavements; automobiles either skidded dangerously or set up an incessant rattle with their chains.

Carroll glanced at his watch. It showed nine o'clock. He started with surprise. Then he reached for the newspapers on the table at the side of his bed, and spread open the front pages.

They had evidently been made up anew with the breaking of the Warren murder story. Eight-column streamers shrieked at him from both front pages. He read the stories through, and smiled with satisfaction. Just as he had anticipated, both reporters, hungry for some definite clue upon which to work, had seized upon the possibility of Hazel Gresham being the mysterious woman in the taxicab. Not that they said so openly, but they said enough to make the public know that the detectives in charge of the case were likely to investigate her movements on the previous night.

Carroll stepped into a shower, then dressed quickly and ate a light breakfast served him by his maid, Freda. Before he finished, the doorbell rang, and Freda announced that there was a lady to see him.

"A lady?"

Freda shrugged.

"She ain't bane nothin' but a girl, sir, Mr. Carroll—just a little girl."

"Show her in."

In two minutes Freda returned, and behind her came the visitor. Carroll concealed a smile at sight of her. She was a little thing—sixteen or seventeen years old, he judged—a fluffy, blond girl quivering with vivacity; the type of girl who is desperately reaching for maturity, entirely forgetful of the charms of her adolescence. He rose and bowed in a serious, courtly manner.

"You wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Is this Mr. Carroll—the famous detective?"

"I am David Carroll—yes."

She inspected him with frank approval.

"Why, you don't look any more than a boy! I thought you were old and had whiskers—and—and—everything horrid."

"I'm glad you're pleasantly surprised. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, it isn't what you can do for me—it's what I can do for you!"

"And that is?"

"I came to tell you all about this terrible Warren murder case."

"You came to tell me about it?"

"Why, yes," she retorted smilingly. "You see, I know just heaps about the whole thing!"