"Police?"
"Never you mind, sir," Spike told the householder. "Hello! Police!" he called to the operator.
There was a pause, then Spike went on:
"This is Spike Walters—Yellow and White Taxi Company. I'm out at No. 981
East End Avenue. There's a dead man in my cab!"
The weary voice at the other end became suddenly alive.
"A dead man!"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know. That's why I called you."
"When did he die? How?"
Spike controlled himself with an effort.
"Don't you understand? He has been killed—"
"The devil you say!" replied the voice at headquarters, and the little householder chimed in with a frightened squeak.
"Yes," repeated Spike painstakingly. "The man is dead—killed. It is very peculiar. I can't explain over the phone. I called up to ask you what I shall do."
"Hold connection a minute!" Spike heard a hurried whispered conversation at the other end, then the voice barked back at him: "Stay where you are—couple of officers coming, and coming fast!"
It was Dan O'Leary, night desk sergeant, who was on duty at headquarters that night, and Sergeant Dan O'Leary was a good deal of an institution on the city's force. He hopped excitedly from his desk into the office of Eric Leverage, the chief of police.
Chief Leverage, a broad-shouldered, heavy-set, bushy-eyebrowed individual, looked up from the chess-board, annoyed at this interruption of a game which had been in progress since ten o'clock that night. O'Leary grabbed a salute from thin air.
"'Scuse my botherin' ye, chief, but there's hell to pay out at East End."
O'Leary was never long at coming to the point. Leverage looked up. So, too, did the boyish, clean-shaven young man with whom he was playing chess.
"An' knowin' that Mr. Carroll was playin' chess with ye, chief—an' him naturally interested in such things—I hopped right in."
"I'll say you did," commented the chief phlegmatically. "I have you there, Carroll—dead to rights!"
O'Leary was a trifle irritated at the cold reception accorded his news.
"Ye ain't after understanding" he said slowly. "It's murder that has been done this night."
"H-m!" Carroll's slow, pleasant drawl seemed to soothe O'Leary. "Murder?"
"You said it, Mr. Carroll."
Leverage had risen. It was plain to be seen from his manner that the chess-game was forgotten. Leverage was a policeman first and a chess-player second—a very poor second. His voice, surcharged with interest, cracked out into the room.
"Spill the dope, O'Leary!"
The night desk sergeant needed no further bidding. In a few graphic words he outlined his telephone conversation with Spike Walters.
Before he finished speaking, Leverage was slipping into his enormous overcoat. He nodded to Carroll.
"How about trotting out there with me, David?"
Carroll smiled agreeably.
"Thank goodness my new coupé has a heating device, chief!"
That was all. It wasn't David Carroll's way to talk much, or to show any untoward emotion. It was Carroll's very boyishness which was his greatest asset. He had a way of stepping into a case before the principals knew he was there, and of solving it in a manner which savored not at all of flamboyance. A quiet man was Carroll, and one whose deductive powers Eric Leverage fairly worshiped.
On the slippery, skiddy journey to East End the two men—professional policeman and amateur criminologist—did not talk much. A few comments regarding the sudden advent of fiercest winter; a remark, forcedly jocular, from the chief, that murderers might be considerate enough to pick better weather for the practice of their profession—and that was all. Thus far they knew nothing about the case, and they were both too well versed in criminology to attempt a discussion of something with which they were unfamiliar.
Spike Walters saw them coming—saw their headlights splitting the frigid night. He was at the curb to meet them as they pulled up. He told his story briefly and concisely. Leverage inspected the young man closely, made note of his license number and the number of his taxi-cab. Then he turned to his companion, who had stood by, a silent and interested observer.
"S'pose you talk to him a bit, Carroll."
"I'm David Carroll," introduced the other man. "I'm connected with the police department. There's a few things you tell which are rather peculiar. Any objections to discussing them?"
In spite of himself, Spike felt a genial warming toward this boyish-faced man. He had heard of Carroll, and rather feared his prowess; but now that he was face to face with him, he found himself liking the chap. Not only that, but he was conscious of a sense of protection, as if Carroll were there for no other purpose than to take care of him, to see that he received a square deal.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Carroll, I'll be glad to tell you anything I know."
"You have said, Walters, that the passenger you picked up at the Union
Station was a woman."
"Yes, sir, it was a woman."
"Are you sure?"
"Why, yes, sir. I couldn't very well be mistaken. You see—o-o-oh!
You're thinking maybe it was a man in woman's clothes? Is that it, sir?"
Carroll smiled.
"What do you think?"
"That's impossible, sir. It was a woman—I'd swear to that."
"Pretty positive, eh?"
"Absolutely, sir. Besides, take the matter of the overcoat the—the—body has on. Even if what you think was so, sir—that it was a woman dressed up like a man—and if he had gotten rid of the women's clothes, where would he have gotten the clothes to put on?"
"H-m! Sounds logical. How about the suit-case you said this woman had?"
"Yonder it is—right on the front beside me, where it has been all the time."
"And you tell us that between the time you left the Union Station and the time you got here a man got into the taxicab, was killed by the woman, the woman got out, and you heard nothing?"
"Yes, sir," said Spike simply. "Just that, sir."
"Rather hard to believe, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. That's why I called the police." Chief Leverage was shivering under the impact of the winter blasts.
"S'pose we take a look at the bird, David," he suggested, nodding toward the taxi. "That might tell us something."
Carroll nodded. The men entered the taxi, and Leverage flashed a pocket-torch in the face of the dead man. Then he uttered an exclamation of surprise not unmixed with horror.
"Good Lord!"
"You know him?" questioned Carroll easily.
"Know him? I'll say I do. Why, man, that's Roland Warren!"
"Warren! Roland Warren! Not the clubman?"
"The very same one, Carroll, an' none other. Well, I'm a sonovagun! Sa-a-ay, something surely has been started here." He swung around on the taxi-driver. "You, Walters!"
"Yes, sir?"
"You are sure the suit-case is still in front?"
"Yes,