Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's notes: Extensive research found no evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE MONK OF HAMBLETON
_By_
ARMSTRONG LIVINGSTON
NEW YORK
RAE D. HENKLE CO. Inc. Publishers
1928
COPYRIGHT, 1928,
By RAE D. HENKLE Co. INC.
Manufactured in the United States
_THE AUTHOR_
_Armstrong Livingston was born in New York City and was educated at St.
George's School, Newport, R. I; and in Europe. He began a writing
career in 1918. He has traveled extensively and for the past two years
he and Mrs. Livingston have made their home in Algiers with occasional
trips to Paris and London. He is the author of the following
books--all mystery stories:_
THE MONK OF HAMBLETON
THE MYSTERY OF THE TWIN RUBIES
THE JU-JU MAN
ON THE RIGHT WRISTS
LIGHT-FINGERED LADIES
THE GUILTY ACCUSER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. SAYING IT WITH FRUIT
II. THE HEAD OF THE TRAIL
III. A WARNING
IV. THE LEGEND OF THE MONK
V. MISS LUCY'S MAN
VI. AN AUNT IN NEED
VII. OUT OF THE PAST
VIII. TWO VICTIMS OF THEFT
IX. SIMON SEEKS ADVICE
X. CREIGHTON TAKES THE CASE
XI. CHECKERS AND CHICANE
XII. STARLIGHT ON STEEL
XIII. A DEDUCTION OR TWO
XIV. LUCY VARR
XV. TREASURE TROVE
XVI. A WOMAN OF NOTE
XVII. AN ARREST Is MADE
XVIII. SOME OLD MEN ARE OUT
XIX. AMONG THOSE PRESENT
XX. H. ANTEUS KRECH
XXI. TWILIGHT
XXII. A CRY IN THE NIGHT
XXIII. THE DARKEST HOUR
XXIV. BEYOND THE STARS
THE MONK OF HAMBLETON
_I: Saying It With Fruit_
The weather-beaten buildings that comprised the plant of the Varr and
Bolt tannery occupied a scant five acres of ground a short half-mile
from the eastern edge of the village of Hambleton. They were of
old-type brick construction, dingy without and gloomy within, and no
one unacquainted with the facts could have guessed from their
dilapidated and defected exteriors that they represented a sound and
thriving business. It was typical of Simon Varr, that outward air of
shabbiness and neglect; it was said of him that he knew how to exact
the last ounce of efficiency from men and material without the
expenditure of a single superfluous penny.
An eight-foot board fence surrounded the property on three sides, the
fourth being bounded by a sluggish, disreputable creek whose fetid
waters seemed to crawl onward even more slowly after receiving the
noisome waste liquor from the tan-pits. At only one point, that
nearest the village, did any of the buildings touch the encircling
fence. There its sweep was broken by the facade of a squat two-story
structure of yellow brick which contained the offices of the concern
and the big bare room in which a few decrepit clerks pursued their
uninspiring labors. Admission to this building, and through it to the
yard, was by way of a stout oaken door on which the word _Private_ was
stencilled in white paint. Just above the lettering, at the height of
a man's eyes, a small Judas had been cut--a comparatively recent
innovation to judge from the freshness of its chiselled edges.
On the afternoon of a warm, late-summer day a number of
men--twenty-five or thirty--were loitering outside this door in various
attitudes of leisure and repose. They were a sorry, unkempt lot,
poorly clothed and unshaven, sullen of face and weary-eyed. When they
moved it was languidly, when they spoke it was with brevity, in tired,
toneless voices. All of them looked hungry and many of them were, for
it was the end of the third week of their strike.
The faintest flicker of animation stirred them as they were presently
joined by a roughly-dressed man who sauntered up from the direction of
the village, though it is safe to suppose that some of them were moved
to interest less by the newcomer himself than by the fact that he was
carrying a huge ripe tomato in one hand. He nodded a greeting that was
returned by them in kind, and it was some moments before the most
energetic of their number crystallized their listless curiosity in a
single question.
"Any news, Charlie?"
"Nothin' to git excited about."
"I seen you talkin' to Graham a while ago."
"Uh-huh. Graham's a good sport even if he is standin' in with th'
bosses."
"He's only lookin' out for himself," said the spokesman judicially, and
tightened his belt by one hole. There was a murmur of assent from the
others. "A man has to in this world."
"Uh-huh. And that's why we're strikin' now for a livin' wage and
decent workin' conditions. We're just lookin' out for ourselves
because no one else will."
"Don't see as we're gettin' 'em," ventured a pessimist mournfully.
"Graham say anythin'?"
"Said we'd oughter give in. That's what we'd expect _him_ to say,
ain't it? But I was talkin' to one of the clerks, feller named
Stevens, and _he_ says that there's a lot of big orders on th' books
that ain't goin' to be filled if we don't go back to work. Reckon
that'll give old Varr somethin' to think about!"
They contemplated this hopeful scrap of information in a silence broken
finally by the pessimist, who contributed a morsel of personal history
by no means as irrelevant to the subject as it sounded.
"Wimpelheimer just shook his head when I went to him this noon for a
bit of meat. He was nice enough about it, but he says three or four
fellers left town last week owin' him money an' he can't figure noways
how we're goin' to win this strike. He's lookin' out for himself, too!"
"Uh-huh." Charlie's favorite expression of agreement was slightly
blurred by a mouthful of tomato. "Varr owns Wimpelheimer's store. If
he catches Wimpy bein' too accommodatin' to us chaps he's fixed to make
trouble for him." He nodded portentously. "Get it?"
"Seems as if Varr owns th' hull blame village of Hambleton, barrin' a
few things he's only got a mortgage on," drawled another speaker. He
went on musingly to quote a local aphorism. "What Varr says, _goes_!"
"That's right," concurred the pessimist glumly. "I reckon we took on a
pretty big contract when we started to buck Simon Varr!" He wagged his
head despondently. "Why--a man might as well try to buck _Gawd_!"
Charlie's face came out from behind the tomato and his eyes swept the
other with fiery scorn. "Gettin' cold feet, huh? Mebbe you'd like to
git down on your knees an' crawl back to th' old skinflint? The rest
of us started out to do somethin' an' I guess we'll stick. Ain't that
so, boys?" There was a low murmur of assent. "We'll win,
too--cry-baby!"
"You'd better hope so, Charlie Maxon!" flashed the object of his
derision. "You talked us into this strike in the beginnin', more than
any one else did, an' if we have to go back to work on th' old terms
your name is goin' to be _mud_!"
"Talked you into it, did I? All right, then--I did! What of it?
Afraid I'm goin' to quit on you, huh? Well, I'm not. If I talked you
into it, I'll get you _out_ of it--with more pay an' better
conditions." His voice hardened to a threatening note. "What's more,
we ain't goin' back on th' old terms or th' old conditions, neither.
You heard tell of th' fire that started in C buildin' t'other night,
didn't you? Said it was an accident, didn't they? Well, mebbe it was
an' mebbe it wasn't. Mebbe there's others who wouldn't be sorry to see
th' tannery go up in smoke! An' as for Simon Varr, before I'd go back
to work for him at the old scale I'd catch him by himself some night
an'--"
"Here he comes now!" broke in somebody abruptly.
Maxon, his harangue cut short, followed the gaze of all of them.
Coming toward them some fifty yards away, not from the direction of the
village but from a short-cut through the woods that led from the
tannery to his house on the hill, was the familiar, thickset, gray
figure of the man they had been discussing. They watched him draw near
for a moment, then quietly broke up into groups of two and three and
drifted silently away. Maxon lingered to the last from a spirit of
sullen bravado, but he had no wish to encounter his late employer face
to face and he, in turn, followed his comrades in retreat.
Simon Varr watched them go from beneath his shaggy, scowling eyebrows,
and his thin lips relaxed their usual tightness to curve in a
contemptuous sneer. Jackals!
He marched steadily to his objective, the door of the offices, and was
raising his hand to knock when there was the sound of an iron bar
sliding back and the door opened. Since the fire to which Maxon had
referred, it had been deemed advisable to employ a watchman by night
and a guard by day to protect the property from either accident or
sabotage. It was the day-man who had recognized his employer through
the Judas and drew the bar.
"Good afternoon, sir," he ventured politely.
Simon Varr was not accustomed to respect any amenity of social
intercourse and he paid no more attention now to the greeting than if
it had never been uttered. He merely glanced sharply at the man and
snapped a curt question.
"Well, Nelson--any trouble?"
"No, sir. There's been a bunch of them loungin' around outside and
talkin' a lot, I was listenin' to them when you came along."
"Talking, eh? Who seemed to be doing the most of it?"
"Well, sir, I'd say that--"
He was not destined to say it at that moment, however, for his remarks
were interrupted by an incident as annoying as it was unexpected. He
and Varr were confronting each other in the open doorway while they
spoke, and at this point some missile hurtled past their faces and
thudded heavily against the planking of the door, where it burst with
all the enthusiasm of a hand-grenade. Startled, they sprang back;
then, recovering from the shock, they discovered themselves quite
uninjured in body if somewhat damaged in raiment. They were liberally
bespattered from head to foot with the lifeblood of an overripe tomato.
Nelson vented his indignation in a mild oath, Varr relieved his
feelings in an angry snarl. The tanner wheeled swiftly in an effort to
detect the author of the outrage, but his eyes showed him only a small
knot of men, their hands thrust ostentatiously in their pockets, whose
snickers died away as he gazed at them grimly. He grunted
disdainfully, motioned the guard to precede him, and closed the door
behind them as they entered the building. They busied themselves
briefly with handkerchiefs.
"I'd like to have the tannin' of their ugly hides!" muttered Nelson.
"Charlie Maxon was eating a tomato as I came across from the path,"
commented Varr, more to himself than to his companion. "He put his
hands behind his back to hide it from me, but he was too slow. Umph!
He'll wish he'd never seen that tomato, let alone thrown it at me,
before I'm through with him!"
"Maxon, sir?" The mention of the name reminded Nelson of his
unfinished report. "Why, it was him that was doin' all the talkin'!"
"It was, eh? Umph."
"More than that, sir, he was makin' threats."
"Threats! What sort of threats?"
"Nothing very definite, sir, but it sounded to me as if he'd be glad
enough to set fire to this place if he got a good chance--and he said
he wouldn't come back to work at the old wages, not if he had to catch
you by yourself some night."
"Catch me by myself--! And _then_ what?"
"That was as far as he got, sir. They saw you comin' then and he
didn't say anything more."
"Ah!" There was derision in the monosyllable, but a thoughtful
expression in the hard gray eyes indicated that Varr had found food for
reflection in Nelson's story. What direction his thoughts were taking
he did not choose to reveal at the moment, but shot another question at
the watchman instead. "Doesn't Maxon wear a dark-blue flannel shirt?"
"Usually, sir; he had on a gray one to-day."
"Ah!" It was a note of triumph this time. "Have you seen Steiner this
afternoon?"
"Steiner, sir? The Chief of Police?"
"The Chief of Police--certainly! Not the Sultan of Turkey!"
"No, sir, I haven't. But this is about the time he turns up every day
to see that things are quiet."
"Watch out for him. Tell him I want to speak to him. I'll be upstairs
in my office."
"Yes, sir."
They parted with no further remarks. Nelson made a cautious
preliminary survey of the outer world to satisfy himself that no more
tomatoes were to be apprehended, then opened the door, placed a chair
upon the threshold, and settled to the enjoyment of a freshly-filled
pipe while waiting for Steiner to put in an appearance. Varr strode to
the farther end of the hallway and climbed the flight of narrow,
rickety stairs which led to the upper floor.
This was normally the scene of quiet and orderly activity, where the
day's work was done to the clicking of typewriters and the hum of
subdued voices, but now the rooms were empty and the only sound to be
heard was the heavy tread of Varr himself as he walked through the main
office to the small room where his own desk was located. He frowned at
the difference, and sniffed discontentedly at the stale air which
seemed already to have taken on the peculiar flat mustiness appropriate
to closed and deserted habitations. He frowned again when he drew his
finger along a desk and noted the depth of the furrow it had made in
the dust.
A reasonable man--Simon emphatically was not--would have allocated to
himself some share of the blame while scowling at the empty chairs and
dusty furnishings of the office. It was he who was primarily
responsible. It was he who had decreed that the clerical force should
be laid off without pay for the duration of the strike.
"They'll have nothing to do--why should we pay 'em to do it?"
Jason Bolt, a minor partner in the business by virtue of some money he
had put into it at a critical period in its early development, had
protested mildly and ineffectually.
"It wasn't their fault, this strike. If we do that it's going to make
them mighty sore."
"Sore at us--but it'll make 'em _hate_ the strikers!"
"It will work a hardship on them--they need their salaries."
"If they don't like it let them find other jobs."
"They can't, Simon--there aren't any in Hambleton."
"Then let 'em move to another village--there isn't one of them who'd be
a real loss to the community."
"They can't do that, either, they're all family men and they can't pull
up stakes and shift at a minute's notice."
"Then they'll stay here and do the best they can until we're ready to
whistle 'em to heel again. So much the better. Nothing breaks a
strike quicker than adverse public opinion--and those clerks are going
to provide a lot of that when they begin to feel the pinch. I'm giving
you a lesson, Jason, not only in economy, but in strategy!"
"Just the same--I don't like it."
Simon Varr's eyebrows had gone up a full inch and dropped again.
"You don't like it?" he retorted ironically. "Well, I _do_--and what I
say, _goes_!"
Which had ended the debate, since he spoke the simple truth.
He blew the dust from the finger that he had trailed along the desk and
entered the small office that was his sanctum. Seated at his ancient
roll-top, he opened and read a handful of letters that had come in the
afternoon mail--and his ready frown was active again as he noted the
tone of some of them. The clerk, Stevens, when he told Maxon that
several orders were shortly due to be filled, had in nowise exaggerated
the case. Two or three were already overdue, and irate gentlemen in
distant cities were beginning to make inquiries more pertinent than
polite. Varr threw the letters on his desk and swore at the writers.
The light in the office suddenly became dim; Simon rose irritably and
went to the single window, where he raised the green shade to its
greatest height. Storm-clouds rolling up from the west had obscured
the descending sun so that the countryside, with its rolling fields of
grain and patches of thick woodland, which a moment since had been
laved in a golden flood, now looked grim and gray beneath the deepening
shadows. The tanner studied the gloomy prospect with angry eyes,
finding in it some reflection of his own situation, and the face which
he raised to the heavens was as black as the clouds themselves.
His was the startled, half-uncomprehending fury of the bull at the
first stinging dart of the picador. Domineering and ever dominant, he
had been accustomed throughout his life to impose his will upon others.
Shrewd and capable in his chosen business, successful in the limited
area of his activities, he had come perilously close to believing
himself omnipotent, not only in all that pertained to his own destiny,
but in the destinies of those about him. Never until the last few
weeks had either men or events dared to march contrary to his wish,
whereas now they appeared to have entered deliberately into a
conspiracy to defy their master and defeat his plans.
Well--conspiracies can be crushed! His jaw set, his thin lips
tightened and his powerful hands clenched until the nails on his stubby
fingers sank deep into the flesh of his palms. Let 'em match their
wits and their wills against his--he would show 'em!
He was so rapt in thought that he did not hear a heavy step in the
outer office and was unaware that he had a visitor until a voice spoke
respectfully from the threshold of his room.
"Mr. Varr--Nelson said you wished to see me."
The tanner started and turned from the window. "Oh--it's you,
Steiner." He walked to his desk and seated himself solidly in his
swivel chair. "Come in."
The Chief of Police--Chief by virtue of two subordinate
constables--obeyed a command, rather than accepted an invitation. He
was a tall man, slender of build but wiry, a little past middle-age,
with hair beginning to gray at the temples, pale blue eyes and lantern
jaws. As a policeman he was a singularly unconvincing figure, yet he
had served creditably enough for five years in the peaceful village of
Hambleton, where an occasional speeding motorist or some native exalted
by too much home-brew constituted the whole criminal calendar for a
year. A quiet job for a quiet man.
Varr did not offer him a chair, so he stood patiently waiting, twirling
in his hands the uniform cap that he had removed in deference to his
surroundings.
"Last night," began the tanner abruptly, "some one trespassed on my
property and committed material damage--or to put it more plainly, some
one entered my kitchen garden, picked a considerable quantity of my
best tomatoes, helped himself to a couple of dozen ears of sweet corn,
and incidentally trampled down and destroyed quite a number of plants
in the process. I strongly suspect that he did the last intentionally,
out of pure malice."
"Why, sir, that's a singular thing to have happen," commented Steiner
as the other seemed to pause. "I don't expect it was any one in
Hambleton, sir. It might have been a tramp."
"It might have been, but it wasn't. It was Charlie Maxon, who used to
work for me and never shall again. I want you to take the necessary
steps to effect his arrest. I intend to prosecute him and hope he will
be punished to the full extent of the law. It's time Charlie Maxon and
a few of his friends were taught that I'm a bad man to play tricks on!"
"Maxon, sir?" Steiner seemed more thoughtful than surprised. "I think
he has been one of the more active men in agitating this strike of
yours. A bright enough chap with a queer streak running through him."
"Umph. Well, I'm going to put him where his queer streak can't get
loose and run amuck in my garden." He caught an expression of
hesitancy in the policeman's eyes. "Eh? What's the matter?"
"I was just thinking, sir--are we sure of proving it against him?
Mebbe we'd better go slow. If I arrest him, like you say, and the case
falls down, he'd have a cause for action--"
"Idiot!" snapped Varr. "Don't you suppose I know that?" He thrust his
hand into his breast-pocket. "Of course I have plenty of proof."
He produced a heavy wallet and opened it. From one of its compartments
he took a small, triangular bit of blue cloth and, with the habitual
impatience that marked his every speech and gesture, he threw it at
Steiner, who caught it deftly in his cap.
"The man who looted my garden was afraid to use the gate for fear he'd
be seen from the house. He came and went through the barbed-wire fence
and left that as a souvenir. It's a piece of a flannel shirt, like the
one Maxon usually wears. Get his shirt and match this to the hole
you'll find in it--see? Then take his everyday shoes and fit 'em to
the footprints he left in my tomato patch--I've had two of 'em covered
with glass bells so they won't be washed away if it rains. That will
be all the evidence you need. Understand?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Well--what is it now?"
"It's this, sir--I guess I ought to tell you that there's a lot of
feeling in the village over this strike, and most of it favors the
strikers. Maxon would get a bunch of sympathy. S'pose he comes out
and says he took those tomatoes because he was hungry? It may be wrong
to steal, but there's people who will say you're persecuting him and
they'll set him up as a martyr. I--I'm looking at it from your
interest, sir--"
"Indeed! Thank you, Steiner--thank you very much!" Varr was never
more disagreeable than on the rare occasions when he chose to be
studiously polite. "In return, let me suggest something that has to do
with your own best interests. You are employed here to preserve law
and order and this is decidedly a matter for your official
attention--unless, indeed, you are thinking of resigning from the force
on the chance that I may offer you a position as confidential adviser
to myself. Eh?"
Cold gray eyes held and mastered pale blue ones. There was a brief
silence--a silence that lasted just long enough for Steiner to reflect
that he owed his job to the Board of Selectmen and that the Selectmen
pretty much owed theirs to Simon Varr. Then he cleared his throat
nervously.
"Of course, you know best, sir. I'll act at once."
"Let me know when I'm to appear in the police court."
"Yes, sir. Is that all you want of me, sir?"
Varr did not answer, but there was dismissal in the abrupt way that he
swivelled around to his desk and bent his head over his neglected
correspondence.
_II: The Head of the Trail_
The sound of the chief's subdued steps--in departing even his feet
contrived to appear deferential--had barely died away when it was
replaced by the noise of other and more determined ones ascending the
stairs. The creaking of the ancient floor-boards heralded the approach
of Jason Bolt, the junior partner, who passed by his own private office
and entered Varr's.
He was a short, rotund little man of forty-five, smooth-shaven,
somewhat sandy in complexion, with twinkling eyes that were friendly,
and a light thatch of pinkish hair which was noticeably thinning on the
top of his head. There was a general air of cheerfulness and content
about him and his mouth, that was inclined to twitch at the corners,
seemed continually on the point of smiling. In truth, the fairy
godmother of Jason had presented him at birth with one of her choicest
gifts, a sense of humor, and it had seldom failed him since. Beyond
any possible doubt--as he had more than once pointed out to his wife
Mary--he owed to this fine characteristic the fact that he had
preserved his sanity of mind and body despite the twenty years of
intimate association with his grim, self-centered partner.
He plopped down on a chair with a puffing sound of relief. He was
panting a bit from the stairs, and his forehead was beaded with a moist
tribute to the sultriness of the weather. He fanned himself gently
with a stiff straw hat.
"Hello, Simon," he said presently, when returning breath permitted him
to speak. He did not expect any reply and continued without waiting
for one. "Gosh, I've just had quite a shock!"
"Did, eh? What was it?"
"The sight of our usually immaculate, if unpainted front door. I saw
that rich crimson stain, then observed Steiner coming out looking very
businesslike, and I made sure that some one had brained my noble
partner against his own building."
"The shock coming when you stepped in here and discovered your mistake.
Is that it?
"No, Simon; Nelson told me that it was only Charlie Maxon saying it
with catsup." His light voice grew more serious. "Just the same, a
man who throws tomatoes to-day may throw bricks to-morrow."
"Not Maxon," cut in Varr. "Steiner has my orders to arrest him."
"Arrest him! On charges of assault with a tomato? It's hardly a
deadly weapon unless it's green, and this one very obviously was not.
A slap on the wrist and a reprimand is about all he will get for that."
Varr's chair revolved until he was facing his partner, at whom he
directed a glance of angry impatience. "If you'd listen to me instead
of chattering so much--! I'm charging him with trespass, theft and
property damage." Curtly but clearly, he described the overnight raid
on his garden and his reasons for believing Maxon the culprit. He
noted the changing expression of Bolt's face as the story progressed,
and when it was finished he asked, as he had asked the Chief of Police:
"Well--what is it?"
"I'm thinking of the effect on public sentiment," answered the other
gravely, his thoughts turning in the same direction that Steiner's had
taken. "But of course that doesn't cut any ice with you--I know that.
You'll do as you please regardless of consequences."
"I certainly will!"
"Do you know, Simon, that about twenty of our best men have left town
in the last two weeks? I was talking to Billy Graham this afternoon
and he'd been checking up."
"And making the worst of the situation, you may be sure!" Varr's face
darkened as his heavy brows came together in one of his ready scowls.
"If Graham has been watching the men, I've been watching him. I'm not
so certain that his sympathy isn't with them, instead of with us, where
it ought to be. Yesterday, I met that lanky daughter of his coming
from the direction of Brett's house with an empty basket in her hand.
I don't need three guesses to tell me what she'd been doing!" His lip
curled. "Nice bit of business, eh? We're trying to break a strike,
while our own manager rushes food to the strikers!"
"Brett's wife has been sick and there are two kids to be looked after.
Sheila Graham probably remembered that and forgot everything else.
Billy may not have known anything about it--or have been able to stop
her if he did. Sheila is just as clever as she is pretty and generally
gets her own way in everything; since her mother died three years ago
she has been able to twist her father around her little finger. Smart
girl."
"Entirely too smart!"
The words were uttered with so much passion that Jason Bolt moved
uncomfortably on his chair, reproaching himself with having been
wanting in tact. There were good and sufficient reasons why Varr
should react to the mention of the girl's name like a bull to a red
rag, and here he had been stupid enough actually to praise the young
woman whom the tanner had referred to contemptuously as Graham's lanky
daughter. He opened his mouth with intent to change the subject, but
an outburst from Varr forestalled him.
"You say she has her own way with her father. Exactly! Let me tell
you, Jason, I've no use at all for a man who can't command obedience
from his own children. That is something for my boy, Copley, to
consider before he involves himself any more deeply with Sheila
Graham--the daughter of one of my workmen of whose loyalty even I can't
be certain!" Under his sense of irritation, as his resentment against
those who were defying his wishes steadily increased, his voice grew
louder and more harsh. "If that girl wants to do her father a bad
turn, just let her continue to encourage that young fool! I was a wise
man never to give Graham a contract! He's only on salary, and for two
cents I'd give him a month's pay and throw him out!"
"Well, I hope you won't," ventured Jason cautiously. He seemed to
spend most of his time debating whether the moment were propitious to
reason with Varr or whether he were best left alone! "It would be
awfully hard to replace Billy. You wouldn't have the satisfaction of
knowing that you had hurt him much, either. He told me recently that
the Thibault Tanneries have made him a very good offer to go to them.
He'd better himself considerably."
"He would, eh? Why hasn't he accepted?"
"You know as well as I do, Simon. He has been with us for years, saved
a fair bit of money, and he is hoping that some day we will see our way
to giving him an interest in the business. A laudable ambition for any
employee who wants to get on in the world. Even you can't criticize
that!"
"Umph." Varr did not seem to think it necessary to express his views
on ambition, but appeared to be reflecting on the news Jason had just
given him. "The Thibault people, eh? In Rochester!" He raised one
hand and caressed his chin softly. "So if I throw him out of here he
will go to Rochester--taking that girl with him! Have you ever
noticed--" He broke off abruptly, leaned forward and threw his voice
into the outer office. "_Hello_! Is that you, Langhorn? What do
_you_ want?"
They had failed to hear the approach of a thin, middle-aged man who had
come halfway across the main room from the head of the stairs before
Varr had chanced to see him. He came the rest of the way now, and the
fact that he stooped a little when walking lent him an odd air of
furtiveness, which was somehow borne out by his narrow face, weak,
irresolute chin and restless eyes. He was one of the clerks whom Varr
had summarily suspended from the payroll, and there was anxiety in the
gaze that shifted from one partner to another as he paused respectfully
in the doorway.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Varr! Good afternoon, Mr. Bolt!"
"What do you want?" demanded Varr curtly, though a cruel light in his
eye made it apparent that he knew the answer.
"Things are very hard, sir--"
"And you come to me for help? The more fool you! I have made it plain
that not a single employee of this concern shall draw a dollar of
salary until those ungrateful pups who have struck come back to work on
my terms. Go tell _them_ your troubles! Tell 'em for me, too, that
their time is getting short. I'm making inquiries already with a view
to getting men to take their places."
"I wasn't just thinking of work in the office, sir. If you had
something for me on the outside--something up at your house, perhaps--"
"I have nothing. Good day!"
The man waited a fraction of a second, his eyes mutely questioning
Jason Bolt, who negatived their appeal by an almost imperceptible shake
of his head. Slowly, the man withdrew.
"A sneaking hound!" Varr did not lower his voice, indifferent to
whether the retreating clerk learned his opinion of him or not. "I
have never liked him."
"He must have heard what you said about Graham," reflected Jason. "I'm
rather sorry for that. He's quite capable of carrying tales to Billy
that might lead him to misconstrue your attitude."
"Let him! I guess it won't be such an awful misconstruction at that!
Graham was never farther in his life than this minute from his
partnership."
"Well--of course--a partnership wouldn't quite march with my idea!"
Jason Bolt lighted a cigar rather nervously as he broached a subject
dear to his heart. "Not a partnership--no. But if we were to
incorporate and borrow the capital we ought to have, he might
reasonably expect a good block of stock on the most advantageous
terms----"
"We--are--not--going--to--incorporate!" Varr's slow words carried the
emphasis of sheer exasperation. "I have told you before that I do not
intend to do so."
"Still, Simon, our position warrants it--our increased business almost
demands it--"
"I have said I won't!"
"Yes--yes, I heard you. I would not have brought up the subject now
except that we will have an opportunity during the next week to get
some dope on the possibilities. Judge Taylor can tell us all about the
legal end of it, but Herman Krech can give us pointers on the practical
side--"
"Who are you talking about?"
"Oh--didn't I tell you?" Artful Mr. Bolt's surprise was well
simulated. "Why, he's a New York stockbroker who has made barrels of
money. He married a girl named Jean Graham, an old friend of my
wife's. Mary has tried two or three times to get them for a visit, and
they are finally coming to-morrow for a week."
"He can stay a year for all of me." Varr brought his open hand down
with a loud smack on the arm of his chair. "Once and for all, Jason,
we are not going to incorporate!"
"We could expand and make a lot more money."
"We'll make more money without expanding!"
When a youngster at school, some one had told Jason Bolt that the
constant dropping of water will in time wear away the hardest rock. He
had never forgotten this valuable piece of knowledge, possibly because
he had so frequently demonstrated its truth on the person of his
unsuspecting partner. No one could argue Varr into doing anything,
much less drive him, but Jason had more than once succeeded in
overcoming that granite obstinacy by a species of gentle, persistent
nagging. So adept had he become in this delicate accomplishment that
Simon Varr would have sworn at the end of a campaign that he had never
deviated from the original purpose that had been his in the beginning.
"Well, anyway," tapped the drop of water, "it can't do a bit of harm to
listen to what he has to say."
Varr shrugged his shoulders. The conversation had ceased to interest
him. So, evidently, had his letters, for he thrust them from him with
an air of finality as he rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. It
was not yet very late, but with the waning of summer the days were
growing perceptibly shorter and the light in the office where the two
men were talking was already failing.
"I didn't see your car outside, Simon. Shall I give you a lift home?
or would you rather walk?"
"I'll walk." Varr crossed the room and knelt before an old iron safe
in the corner near the window, peering closely at the figures on the
dial as he slowly turned the knob. In a moment the combination Was
complete and he pulled open the heavy door. "It occurred to me to-day
that this was a poor place to leave my memorandum book. If some one
succeeded in burning the building--as some one apparently wants to--it
would be none too secure even in this safe."
Jason whistled softly. "Has that got the notes of your new formula in
it, Simon?" He stared at the small red leather notebook which Varr
took from a pigeonhole. "You're dead right to take that out of here!
By the way, did you see that letter from the Larscom Leather Company?
They say that the last order we shipped them--the batch we tanned by
your new process--is the best looking lot of leather they've ever had
in their shops."
"I guess it was," acknowledged Varr calmly. He balanced the leather
memorandum book on his hand, his expression softening for a moment as
he regarded it and remembered the days and nights of toil represented
in its closely filled pages. A metal nameplate on the cover caught his
eye by reason of its dinginess. He breathed on it and rubbed it with
the cuff of his suit. "Yes, Jason, here is proof enough that my brains
in no way resemble a tomato. If you were capable of inventing the
processes that I have noted here, you would be running a business of
your own quite independent of me!"
"That's very true, Simon." To this particular type of jeer Bolt had
grown accustomed, and if his eyes narrowed a trifle it was the only
hint of resentment that he showed. "As a matter of fact, it's just
because you've got such a good thing in this new formula that I'm
anxious for more elbow room." He glanced about him with an air of
dissatisfaction. "The business we're doing warrants something better
than this peanut stand!"
"I'm ready to buy your interest for ten times what you put in!" offered
his partner dryly. "Will you accept?"
"I will not." Jason stood up and clapped on his hat. "I must be off.
Sure you won't let me drive you home?" A shake of Varr's head answered
him. "Good night, then."
He left the office and was halfway to the stairs when a sudden thought
occurred to him and he retraced his steps.
"Say, Simon!"
"Well?"
"Where are you going to put that book?"
"This notebook? In my library desk at home, I suppose. Why in thunder
do you want to know?"
"Well, you might drop dead during the night! Think how awkward it would
be for me if your memoranda were missing, too!"
He grinned cheerfully and departed, satisfied that he had scored mildly
in retaliation for some of the slights inflicted on him by Varr. He
had once discovered that Simon Varr, for all his outward strength and
ruthless nature, had an innate fear of death. This hitherto secret
weakness had revealed itself some years before when double pneumonia
had brought him dangerously close to the end of his mortal coil.
He fell back a pace, shaken, but recovered in time to hurl an acid
comment or two at his tormentor's back. A derisive chuckle floated to
his ears from the stairway.
Varr shut the safe and spun the dial, then picked up his hat and
prepared to leave the building. He paused for a word with Nelson, who
stood up and opened the outer door.
"Your instructions are to allow no one in except Mr. Bolt and myself.
How does it happen that you permitted Langhorn to enter?"
"I knew he was one of the clerks and I thought--"
"Don't think. When does Fay relieve you?"
"At seven, sir."
"Tell him to keep a sharp watch. Instead of making his rounds at
regular intervals he had better vary the elapsed time between them. It
would be a good idea if he were to follow up one by another five
minutes later."
"I see, sir. If any one is watching him, they'll begin their mischief
when he has just finished one round, and the second might catch them at
work. Is that it, sir?"
"That is it. Keep it to yourself and Fay--no talking of it to some one
who may spread the story."
"Certainly not, sir."
"What became of that bunch of hot-air artists who were out here?"
"They drifted away, sir--home, I expect. The last few of 'em left when
Mr. Graham came along."
"Ah." Simon had asked about the men almost idly as his cold gaze swept
the clearing before the door. He had been on the point of crossing the
threshold when Nelson's casual remark stopped him short in his tracks.
"Mr. Graham was here? When was that?"
"Not twenty minutes ago, sir."
"Twenty minutes ago?" Varr thought back, and his calculations brought
a frown of annoyance to his brow. "Did he speak to you?"
"No, sir. I made sure at first that he was comin' here, but Langhorn
had just left and he stopped Mr. Graham and spoke to him."
"Humph. Did they talk together long?"
"Five or ten minutes, sir."
"Could you hear what they said?"
"No, sir. They were too far away. Langhorn did most of the talkin'
and I figured he was probably tellin' Mr. Graham a hard-luck story."
"No doubt you figured correctly," said Varr, neglecting, however, to
add that in all likelihood Graham had listened to a tale of misfortune
that concerned himself rather than the clerk. "What happened after
that? Did they leave together?"
"N-no, sir." Nelson had begun to sense the presence of something
important underlying the surface of this inquisition and he paused
a moment to reflect before continuing. "It was Langhorn who left
first. Mr. Graham stood still a while, lookin' in this direction
as if he still meant to come over, then he turned and headed for
town." A shrewd gleam lit the watchman's eye. "While he was facin'
this way it struck me that he was lookin' red and sort of angry."
"Ah!"
The monosyllable served at once to express Varr's perfect apprehension
of what had passed between the two men and to bring the present
conversation to a close. He took his leave, ignoring Nelson's polite
"good evening" after his usual custom, and strode swiftly off along the
short-cut by which he had come an hour or two earlier. Irritation
quickened his step no less than the threat of rain from the banking
clouds in the western sky.
So Jason had been right. Langhorn had overheard that portion of their
talk which concerned Graham and had promptly reported it to the man
most interested. Malicious, mischief-making little sneak! And of
course he had to walk smack into Graham just when he was in a mood to
make trouble and blow the consequences! With any luck he wouldn't have
encountered the other until resentment at the rebuff he had received
had cooled, and caution succeeded anger!
Varr was in the humor these days to find in this trivial contretemps
yet another example of the annoyances, large and small, to which he had
been subjected lately--so persistently indeed that he was coming to
believe himself the chosen target at which some malefic Providence had
elected to discharge every arrow of misfortune in its quiver.
Nothing seemed to go right any more; on the contrary, everything
appeared to take a fiendish delight in going wrong--which in Simon's
case meant largely that they were going in opposition to his wishes.
He briefly recapitulated a few of his major troubles as he hurried
along on his homeward way.
First, there was dissension in his household, where his son was in
almost open rebellion against the paternal authority in the matter of
Sheila Graham, supported, Varr guessed, by the mild approval of his
mother. Second, there was the situation at the tannery, where a bunch
of incipient lunatics had gone completely mad and struck against
conditions that had previously been satisfactory to them and their
fathers before them. Last, but by no means least, was the discontent
in the office itself, what with a partner who had been bitten by the
bug of ambition--! A much-abused, sorely-tried man raised angry eyes
to Heaven and demanded of it, "What _next_?"
And as he literally lifted his gaze from the trail, seeking an answer
in the sky, he saw something that halted him abruptly. He stood rooted
in his tracks, his head thrust slightly forward, very much as a keen
pointer freezes at the sight of game.
The path he was following was one that ascended by gentle gradients
from the tannery to his big house on the crest of the low hill. A
narrow strip of meadowland on the edge of the town was crossed, then
the path, as it reached the rising ground, plunged into a deep belt of
heavy woods that stretched away on each side for the distance of a mile
or more; at the end, the trail crested a rather sharp acclivity before
emerging from the trees and linking up with a graveled path that
circled a kitchen garden in the rear of the house.
Varr had just reached the foot of this last ascent at the moment he
looked up. Twenty yards ahead of him he could see the end of the path,
marked by a pale oblong of sky set in a dark frame of foliage, but it
was not that familiar sight which held him spellbound, started his
pulse to beating quickly and momentarily stopped his breath on a
painful gasp mingled of astonishment and fear.
Silhouetted against the sky was a tall figure dressed from head to foot
in a black garment such as a monk might wear, but almost instantly Varr
recognized that there was something in this costume that was out of
keeping with the orthodox monastic habit. What the discrepancy might
be he could not determine in those seconds of bewilderment, but he knew
it existed. The outline against the light was clearcut; there were the
flowing line of the robe, and the conical shape of the hood, plain to
be seen and unmistakable.
There were several reasons why the apparition--although he was
habitually unimaginative outside the field of barks and chemicals it
did not occur to Simon Varr in that first moment to doubt that this was
truly a specter from another world--should startle him to the verge of
sheer fright. To begin with, there was something suggestive of Death
in that somber, motionless figure, and of death he had a horror. Then
it had come so pat on his bitter question of "What _next_?" that it
seemed indubitably an answer from some Power not of earth.
Finally--there was something about the figure that wasn't _right_--!
It spoke well for his spiritual courage that he was able to control his
nerves and conquer the trembling of his limbs within a few seconds, and
at the same time determine a course of immediate action. If this were
a human being it should be challenged; if it were a ghost, it should be
laid! He kept his eye fixed on the figure and deliberately took a step
toward it.
Instantly, the immobility of the being ceased. A long black arm was
flung up and outward in his direction, a silent command to him to stay
his steps.
His obedience was prompt, for now he knew what was wrong with the
apparition. Instinct had told him that the monk was confronting him,
regarding him closely, and the quick response to his attempted advance
was evidence enough that his instinct had not lied.
His mouth went dry, his brow exuded beads of perspiration. The monk
was facing him sure enough--and that was queer, for the monk _had no
face_!
_III: A Warning_
From the shock of that gruesome discovery, Simon Varr reeled back both
mentally and physically. Involuntarily, he threw up a hand to shield
his eyes, then got the best of his terror and fell to rubbing them,
pretending to himself that this had been the intention behind the
gesture; doubtless their vision was blurred and had deceived him into
thinking the unthinkable--
He dropped his hand presently, blinked once or twice and prepared to
make a more careful scrutiny of the monk's appearance. He was balked
in this courageous essay. The apparition, if such it were, had acted
in accordance with tradition and had vanished. While his eyes were
covered it had departed, whether to left or right or merely into thin
air he could not tell. He did not debate the question, either--he
simply thanked his stars it was gone!
It was with considerable reluctance that he resumed his way up the
path, but the daylight at the end of the trail looked inviting and
reassuring compared to the twilight in the woods and he covered the
distance to the spot where the monk had stood in a sort of a dogtrot.
It was here that he made a fresh discovery as he collided rather
heavily with some obstruction in the path, an obstruction that gave way
as his body impinged upon it, but that nearly tripped him as it fell
between his legs.
He picked it up, but did not pause to examine it. The light ahead
still lured and he continued his flight toward it, bearing his find
with him.
He drew a deep breath of thankfulness as he finally emerged from the
woods into the comforting aura of the kitchen garden; his eyes rested
upon and were wonderfully soothed by a row of peaceful cabbages. Never
before had he noticed how beautiful a cabbage can be, but to a man
fresh from dalliance with a ghost there is something very steadying and
sustaining in a glimpse of that most stolid and solid of vegetables.
There was a granite bowlder near-by on which he dropped gratefully for
a minute's rest. It was while reaching for a handkerchief to pat his
moist forehead that he was reminded of the object he had picked up and
still carried. He looked at it now, and found that it was a heavy
stick which must have been thrust firmly into the center of the path in
the woods; one end of it was split, and into the cleft had been thrust
a bit of folded paper--brown paper, he noted, of cheap quality, but
what really took his eye as he drew it free was his own name in
typewritten letters on the outside.
Evidently this was intended for him, and he was about to open it to see
what message it might contain when the sound of hurrying steps from the
direction of the path diverted him from his purpose. Whatever the
contents of the paper might be, they were for him alone. Prompted by
an instinct for secrecy which was part of his psychological cosmos, he
thrust the missive into the breast-pocket of his coat and turned--with
a little tremor from his nerves--to see who was coming.
It was a woman who burst from the shelter of the trees--a woman in some
haste and quite obviously in some alarm. She was panting from her
exertions, for she ceased running only when she reached the open, as
Varr had done before her. A close-fitting felt hat was slightly askew
on her head, and a once jaunty red feather that thrust up from it was
now hanging limp and dejected, broken perhaps by some low-hanging
branch she had failed to duck. She was dressed in a two-piece outing
costume of knitted wool, and she looked just now as if those garments
were too warm for comfort.
Her face brightened as she observed Varr seated on the rock, and she
came toward him promptly. He brightened, too, welcoming any human
being of tangible flesh and blood at that moment, although there was no
living person whom he habitually detested more than he did his wife's
sister, Miss October Copley. Her evident perturbation, however, gave
him an uneasy premonition that he was about to hear more of his monk.
But he left it to her to introduce the subject.
"Well, Ocky--reducing?"
"Not much!" answered the lady briefly. "_Scared_!"