A LIE OR TWO
“Mr. Creede,” said he, “look carefully at this watch. Do you recognize
it?”
“Of course I do,” replied Clive. “It’s mine. How did--?”
“This watch, Mr. Creede,” said the chief, slowly, “has just been turned
over to me by your brother.”
“My brother?” asked Clive, surprised.
As he spoke his eyes searched the room, peering into the farther
shadows in quest of Osmun.
“He has gone,” said the chief, reading the glance. “But before he went
he pulled this watch out of the vest pocket of--Mr. Thaxton Vail.
You admit it is yours. The watch that was stolen from your room this
evening. Therefore--”
“Clive!” broke in Vail. “You know me well enough to--”
“Mr. Vail,” interrupted the chief, “it is my duty to warn you that
anything you say may be used against you. Now, then, Mr. Creede: You
have identified this watch as the one stolen from you. It was taken
from Mr. Vail’s pocket in the presence of all of us. You can swear to
the identification?”
“Hold on, please!” said Clive. “You’re barking industriously, Chief.
But you’re barking up the wrong tree. That isn’t the watch I lost.”
“You said it was!” accused the chief. “You said--”
“I said nothing of the sort,” denied Clive. “You asked me if I
recognized the watch. And I said I did and that it was mine. I didn’t
say it was the one that was stolen to-night. And it isn’t.”
The house guests--to whom the Argyle watch was a familiar
object--gasped. Thaxton Vail made as though to speak in quick
disclaimer. But Clive’s tired voice droned on as he met Quimby’s
suspicious eyes fairly and calmly.
“This watch is mine. It belonged to my father. It was one he had made
the year before he died, with the Argyle watch as a model. And a very
poor bit of work it was. For it has scarcely a look of the original.
Last week at my Rackrent Farm house Mr. Vail dropped his repeater-watch
and broke its mainspring. He sent it to New York to be mended. And I
lent him this second watch of mine to carry till his own comes back.
That’s what I meant just now when I said I recognized the watch and
that it is mine.”
“Clive!” sputtered Vail. “You’re--”
“If my brother snatched this watch out of Mr. Vail’s pocket,” finished
Clive, heedless of the interruption and with his eyes still holding the
chief’s, “then he did a mighty impertinent thing and one for which I
apologize, in his name, to my host. That’s all, Chief. The Argyle watch
is still missing.”
The stupidly coined lie deceived no one but the police, though Doris
Lane felt a throb of admiration for the man who thus sought to shield
his friend. The lie helped to blot from her memory Clive’s earlier
suspicion of Vail. She gave eager credit to the way wherein he defended
the chum in whose guilt he really believed.
Old Miss Gregg reached out a wrinkled hand and patted Creede on the
knee much as she might have patted the head of Macduff, the collie.
“You’re a good boy, Clive,” she whispered. “You always were. And, oh,
it’s so infinitely better to _do_ good than just to _be_ good! If--”
Thaxton Vail’s fierce disclaimer drowned out her murmured words of
praise.
“Chief,” declared Vail, “my friend is saying all this to protect me.
But I don’t need any protection. That is the Argyle watch. Though how
it happened to be in my pocket is more than I can guess. That’s the
stolen watch. I ought to know. I’ve seen it a thousand times ever since
I was a child. And I never broke a repeater-watch at Mr. Creede’s
house. I never owned a repeater. And I never borrowed any watch from
him. Also, to the best of my belief, his father never had a watch made
to order. He always carried the Argyle watch, and I never heard of his
having any other.”
“Chief,” interposed Clive, very quietly, as Vail paused for breath,
“I have just told you the true story--the story I shall stick to, if
necessary, on the witness stand. Please remember that. If I say that
watch is not the stolen one any jury in the world will take my word as
to my knowledge of my own property. And any accusation against Mr. Vail
will appear very ridiculous. It will not add to your reputation. For
your own sake I advise you to accept my statement at its face value.”
“Drop that idiocy, Clive!” exhorted Vail angrily. “I tell you I don’t
need any protection. And if I did I wouldn’t take it in the form of a
lie. You mean well. And I’m grateful to you. But--”
“That’s my story, Chief,” calmly repeated Creede.
Quimby was looking from one to the other of the two men in worried
uncertainty. Both were rich and influential members of the Aura
community. Both were lifelong dwellers in the region. The word of
either, presumably, would carry heavy weight in court. Yet each flatly
contradicted the other. The chief’s brain began to buzz. Holding up the
watch and facing the onlookers he asked:
“Can any of you identify this watch?”
No one spoke. Vail glanced from face to face. Every visage was either
unwontedly pale or else unwontedly red. But nobody spoke. Clive
Creede’s eyes followed Vail’s to the countenances of the spectators. In
his sunken gaze was a world of appeal.
“Miss Gregg!” cried Thaxton at random. “You knew Clive’s father for
years. You’ve seen the Argyle watch ever so often. I call on you to
identify it.”
“My dear Thax,” cooed the old lady, placidly, “nothing on earth
would give me greater joy than to identify it--except to identify the
scoundrel who stole it.”
“There!” exclaimed Vail, turning in grim triumph to the chief.
“But,” prattled on the serene old lady, “I’m sorry to say I can’t
identify it. Because I don’t see it. I’m perfectly familiar with
the Argyle watch. But the Argyle watch is most decidedly _not_ the
turnip-like timepiece our friend Quimby is dangling so seductively
before me.”
Thaxton groaned aloud and sank into his chair, his mind awhirl. The
chief smiled.
“That seems to settle it,” he said, briskly. “Mr. Vail, you must be
mistaken. This cannot be the Argyle watch. Two more-than-reputable
witnesses have just testified most definitely to that fact.”
“I don’t know what conspiracy you people are in to save me,” mumbled
Vail, glowering from the haggard Clive to the smugly smiling old lady.
“But you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t think I am guilty. And that hurts
like raw vitriol. I--”
“Don’t be absurd!” chided Miss Gregg. “Don’t lose all the little
intelligence the Lord saw fit to sprinkle into that fatuous brain of
yours. I’ve known you all your life. I know all about you. You’d never
receive a Nobel prize for anything except cleanness and squareness and
sportsmanship and kindness. But you’re no thief. And every one knows
it. So stop trying to be pathetic.”
“But--”
“Besides,” she continued, in the same reproving tone, “nobody but a
kleptomaniac ever steals without a practical motive. What motive have
you? Why--!”
“Motive?” boomed Joshua Q. Mosely. “Motive, hey? Well, I can’t speak
for you people’s losses, but Mrs. M.’s stolen joolry was worth $12,000,
at a low appraisal. That seems to be motive enough for a poor dub of a
country hotelkeeper to--”
“My good, if loud-mouthed, man,” replied Miss Gregg, “Mr. Vail’s annual
income is something in the neighborhood of $200,000, to my certain
knowledge. If he wanted such jewelry as was stolen to-night, he could
have bought and paid for a three-ton truckload of it. He could even
have paid present-day prices for enough gasoline to run the three-ton
truck. What object would he have had in sneaking into our rooms and
purloining little handfuls of gew-gaws? That is one argument which may
appeal even to your mighty intellect. He--”
“But,” gurgled Joshua Q. “But--but hold on, ma’am! Is this a funny joke
you’re springing? What would a man with a $200,000 income be doing,
running a backwoods tavern like this? Tell me that. There’s a catch in
this. Are the lot of you in the plot to--?”
“Miss Gregg is right, sir,” said the chief, who, like the rest of the
community, stood in chronic fear of the eccentrically powerful old
dame. “And there’s no need to use ugly words like ‘plot,’ when you’re
speaking to a lady like her. Mr. Vail’s income is estimated at not less
than $200,000, just as she’s told you. As for his running a tavern
or a hotel, he doesn’t. This is his estate, inherited from the late
Mr. Osmun Vail. I read in the paper, yesterday, that a clause of the
will of Mr. Osmun Vail makes him keep a part of the house open, if
necessary, as an inn. Whether or not that’s true, or just a newspaper
yarn, I don’t know. But I do know that Mr. Vail could have no financial
reason for stealing jewelry or small rolls of bills or cheap watches.”
He spoke with the pride of locality, in impressing an outlander with
a neighbor’s importance. Thaxton Vail, thoroughly uncomfortable, had
tried in vain, once or twice, to stem the tide of the chief’s eloquence
and that of the old lady. Now he sat, silent, eyes down, face red.
Joshua Q. Mosely arose and came closer, staring at the embarrassed
youth as if at some new-discovered specimen. His wife fluttered and
wiggled, eyeing Vail as she might have eyed a stage hero.
“Well, I’m sure,” she said, mincingly, “that puts a new turn on
everything. Quite a romantic--”
“Luella,” decreed her husband, breathing hard through his nose, “I
guess we’ve made fools of ourselves, horning in here, to-day. Just the
same,” he went on, scourged by memory of his loss, “that don’t clear up
who stole our joolry. Nor yet it don’t give our joolry back to us. And
those two things are more important just now than whether Mr. Vail is a
multimillionaire or not.”
“Quite so,” agreed the chief. “We don’t seem to be getting much further
in the case. Since Mr. Vail objects to being searched and objects to
his guests being searched--well, I have no warrant to search them.
But I take it there’s no objection to my searching the house, once
more--especially the servants’ quarters and all that?”
“None at all,” said Vail. “Ring for Horoson. She’ll show you around.”
“I guess I and Mrs. M. will turn in,” said Mosely, “if we’re not
needed any longer. We’re pretty tired, the both of us. Came all the
way through from Manchester since sunrise, you know. And we’ve got to
be off first thing in the morning. Chief, I’ll stop in at the police
station on my way to-morrow and leave our _ad_dress and post a reward.
G’night, all.”
He and his wife departed to the upper regions, gabbling together in
low, excited tones as they went. The housekeeper appeared, in answer to
Vail’s ring. The chief and the constable strode off in her indignant
wake to make their tour of inspection.
“I wish,” said Willis Chase, vindictively, “I wish those Mosely
persons and that road-company police chief could be made to take turns
occupying the magenta room. That’s the worst I can wish any one. I--”
“Clive, old chap!” exclaimed Vail, wheeling on Creede as soon as the
policemen’s footsteps died away. “Why in blazes did you tell such a
thundering lie? And, as for you, Miss Gregg--!”
“Young man,” interrupted the spinster, with great severity, “I knew you
when you were in funny kilt skirts and when you wore your hair roached
on top and in silly little ringlets at the back, and when you couldn’t
spell ‘cat.’ If you think I’m going to tolerate a scolding from you or
going to let you call me to account for anything at all you’re greatly
mistaken.”
“But--”
“Besides,” she went on, relaxing, “suppose I did tell a lie? For
heaven’s sake, what is a lie? That weasel of a Reuben Quimby had no
more right to the contents of my brain than to the contents of my safe.
A person who is not ashamed to lock a door with a key need not be
ashamed to lock his mind with a lie.”
“Aunt Hester!” cried Doris, quite horrified.
“Not that I excuse foolish and unnecessary lies, my dear,” explained
her aunt. “They are ill-bred, and they spoil one’s technique for the
few really needful lies.”
Then, feeling she had averted for the moment Vail’s angry condemnation
of her falsehood, she shifted the subject once more.
“Clive!” she ordained. “Go to bed. You look like the hero of a Russian
problem novel. One of those ghastly faced introspectives with influenza
names, who needn’t bother to spend money in getting their hair cut;
because they are going to commit suicide in another chapter or so
anyhow. You look positively dead. This has been too much for you. Go to
bed, my dear boy. And thank you for restoring my faith in boykind a few
minutes ago by lying so truthfully.”
Clive got to his feet, wavering, his face set in a mask of illness. He
turned to Thaxton Vail and held out his hand. To Doris there seemed in
the action an assurance of loyalty. To Vail the proffer savored of the
dramatic--as if, believing his friend guilty, Creede was none the less
willing to shake his hand.
“Clive,” said Vail, coldly, ignoring the gesture, “if you think I’m a
thief I don’t want to shake hands with you. If you don’t think I’m a
thief there’s no need in shaking hands in that melodrama fashion. Good
night. Need any help to get upstairs?”
“No, thanks,” returned Creede, wincing at the rebuff. “I--”
He finished the sentence by toppling over in a dead faint at his host’s
feet.
Instantly Vail and Chase were working over him, loosening his collar
and belt, and lifting his arms on high so that the blood might flow
back into the heart. Miss Gregg dived into the recesses of the black
bead handbag she always carried on her wrist. From it she exhumed an
ounce vial of smelling salts.
“Here!” she said. “Let me put this under his nostrils. It’s as strong
as the Moral Law and almost as rank. The poor boy! He-- Drat this cork!
It’s jammed in. Got a corkscrew?”
Thaxton paused long enough in his work of resuscitation to take from
his hip pocket the big German army knife which Clive had brought him
from overseas.
“Here!” he said, opening the corkscrew and handing the knife to her.
“What a barbarous contraption!” commented Miss Gregg, as she strove to
extract the cork from her smelling-bottle. “How do you happen to be
carrying it in your dinner clothes?”
“I stuck it into my pocket, along with my cash, when I changed, I
suppose,” said Vail, as he worked. “I was in a rush, and I--”
“That’s a murderous-looking thing on the back of it,” she went on, as
she finished drawing the cork and laid the knife on the table. “It
looks like the business-half of a medieval poniard.”
“That’s a punch, of some sort,” he answered absently. “Got the smelling
salts ready yet?”
“He’s coming around!” announced Chase, as Miss Gregg knelt beside the
unconscious man to apply the bottle to his pinched nostrils. “See, his
eyes are opening.”
Clive Creede blinked, shivered, then stared foolishly about. At sight
of the faces bending above him he frowned and essayed weakly to sit up.
“I--surely I wasn’t such a baby as to keel over, was--was I?” he
panted, thickly.
“Don’t try to talk!” begged Doris. “You’re all right now. It’s been too
much for you. Let Thax and Willis help you up to bed. Auntie, don’t you
think we ought to telephone for Dr. Lawton?”
“No,” begged Clive, his voice somewhat less wobbly. “Please don’t. A
good night’s rest will set me up. I’m ashamed to have--”
“Don’t waste breath in talking, old man!” put in Vail. “I’m a rotten
host, to have let you have all this strain when you were sick. Don’t go
struggling to get up. Lie still. So!”
Deftly he passed his arms under the prostrate man’s knees and
shoulders. Then, with a bracing of his muscles, he lifted Clive from
the floor.
“Go ahead, and open the door of his bedroom,” he bade Chase. “I’ll
carry him up.”
“No!” protested Clive, struggling. “I--”
“Quiet, please,” said Vail. “It’ll be easy to carry you, but not if you
squirm. Gangway!”