his head had suddenly burgeoned while his partner rambled on. "If
either of you mentions the word incorporate I'll have you thrown out,
but there is another matter in which he may be of service to me."
"Krech? Why, you don't even know him!"
"Well, you're going to fix that difficulty, aren't you?" Varr turned
to his desk in his usual gesture of dismissal. "I'll be there at
eleven."
True to his word, at a few minutes past ten Simon left home for the
tannery. He would have a busy day, there, what with insurance data and
other matters relative to the fire. The prospect fretted him--and it
steeled his resolution to leave no stone unturned to bring the author
of his troubles to book. Blast him! He'd learn that it was safer to
monkey with a buzz-saw than with Simon Varr!
He stopped at the door of the office-building for a word with Nelson,
who was already yawning at his post. Without any suggestion other than
the promptings of good-nature, he had turned out long before daybreak
to relieve the tired Fay.
"Mr. Bolt and another gentleman are in back, sir," he reported. "Just
looking around. A young man was in about the insurance--said he'd be
back later. Steiner was here, very curious about the fire, but I told
him he'd have to see you."
"Right. You can tell Mr. Bolt that I'm upstairs. Did you or Fay look
around any more in the neighborhood of those footprints?"
"Footprints? He said nothing to me--"
"True; I told him to keep his head shut. I will talk to you about that
later, Nelson. There hasn't been any trouble from the strikers?"
"I haven't seen a soul, sir, but I've heard they are having a sort of a
meeting this morning. There's been talk of appointing a committee to
call on you and discuss things."
"There's nothing to discuss. However, I'm perfectly willing to meet a
committee from them and tell them again that they'll gain nothing by
their strike but trouble for themselves. You have to tell a fool the
same thing over and over again before he'll believe it. Send 'em up
when they come--but not more than three of 'em, I don't want a whole
mob mucking up my office."
"Yes, sir. There's been a young woman askin' for you, too, sir. A
girl named Drusilla Jones."
"Never heard of her." Simon, on the point of turning away, paused and
looked curious. "What does she want?"
"She's been goin' around pretty steady with Charlie Maxon, sir. I
guess she'll want to see you about lettin' him out."
"Humph. He's where he belongs, and I wouldn't do anything to get him
out even if I could. Tell her that, and say I won't see her. Make it
clear, Nelson, I've no time to waste on Maxon's women."
"Yes, sir."
The watchman had nothing further to offer, and Varr went up to his
office and busied himself with the morning mail. There were more
indignant demands from aggrieved customers, and the fact that Simon had
expected them did not lessen their power to annoy. His face grew
steadily redder and redder as he worked through the pile of
correspondence.
A clock in the outer office struck eleven, and as the last loud stroke
thinned to silence there came the sound of heavy footsteps ascending
the stairs. Jason Bolt believed in punctuality.
He entered with a cheerful greeting that suggested he had recovered
some of his equanimity since his earlier talk with his partner. On his
heels came his friend, a genial-looking, red-faced, smooth-shaven
gentleman whose personal dimensions and displacement were such that
they seemed to dwarf the small office to the proportions of a room in a
doll's house. He stood well over six feet, was broad, deep-chested and
bulky, but moved with a light-footed agility that argues muscle rather
than fat. Simon was not a small man himself, but he felt like a pigmy
as his hand disappeared into one that opened like a suitcase.
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Varr," said the newcomer pleasantly, in a voice
that was deep but agreeably pitched. "Bolt has been showing me the
whole works, here. You have a fine proposition."
"I think so," concurred Simon with mild gruffness. "Jason is
dissatisfied with it, but it suits me very well."
"So I have gathered from talking with him," said Mr. Krech, genially.
"No doubt you are right--at any rate, I seldom try to advise other men
in respect to their own business." He took a huge cigar-case from his
pocket and opened it, then offered it to Varr and Jason Bolt. "No?
You don't mind if I do, though?" He carefully lighted a mammoth cigar
and sat down on a chair toward which Simon had waved. "I see that some
one else is dissatisfied with the tannery, too. You must have had a
narrow escape from being burned out last night."
"Ah, yes! We have had some little trouble with a number of malcontent
employees. I am gradually weeding out the more noxious of them--eh,
Jason?" Mr. Bolt palpably winced. "In fact, Mr. Krech, there have
been developments in connection with that fire, and certain other
occurrences, that put it in my mind to ask something of you."
"Bolt told me that you wanted to see me about something," said the big
man heartily as the tanner paused to choose his words. "If I can be of
service to you I'll be delighted."
"Thanks. It's really a very simple matter. You see, I have decided to
have this fire--and those other occurrences--investigated, competently
investigated, and their perpetrator punished to the full extent of the
law. Unfortunately, the local police are utterly incompetent to handle
a case of this kind, and I don't think much more of the County
officials. It finally struck me that a private detective agency might
do the trick. But I don't know any such concern and I don't feel like
employing one blindly, so I thought I'd take advantage of your coming
from New York and ask you to hunt up a responsible agency for me."
"A private detective!" exclaimed Jason Bolt. "Why, Simon, what has
happened to require any such critter as that? What are those other
occurrences you speak of?"
"I'll tell you--I'll tell you in good time. First, I want to hear if
Mr. Krech is disposed to assist me. He has facilities in New York for
locating a reputable agency, no doubt."
"I don't have to go to New York for that," answered the big man
promptly. "You've come to the right place for information, Mr. Varr.
I know a very capable chap." He turned to Jason, and added slowly: "We
don't talk much about it, as you can imagine, but possibly you have
heard that my wife's brother was murdered under rather curious
circumstances; a cold-blooded crime if ever there was one."
"I've heard Mary speak of it," admitted Bolt.
"Well, the detective I have in mind is the man who cleared up that
mystery." His gaze shifted back to Simon. "Of course, knowing him and
getting him are two different things. He's usually up to his ears in
one thing or another. If it's not too confidential, and you want to
give me an idea of your problem, perhaps it would help me interest him.
At least, if it is out of his line, he will recommend some one else
who'll be competent to handle it for you."
The tanner gagged a bit over the idea of any private detective
rejecting his patronage, but after all he wanted a good man and not the
first Tom, Dick or Harry to offer his services so he gulped down the
tart comment that had sprung to his lips.
"There's nothing confidential about it--short of its getting into the
papers and giving my show away. I've got to tell Jason about it, and
if you care to listen I'll be glad of your opinion on the whole crazy
business. It began with--"
He got no farther for the moment. There was a scuffling and shuffling
of feet from the direction of the stairs, and Nelson appeared in
advance of three rather ill-at-ease visitors. They were dressed in
workmen's clothing and carried their caps respectfully in their hands.
"A committee from our strikers," explained Varr curtly to his partner.
He stood up. "Don't bother, Jason, stay here with Mr. Krech while I
talk to them in the outer room. It'll take me about two minutes to get
rid of 'em!" he added grimly.
He strode from the room and met the approaching delegation halfway
across the main office. From where they sat, Jason Bolt and his friend
could watch the ensuing proceedings and hear every word that was spoken.
Varr was instantly wrathful at discovering in the gray-haired
individual who turned out to be their spokesman an old employee whose
name was Maple, the very man he had spoken of to Bolt as possibly
replacing Graham as manager. He could almost hear Jason chuckling over
the fact as he snapped a curt command at the fellow to state his
business.
"We've come for a talk with you, Mr. Varr," began Maple soberly,
"because there's some of us who feel that this strike has gone on too
long as it is. It's bad for us, sir, and it must be bad for you and
Mr. Bolt. We three have been appointed to call on you gentlemen and
ask you to look into the whole situation with us. There's points on
which we've been unreasonable, maybe, and there's others where we think
you've been unreasonable. If we give in a bit and you give in a bit
perhaps we can reach some sort of a compromise that'll let us all go to
work--"
"Stop! I've been waiting for that word compromise! You can go back
and tell your crowd that this strike isn't going to be settled--it's
going to be _broken_!" Varr smashed one fist into the other as he
roared his defiance. "Go back and tell 'em! Tell 'em I'll watch every
man of you starving in the gutters before I'll be driven into doing
what I've said I won't do. Go set some more fires in the tannery;
you'll soon find that'll get you nowhere but in jail!"
"We've set no fires, Mr. Varr," answered Maple with dignity. "On the
contrary, sir, the three of us here now were amongst them who helped to
put out the fire last night. You've no call to blackguard honest men.
As for starving in the gutter, sir--"
He stopped speaking to reach in his pocket and draw out a few small
bills, which he held up for Varr's inspection, and at a nod of his
head, his two companions also produced money from their trousers.
Simon glanced at it and sneered.
"Found a union to support you, eh?"
"No, sir, not that. To tell the truth, Mr. Varr, there don't seem to
be any good reason to tell you where this came from, or how it came,
but we feel in duty bound to say it brought with it a message for you."
"A message? For me?" Simon repeated the phrases quickly, his mind
alert for new alarms. "Well, what was it? Get it out!"
"We were told to tell you that while we held out against you we could
count on getting money for our needs from the 'Black Monk'."
"The Black Monk!" Simon fell back a pace as he whispered the words.
"The Black Monk! What--what do you mean?"
"That's all we can tell you, sir." Maple fumbled with his cap and
coughed nervously. "We'll ask you again, sir, as in duty bound to our
comrades, if you'll help us come to a compromise--"
"_No_!"
The committee shrank back from the explosive quality of the
monosyllable that was like a door slammed in their faces.
"Very well, sir, then we'll wish you good day--and a kinder heart for
your fellowmen."
"Stop!"
Sheer anger at this latest evidence of his enemy's activity had swept
Simon Varr beyond self-control, beyond reasoning and beyond decency.
He launched upon the stolid committee a rushing torrent of insult and
invective. The veneer of dignity that had come to him with wealth and
position slipped from him, as the old skin slips from a snake, and he
went back to the vocabulary of his youth for terms sufficiently
blasphemous and obscene to express his opinion of the strike, the
strikers, the committee and its sponsors. He did not stop until his
breath failed and left him panting.
The two men in the small office listened to that tirade in embarrassed
silence. Jason Bolt fidgeted in his chair and grew pink to the tips of
his ears. Herman Krech, as became a tactful bystander, gazed at the
floor, stared at the ceiling, studied the glowing tip of his cigar,
peered through the grimy window at the uninspiring view of Hambleton
and generally comported himself with discretion and _savoir faire_.
Inwardly, he was wondering if he had any right to inflict this
termagant tanner on his unsuspecting friend, the detective. Not by a
jugful, unless the mutt had a mighty interesting case--
"I think," said Simon Varr, reentering his office, "I think I have now
made my position clear to those fellows!" A grim satisfaction was
apparent in his voice and bearing, the usual aftermath with him of an
outburst of temper. "Now we can resume where we left off."
"What was that stuff about a monk?" demanded Jason.
"That's part of my story. When Mr. Krech has heard it, he will tell us
if it is likely to interest his friend." He sent a questioning glance
at the big man. "By the way, what is his name?"
"Peter Creighton," said Mr. Krech.
_X: Creighton Takes the Case_
Jason Bolt and Herman Krech listened to Varr's narrative in rapt
silence. The former's interest was mixed with amazement, the latter's
with enthusiasm. As the tale progressed the big man hitched farther
and farther forward in his chair, his expression that of a little child
who proposes to miss no syllable of a fascinating fairy story. He
considered himself something of a connoisseur in crime, did Mr. Krech,
thanks to a few experiences with his friend Creighton, and a subject
that had always made an appeal to his imagination was now become the
hobby of his every idle moment. Although he would not have abandoned a
lucrative business to take a position on Creighton's staff of
operatives, it was his secret grief that the detective had never
recognized his ability to the extent of offering him one.
He was beaming with delight by the time Varr had ended his curt account
of his tribulations, and his distaste of the tanner's personality had
been temporarily forgotten.
"Gee Joseph, Mr. Varr!" he burst out. "You really ought to
congratulate yourself! You've been the victim of the prettiest piece
of persecution I've ever heard of!"
"Thanks," returned Simon without enthusiasm.
"He seems to be waltzing all around you and jabbing you just where it
will hurt the most, and yet he's clever enough to evade capture and
even to keep you from guessing his identity. Why not make a list of
your known enemies and check them off one by one?"
"Too many of 'em," retorted Simon briefly.
"Ah, yes--I should have thought of that!" A muffled snort from Jason
marked his appreciation of the seemingly ingenuous jibe. "If a man's
known by the enemies he makes, I should say this fellow was a lasting
credit to you. You'll miss him when he's gone."
"I'll miss him with pleasure. But when is he going? D'you think this
is a problem that will appeal to Mr. Creighton's critical taste?"
"It will have my hearty endorsement, anyway, when I submit it to him.
He likes crooks with imagination, I know, and this bird has it. I wish
you had brought along that note you got from him."
"I did." The tanner reached into his pocket and drew forth the message
that he had found in the deft stick. "I decided to fetch it as long as
I intended to tell you the story."
Krech accepted the bit of brown paper, carefully taking it by the tip
of one corner and opening it with a shake. He held it out for Jason to
read, but drew it back from the other's outstretched hand.
"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!"
"Fingerprints?" grunted Varr skeptically.
"It's a possibility we must consider," insisted the big man firmly. "I
don't believe there are any, sort of pity if there were."
"Pity, eh? What do you mean, pity?"
"It would cheapen our crook. I don't believe he's the lad to leave
clues." He added calmly, "Hush, now, and let me read this carefully."
Simon gasped and hushed. He consoled himself with the reflection that
this human mastodon probably knew what it was about.
"Well, I'm hanged!" blurted Jason Bolt, when he had perused the
missive. "What do you make of it, Krech?"
"Why, there are a number of curious features about it that leap to the
eye," said Mr. Krech blandly. "I will call them to Creighton's
attention, of course." He stepped to Varr's desk, helped himself to an
unused envelope and inserted the note. "How many other people have
touched this paper besides yourself, Mr. Varr?"
"Not a soul. I've shown it to no one."
"Oh, that's fine." He picked up a clean letterhead and held it out to
the tanner. "Ink your thumbs and forefingers on that pad there and
then press them on this." He waited until Simon had gruntingly obeyed.
"Good. These will identify your marks on the message, and if there are
any others they will be the sign manual of our crook."
"How can you be sure?" argued Jason. "It's obviously an old scrap of
paper and a dozen people may have handled it before the crook got hold
of it."
Mr. Krech regarded his friend with a look of dignified annoyance.
"There's always some one around to make difficulties," he said
severely. "You're a fly on the wheel of progress."
"Excuse me for living," begged the fly meekly. Then he looked at his
watch and exclaimed, "Hello. Our wives, Krech, our wives--! We're
late for lunch already! Drop you anywhere, Simon?"
"I have my car." The tanner glanced at Krech. "You'll notify
Creighton?"
"With pleasure. I'll keep these for him, too."
He placed the envelope containing the message and the fingerprints in
his pocket, then moved to follow his friend, already on his way to the
stairs. He paused at the door, however, and came back rather
hesitatingly. "Say--just how did that couplet run?"
Simon made a wry face, but obligingly recited:
"_'Who meets the monk when dusk is nigh
Within the fortnight he shall die.'_"
"Do you take that seriously?" asked the big man.
"Do you take me for a blasted fool?" snapped Simon irritably.
"Yes," said Mr. Krech simply. "Just the sort of blasted fool I would
be in your place, or that nine out of ten men would be. Because the
threat is directed at _you_, you scoff at it and ignore it."
"What are you getting at?"
"This: the fellow who wrote that note and does his stuff in a monk's
costume has all the earmarks of a maniac. Maniacs are dangerous. If
he has made use of this old local legend to further his purpose, he may
go ahead with it to the bitter end--your bitter end! Until he is laid
by the heels, why not play safe and stay home after dark?"
"Humph. I'm likely to, aren't I?" jeered Simon.
"No, you aren't, because, to use your own expression, you're 'a blasted
fool,'" conceded Mr. Krech cheerfully. "Anyway, if you happen to get
bumped off, don't come around haunting me on the score that I didn't
warn you!" He smiled benignly. "Ta-ta!"
The tanner choked back an oath. For some time after the loud groaning
of the stairs beneath his visitor's tread had died away, he sat at his
desk and scratched his chin gently as he meditated. The striking of
the clock in the outer office recalled him to more present matters. It
was understood that if he did not return home by a certain hour in the
middle of the day he would lunch downtown, and the hour was now past.
On these occasions he usually walked to the Hambleton Hotel, the town's
one hostelry, where he could regale himself on a couple of heavy
sandwiches and a cup of doubtful coffee.
Thither he now betook himself, frowning on the way as he noted some
condemnatory expressions on the faces of those he passed on the street.
He knew that public opinion was antagonistic to him in the matter of
the strike and his treatment of Maxon--the Hambleton _News_ had run a
nasty paragraph about the last--and the censure irritated, if it did
not move him.
He had no sooner entered the dingy lobby of the hotel than his eye
rested on his son, Copley, seated at a rickety writing table and
industriously scribbling on a pad of cheap paper. Varr strode across
to his side and addressed him curtly.
"What are you doing here?"
"Living here," returned the young man, glancing up but making no move
to rise. He met his father's angry glare coolly. "More convenient to
my job."
"Your job!" echoed Simon derisively. "What mental incompetent has
employed _you_?"
"Barlow, the editor of the _News_. I'm a reporter now."
"Humph. Why?"
"For ready money, naturally, until I can get something good."
"Am I to understand you have left my roof?"
"Absolutely. Left it last night, and returned for clothes and a few
personal belongings this morning. You piled it on a bit thick last
evening--too thick. I've quit."
"Saved me the trouble of throwing you out!" said Simon between his
teeth. "What did you tell your mother?"
"The truth. I didn't intend to, but I found Aunt Ocky had overheard
our little chat and had told her we'd had a holy row. Sorry."
"Blast your Aunt Ocky!"
That did not seem to call for a reply and Copley made none. After a
few seconds of silence he raised his pencil suggestively.
"Speaking as a prominent citizen, Mr. Varr, what have you to say
regarding the opening of the new sewer in State Street?"
"Nothing--except that I hope you'll fall into it!" said his father with
asperity, and walked away.
Copley wrote an item on another sheet of paper. "Among those lunching
at the Hambleton Hotel yesterday was Mr. Simon Varr, of the Varr-Bolt
Tanneries. He did not tip the waiter." He cocked his head at a
critical angle and contemplated the last six words before reluctantly
obliterating them. Discretion must be his watchword, he told himself,
and a job is better than a jest.
Simon finished his meal and returned to the office, noticing already
the premonitory symptoms of the mild indigestion that habitually
followed the greasy cooking of the hotel chef. He found his insurance
man waiting for him and spent two tedious hours over an inventory and
proofs of loss before he could rid himself of the fellow--and sped his
going with a curse because the broker warned him the insurance company
would certainly cancel their existing policies if they got wind of an
incendiary.
That reminded Simon of the footprints in the tannery yard which he had
wished to examine by daylight. He had intended to show them to that
chap Krech, but Jason had spoiled things by hurrying him off to his
silly lunch. He descended the stairs, called Nelson to join him, and
went to the end of the fence around which the fire bug had fled.
He gave the watchman a brief account of Fay's experience at the
commencement of the fire, when he had actually obtained a glimpse of
the incendiary at his evil work. He discussed with Nelson, a shrewd
man, the possible identity of the miscreant, but they arrived at no
conclusion. Together they traced the footprints from the yard around
the fence and up the muddy bank of the little stream until they
vanished on the firmer ground outside the premises.
"Make anything of them?" asked Varr.
"Nothing more than you do, sir; they seem to be the tracks of a large
man. That friend of Mr. Bolt's could have made 'em nicely."
"Get a couple of empty boxes," directed Simon, mindful of the
protective device he had used in his kitchen garden to preserve the
marks left by Charlie Maxon. "Cover up two good sets of these; they
may come in handy later." He studied the skies. "We'll probably have
rain before morning."
"Fay won't object to that," declared the watchman, grinning. "If he
had his wish, it would rain chemical fire-extinguishing fluid!"
Simon lingered to see that the work of covering the tracks was properly
done, and hoped that Mr. Krech and his detective would appreciate his
thoughtfulness. Then he left the tannery, climbed into his car and
drove home. The strain of the night before had told on even his iron
physique--and there was the mute appeal of a decanter of Bourbon that
he knew would freshen his nagging spirit.
Jason's dilapidated little touring car greeted his gaze as he drove
past the front of the house to the garage, and a sound of light voices
came to him from the side veranda. Easy enough to guess the meaning of
that, the Bolts had dropped in with their friends for tea and a chat
with Lucy, who counted Mary Bolt her closest friend.
He joined them a moment later. Lucy, he saw at once, had been crying.
No amount of powder or superficial gayety could conceal that fact from
him. She did not look at him directly, and her voice was frigid as she
introduced him to the one member of the party he had not met.
"Mrs. Krech--my husband."