"On the street car. And when she come out—she was alone and it was his suit-case she was carryin'—the same suit-case he had taken into the station. The one you found in the taxicab."
"I see—" Carroll did not want to believe Barker's story, but he knew that the man was telling the truth—or at least that most of what he was saying was true. The detective seemed crushed with disappointment. Leverage, seated in the corner of the room, chewing savagely on a big black cigar—was sorry for his friend: sorry—yet proud of the way he was standing the gaff of his chagrin. Carroll again spoke to Barker—manner almost apathetic—
"You know a good deal more about this thing than you've told us, don't you Barker?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well: let's have your story from the beginning to the end. I'll be honest with you: I believe a good deal of what you've told me. Some of your story I don't believe. Other portions of it need substantiation. But you are mighty close to being charged with murder—and now is your chance to clear yourself. Go to it!"
Barker plunged a hand into his pocket. "Can I smoke, Mr. Carroll?"
"Certainly. And sit down."
They drew up their chairs before the fire. Carroll did not look at
Barker, but Leverage's steady gaze was fixed on the man's crafty face.
"I'm going to come clean with you, Mr. Carroll. I'm going to tell you everythin' I know—and everythin' I think. I didn't want to do it—and I don't want to now. But I'd a heap rather have the job of convincin' you that I ain't mixed up in this murder than I would of makin' a jury believe the same thing. I reckon you'll give me a square deal."
"I will," snapped Carroll. "Go ahead."