"What kind of a man was he--personally?"

Carroll watched his man closely without appearing to do so. He saw Barker flush slightly, and did not miss the jerky nervousness of his answer--that or the forced enthusiasm.

"Oh, I reckon he is all right. That is, he _was_ all right. Real nice feller."

"You were fond of him?"

"I didn't say I was in love with him. I said he was a nice feller."

"Treated you well?"

"Oh, sure--he treated me fine."

"And yet he discharged you yesterday." Then Carroll bluffed.

"Without notice!"

Barker looked up sharply. His face betrayed his surprise; showed clearly that Carroll's guess had scored.

"How'd you know that?"

"I knew it," returned Carroll. "That's sufficient."

Barker a.s.sumed a defensive att.i.tude.

"Anyway," said he, "that didn't make me sore at him, because he give me a month's pay; and that's just as good as a notice, ain't it?"

"Ye-e-es, I guess it is." Carroll hesitated. "Did he pay you in cash?"

"Yeh--cash."

Again Carroll hesitated for a moment, while he lighted a cigarette. When he spoke again, his tone was merely conversational, almost casual.

"You've read the papers--all about Mr. Warren's murder, haven't you?"

"I'll say I have."

"What do you think about it?"

Again that startled look in Barker's eyes. Again the nervous twitching of hands.

"Whatcha mean, what do I think about it?"

"The woman in the taxicab--do you think she killed him?"

Barker drew a deep breath. One might have fancied that it was a sigh of relief.

"Oh, _her_? Sure! She's the person that killed him!"

"He knew a good many women?" suggested Carroll interrogatively. "He got along pretty well with them?"

"H-m!" William Barker nodded. "You said it then, Mr. Carroll. Mr.

Warren--he was a bird with the women!"

CHAPTER VIII

CARROLL MAKES A MOVE

No slightest move of Warren's erstwhile valet--no twitching of facial muscles, no involuntary gesture of nervousness, however slight--escaped Carroll's attention; but with all his watchfulness, the boyish-looking investigator was unostentatious, almost retiring in his manner.

And this modest demeanor was having its effect on William Barker, just as Carroll had known it would have, and as Leverage had hoped. Eric Leverage had worked with Carroll before, and he had seen the man's personal charm, his sunny smile, his att.i.tude of camaraderie, perform miracles. People had a way of talking freely to Carroll after he had chatted with them awhile, no matter how bitter the hostility surrounding their first meeting. Carroll was that way--he was a student of practical every-day psychology. He worked to one end--he endeavored to learn the mental reactions of every one of his _dramatis persoae_ 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.

"It doesn't matter what a suspect says," he had told Leverage once. "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."

Leverage's reply had been expressive of his opinion of Carroll's almost uncanny ability.

"Sounds like d.a.m.ned nonsense," said he; "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 Carroll'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 att.i.tude which was part friendliness toward Carroll 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 Carroll's ability.

Barker's last statement--"Warren, he was a bird with the women!"--was true. Leverage knew it was true. Carroll 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 taxicab. That being the case, a definite task was faced--first, find the woman; then find some man vitally affected by her elopement with Warren.

Carroll betrayed no particular interest in Barker's statement. Instead, he smiled genially, a sort of between-us-men smile, which did much to disarm Barker.

"A regular devil with 'em, eh, Barker?"

"You spoke a mouthful that time, Mr. Carroll! 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 hearin'."

"A good many stories about his love affairs--with women who were prominent socially."