8 No slightest move of Warren's erstwhile valet, no twitching of facial muscles, no involuntary gesture of nervousness, however slight, escaped Carol's attention. But with all his watchfulness the boyish-looking investigator was unastentatious, almost retiring in his manner, and this modest demeanor was having its effect on William Barker, just as Carol had known it would have, and as Leveridge had hoped. Eric Leveridge had worked with Carol before, and he had seen the man's personal charm, his sunny smile, his attitude of camaraderie, performed miracles. People had a way of talking freely to Carol after he had chatted with them a while, no matter how bitter the hostility surrounding their first meeting. Carol was that way. He was a student of practical everyday psychology. He worked to one end. He endeavored to learn the mental reactions of every one of his dramatic personi toward the fact of the crime he happened to be investigating. That, and as nearly as possible, their feelings at the moment of the commission of the crime, no matter where they might have been.  Some of them tell the truth and some of them lie. Often the truth sounds untrue, while the lies carry all the earmarks of honesty. It's a sheer guess on the part of any detective. What I want to know is how my man felt at the time the crime was committed, not where he was, and how he feels now about the whole thing. But the facts themselves are important, argued the practical chief of police. Granted, but when you have facts, you don't need a detective. I'd rather have a suspect talk freely and never tell the truth than have him be reticent and stick to a true story. Leveridge's reply had been expressive of his opinion of Carol's almost uncanny ability.  "'But it's never failed you yet. And even you couldn't get away with it if you lost that smile of yours.'" Right now he was witnessing the magic of Carol's smile. He had seen the antagonism slowly melt from Barker's manner. The nervousness was still there, true, but it seemed tinged with an attitude which was part-friendliness toward Carol and part-contempt for his powers. That too was an old story to leverage. More than one criminal had tripped over the snag of underrating Carol's ability. Barker's last statement, Warren, he was a bird with the women, was true. Leveridge knew it was true. Carol knew it was true. There was the ring of truth about it. It mattered not whether Barker had an iron of his own in the fire. It mattered not what else he said which was not true. The two detectives knew that they had extracted from him a fact, the relative importance of which would be established later. Just at present knowledge that the dead man had been somewhat of a philanderer seemed of considerable importance. For one thing it established the theory that he had been planning an elopement with the woman in the taxi cab. That being the case, a definite task was faced. First, find the woman. Then find some man vitally affected by her elopement with Warren. Carol betrayed no particular interest in Barker's statement. Instead he smiled genially, a sort of between us men's smile which did much to disarm Barker. A regular devil with him, eh, Barker? You spoke a mouthful that time, Mr. Carol. What he didn't know about women their own husbands couldn't tell him. Married ones? Oh, sure. He was a specialist with them. Then most of this gossip we've been hearing has a basis of fact. A momentary return of caution showed in Barker's retort. I don't know just what you've been hearing. A good many stories about his love affairs with women who were prominent socially. Barker shrugged. Most likely they're true, although it's a safe bet that a heap of them was lies. Men folks have a way of lying about women that way, even where they'll tell the truth about everything else. They've got women beaten 97 ways gossiping about that sort of thing. You know a thing or two yourself, Barker? The man flushed with pleasure. Oh, I ain't nobody's pet jackass when it comes to that. Now you, Carol's tone was gentle, almost hypnotic. Of course you know who the woman is that Mr. Warren was planning to elope with? I know! Suddenly Barker paused, and his face went white. He compressed his lips with an effort and choked back the words. Leverage, leaning forward in tense eagerness, knowing the verbal trap that Carol had been planting, sighed with disappointment and relaxed.  Nothing. One would have sworn that Carol was surprised at Barker's flare of anger, or else that it had passed unnoticed. I just figured that you, having been his valet, and knowing a good deal about him, would have knowledge of this. He wasn't in the habit of discussing his lady-friends with me, growled the ex-valet surly. Well, of course he wasn't. But you know, of course. You guessed? No, I didn't do nothing of the kind. Say, what are you trying to do? Trip me up or something? Of course not. Why should I be interested in tripping you up?  It wouldn't do me a bit of good to, uh, trip you up. All I wanted is whatever knowledge you have which may prove of interest in solving this case. The man's eyes narrowed craftily.  Suspicions of what? Who that demon the taxi cab was? Carol laughed, infectiously. Goodness no! If I had, I wouldn't be seated here chatting with you! Again the expression of relief flashed across Barker's face, a bit of play lost by neither detective. Carol was toying idly with a gold pencil in the end of his Waldemar. His outward calmness exasperated leverage. From this point of the interview the chief of police would have dropped the attitude of trustful friendliness and resorted to a little practical third-degree stuff. He was fairly quivering with eagerness to bluster about the room and extract information by main force, and a hint of leverage's mental seethe must have been communicated to Carol, for the younger man turned the battery of his sunny gaze upon the chief of police and nodded reassuringly. The effect was instantaneous. The chief's temporary resentment departed much as the gas escapes from a pin-punctured balloon. He gave ear to Barker's speech. Ah, you ain't the only one who don't know who that woman was. I don't. You knew he was planning to elope, though? The man shook his head doggedly. I knew he was leaving the city for good, if that's what you mean. No, not exactly. I knew that much myself. What interests me is this. Was he planning to leave with some woman? Barker hesitated before replying, and when he did answer it was patent that his words were chosen carefully. I don't hardly reckon he was, Mr. Carol. Mind you, I'm not saying he wasn't, but then again I ain't saying he was. I can't do nothing, only guess, same as you can. I see. Carol was apparently unconscious of Barker's flagrant evasion. What I don't understand is this. When Mr. Warren was publicly engaged to Miss Gresham, why did he try to elope with her? Elope with Miss Gresham? Barker paused. Then a slow, calculating smile creased his lips. Miss Gresham, her he was engaged to. Doggone, if I don't believe you, fit the nail on the head, Mr. Carol. What nail? About her being the woman in the taxi. You know, some fellers is like that. They're to heap rather elope with the woman they're crazy about than stand up in a church and get married. They're sort of romantic. Barker was waxing locaceous. You know, you must be right. In fact, if you were to put it up to me, I'd say there wasn't no doubt that Miss Gresham was the woman in the taxi cab. I had that idea, responded Carol slowly. But what I can't understand, Barker, and what you might help me figure out is this. Why should Miss Gresham kill Mr. Warren? Ha! Ask me something easy, will you? I never was good at riddles. Leverage marveled at the change in the two men. Apparently Carol had swallowed hook, line, and sinker. Of course, Leverage was pretty sure that he had not, but he was also sure that Barker thought he had. And Barker was volunteering information, plenty of it, that was absolutely valueless. For the first time he was forcing the conversational pace, and Carol seemed serenely content to drag Limpley along. Reckon she might have been jealous of him? Drawled Carol. Jealous? Maybe.  Of course, she must have heard a good many things about him and other women.  Not that I'm sayin' Miss Gresham croaked him. I ain't sayin' nothin' positive. But if you're askin' me who he'd most naturally elope with, why I'd say it was the girl he was engaged to marry. If he wasn't going to marry her, what did he ever get engaged to her for? Carol nodded. Certainly sounds reasonable. He paused, and then, where were you about midnight last night? I was— Barker's figure stiffened defensively, and his eyebrows drew down over the deep-sad eyes. I was just shootin' some pool. Shooting pool? Uh-huh. Where? At Kelly's place? Where is that? The man hesitated, flushed, and then, somewhat sullenly, on Cypress Street. That's pretty close to the Union Station, isn't it? Not so close. About how far away? Again, the momentary hesitation. About a half-block? And you were shooting pool there? Sure I was. I can prove it. Carol grinned disengagingly. You don't need to prove anything to me, Barker.  I had to talk matters over with you. You knew more about the dead man than anyone else. But I couldn't think you had anything to do with it, could I? You're not a woman!" Barker grinned sheepishly. That's all right, Mr. Carol.  As sure as anyone can be. And now, Carol rose, I'm tremendously obliged for all the information you've given me. Any time you run across anything more that you think might prove of interest, look me up, will you? Sure, sure! Barker's tone was almost hearty.  A regular fellow. The two detectives departed. Carol spoke to Cartwright as he passed. Keep both eyes on that fellow Barker, he ordered curtly. I'll send Reed up to team with you. Don't let him get away. Nab him if he tries it. Cartwright nodded briefly, and Carol and Leveridge climbed into the former's car. As they rounded the corner, Leveridge turned wide eyes upon his professional associate. Carol! Yes? You beat the Dutch! How so? You didn't swallow that bird's yarn, did you? Of course not, answered Carol, calmly. I didn't think so. But you had me worried with that innocent look of yours. Me, if I was wanting to play safe on this case, I'd arrest William Barker, Pronto. Why? Because, snapped Leveridge positively, I think he was mixed up in Warren's murder. Ah! Carol refused to become excited. You do? Yes, I do. What do you think? I think this, answered Carol. I think that Mr. William Barker knows a great deal more about the case than he has told. End of Chapter 8, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 9 of Midnight Chapter 9 Ice Cream Soda They drove in silence to headquarters, each man busy with his thoughts. It was not until they were alone in Leveridge's sanctum that the subject of the recent interview was again broached. It was Leveridge who brought it up in his characteristically gruff way. I reckon you're wondering, Carol, about what I said back yonder in the car. About arresting Barker? Yes.  I'm interested, yes. I'd arrest him for this. Leveridge leaned forward earnestly, his attitude that of a man eager to convince. Let's admit right off the reel that the skirt and the taxi cab croaked Warren. Looks like she did, anyway. But whether she did or not, it's an even bet that there was a man mixed up in it somewhere. And if that man isn't Mr. William Barker, then I'll eat a month's pay. You're sure there was a man mixed up somewhere? Certainly. This murder deal was planned in advance. It must have been. Things couldn't just work out that way. And no woman, no matter how much she wanted to bump Warren off, could think of a thing that complicated. Even if she did think of it, she wouldn't have the nerve to carry it out that way. Ain't I right? You may not be right, Leveridge, but you're certainly logical. Good. Now, so far we ain't got any man in this case, except Barker. Carol shook his head. You're wrong there. How? Somewhere in this town is some man who is interested in the woman with whom Warren was planning to elope. Don't forget this, Leveridge. I let Barker ramble on. I like to hear him talk. The minute he jumped at the idea that the woman in the taxi was Miss Gresham, I knew perfectly well that he knew she was not. I also believe that he knows who the woman was. Further, I believe that she is socially prominent. That being the case, it is a safe guess that there is some man who might commit a murder, provided he knew in advance of the elopement. Our task now is to discover that woman, and, through her, the man interested. Leveridge frowned thoughtfully. Listen's good, he volunteered at length. Another thing. Barker admits he was shooting pool in Kelly's place last night around midnight. And Kelly's place is only half a block from the Union Station. That sounds significant. It does. And then again, it may mean nothing. What I am striving for is to make William Barker feel that he is safe. The safer he feels, the more readily he will talk. No matter how many lies he tells, everything that he says is of value. He didn't know, of course, that we already had a perfect alibi for Miss Gresham. But even if we hadn't, his assumed belief that she committed the crime would have assured me that she did not. No, I think we'd better not arrest the man unless he forces our hand, tries to jump town, or something like that. Better let him remain at large and talk frequently. If he has anything to betray, there's more chance that he'll do it that way. Don't you think I'm right? I wouldn't admit it if I didn't, Carol. I've seen you in action too often to believe you're ever wrong. Carol flushed boyishly. Don't be absurd, Leveridge. I'm often wrong. Very wrong. And don't think that I'm a transcendent detective. They don't really exist, you know. I'm merely trying to be human, to learn the nature of the people with whom I'm dealing. I try to learn them as well as they know themselves, maybe a little better. And then I try to separate the wheat of vital facts from the shaft of the inconsequential. Just the same, insisted Leveridge loyally. You always get them. And when I do, it is because I have used nothing more than plain common sense. Don't think that I attach no importance to physical clues. They're immensely valuable. But the one weakness in a criminal is his lack of common sense. His perspective is awry. His sense of value is distorted. Usually he bothers his head about a myriad minor details, and pays but scant attention to the genuinely important things. It is upon that weakness that I am banking, particularly so in the case of Barker.  And I insist you're foolishly complimentary. Did you ever stop to realize, Eric, that when a crime is committed the advantage lies entirely with the detective? The detective can make a thousand mistakes during the course of his investigations and still trap his man. But the criminal cannot make one single error, not one. Maybe so, David, but it takes a good man to recognize that one and to know what to do with it. Carol grinned and left, and then for two days devoted himself to a study of the conditions surrounding the murder. That and routine matters. The trunk, for instance, was duly returned by the railroad from New York, and Carol and his friend made a minute investigation of every article contained therein. Their search was well nigh fruitless. The trunk contained little save the wardrobe of a well-dressed man, suits, shirts, underwear, shoes, caps. There were also golf and tennis-togs, a few books, a handsome leather secretary containing a good many personal letters and one or two business missives which were of little interest. Altogether the examination of the trunk, a process which occupied three hours, established nothing definite, save that there was nothing to be discovered. Its results were hopelessly negative. Meanwhile the city sizzled with gossip of the war and murder, the seemingly impenetrable mystery surrounding the case, its many sensational features, the admission of the police department that the woman in the case was not Hazel Gresham, fiancée of the dead man, yet the certainty that there was a woman, and that she was of the better class. All this served to keep the tongues of men and women alike wagging at both ends. Carol was besieged with anonymous letters. Dozens of prominent married women were mentioned as having been, at one time or another, the object of Warren's amorous attentions. Carol read each one carefully and filed it away. He had hoped for this, but the results had far exceeded his expectations, and he found himself bewildered rather than assisted by the response from nameless individuals who were morbidly eager to be of help. The detective knew that the running down of each individual trail, the investigation of each of Warren's supposed affairs of the heart, would be an interminable procedure, and so far not a single one of the letters had varied from another. They connected Warren's name with that of some married woman, and let it go at that. It was quite evident that the dead man had been very much of a lothario, too much so for the mental ease of the investigator who was struggling to link the cause of his death with one particular affair. The reporters allowed their imaginations to run wild. The story was what is known, in the parlance of the newspaper world, as a space-eater. City editors turned their best men loose on it and devoted columns to conjecture. There was little definite information upon which to base the daily stories that were given to Warren, and that would have been a daily stories that were luridly hurled into type. Thus far Spike Walters, driver of Taxicab number 92381, was the only person under arrest, and only those persons too lazy to exercise their minds were willing to believe that Spike was guilty, or that he knew more of the crime than he had told. Carol read each news story attentively. No wild theory of a pop-eyed reporter, hungry for fact, was too absurd to receive his careful attention. But they proved of little assistance. With the spotlight of publicity blazing on the crime, the investigation seemed to have become static. There was no forward movement, nothing save that in the brain of David Carroll salient facts were being seized upon and meticulously cataloged for future reference. Cartwright and Reed, the plainclothesman detailed to shadow William Barker, reported nothing suspicious in that gentleman's movements. He seemed to be making no effort to secure employment, but on the other hand there was little of interest in what he did do. Again the stone wall of negative action. Barker spent his mornings in his boarding-house, apparently luxuriating in long slumbers. He ate always at the same cheap restaurant, and his afternoons and evenings were devoted largely to the science of eight-ball pool at Kelly's Place. There may have been significance in his loyalty to Kelly's Place, but if there was, it was too vague for Carol to consider. He merely remembered the fact that Barker was a steady patron of the pool-room near the Union Station and filed it away with his other threads of information concerning the murder. Carol was frankly puzzled. The case differed widely from any other with which he had ever come in contact. Usually there was an array of persons upon whom suspicion could be justly thrown, a collection of suspects from whom the investigator could take his choice, or from whom he could extract facts which eventually might be used to corner the guilty person. In the present case there was no one to whom he could turn an accusing finger. Of course he was convinced that William Barker knew a great deal about the crime and the events which preceded it, but Barker wouldn't talk, and he, Carol, had no evidence that enabled him to bluff to draw Barker out against his will. The crime seemed to have lost itself in the sleety cold of the December midnight upon which it was committed. The trails were not blind, there were simply no trails. The circumstances baffled explanation, a lone woman entering an empty taxi cab, a run to a distant point in the city, the discovery of the woman's disappearance, and, in her stead, the sight of the dead body of a prominent society-man. That, and the further blind information that the suitcase, which the woman had carried, was the property of the man whose body was huddled horribly in the taxi cab. The woman, whoever she was, had either been unusually clever or unusually lucky. Minute examination of the interior of the cab had revealed nothing, not a fingerprint nor a scrap of handkerchief. There was absolutely nothing which could serve as a clue in establishing her identity. And yet, somewhere in the city, a city of two hundred thousand souls was the woman who could clear up the mystery. Convinced that she was prominent socially, Carol kept a close eye upon the departures of society-women for other cities. His vigil had been unrewarded thus far, and the public as a whole waited eagerly for her apprehension, for the public was unanimous in the belief that the woman in the taxi cab was the person who had ended Warren's life. The very fact of having nothing definite upon which to work was getting on Carol's usually equable nerves. He had little to say to Leveridge regarding the case, for the simple reason that there was very little which could be said. Leveridge, on his part, watched the detective with keen interest, sympathizing with him, and exhibiting implicit confidence. But the men didn't agree upon the correct procedure. Leveridge was all for arresting Barker and charging him with the murder. You'll learn some fact then, Carol, he insisted. But Carol shook his head. It wouldn't get us anywhere, Eric. We couldn't prove him guilty. No, but that don't make no difference. Of course the law says a man is innocent until you prove he ain't, but that ain't what the law does. If we arrest this here Mr. William Barker, everybody's going to believe he's guilty until he proves himself innocent. And you think he can't do that? No, at least I'm gambling on this. Barker can't prove himself innocent without telling who is guilty, but Carol refused to arrest the man. He knew that Leveridge disapproved, but he also knew that Leveridge was sportsman enough to let him handle the case in his own way. On one of his long strolls through the downtown section of the city, daily walks which helped him to think connectedly, David Carol felt a hand on his arm and heard an eager feminine voice in his ear. Gracious goodness! If it isn't the perfectly marvelous Mr. David Carol! Carol bowed instinctively. Then his lips expanded into the first wholesome smile he had experienced in forty-eight hours. Miss Evelyn Rogers! You did recognize me, didn't you? How simply splendiferous! I'm awfully glad we met. So am I, Miss Rogers. She dropped her voice confidentially. Will you do me a great favor, an enormous favor? Certainly. What is it? It's this. She looked around carefully. I told some of my friends that you are a friend of mine, and they don't believe it. They're over yonder in that ice-cream place. Now, what I want you to do for me is to show them. I want you to take me over there and buy me an ice-cream soda. Carol laughed aloud as he took her by the arm and piloted her through the traffic. He asked only one question. What flavor? End of Chapter 9 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 10 Of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight By Octavus Roy Cohen Chapter 10 A Discovery If Evelyn Rogers, amply clad as to fur around the neck but somewhat underdressed as to lace stockings about the legs, had desired to create a sensation among her friends, she more than succeeded. She preceded Carol into the place, her eyes glowing pridefully, skirted the table at which her friends sat, then stopped abruptly, forcing Carol to do likewise. Mr. Carol, she said sweetly, I want to introduce you to my friends. She called them by name. Girls, this is Mr. Carol, the famous detective. Carol bowed in his most courtly manner and assured them that he was delighted to make their acquaintance. He insisted that it was always a pleasure to meet any friends of his very dear friend, Miss Rogers. The girls at the table giggled with embarrassment, and one or two of them made rather pallid attempts at repartee. Then Carol and the seventeen-year-old found a table in the very center of the floor, even as a boy, recognizing Carol, appeared at their elbow. The detective studied the list intently. Apparently there was no subject in the world more vital at that moment than the selection of just the proper concoction. Finally he looked up and shook his head. I can't decide, he announced gravely. They all sound so good. Walnut banana sundae, strawberry glory, peach melba, chocolate parfait, with whipped cream and cracked walnuts, elegantine fizz. Help me out, please. She too plunged into the labyrinth of toothsome titles. Finally she emerged, smiling. Have you ever tasted a chocolate fudge sundae? No, I'm afraid not. Well, it's just the elegantest thing. Vanilla ice cream with hot fudge poured over it, and as soon as they pour the fudge, it's steaming hot, you know, simply scalding. It forms into a sort of candy, and then when they serve it, I fancy you want one too, don't you? Oh goodness me, yes. I always eat chocolate fudge sundaes. They're simply scrumptious, but they do take the edge off one's dinner appetite. Personally, I don't care so very much. I believe we eat too much anyway, don't you, Mr. Carroll? I read in a book once that after you reach a certain point in eating, that is, after you've swallowed just the right number of calories, the rest don't do you a single particle of good. And besides, ice cream is healthy, and certainly there's nothing with more nourishment in it than chocolate, unless it is raisins. I like raisins well enough. Carol turned to the boy. Two chocolate fudge sundaes, he ordered, and put a few raisins on one of them. He found the large eyes of the girl turned upon him adoringly. Do you know, she said, that when I said the other day that you were the most wonderful, the most marvelous man in the world, I didn't even know half how wonderful or marvelous you really were. Thanks, and what caused the discovery? The way you acted just now. Why, I'm sure, those girls think that you've known me all your life, or that we're engaged or something. Carol was a trifle startled. Engaged? Why not? You don't look like an old man. The detective chuckled. Nor do I feel like one when I'm with you. You're deliciously refreshing. And you are exquisite. Do you know when I'm with you I feel inspired to great deeds, to noble attainments? Really? Uh-huh. Honest to goodness. And did I really help you by what I told you the other day? You certainly did, Miss Rogers. There isn't a doubt of it. She lowered her voice and leaned confidentially across the table. Will you tell me something? Surely. Who really killed Mr. Warren? Huh? Who really did kill him? Why, I'm sure I don't know. I'm trying to find out. Oh, Chah, you can't pull the wool over my eyes. You couldn't have been working on the case this long and not have discovered the-the malefactor. But that's exactly what I have done. Also, it's why I rather hope that you might have a little more information for me. Me? Information for you? How wonderful! How wonderful! As if you'd be interested in anything I might know.  Gerald says I am, of course. He's my brother-in-law. But then Gerald isn't anything but an old crab anyway. Hateful thing. But you don't think I am, do you? No, indeed. Ah, here we are. The chocolate-fudge Sundays were served. And for a few moments they gave themselves over to the task of enjoying them. It was Evelyn who spoke first. What do you want me to tell you? Almost anything. For instance, you knew Roland Warren pretty well, didn't you? Oh, yes indeed. I have known him forever and ever. He was an awfully nice boy and crazy about me. Simply wild. That is, he was before he died. And you saw a good deal of him? Oceans. He used to call at the house all the time. It was funny, too. Gerald used to think he was the one Roland was coming to see. And Naomi, if she's my sister, used to think he was coming to see her. And all the time I knew that I was the person he was calling on. It's funny, isn't it?  Your sister is so very old? Well, terribly. She was 30 on her last birthday. Horrors. She is ancient, isn't she? Awfully. Although Naomi isn't so bad looking. Your sister couldn't be. Ah, quit kidding. But she isn't bad looking. Really. Lord knows she deserves a better husband than she drew. Honestly, when the Divine Providence was handing out shrubbery, they planted a lemon tree in his yard just before he was born. Probably your sister doesn't agree with your opinion. Oh, yes she does. Of course she doesn't talk to me about it, but I know she ain't wild about Gerald. How could she be? He's old enough to be her father. Forty-two if he's a minute. Don't think of anything but business and making money. And he's terribly jealous. A very complimentary picture you draw of him. If I wrote what I thought about him, I could be arrested for sending it through the mails. Goodness knows no husband at all is a hundred percent better than a man like that. Not that he beats Naomi. Fact is, I'd think he was more human if he did. Only time I ever liked him was when he flies up in a rage. He swears simply elegantly. Indeed. I love it, and I don't think it's wicked to love swearing, do you? I was reading in a book once something about swearing being a perfectly natural mental reaction, or something, like a safety valve on a steam engine. If the engine didn't have the safety valve, it would blow up. So if it's true that swearing is like that, then there can't be any harm in it, because anything that keeps a person from blowing up must be pretty good, don't you think? It does sound reasonable. Not that I swear myself, not out loud anyway, but sometimes, when I'm right peeved at Gerald or Naomi or somebody, I get in my room and say swear words right out loud, and I feel ever so much better for it. The conversation languished while she again attacked the Sunday. Carol spoke, Have you seen your friend, Miss Gresham, lately? Hazel? I'll say I have, although she's horribly weepy since poor Roland was killed. Of course I'm not heartless or anything like that, but what's the use of crying all the time when there are just as good fish in the sea as ever were caught? I told her that, but it don't seem to do a single bit of good. She just keeps saying, Poor Roland is dead, just as if I didn't know it as well as she does, him having been crazy about me even before he was about her. I'm sort of afraid it's gone to the poor girl's head. She's simply horribly upset. That's not unnatural, is it? No, I suppose not, but it's terribly old-fashioned. Does she discuss the affair much? All the time. What does she think about the woman in the taxi cab? You mean the woman who killed him? Yes. Well, positively. If I was that woman, I'd hate to meet Hazel Gresham if Hazel knew it. But she has no suspicion of any certain person? Goodness no! How could she have? Of course, we agreed that it was some vampire, but we can't decide which one. Most of the women we know don't go in for killing men, and a heap of them are married anyway. Anyway? Yes, you wouldn't expect a nice chap like Roland to be eloping with a married woman, would you? Not in real life. Carol, with difficulty, concealed a smile. The girl was a refreshing mixture of world-old wisdom and almost childish innocence. She was a type new to him and, as such, absorbingly interesting. How about Miss Gresham's brother, he inquired idly? How does he take it? Oh, Gary seems all upset, too, but then the more I talk to people, the more I think I'm the only level-headed one in the world. I haven't got a bit excited over it, have I? Not a bit. And now, Carol rose and reached for the check. Suppose we go? Where? She asked naively. The opening was too obvious. Where do you usually go with young gentlemen who meet you downtown in the afternoons? Picture show, she answered frankly. Wouldn't you just adore to see that picture at the try-and-on today? They say it's stupendous. Perhaps? They walked up the street together. On the way they passed Eric Leveridge. That gentleman bowed heavily and stood aside in surprise, while an exclamation, rather profane, issued from his lips. David Carroll and a seventeen-year-old girl headed for a picture show. The thing was unbelievable. Leveridge shook his head sadly and passed on, as Carol and Evelyn disappeared behind the din of an orchestrion. The picture proved not at all bad, although Evelyn excited, adverse comment from Spade, unfortunate enough to be sitting within range of her constant chatter. Apparently there was no stopping her. She talked and talked and talked. The picture ended eventually, and they left the theatre. Knight had descended upon the city, and the busy thoroughfare was studded with thousands of lights, which glared coldly through the December chill. Principally, because he did not know what else to do, Carol requested permission to take her home in his car. She accepted, with rather disarming alacrity. Carol had about run out of conversation, and his ears were tired by the incessant din of the girl's talk. He followed her directions mechanically, and eventually they rounded a corner of the street. Evelyn designated a White House, which stood back in a large yard. That's it, said she. You'd better turn first, so you can park against the curb. Carol slowed down and swung around. He was tired of the loacacious girl, and anxious to be rid of her, but as he swung his car across the street, he had no idea what to do with her. He was tired of the loacacious girl, and anxious to be rid of her, but as he swung his car across the street on the turn, something happened which riveted his attention. The door of Evelyn's home opened. A man and woman stood framed in the doorway. Then the door closed, and the man descended the steps, moved down the walk to the street, and strode swiftly away. For perhaps three seconds he had been held clearly in the glare of Carol's headlights. When the detective spoke, it was with an effort to control his tone to make his question casual. Did you see that man, Miss Rogers? Yes. Do you know him? Goodness me, no! He's been here before, though. Carol stopped his car at the curb. He assisted Evelyn to the ground. Then he made a strange request.  Evelyn's eyes popped open with the moral of it. You mean you want to come and call on me some evening? If you will allow me. Allow you? Why, David Carol, I think you're simply grandiloquent. When will you come? If your sister will permit. Father, sis, tomorrow night? Yes, tomorrow night. She executed a few exuberant dance steps. Oh, what'll the girls say when I tell them? Carol climbed thoughtfully back into his car. He saw Evelyn enter the house, but his thoughts were not with her. He was thinking of the man who had just left. Carol never forgot faces, and he had recognized the visitor. The man was William Barker, former valet of Roland Warren. End of Chapter 10, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 11 of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen Chapter 11, Loose End Carol's forehead was seemed with thought as he turned his car townward and sent it hurtling through the frosty air. He drove mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was doing. He was frankly puzzled, enormously surprised, and not a little startled. The afternoon had been at first amusing, then interesting, then utterly boring. Evelyn's chatter had put him in a state of mental coma, a lethargy from which he had been rudely aroused at sight of William Barker, leaving the residence of Evelyn Roger's sister. There was something sinisterly significant in what he had seen, not for a moment did he entertain the idea that Barker had been seeking employment. Negativing that possibility was the cold statement of the disinterested young girl that Barker had been there before, and two, the fact that Barker was leaving from the front door instead of through the servants door. Obviously then, Barker's mission had little to do with the matter of domestic employment. And now that he had stumbled upon something tangible, something definite, certain salient facts which had come to him through the haze of girlish chatter began to stand out and assume proper significance. For instance, there was her constant repetition of the fact that Rowland Warren had been a frequent visitor at the Lawrence home. That might mean nothing, it might mean a great deal. Certainly it was indicative of a close friendship between the dead man and the members of that household. He paid little heed to the girl's protestations that Warren had been in love with her. No expert in the ways of the rising generation, Carol yet knew that no man of Warren's maturity had unleashed his affections on a girl who yet lacked several years of womanhood. The dead man had been too much of an epicure in femininity for such as that. But Carol knew that in that house there was another woman, Naomi Lawrence, Evelyn's sister. And while Evelyn had dismissed the sister with a few words, Carol remembered that the girl had described her as being not so bad looking, and had also said that Mrs. Lawrence fancied that when Warren called at the house he was calling on her. There, too, was the matter of Gerald Lawrence to be considered. Evelyn insisted that Gerald was an old crab, and also that he was of an exceedingly jealous disposition. If that were true, then his jealousy, coupled with a possible intimacy between Mrs. Lawrence and Warren, might have been ample motive for the taxicab tragedy. It was all rather puzzling. Carol's mind leaped nimbly from one mental trail to another. He held himself in check, afraid that his deductions were proceeding too swiftly. He was acutely conscious of the danger of jumping too avidly on this single tangible clue which had come to him after four days of fruitless search. There was danger, and he knew it, of attaching untoward importance to a combination of circumstances which, under other conditions, might not have excited him in the slightest degree. It was there that the case bewildered him, and he was not slow in confessing his bewilderment. Up to this moment there had been an appealing dearth of physical clues, of things upon which a line of investigation could be intelligently based. And he knew that now something had turned up, he must watch himself lest the circumstance assume unreasonable and unwarranted proportions. The somber outline of police headquarters bulked in the night.  He found leverage in his office, and settled at once to a discussion of developments.  Leverage had news, and leverage was frankly proud of the fact that he had news. Just got an interesting report from Cartwright, he announced. Regarding Barker, Carol hitched his chair forward eagerly. Yes. What is it? Yesterday afternoon, at five o'clock, William Barker went to the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Lawrence. He was in the house, eighteen minutes. Why wasn't this told me last night? Cartwright didn't think anything of it. He included it in his report, which was turned into me this morning. Why did he think it was unimportant? Said he thought Barker was probably looking for a job. And he doesn't think so now? No, that is, he thinks circumstances make an investigation worthwhile. You see, just a few minutes ago Barker went to the Lawrence home again. This time he was there four minutes. Does Cartwright know who was at home at that time? He thinks so. He says a maid let Barker in, and that apparently Mrs. Lawrence let him out.  She was in the car with some man, but he didn't get out. Then just a minute ago Gerald Lawrence reached home. So the idea is that Mrs. Lawrence was alone with the servants when Barker called. And yet he only remained four minutes. That's what Cartwright phoned, leverage paused. What do you make of it, Carol? Off hand, answered the youthful appearing detective, I'd say that Barker had called to see Mr. Lawrence. Why? We'll suppose Lawrence was home on the occasion of Barker's first visit. Do you know whether he was? No, I asked. Cartwright doesn't know. Couldn't stay, you know, because he was under orders to follow Barker. Tonight he sent Reed after Barker, and he watched the Lawrence house. Good. If it is so that Lawrence was at home when Barker called yesterday evening, and Barker then remained eighteen minutes, whereas this afternoon, when we know that no one but Mrs. Lawrence was there, and he remained but four minutes, it is fairly reasonable to suppose that he was calling to see Mr. Lawrence. I think you're right, Carol. I'm not at all convinced about that. But if we're proceeding along lines of pure logic, that is the answer.  Carol smiled. I'm sure he had nothing whatever to do with the murder. Good Lord! I didn't think he had. But still he may have been a friend, and that man was all right. I know that. You know? Leverage was incredulous. Yes, Carol grinned. I was the man. You! Holy, suffering mackerel! Say, was that chicken I seen you with downtown Lawrence's sister-in-law? Yes, Miss Evelyn Rogers. And good Lord, Leverage, how that girl can talk. She holds all records for conversational distance and speed.  Leverage was staring respectfully at Carol. If you were the man who was with her, David, you must have seen Barker when he left the house. I did. The face of the Chief showed his disappointment. That's what I get for thinking I had a real surprise at my sleeve.  How'd you ever get wise to the thing anyway? Carol was honest. No thanks to my sagacity, Leverage. One of those pieces of bull luck which I have always contended playing an enormous part in solving crime. In the first place Evelyn Rogers came to me the day after Warren was killed to assure me that Miss Gresham had a perfect alibi. This afternoon she lassoed me and dragged me into an ice cream place because she wanted to prove to some of her school companions that we were really friends. Carol chuckled. I quaffed freely from the fountain of youth and enjoyed it a while. Then I got bored stiff. Took her to the movies, she invited me, and did it only because I've passed beyond the years of adolescence and didn't know how to crawfish out of it. After which, because it seemed the proper thing to do, I volunteered to ride her home in my car. And it was then that I saw Barker leaving the Lawrence home. So, you see, Leverage, my knowledge is the result of pure accident and not of all the fruit of keen perception. Well, anyway, Carol, you knew, and that takes the edge off what I told you. Not at all, returned Carol seriously. For while what I discovered is perhaps valuable, that combined with the fact that Barker has been there once before, and that on the first visit when Lawrence was probably at home, he stayed nearly five times as long as he did when we know that Lawrence was not there. That is of help, or ought to be. What do you think of it? Carol hesitated. I don't know what to think, Eric. I'm afraid I'm thinking about it more than I have any right. We've been so long without anything to work on that we're liable to let this bit of information throw us off our balance. But of course we'll look more deeply into it. How? Again, Carol chuckled. Our little friend, Miss Rogers, is suffering from a large case of hero worship. I'm it. And so, when I saw Barker leaving her home, I immediately made an engagement to call upon her to-morrow night. You call on that kid? Suddenly leverage lay back in his swivel chair and gave vent to a peel of raucous laughter. He banged his fist on the arm of the chair. Oh, boy! That's the snappiest yet. David Carol paying a social call on a 17-year-old kid. Mama, ain't that the richest? Carol made a rye face. Needn't rub it in. It's bad enough anyway. And, growing serious, I'm hoping to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence. They ought to prove interesting. But leverage could not tear himself away from the sheer humor of the situation.  Foxtrot steps? Is the camel walk vulgar? Frat dance? Next week's basketball game? Say, David, I'd give my chances of heaven to be hidden behind the door. So would I, said Carol Riley. Above all things, counseled leverage with mock severity. Don't you go making love to her. Carol reached a muscular hand across the table. His sinewy fingers closed around a glass paperweight. He held this poised steadily. One more crack out of you, Eric, and I'll slam this against your head.  Just the same, grinned the chief. I can see that this joke is on you. And now what? For one thing, and Carol's manner was all business again, I want every bit of dope I can get on Gerald Lawrence and his wife. I know that Warren was very intimate at the house. Friendly with both wife and husband, according to what Miss Roger says. That connects them up. What I want to find out now is where both of them were the night Warren was killed. Put a couple of your best men out to gather this dope. There isn't any of it too minor to interest me. Meanwhile, I'll pump the kid. I have a hunch that this isn't going to be a cold trial. It better not be, or Mr. David Carol is going to find himself with one unsolved case on his hands. Yes, sir, if this is a blind lead, we're up against it for fair. It isn't going to be entirely blind, postulated Carol. Barker assures us of that. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 12 of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen Chapter 12 A Challenge At four o'clock the following afternoon, Carol received from Chief Leverage a detailed report on Gerald Lawrence. He's a manufacturer, said Leverage, president of the capital city, Willem Mills. Rated about a hundred thousand, maybe a little more. He's on the board of directors of the second national, has the reputation of being hard, fearless, and considerable of a grouch. Age 42 Married Naomi Rogers about five years ago. She was 25 then, 30 now. Supposed to be beautiful, and would be a society light, except that Lawrence doesn't care for the soup and fish stuff. Report has it that they're not very happy together. His parents and hers all dead. Evelyn, her kid sister, lives with them. They employ a cook and two maids. No man-servant at all. Rowland Warren was pretty intimate at the house, but so far as I can discover there was no scandal linking the names of Warren and Mrs. Lawrence. Of course, him knowing her pretty intimately and being friendly at the house, you could probably find a good many folks who would say nasty things. But there hasn't been the real gossip about her and him that there was about a heap of other women in this town. Warren and Lawrence were pretty good friends. Warren was a stockholder in the Willem Mills. On the other hand, it seems as though Warren was at the house a good deal more than just ordinary friendship would have indicated. But that's just an idea. And there's your dope. And on the night of the murder, questioned Carol, where were they? Mrs. Lawrence was at home. Lawrence, if you're thinking of him in connection with it, seems to have an ironclad alibi. He went to Nashville on a business trip and didn't get back until the following morning. Alibi, eh? Carol's eyes narrowed speculatively. Are you sure he was in Nashville all that time? Mmm. Leverage shook his head. I don't know, but I can find out. Carol rose. Do it, please, and get the dope straight. Carol went to his apartment, where he reluctantly commenced dressing for the ordeal of the night. He felt himself rather ridiculous, a man of his age calling on a girl not yet out of high school. The thing was funny, of course, but just at the moment the joke was too entirely on him for the full measure of amusement. At that he dressed carefully, selecting a new gray suit, a white jersey silk shirt, and a blue necktie for the occasion. At six thirty, Frida served his dinner, and at fifteen minutes after eight o'clock he rang the bell of the Lawrence home. The door was opened by Evelyn, palpitant with excitement, and garbed attractively in the demi-toilette of very young ladyhood. Mr. Carol, so good of you to come. I'm simply tickled to death. Let me have your hat and coat. Come right into the living-room. I want you to meet my brother-in-law and my sister." Sheepishly Carol followed the girl into the room. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence rose politely to greet him. At the side of the man he had really come to see, Carol was conscious of an instinctive dislike. Lawrence was of medium height, slightly stooped, and not unpleasing to the eye. But his brows were inclined to lower, and the eyes themselves were set too closely together. He was dressed plainly, almost harshly, and he stared at Carol in a manner bordering on the hostile. The detective acknowledged the introduction, and then turned his gaze upon the woman of the family. There he met with a surprise, as pleasant as his first glance at Lawrence had been unpleasant. There was no gain saying the fact that Naomi Lawrence was a beautiful woman. Dressed simply for an evening at home in a strikingly plain gown of rich black material, and with her magnificent neck and shoulders rising above the midnight hue, she caused a spontaneous thrill of masculine admiration to surge through the ordinarily immune visitor in the gray suit. Her face was almost classic in its contour, her coloring a rich brunette, her hair blue-black. No jewelry, save an engagement ring, adorned her perfect beauty, and Carol felt alothing at the idea that this magnificent creature was the wife of the stoop-shouldered, sour-faced man who stood scowling by the living-room table. He gravely acknowledged the introduction of the young lady upon whom he had called, feeling a faint sense of amusement at Lawrence's overt disdain, and a considerable embarrassment under Naomi's questioning, level gaze. For a few moments they talked casually, but that did not satisfy Evelyn, and she dragged him into the parlor. Just the elegantest jazz-piece, Carol heard as through a haze. Just got it! Feet can't keep still! Play it for you! He found himself standing by the piano, the door between the music-room and the living-room unaccountably closed, Evelyn banging out the opening measure of the elegant jazz-piece. He was still staring moodily at the closed door when the din ceased, and he again heard Evelyn's voice. A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Carol! A real honest-to-goodness spendable penny! I was thinking, he remarked quietly, that your sister is a very beautiful woman. Naomi? Shucks! She isn't bad-looking, but she's old! Abominably old! Thirty! He glanced down on the girl and smiled. That does seem old to you, doesn't it? Treacherously! I don't know what I'd ever do if I was to get that old. Take up crocheting, probably. The conversation died of dry rot. Carol was not at all pleased.  He had fancied, in his blithe ignorance of the seventeen-year-old ladies of the present day, that he could engineer himself into a worthwhile conversation with the Laurences. Since meeting them he was doubly anxious. There was a thinly veiled hostility about the man which demanded investigation. And about the woman there was a subtle atmosphere of tragedy which appealed to the masculine protectiveness which surged strong in his bachelor breast. But Carol was a sportsman. The girl had carried things her own way, and he was too game to spoil her evening. Therefore he temporarily gave over all thought of a chat with the Laurences and devoted himself to her amusement. He informed her that the jazz music she had strummed was simply glorious, and that he regretted he knew very little popular stuff. She leaped upon his remark, Oh, do you play? Really? He was in again. I have a little. I wonder if you would. Here's the grandest little old song I bought downtown, and she placed on the piano a gaudy thing with the modest title. All babies need daddies to kiss him. Its cover exposed a tender love scene wherein a gentleman in evening clothes was engaged in an act of violent osculation with the young lady whose dress was as short as her modesty. Carol shrugged, placed his long slender fingers on the keys, shook his head, and went to it. He played. A genuine artist. He tried to enter into the spirit of the thing and succeeded admirably. The itchy syncopation rocked the room. His hostess snapped her fingers deliciously and executed a few movements of a dance which Carol had heard referred to vaguely as the shimmy. In the midst of the revelry he gave thought to Eric Leveridge and chuckled. He played the chorus a second time, then stopped on a crashing chord. Evelyn's face was beaming. Gracious! You can play, can't you? I used to. Suppose we talk a while. She agreed reluctantly. They seated themselves in easy chairs before the gas logs. Evelyn glanced hopefully at the chandelier. I wish the belt would slip at the powerhouse, don't you? Why, innocently? Oh!  Indeed they do. But perhaps we'd better leave the others on. She sighed, residedly. I guess we'd better. Sis is so darn proper and Gerald is an old crab they might say something. I suppose they might. By the way, didn't they think it was, uh, strange, might coming to see you tonight? She turned red. Suppose they did. What difference does that make? I'm not a child, and if a gentleman wants to call on me, I guess they haven't got any kick. What did they say when you told them I was coming? They didn't believe me at first. Then Sis said you were too old, and you're not old at all. And Gerald said, he said—she giggled. What did Gerald say? He said, damned impertinence. Hmm, I wonder just what he meant. Oh, goodness, it doesn't matter what Gerald means. He makes me weary. He's simply impossible, and I can't see what Sis ever married him for. I suppose she saw more in him than you do. They must be very happy together. Happy? Poof! Happy is two dead sardines in a can. They can't get out, so they might as well be happy. Besides, he's away a good deal. He is, eh? When was his last out-of-town trip? Carol was interested now. He had steered the conversation back to matters of importance. Oh, about four days ago, you know, the day Dear Roland was killed by that vampire in the taxi cab. He was away that night, all night? Uh-huh, all night long. And would you believe that Sis, who was scared out of her shadow at night, was the one who suggested that I go spend the night with Hazel? And it's certainly fortunate she did, because if she hadn't, I wouldn't have been with Hazel all night, and you awful detectives would probably not have believed her story that she was at home in bed. And then you would have arrested her for murdering Roland.  Hardly that bad. But it was fortunate that you were there. It made the establishing of the alibi a very simple matter. And you say your sister, Mrs. Lawrence, is nervous at night? Oh, fearfully. She's just like all women, scared of rats, scared of the dark, scared of being alone. Perfectly disgusting, I call it. Quite a few women are that way, though. I'm not. I'm scared of snakes and flying bugs and things like that. But I don't get scared of the dark. Who's going to hurt you? That's what I always say. I believe in figuring things out, don't you? I read in a book once where, but maybe you do Mrs. Lawrence an injustice. Maybe she isn't as afraid at night as you imagine. She is, too. Yet you say she'd let you spend the night at Ms. Gresham's house when Mr. Lawrence was out of the city, and there wasn't anybody on the place but the servants. Worse than that, the servants don't even live on the place. She spent the night here all alone. Then all I'll say is that she is a brave woman. When did Mr. Lawrence get back from Nashville? Oh, not until ten o'clock the following morning. And believe me, he was all excited when he read about Rowland in the papers. Poor Rowland. If you were only a girl, Mr. Carroll, you'd know how terrible it is to have a man who's crazy about you and engage to your best friend and everything, go and get himself murdered. Why, when I read the papers that morning, I couldn't hardly believe my own eyes. I just said to myself, it can't be. I said it over and over again, just like that. Having faith, I think they call it. I was reading in a book once about having faith. She talked interminably. Carroll ceased to hear the plangent voice. He was thinking of what she had just told him, thinking earnestly. He knew he was desperately anxious to have a talk with the Lawrence's, to talk things over in a casual manner. And tonight was his opportunity. He knew he'd never get another like it. He didn't want to be forced to seek them out in his capacity of detective. From somewhere in the rear of the house he heard the clamour of a doorbell, then the sound of footsteps in the hall, the opening and closing of the front door, and then Naomi Lawrence appeared in the music room. Carroll could have sworn that her eyes were twinkling with amusement as she addressed Evelyn, pointedly ignoring him. Evelyn, that Somerville boy is here. Oh, bother, what's he doing here? He says he came to call. He's got a box of candy. Piffle, what do I care about candy? He's just a kid. Naomi went to the hall door. Right this way, Charlie. And as the slender, overdressed young gentleman of nineteen entered the room, Carroll again glimpsed the light of amusement in Naomi's eyes. Mr. Charlie Somerville expressed himself as being pleased to meet you, and tried to conceal his vast admiration when Evelyn informed him that this was THE David Carroll. Charlie was impressed, but he was not particular about showing it, Charlie fanciing himself considerable of a cosmopolitan thanks to a year at Yale. His dignity was excruciatingly funny to Carroll as the very young man seated himself, crossed one elongated and unbelievably skinny leg over the other, and arranged the creases so that they were in the very middle. Ah, taking a vacation from your work on the Warren murder case, I presume. Carroll nodded. Yes, for a while. Detective work must be a terrible bore, mustn't it? Sometimes, answered Carroll significantly. Charlie Somerville, Evelyn flamed to the defense of her friend's profession, at least Mr. Carroll ain't a college freshman, I'm a sophomore, asserted Charlie languidly, passed all of my exams. Anyway, snapped Evelyn, he ain't any kid. For a time the atmosphere was strained. Then Carroll recalled a particularly good college joke he knew, and he told it well, after which Evelyn explained to Charlie that Mr. Carroll was the wonderfulest piano player in the world, and David Carroll, detective, strummed out several popular airs while the youngsters danced. Horrible as the situation was, it appealed irresistibly to his sense of humor. He found himself almost enjoying it, and he worked carefully. Eventually his patience was rewarded. He succeeded in his own work, and he was able to do his own work. He succeeded in getting them together on a lounge with the photograph album between them, and then, very quietly and positively, and with a brief, excuse me for a moment, he walked through the hall and into the living room. Lawrence and his wife were at opposite sides of the library table. At sight of Carroll, Lawrence laid down his paper and rose to his feet. Well, he inquired inhospitably. Carroll laughed lightly. It got too much for me, too much youth. I dropped in here for a chat with you folks. I didn't understand that you had come to call on us, said Lawrence coldly. Why, I didn't. You did, snapped Lawrence. I'm no fool, Carroll. From the minute I heard you were coming, I knew what you had up your sleeve. You wanted to talk about the Warren case. Now suppose you go ahead and talk, then get out. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 of Midnight This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen Chapter 13 No Alibi Carroll was rarely thrown from a mental balance, but this was one of the exceptions to a rule of conduct where poise was essential. His eyes half closed in their clash with the coldly antagonistic orbs of his host. His instinctive dislike of the man flamed into open anger and he controlled himself with an effort. One thing Lawrence had done. He had stripped from Carroll his disguise as a casual caller and settled down ominously to brass tacks. Carroll shrugged, forced a smile, then glanced at Naomi Lawrence. She had risen and was staring at her husband with wide-eyed indignation. Undoubtedly she was horrified at his brusqueness. For the first time she too had made it plain that Carroll was not welcome, that his ruse of calling upon Evelyn had been seen through plainly. But he could see that even under those circumstances she was not forgetful that he was a guest in her home and as such he was entitled to ordinary courtesy. Carroll was more than a little sorry for her and also a bit rueful at his own plight. Things had gone wrong for him from the commencement of the evening. And this, well, the gauge of battle had been flung in his face and he was no man to refuse the challenge. But his muscles were taut until the soft voice of Naomi broke in on the pregnant stillness. Won't you be seated, Mr. Carroll? Carroll smiled gratefully at her. With her words the unpleasant tension had lightened. He dropped into an arm chair. Lawrence followed suit, his close-set eyes focused belligerently on Carroll's face, the hostility of his manner being akin to a personal menace. Naomi stood by the table, eyes shifting from one to the other. I'd rather, she suggested softly, that we did not discuss the Warren case. It doesn't matter what you prefer, snapped her husband coldly. Carroll forced himself upon us for that purpose, with a lack of decency which one might have expected. Let him have his say. Carroll gazed squarely at Lawrence. I'm sorry, he said, that you see fit to act as you are doing. I asked for no criticism of my conduct. Just the same, dear, started Naomi when her husband interrupted angrily.  Carroll has placed himself beyond the pale by what he has done in having the impertinence to foist himself upon us as a social equal.  Yes, the detective's voice was quite calm. I'm quite ready. Well, ask, Lawrence paused. You did come here to inquire about Warren, didn't you? Carroll could not forebear a dig. I trust that you are not putting it upon me to deny your statement to that effect.  Good. Then we know all about each other, don't we? You know that I am a detective in search of information, and I know absolutely what you are. That dart went home. Lawrence squirmed. So I'll come right to the point. Is it not a fact that you were in this city at the hour Roland Warren is supposed to have been killed? He heard a surprised gasp from Naomi and saw that her face had blanched and that she was leaning forward with eyes wide and hands clutching the arms of the chair in which she had seated herself. Lawrence leered. As the kids would say, Carroll, that's for me to know and for you, super detective that you are, to find out. Carroll was more at ease now. Lawrence's sneering aggressiveness brought him into his own element, and he was hitting straight from the shoulder, refusing point blank to mince matters. I fancy I can, he returned calmly. And now, is it not a fact that you despised Warren, even though you pretended to be his friend? That, too, is my business, Carroll. Do you think I'm going to feed Pap to you? Carroll reflected carefully for a moment. Then suddenly his voice crackled across the room. You know, of course, that you are suspected of Warren's murder? Silent. Then a forced, sickly grin creased Lawrence's lips, but his figure slumped, almost cringed. From Naomi came a choked gasp. Mr. Carroll, not Gerald! Carroll placed no heed to the woman. He sat back in his chair, eyes never for one moment leaving Lawrence's pallid face. Nor did Carroll speak again. He waited. It was Lawrence who broke the silence. Is this what you, detectives, call the third degree? It is not. Now, get this straight, Lawrence. I came here to find out what you know about Warren and the circumstances surrounding his death. I wanted to be decent about the thing, to cause you no embarrassment if I was convinced that you were unconnected with the crime. You have forced my hand. You have driven me to methods which I abhor. You haven't a thing on me, said Lawrence, and his tone had degenerated into a half wine. You can't scare me a little bit. I've got an alibi. Certainly you have. So, too, have a good many men who have eventually been proven guilty. Lawrence rose nervously and paced the room. You asked me a little while ago if I was in this city at the hour when the crime was committed. I answered that it was for me to know and you to find out. I'll answer direct now, just to stop this absurd suspicion which has been directed against me. I was not in the city at that hour, or within six hours of midnight. I was in Nashville. At what hotel? At the— Lawrence paused. Matter of fact, I wasn't at any hotel. You had registered at the Hermitage, hadn't you? Yes, but when did you check out? Carol's voice was snapping out with staccato insistence. About four o'clock in the afternoon. Where did you go? Where did you spend the night? Lawrence shook his head helplessly. I'll be honest, Carol, I took several drinks. Alone? Yes, and at two o'clock in the morning when my train left I was at the station. I don't know what I did in the meantime. I don't remember anything much about anything. In other words, said Carol coldly, you have no alibi, except your own word. On the other hand, we know that you checked out of the Hermitage Hotel in Nashville at four o'clock. You could have caught the 425 train and reached the city at ten minutes after eleven o'clock. You have not the slightest proof that you didn't. I—I came down on the train which left there a little after two in the morning. Prove it. There was a hunted look about Lawrence. I can't prove it. A man can't prove that he came on a certain train. Was there nobody on board who knew you? I don't know. I was feeling badly when I got in. The berths were all made up. I went right to sleep. And when the porter woke me, we were in the yards. I dressed and came right home. And yet Carol was merciless. You have no substantiation for your statements. He switched this line of attacks suddenly. What made you think I was coming here to discuss Roland Warren's death? It was plain that Lawrence did not want to answer. Yet there was something in Carol's mesmeric eyes which rung words unwillingly from his lips. Just logic, he answered weakly. I knew that you weren't calling to see Evelyn because you were interested in her. You knew Warren had been pretty friendly in this house, so you came to us to talk about it. Isn't that reasonable? I don't believe I am here to answer questions, Mr. Lawrence. You invited me to ask them. Naomi broke in. Her voice choked with hysteria. What are you leading to, Mr. Carol? It is absurd to think that Gerald had anything to do with Mr. Warren's death. Carol swung on her, biting off his words shortly. Do you know that he didn't? Yes, I—I didn't ask what you thought, Mrs. Lawrence. I am asking what you know. But if he was in Nashville, if he was, then he's safe. But he himself cannot prove that he was. And I tell you frankly that the police will investigate his movements very carefully. It strikes me as exceedingly peculiar that he checked out from the Hermitage Hotel at four o'clock in the afternoon when he intended taking a 2 a.m. train. Remember, I am accusing your husband of nothing. Our conversation could have been pleasant. He refused to allow it to be so. He classified me as a professional detective and put me on that basis in his home. I have merely accepted his invitation to act as one. If I appear discourteous, kindly recall that it was none of my doing. I'm sorry, Carol, said Lawrence pleadingly. I didn't know. Of course you didn't know how much I knew, or might guess. You saw fit to insult me. I have apologized.  Entirely too late. Our relations from now on are those of detective and suspect. Again the flare of hate in Lawrence's manner. I don't have to prove an alibi, Carol. You have to prove my connection with the thing. And you can't do it. Why not? Why not? Because I was in Nashville at that time. And while perhaps I can't prove I was there, you certainly cannot prove I was not. That remains to be seen. Meanwhile, I'd advise you to establish that fact if you can possibly do so. And, by the way, are you in the habit of indulging in these solitary debauches in neighboring cities? Lawrence flushed. Sometimes. I used to be a heavy drinker, and is that a fact, Mrs. Lawrence? Yes, she answered eagerly, almost too eagerly, Carol thought. He has had escapades like this several times. And you are sure that his story is true? Yes, of course I'm sure. Why should he kill Mr. Warren? There isn't any reason in the world. For your sake and his, I hope not. But, meanwhile, surely, Mr. Carol, you don't intend publishing what he has told you about his drinking alone in Nashville? Carol smiled. No, indeed. In the first place, I am not at all sure that he has told me the truth. In the second place, if I were sure of it, his alibi would be established, and I have no desire, whatever, to injure a man because of a personal weakness. Lawrence stared at Carol peculiarly. You mean that if I can prove the truth of my story, nothing will be made public about my… the affair in Nashville? Absolutely. Because you have treated me discreetly, Lawrence, I don't consider myself justified in injuring your reputation. I am after the person or persons responsible for the death of Roland Warren. Your intimate weaknesses have no interest to either me or the public. Lawrence was silent for a while, and then… You're damned white, Carol. The apologies I extended a moment ago, I repeat, and this time I'm sincere. And this time they are accepted. Meanwhile, you are welcome here whenever you wish to call. Perhaps, by talking to me, you yourself may establish the alibi which I know I have, but cannot prove. Carol rose and bowed. Thank you. And now I'll go. If you will express my regrets to Miss Rogers. Naomi accompanied him to the door. She extended her hand. You're wrong, Mr. Carol, she murmured, quite wrong. You're sure? I know. I really believe his story. I hope to, soon, but just now, Mrs. Lawrence, he saw tears in her fine eyes. You have nothing to fear from me if he is innocent.  Gratefully, and then closed the door. Carol, inhaling the bracing air of the winter night, proceeded briskly to the curb. Then, standing with one foot on the running board of his car, he stared peculiarly at the big white house, standing starkly in the moonlight. I wonder, he mused softly. I wonder. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 14 of Midnight. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Midnight by Octavus Roy Cohen. Chapter 14. The suitcase, again. Carol drove direct to his apartment, despite his original intention of dropping by headquarters for a chat with leverage. He wanted to be alone, to think. The evening had borne fruit beyond his wildest imaginings. Fact had piled upon fact with bewildering rapidity. As yet he had been unable to sort them in his mind, to catalogue each properly, to test for proper value. He reached his apartment and found it warm and comfortable. He donned lounging robe and slippers, which the thoughtful Frida had left out for him, settled himself in an easy-chair, lighted a fire which he kept always ready in the grate, and turned out the light. Then, with his cigar glowing and great clouds of rich smoke filling the air, he sank into a revelry of thinking. Certain disclosures of the evening stood out with startling clarity. Chief among them was the inevitable belief that Gerald Lawrence had either killed Roland Warren or else knew who had done so and how it was done. Yet Carol tried not to allow his thoughts and personal prejudices to run away with them. He knew that now, of all times, he must keep a tight grip on himself. Great as was the dislike which he had conceived for Lawrence, an instinctive repugnance which still obtained, he was grimly determined that he would not be swayed by his emotions. Therefore he deliberately reviewed Lawrence's story in the light of its possible truth. Lawrence claimed that he belonged to that none-too-rare class of prominent citizens who once every so often respond to the call of the wild within them by going to a nearby city where they are not known and giving themselves over to the dubious delights of a spree. Publication of this fact alone would prove sufficient to injure Lawrence socially and in the commercial world. The old case of the Spartan lad, Carol reflected. The disgrace lay in being discovered. Also it was perfectly plain to Carol that at the outset of his conversation Lawrence had been smugly satisfied that he was possessed of a perfect alibi. It was only under Carol's merciless grilling that he had been brought abruptly to realization that he had no alibi whatever. The same logic applied there as in leverage's theory that Barker's arrest would be an excellent strategic move. All Carol had to do now was to arrest Lawrence for Warren's murder, and the burden of proof would have been shifted from the shoulders of the detective to that of the suspect. It would then devolve upon Lawrence to prove an alibi that Carol knew perfectly well he could not prove, save by nearest accident. But that was a procedure which Carol abhorred. Those were police department methods, wholesale arrests in the hope of somewhere in the net trapping the prey. Such a course was at the bottom, and Carol knew it, of an enormous number of convictions of innocent men. And Carol had no desire to injure Lawrence, provided Lawrence was free of guilt in this particular instance. He didn't like the man, in fact his feelings toward him amounted to a positive aversion. But through it all he tried to be fair-minded, and he could not quite rid himself of the picture of Naomi Lawrence. Carol was far from impervious to the appeal of a beautiful woman. So much for the probable truth of Lawrence's story. The reverse side of the picture presented an entirely different set of facts. There was not alone the strange procedure of checking out of the big hotel at four o'clock in the afternoon, when he intended catching an early morning train. But there was the information so innocently dropped by the location's Evelyn Rogers, regarding Naomi's actions on the night of the murder. According to Evelyn, her sister was an intensely nervous woman, one who stood in fear of being alone at night. And yet this sister had volunteered the suggestion that Evelyn spend the night with Hazel Gresham, when her husband was supposed to be out of the city. Carol, well versed in applied psychology, knew that in such a combination of facts there lay an important clue. He was well satisfied that Naomi Lawrence had been satisfied that she was not to be alone that night. Arguing with himself from that premise, the conclusion was inevitable. She knew that her husband would return from Nashville at midnight. She did not wish anyone, even Evelyn, to learn that he had done so. Therefore she got Evelyn out of the house. The conclusion developed a further train of reasoning, one which Carol did not at all relish, but which he faced with frank honesty. If he was right in his argument, then Naomi Lawrence had known of the murder before it was committed. He shrank from the idea, but it would not down. He was not ready to admit its truth, but there was no denying its logic. There was something inexpressibly repugnant in the thought. He infinitely preferred to believe that Naomi hated her husband, was miserable with him. He preferred that to the idea that there were accomplices in the murder of a prominent young man. Then, too, there were the strange visits of William Barker, former valet to Warren, to the home of the Laurences. There was no doubt remaining in Carol's mind that Barker knew a very great deal about Warren's murder. That being the case, it was fairly well established that he was cognizant of the Laurences' connection with the crime. Carol had started off with the idea that someone, in addition to the woman in the taxi cab, had been instrumental in ending Warren's life. Here, following a casual line of investigation, he had uncovered the tracks of two men, both of whom he was convinced knew more about it than they had cared to tell. Both men, Barker and Lawrence, had acted peculiarly under the grilling of the detective. The former had been surly and non-informative, only to leap eagerly upon the first verbal trend which tended to throw suspicion upon a person whom Carol knew, and whom Carol knew Barker knew, was innocent. Gerald Lawrence, on the other hand, had been downright antagonistic, until he made the startling discovery that his supposed alibi was no alibi at all, at which his attitude changed from open hostility to something closely akin to suppliance. Then, too, there was the danger of injuring an innocent man because of his inability to prove an alibi. If Lawrence's story was true, it was perfectly natural that, even in a condition of intoxication, he would maintain his instinct for concealment of a personal weakness. The chances were, then, that no one had seen him either in Nashville, after the four o'clock train had left, or on the two a.m. train homeward bound. Matters could not write themselves in Carol's mind. He knew one thing, however. Evelyn Rogers was a well-spring of vital information. The very fact that she talked inconsequentialities incessantly and occasionally let-drop remarks of vital import made her the more valuable. He knew that he had not seen the last of the seventeen-year-old girl, and he felt a consuming eagerness to be with her again, for, now, he had a definite line of investigation to pursue. He slept soundly that night, and the following morning dropped in on leverage. The chief of police had a little information, with all of which Carol was already familiar. He told Carol that Lawrence had been in Nashville, and that he had checked out of the Hermitage Hotel in time to catch the four o'clock train, in time to catch the four o'clock train on the afternoon preceding the murder. Carol satisfied leverage by accepting it as information, made sure that nothing else of importance had developed, requested leverage to ask the Nashville police to determine whether Lawrence had been seen in Nashville after 4.30 p.m., if necessary to send one of his own men there and left headquarters. He made his way directly to a public telephone booth. He telephoned the Lawrence home and asked for Evelyn Rogers. A maid answered and informed him that Evelyn had left home fifteen minutes previously. Any idea where she was going? questioned Carol. The answer came promptly. It mentioned the city's leading department store. She's gone there to get a beauty treatment, vouchsafed the maid. Carol was not a little chagrined. Evelyn Rogers had put him in more hopeless positions in their brief acquaintanceship than he had experienced in years. There was his call upon her the previous night with its role of dual entertainer to the young lady, with a nineteen-year-old college freshman, and now a vigil outside a beauty parlor. But he went grimly to work. He'd located the beauty parlor on the third floor of the giant store, and paced determinately back and forth before its doors. A half hour passed, an hour, two hours. He concluded that Evelyn must be purchasing her beauty in job lots. When two hours and thirty-five minutes had elapsed, Evelyn emerged, and Carol groaned. With her were three other girls, as chattery, as immature as Evelyn herself. She swept down upon him in force, tongue wagging at both ends.   Why, I didn't even know that you had gone, until Cis came in and said you had asked her to extend your respects. Good gracious, I almost died. I'm sorry, really, returned Carol humbly. But you seemed so interested in that young man, and I had gotten into an absorbing conversation with your sister and brother-in-law. I'm not used to girls, you know. Kidder, I think you're simply elegant. She turned to her giggling friends and introduced them, gushingly. Carol was in misery, a martyr to the cause. But Evelyn would not let him get away. Through her sudden friendship with the great detective, Evelyn was building up a reputation that was destined to survive for years, and she was not one to fail to make the most of her opportunities. It was not until almost an hour later, when the other three girls had left for their homes, left only after they had hung around until the ultimate moment before lunch, that Carol found himself alone with his little goldmine of data. He bent his head, hopefully.  She nodded. Uh-huh. Suppose we eat together. Scrumptious! There was no hint of hesitation in her manner. I've been hoping ever since we met that you'd asked me. They found a table mercifully secluded in the corner of the main dining-room of the city's leading hotel. For once Carol felt gratitude for the notoriously slow service. He begged her to order, and she did. Ordered a meal which contained TNT possibilities for acute indigestion. Carol smiled and let her have her way. He was amused at her valiant efforts to appear the blasé society woman. I really did enjoy our conversation last night, Miss Rogers. Oh, Piffle! I don't fall for that. I did. Then why did you beat it so quick? Well, you see, I suppose I was jealous of your elegantly dressed young friend. Him? He's just a kid, a mere child. He seemed very much at home. Kids like him always do. They make me sick, always putting on as though they were grown up. She secured an olive and bit into it with a relish. Awfully good, these olives! I love queen olives, don't you? I used to be crazy about ripe olives, but I read in a book once that sometimes they poison you, and when they do, there just simply isn't any anecdote in the world that can save you. So I figured there wasn't any use taking chances. Carol let her run on until the meal was served, and it was then when she was satisfying a normal youthful appetite that he drove straight to the subject which had led to this masculine martyrdom. The day before Mr. Warren died, he said mildly, are you sure that your sister made the suggestion that you spend the night with Miss Gresham? Her? Sure she did. Didn't it strike you as peculiar, knowing that she'd be in the house alone all that night? I'll say it did. I asked her was she nutty and she scolded me for being slangy, so I told her I should worry if she wanted to suffer alone, and I went with Hazel, and it's an awful good thing I did, because if I hadn't, she would have been arrested and tried and convicted and hanged, or something, and—oh, hardly that bad. You're sure your sister was alone in the house that night? Sure. Who could have been there with her? I'm not answering riddles. I'm asking them. I've got my fingers crossed. The answer is that there wasn't anyone there. At first I thought she was going out, but she wasn't, and when I asked her was she, she got real peeved at me. Ah! You thought she was going out that night? Uh-huh, came the answer between bites at a huge lobster salad. What made you think that? Oh, just something. You know, I don't get credit for having eyes, but I sure have, and I never did understand that business anyway. But then Sis always has been the queerest thing, ever since she married Gerald. Say, she looked up eagerly, ain't he the darndest old crab you ever saw in your life? Why, I—ain't he honest? He's not exactly jovial. He's a lemon, just a plain juicy lemon, and I think she was a nut for marrying him. But, Carol proceeded cautiously, you made the remark just now that something was the queerest thing. What did you mean by that? Oh, I guess I was crazy or something, but she got sore at me when I asked her. Who? Sis. What did you ask her? Why, she looked up innocently, about that suitcase. What suitcase? When was it? It was the day before Mr. Warren died. I always remember everything now by that date. Anyway, I went in her room that morning to ask something about what I should take to Hazel's. And what do you think she was doing? I'll bite, he answered with assumed jocularity. What was she doing? Packing a suitcase. No. No. Carol was keenly interested, struggling not to show it. Yes, sir. I asked her what she was doing it for, and that's when she got peeved.  Indeed, she must be. Packing a suitcase. And that ain't all that was funny about that, either, Mr. Carol. No. What else about it was peculiar. That suitcase, and Evelyn lowered her voice to an impressive whisper, was gone from the house the next day. And the day after, it showed up again. And when I asked Sis wasn't that funny, she told me to mind my own business. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Roger Maline


Metasurfaces can be used to create spatially varying optical responses that allow for the molding of optical wave fronts into desired shapes, with spatial multiplexing and vortex meta-lens being examples of such meta-surface designs. These meta-lenses are composed of identical cross-holes etched on a silver film and have advantages such as multifunctionality, high signal-to-noise ratio, and ease of manipulation, making them suitable for expanding the application of plasmonic meta-lenses in optical manipulation. This article was authored by Han Wang, Li Xiu Liu, Xiao Qing Lu, and others.