end, as soon as he saw me. I couldn't run through the flames, and by
the time I'd jumped back and cut around the building, he was lost in
the darkness. I swept my torch this way and that, but never a sign of
him. I heard him, though," he added significantly.
"Yes? Where?"
"He stumbled over something near the left-hand corner of the yard where
the fence runs down to the brook. That tells us what we didn't know
before, sir. He doesn't come over the fence, nor under it; he either
wades the brook around the end of it, or else scrambles around by way
of the bank. Unless I'm all wrong, sir, we'll find his footprints
there in the morning."
"We'll find them there now," Varr corrected him curtly. "You have your
torch? Come along, then."
He extinguished the light in the office and led the way downstairs and
out into the yard. They passed the smoking ruins of the two destroyed
buildings and came in a few seconds to the spot described by Fay. Varr
took the torch from him and played its beam on the ground near the
juncture of fence and brook.
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "Here are footprints--and that piece of
wire is what you heard him trip over. Take a close look at those
prints, Fay, while I hold the light. Don't muck 'em up with your own
dainty feet! Anything noticeable about them?"
The conscientious watchman dropped on his hands and knees and seemed to
fairly sniff at the marks like a bloodhound.
"No, sir," he reported regretfully. "They're just footprints."
Varr corroborated the truth of this when he bent to make his own
examination. The prints were sharp and distinct, but their very
clearness only added to the general obscurity. They were large and
clumsy, rude of outline, and had obviously been made by a pair of heavy
shoes such as workmen wear--and they might have been worn by any one of
a million workmen! Varr grunted his disgust as he sought in vain for
some little mark by which they might be distinguished from two million
like them.
"A big man," was the extent of his deductions.
"Yes, sir, that was what he looked like to me. I wish I could have
seen his face--though I've a notion he might have been masked."
"_Masked_!" Varr fell back a step. "_Masked_?"
"Why--yes, sir. That wouldn't be so unlikely, considering the errand
he come on! But I'm not sure--I had just that moment's look at him
through a swirl of smoke."
"Could you tell how he was dressed?"
"He was in black, sir. I thought so at first, and the way he got out
of sight in the darkness makes it seem likely. What, sir?"
Varr had muttered an oath. A figure dressed in black, with a mask!
That was circumstantial enough, the Monk had been busy--launching a
thunderbolt of wrath, presumably! Simon's lip curled; Ocky's familiar
of the Spanish Inquisition was a pretty scurvy knave if he would stoop
to firebrands by night--!
"Fay," he commanded abruptly. "Keep a close tongue in your head about
this. I've my reasons for it. Don't tell any one of these footprints
until I give you permission. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," replied the watchman dutifully and dolefully. He had
rather been looking forward to public kudos and acclaim. "You'll tell
Steiner, sir, I suppose?"
"Do as I tell you, and leave the rest to me!" Varr returned sharply.
He handed back the borrowed torch, first glancing at his watch by its
light. "Only half-past one! I could have sworn I'd been down here the
best part of the night. Come along!"
They returned to the office building, Varr leaving a few more
directions for increased and unceasing watchfulness as the exhausted
Fay dropped into his chair in the front hall. Then Simon betook
himself to his car and drove slowly homeward.
His bad temper had largely worn itself out on the various irritations
that had kept it jumping, and in sooth the time had come for anger to
give way to calculation. There were so many things to be thought of!
Enough to make a man's head spin!
The matter of Copley by itself--! He did not know yet just what was
back of the boy's angry declaration that his father was "finished" with
him. Was he planning to leave home? A nice row there'd be with a
wounded mother! And Copley--Simon judged others by himself--would be
sure to make the most of his grievance with her over a parental
stratagem that had miscued!
The thought of that nasty few minutes in the study reminded him of
Graham. Another coil. Jason Bolt would have some bitter comment on
the wisdom of firing a useful man with no substitute in sight; Jason
had a rough tongue at times for all his good-nature. That would be
still another quarrel--and he couldn't fire Jason!
And this blasted Monk, with his anonymous letters and talk of
thunderbolts! He must be taken seriously after this night's work.
True, there was no definite proof to connect him with the fire but it
was too probable a hypothesis to be lightly dismissed. What had he
better do to cut that fellow's claws? There was hope, of course, that
he had worked off his spleen in firing the tannery, and also that a
wholesome fear of being caught and convicted of arson might cool his
spirit! Unless he was mad--!
He left his car in the garage and locked the sliding-door behind him
with a feeling of relief that the balance of the night was likely to
pass without further incident. As he walked from the garage to the
house, he remembered the decanter and glass still standing on the study
table and welcomed the idea of another bracer before bed. He had
earned it.
The darkened house, as he approached it, provided him with a new
grievance. Every one asleep! What did they care if the tannery went
up in smoke? More than likely they'd be _glad_!
It was not in him to feel a sense of shame when he presently learned
that his assumption of their indifference was unjustified. As he let
himself in with his key, a slippered step shuffled from the rear to
greet him. It was Bates, sleepy but inquisitive.
"The fire's out. Yes, it was the work of an incendiary. The actual
damage is immaterial." Varr's answers were curt. "Every one asleep, I
suppose?"
"I expect so, sir. Miss Ocky went down to the fire, but she came home
long ago and told us it was under control. Miss Lucy came downstairs
and waited until she heard that, then she went to bed. She wanted you
to wake her when you came in and tell her all that happened."
"Humph. I'll go up in a few minutes. And--my son?"
"He's not in, sir. I haven't seen him all evening."
"Very well. Go to bed. Leave the door unlatched."
The old butler wished him good night and padded softly up the front
stairs. Simon struck a match and went along the darkened hall to his
study, where he struck another and lighted the wall-lamp near his desk.
It was then he noticed something that caused him to fall back a pace
and utter a sharp exclamation. The roll-top cover had been thrust up
to its fullest extent--and the same glance showed him that his
red-leather notebook, which he distinctly remembered tossing on to the
desk, was gone! With a cry of pure rage, he darted to the door of the
study.
"Bates!" he shouted. "Bates! Come down here! At once!"
The butler heard, and hurried to obey the urgency in Simon's voice. He
found the tanner standing before his desk and examining its rather
inadequate lock.
"We've been burgled," announced the victim grimly. "It just needed
that to round the night off nicely."
"Burgled! Robbed! Surely not, sir!"
"Don't talk like an idiot! Get your torch. We'd best have a look
around, though there's no doubt the dirty devil got what he came for!
Where were you while--"
"What is it _now_?" interrupted a plaintive and sleepy voice from the
doorway. "Another fire?"
Varr wheeled toward the speaker and saw Miss Ocky regarding him with
wondering eyes. She had slipped on a vivid negligee, a trophy from
some Eastern bazaar, and she made a most attractive picture in the
soft, kindly light from the lamp as she stood there looking her inquiry
at one and the other of the two men. Simon was somehow glad to see
her, for much as he disliked her, he admitted her level-headed
shrewdness and welcomed the help of another brain in coping with a
situation that was rapidly getting beyond him.
"Some one has broken open my desk and taken the notebook in which I
keep memoranda of formulas and experiments," he explained gruffly. "I
don't miss anything else. It must have been done within the last few
hours."
"I see. I thought I detected a note of tragedy in the way you hollered
for Bates just now." She eyed the butler reflectively as she drew a
silver case from a pocket of the negligee and lighted a cigarette.
"Bates--I see you are still dressed! Where have you been for the past
few hours?"
"Right in the pantry, Miss Ocky, except when I came out to let you in a
while back. I heard nothing, nor no one."
She turned, as if to measure distances with her eye. "Right in the
pantry," she repeated. "Fifteen yards--and two closed doors--away.
Still, it's queer you heard nothing."
"I was reading a paper, Miss Ocky, and I dozed once or twice."
"Ah. That probably accounts for it. Have you found out yet how he got
into the house?" She moved her shoulders slightly as she put the
question. "I can feel a draught on the back of my neck, now.
Something is open--in the living-room, perhaps. Did you lock up as
carefully as usual this evening, Bates? Things were rather upset!"
"That didn't make any difference, Miss Ocky," he protested eagerly. "I
had closed everything as usual--I had even started for bed--before the
siren blew and I heard Mr. Varr hurrying out to the garage. Nothing
was left unlocked."
At the first mention of the living-room, Simon had secured a small
torch from a nearby stand. Together, they trooped through the door
leading to the parlor, where he flashed the light on the two sets of
tall French windows that gave on to a side veranda. They exclaimed in
chorus at the sight of one pair ajar.
"That's that," said Miss Ocky. She took the flash from Simon, opened
the window wide and turned the light on the planking of the piazza.
"Nothing to be seen by this light!" She directed the beam at the
fastenings of the window. "Huh! Didn't take much to force this
affair! Your defenses are pretty flimsy, Simon!"
"You're not in the heart of Asia, Ocky. We don't go in much for
fortifications in this country."
"Well, I could wish you did. I don't want to wake up some night and
find a burglar going off with my treasures. What did you say this one
took--a notebook?"
"Yes."
"What's the idea? Who wants an old notebook?"
"Exactly what I'm asking myself, Ocky." Simon sent a sideways look at
the old butler as if reluctant to speak too openly. "It was full of
important data relative to tanning processes. Not much of a loss to
me, for I know 'em all by heart--but it might be extremely useful to
any one else in the business or--or to any one who might be expecting
to go into it--" His voice trailed off as if he were lost in some
thought that had just struck him. "Humph!" he grunted.
"What is it?" demanded Ocky alertly.
"Nothing--nothing to be discussed now, anyway. Bates!"
"Sir?" The butler had just finished lighting the lamp on the center
table and he glanced at Varr with expressionless face. "Yes, sir?"
"Stop fiddling with that lamp. There's nothing to be done to-night.
And look here--I don't want this business mentioned to the other
servants or any one else until I have decided just what action I shall
take. Understand? Go to bed, then,--and I hope you stay there this
time!"
"One moment, Bates." Miss Ocky had moved over to the table and was
contemplating it with thoughtful gaze. "Simon--what sort of an
implement would have forced that desk of yours? A knife, for instance?"
"Yes, that would have done the trick. It could have been slipped under
the top near the lock; a slight pressure would have done the rest."
"I like a lock that is a lock," sniffed Miss Ocky.
"A matter of taste, I suppose. Bates, you know that Persian dagger of
mine I've been using here lately for a paper-cutter? When did you see
it last?"
"This evening, Miss Ocky."
"Sure?"
"Yes, Miss Ocky. I was straightening up in here just after you went to
your room the first time, and I knocked the book you had been reading
on to the floor. When I picked it up, the dagger fell out. I knew I'd
lost your place and was sorry, but I couldn't do anything to find it
again so I just laid the dagger down beside the book--right here." He
indicated a perfectly blank spot on the table and looked mystified.
"I came down for the book just before one o'clock--couldn't seem to get
to sleep," explained Miss Ocky musingly. "The dagger was not here
then--but it didn't occur to me to raise the house about it. I took it
for granted there was some simple reason for its being gone, and I
didn't stop to look for it, as I was only striking matches to find what
I wanted." She made a face. "For all I know, the burglar was right in
this room at that very minute!"
"Pity you didn't run on to him," grunted Simon. "What are you
suggesting, anyway?"
"I think your burglar came in here and noticed the dagger--he probably
had a flash--and decided it was just what he needed in his business!
He opened the desk with it, and unless he dropped it around somewhere
when he was finished with it, I guess _I've_ been robbed, _too_."
"Huh. Wasn't valuable, was it?" asked Simon impatiently.
"Well, I don't care about losing it--thanks for your kind and
sympathetic interest!" retorted his sister-in-law tartly. "Thank you,
Bates, that's all."
"Yes, Miss Ocky." The old man bowed. "Good night, sir," he said, for
the third time that night.
"I'll be off, too," said Miss Ocky, moving toward the door, where she
lingered for a parting shot. "If I were you, Simon, I'd either have my
locks seen to or else have my more valuable possessions nailed down.
Good morning!"
She was gone before he could think of an effective retort. He occupied
himself briefly in dragging a heavy chair against the broken window,
then put out the lamp and went into his study. Bed seemed to make no
appeal, though there was a suggestion of weariness in the way he
dropped into his chair before the desk. He was mentally tired.
Who had dealt him this latest blow--a shrewder one than he had
confessed to Ocky. That notebook full of formulas, the results of a
lifetime of experiment and research, would be worth more than a gold
mine to a competitor. There were men in the business who would pay
handsomely for the picking of Simon Varr's brain! But who had known
that, and turned his knowledge to advantage by the crooked way of
burglary?
Two names kept bobbing up in the back of his brain. Copley was one;
Graham the other. Either might have done it, or they might have
entered into an unholy partnership of crime. Both knew the value of
the notebook, and both had seen it in his desk that evening. Where had
they been since? He had not noticed either of them at the fire; had
they been robbing his desk while they knew him safely absent?
No sentiment played any part in these cogitations. He measured the
possibility of his son's guilt as coldly as if the young man had been a
complete stranger--or an ex-convict. Measured it, perhaps,
unconsciously, by his own standards of behavior. He had done things in
his time that would have made a self-respecting burglar blush.
There was a third possibility. The Monk. Simon tried to shake off
that thought. There was no sense in it. Queer how anything like that
masquerader's mischief-making could get under a sensible man's
skin--dig its way into his brain until it became an obsession! Suppose
he _had_ set fire to the tannery--was that any reason to believe he had
proceeded to further activities the same night? There was not a shred
of proof connecting him with the burglary.
He yielded to the fascination that the scrap of brown paper was
beginning to exercise over him and drew it from the pigeonhole. He
opened it and let his eye travel over the illiterate text to the threat
at the end that was already known to him by heart: "Take heed to thy
ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of
wrath!" Then he started violently in his chair, for he had come upon
the very proof he had thought lacking.
Beneath the last line of the message a few words had been scrawled with
a blunt, blue crayon and then deeply underscored for emphasis. He
stared at them, his face flushing and paling by turns, his lips
soundlessly shaping the ill-formed characters.
"_Behold, the bolts are loosed!_"
_IX: Simon Seeks Advice_
The discovery that his unknown enemy after first firing the tannery had
then rounded off a perfect evening by burglarizing his house threw
Simon Varr into a state of mental confusion. Here was a saturnalia of
crime condensed into the space of a few hours. And the man's audacity
was no less bewildering than his swift efficiency! Who, in this
hitherto quiet township of Hambleton, had suddenly developed a brand of
vicious courage that nerved him to commit arson and burglary? Simon
reviewed an imposing procession of possible suspects until his brain
wearied, and his wits, seeking vainly for light, were hopelessly at
fault in a fog of conjecture.
It was nearly three o'clock before he laid an aching head on his
pillow, it was nearly five before sleep came to him, but he was up at
his usual hour and downstairs in his study by eight. Physically he was
still tired, but the brief spell of slumber had at least rested his
brain and cleared it against the problems of a new day.
However undeserving he might be of sympathy, mere humanity would
suggest that it would be pleasanter, far pleasanter, to record that
this day of all days in Simon Varr's life was peaceful and calm, but
the truth is exactly the reverse. It was destined to be a day of
bitterness and strife, terminating in actual violence.
The trouble began with Jason Bolt.
Lucy Varr did not descend for breakfast, nor did Ocky, who elected to
depart from custom and have a tray brought up by Janet to her bedroom
balcony. Simon ate his usual hearty meal with more deliberation than
appetite, and had barely returned to his desk when he heard the squeal
of brakes that distinguished Jason's car from its numerous fellows.
He came straight back to the study and threw himself into a chair, his
round, good-humored face unwontedly grave.
"Well, Simon, here's a pretty kettle of fish!"
"There are several kettles of fish. Which do you mean?"
"Well--Billy Graham's, to commence with. He was around to see me an
hour ago--"
"Was he sober?"
"Of course he was, don't be too unjust, Simon! Graham doesn't make a
practice of drinking, and if he took one or two too many last evening,
as he admits he did, I for one don't blame him. That confounded pup
Langhorn told him what he overheard--"
"I know--I know all that. I have fired Langhorn and I have fired
Graham." Simon's jaw tilted truculently. "What about it?"
"That's what I've come to ask. What about it? If you keep on at this
rate, another week will see you down to bed-rock--reduced to one
partner and one idle tannery. And some one seems determined to burn
that up piecemeal!"
"I didn't see you there last night."
"No, thank goodness, I was in blissful ignorance of our latest trouble.
We have guests, you know. Mary and I took the Krechs to Barney's road
house just to give them a taste of night-life in Hambleton. Mr. Krech
and Barney spent the evening extemporizing cocktails--"
"I'm not interested in your orgies. What did Graham have to say this
morning?"
"Nothing that wasn't mighty decent, all things considered. He is sorry
to go after all these years, but he doesn't question your right to fire
him. He prefers to discuss the details attendant on his quitting with
me--you have no objection?--and he is writing to Rochester to tell the
Thibault crowd he accepts their offer."
"That doesn't break my heart. The sooner he gets to Rochester the
better pleased I'll be."
"Oh, yes--because of Copley, I suppose, and the girl. Well--I guess
Billy Graham isn't in the market for sympathy. He tells me that he is
fairly familiar with the Thibault tanneries from hearsay and he is
confident that he is taking them some tips that will make him solid
with them from the start."
"Eh? What's that?" Suddenly intent, Simon Varr leaned forward and
fixed a sharp gaze on the speaker. "What is he taking them? What did
he refer to?"
"Why--nothing specific, Simon! No doubt he has picked up a score of
useful tips during the time he has been associated with us. We can't
stop him from giving them the benefit of his experience; that's the
sort of thing you must expect when you fire a good man without any
reason except that he has a pretty daughter whom you can't keep your
only son away from. I must say, Simon--"
"Must you? Please try not to!"
Jason complied with a shrug of his shoulders; why waste his breath on
this human lump of obstinacy?
Varr relaxed in his chair again, thinking. He ran over the events of
the previous night. Graham had drunk at least enough to render him
irresponsible for his impulses and actions. He had seen the notebook
lying on the desk. Enough time had elapsed between his departure and
the alarm of fire to have enabled him to slip down the hill and fire
the tannery. He might then have returned and watched his opportunity
to break into the house. Yes--it was possible, physically, for him to
be the guilty man. "Taking something valuable to Thibault?" The
notebook? Would he have the brazen nerve to make such a remark if he
were the thief? Yes! If Graham were the man, that identified him with
the masquerading monk, and _he_ had nerve enough for anything!
It struck Simon--while his partner waited in glum silence--that it
would be interesting to learn where Graham had been on the night before
after leaving him in the study. To put it more bluntly--had the man an
alibi? How did one go to work to learn such things, short of asking
open questions? Varr shelved the problem temporarily, though an idea
in the back of his head was slowly shaping itself into the answer. He
would do nothing decisive until he had weighed things more carefully
and was sure--
"How shall we replace Billy Graham?" said Jason Bolt, having fidgeted
in silence to the limit of his patience. "Have you any one in mind?"
"Certainly I have!" snapped his partner, who had given not a thought to
the matter until that moment. "D'you suppose I'd fire a man unless I
saw my way free of that difficulty? There's old Maple; let him take
hold when he is hungry enough to come back to work."
"Maple? A good, steady man, Simon, but not the sort I'd pick. Not a
scrap of initiative. He knows enough to do just what he's told to do,
but--"
"That's the sort of man I want."
"And what you say goes! Don't trouble to point that out; I have heard
it before. Do you mind, however, if I mention another man whom I've
been thinking might fit in?"
"Well--who?"
"Copley. Your son. Don't look as if a snake had bit you! I think he
would make up in intelligence anything he lacks in experience. He is
quick to learn--"
"You may leave him out of your calculations."
Jason started at the tone of the remark, glanced at Varr's set face and
shot at him an impulsive question.
"Simon! You haven't gone and quarreled with him _too_, have you?"
"Never mind that."
"By thunder, you _have_!" Jason Bolt regarded his partner
open-mouthed. Then he added, half to himself: "'Whom the gods would
destroy they first make mad!'"
"What's that?" snapped Simon. The quotation had jarred on him,
something in its phraseology savoring unpleasantly of the anonymous
message he had received. "I'm a long way from being mad!"
"You can't prove it by me," said Jason rudely. He came to his feet.
"I'll be getting back home; only blew in to talk with you about Billy."
He hesitated before continuing. "By the way, Simon, are you going to
be at the office this morning?"
"Very likely--yes, I shall. Why?"
"This chap who's staying with me--Herman Krech--very nice fellow--he's
the broker I was speaking of to you the other day. I thought I might
bring him in and introduce him to you."
"Listen to me, Jason!" Varr's face was slowly flushing with anger.
"We are _not_ going to incorporate!"
"Oh--bless me, I'd practically abandoned that notion myself," said Mr.
Bolt, airily mendacious. "Nothing was farther from my thoughts; I just
thought I'd show him around and introduce him to you--let him see all
the sights, huh? You may as well meet him; we're bound to be dining
together either here or at my house as soon as our wives get their
heads--"