Midnight

Midnight, by Octavus Roy Cohen

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Title: Midnight
Author: Octavus Roy Cohen
Release Date: February 11, 2004 [eBook #11043]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
MIDNIGHT***
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MIDNIGHT
BY OCTAVUS ROY COHEN
Author of "THE CRIMSON ALIBI," "GRAY DUSK," ETC.

1921

TO DR. MILES A. WATKINS

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I
OUT OF THE STORM
II THE SUIT-CASE IS OPENED
III "FIND THE WOMAN"
IV CARROLL HAS A VISITOR
V MISS EVELYN ROGERS
VI REGARDING ROLAND WARREN
VII THE VALET TALKS
VIII CARROLL MAKES A MOVE
XI ICE CREAM SODA
X A DISCOVERY
XI LOOSE ENDS
XII A CHALLENGE
XIII NO ALIBI

XIV THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN
XV A TALK WITH HAZEL GRESHAM
XVI THE WOMAN IN THE TAXI
XVII BARKER ACCUSES
XVIII "AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH--"
XIX LABYRINTH
XX A CONFESSION
XXI CARROLL DECIDES
XXII THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED
CHAPTER I
OUT OF THE STORM
Taxicab No. 92,381 skidded crazily on the icy pavement of Atlantic
Avenue. Spike Walters, its driver, cursed roundly as he applied the
brakes and with difficulty obtained control of the little closed car.
Depressing the clutch pedal, he negotiated the frozen thoroughfare and
parked his car in the lee of the enormous Union Station, which bulked
forbiddingly in the December midnight.
Atlantic Avenue was deserted. The lights at the main entrance of the
Union Station glowed frigidly. Opposite, a single arc-lamp on the
corner of Cypress Street cast a white, cheerless light on the gelid
pavement. The few stores along the avenue were dark, with the
exception of the warmly lighted White Star restaurant directly opposite
the Stygian spot where Spike's car was parked.
The city was in the grip of the first cold wave of the year. For two days
the rain had fallen--a nasty, drizzling rain which made the going soggy
and caused people to greet one another with frowns. Late that afternoon

the mercury had started a rapid downward journey. Fires were piled
high in the furnaces, automobile-owners poured alcohol into their
radiators. The streets were deserted early, and the citizens, for the most
part, had retired shiveringly under mountains of blankets and down
quilts still redolent of moth-balls.
Winter had come with freezing blasts which swept around corners and
chilled to the bone. The rain of two days became a driving sleet, which
formed a mirror of ice over the city.
On the seat of his yellow taxicab, Spike Walters drew a heavy lap-robe
more closely about his husky figure and shivered miserably.
Fortunately, the huge bulk of the station to his right protected him in a
large measure from the shrieking wintry winds. Mechanically Spike
kept his eyes focused upon the station entrance, half a block ahead.
But no one was there. Nowhere was there a sign of life, nowhere an
indication of warmth or cheer or comfort. With fingers so numb that
they were almost powerless to do the bidding of his mind, Spike drew
forth his watch and glanced at it. Midnight!
Spike replaced the watch, blew on his numb fingers in a futile effort to
restore warmth, slipped his hands back into a pair of heavy--but, on this
night, entirely inadequate--driving-gloves, and gave himself over to a
mental rebellion against the career of a professional taxi-driver.
"Worst night I've ever known," he growled to himself; and he was not
far wrong.
Midnight! No train due until 12.25, and that an accommodation from
some small town up-State. No taxi fares on such a train as that. The
north-bound fast train--headed for New York--that was late, too. Due at
11.55, Spike had seen a half-frozen station-master mark it up as being
fifty minutes late. Perhaps a passenger to be picked up there--some
sleepy, disgruntled, entirely unhappy person eager to attain the warmth
and coziness of a big hotel.
Yet Spike knew that he must wait. The company for which he worked

specialized on service. It boasted that every train was met by a yellow
taxicab--and this was Spike's turn for all-night duty at the Union
Station.
All the independent taxi-drivers had long since deserted their posts.
The parking space on Cypress Street, opposite the main entrance of the
station--a space usually crowded with commercial cars--was deserted.
No private cars were there, either. Spike seemed alone in the drear
December night, his car an exotic of the early winter.
Ten minutes passed--fifteen. The cold bit through Spike's overcoat,