“‘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 coupe 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?”