"Walters gets the signal and drives up. Mrs. Lawrence gets in. He drives away. And then—"
Leverage leaped forward eagerly: "Yes—?? and then?"
"Well," said Carroll slowly, "we don't know what happened in that taxicab. We believe that Mrs. Lawrence is a decent woman. We know that Warren would have gone through with the elopement. That being the case, we can fancy his keen disappointment. Under those circumstances, Eric—a good many things could have occurred in that taxicab which might have justified Warren's death at her hands."
Leverage crossed to his desk, from the top drawer of which he took a box of cigars. He was frowning as he recrossed to Carroll and offered him one. Then, with almost exasperating deliberation, the head of the police force clipped the end of his own cigar, held a match to it, replaced the box in his desk and took up his post before the fire—with his back to it so that he could watch Carroll's face.
"You really want to believe that story, don't you, David?" he asked gently.
"Yes."
"And yet you know it is shot all full of holes."
"How?"
"For one thing," said Leverage slowly—"how do you explain the fact that it was a.32 that killed him. Not that a .32 is any big gun—it isn't—but it does make a considerable racket."
"The shooting probably took place at the R.L.&T. crossing while the train was passing. The sound of the shot may have been drowned in the roar of the train—not entirely smothered of course, but sufficiently blended with the other noise not to attract the attention of the half-frozen driver. And, the cab being stopped there, it must have been at that point that Mrs. Lawrence—panicky over what had occurred—left the taxi."