deep-blue eyes and a mass of dark red hair, who was seated beside his
sister-in-law on a couch. The two were talking earnestly together
until he interrupted them, as though they had taken an instant liking
to each other.
"Excuse me if I don't get up," apologized Krech from the deep chair in
which he was sitting. "I'm anchored."
The handsome Angora had found him, and as though to mark his
approbation of another animal as fine as himself, had leaped into his
lap and curled up contentedly beneath his caressing hand. Despite his
words, Krech put him down and rose immediately when Simon indicated
that he did not propose to join them. He followed the tanner into the
house and accosted him in the hall.
"I'd like to see the window where that burglar got in last night," he
said. "Got a minute to show me?"
"Very well. In this way." They went into the sitting room and Varr
spoke on the way of his recent activities in the tanning yard, a piece
of foresight that Krech instantly applauded. "This is the window; it
was either pushed open by main force, or the catch was pressed back by
some tool."
"The last is it," announced the big man promptly. "See here where the
paint has been broken near the lock and the brass of the bolt is
scratched? It's a cinch to open these things--a child could do it with
a penknife."
"You have sharp eyes," admitted Varr grudgingly. "I hadn't noticed
those scratches on the brass."
"Oh, I've helped Creighton on his cases any number of times, and of
course a man soon gets the trick of observing the least thing out of
the ordinary. Smaller marks than those scratches have hanged many a
man, Mr. Varr."
"What a cheerful thought!" exclaimed a laughing voice behind them.
They turned and found Mrs. Krech, with Miss Ocky at her elbow. "What
are you two talking about hanging for? Herman, I came in to look for
you; we're just leaving."
"All right, Jean; I was just giving Mr. Varr my celebrated imitation of
an expert criminologist!" He did not proceed further until he had
glanced questioningly at his host, who gave permission with a nod and a
shrug. "Some one broke in here last night and staged a burglary; I
didn't tell you before because I didn't know how far it was being kept
secret."
"Can't keep secrets in this place," grunted Simon. "I gave up trying
long ago."
"Have the police any idea who did it?"
"The police! My dear Mrs. Krech, it's evident that you don't know much
about country constabulary. I wasted no time telling them of my
troubles. Your husband is going to place them in the hands of a friend
of his."
"Peter Creighton! Is he coming here? Lovely!" She turned impulsively
to Miss Ocky. "He's just the nicest man you ever met!"
"Who is he?" demanded Miss Ocky, but before she could get her answer,
Varr had interrupted.
"We don't know yet that he is coming. You will surely write to him
to-night, Mr. Krech?"
It was the very question the big man had been waiting for, but no one
could have guessed it from his perfectly simulated surprise. His
eyebrows were delicately arched as he made bland reply.
"You don't realize the value of time in these matters, Mr. Varr. Write
to him! To-night! He'd have my life! No, sir, as soon as I left you
this morning I went straight to the village and telephoned him. Bolt
was fearfully annoyed about his lunch--he doesn't understand urgency,
either."
"You got Creighton? What did he say?"
"He will handle it. He can't get here until the first train in the
morning, but of course he is working on the case already."
"Working on the case?" repeated Simon impatiently. "How in thunder
_can_ he? He doesn't know anything about it yet."
"Oh, yes, he does. You forget that I was able to give him a lot of
information. We had a long talk--ask Bolt."
"But, what can he do in New York?"
"Plenty," said the big man airily. "You don't know him."
"May I ask again," said Miss Ocky plaintively, "who is this Peter
Creighton? And what?"
"He's a dear!" said Mrs. Krech.
"He's a wonder!" said her husband.
"He's a detective," said Simon grimly.
"A detective! Coming here!" cried Miss Ocky, her eyes bright with
interest. "My word, won't _that_ be jolly!"
_XI: Checkers and Chicane_
Miss Drusilla Jones, whose fortunes were temporarily bound up with
those of Charlie Maxon, was a rather tall and shapely young woman,
handsome in a coarse sort of way when her face was in a state of
animation; in repose, its expression was marred by a too-great boldness
in the big dark eyes and a suggestion of sullenness about the heavy,
full-lipped mouth. She dressed well--"too well for an honest woman,"
was the dark verdict of ladies more reputable and less attractive--and,
with a shrewdness surprising in one of her type, avoided the cheapening
allure of cosmetics. She spent most of her days in bed, and earned her
living, at least ostensibly, by spending most of the night at Tom
Martin's dance hall, where she was kept on the payroll as an
"entertainer." It was there she had first met Charlie Maxon.
In accordance with her promise to return at a later hour, she left her
small house on the edge of the town shortly after four o'clock and
turned her steps in the direction of the tannery, where she hoped to
catch Simon Varr in his office. Her natural sullenness of expression
was intensified as she walked slowly along her way, for certain friends
of hers had pointed out to her that she was wasting her time. Simon
could do nothing if he would, and would do less than that if he could,
for the lover languishing in jail.
"Then I'll give him a piece of my mind!" she retorted. "I'm not afraid
of old Varr nor any other man."
Her course led her through the heart of the town, and her exact social
status could have been nicely determined by the glances of disfavor she
received from certain thin-nosed, pursed-lipped matrons of Hambleton
whom she passed en route. She could pretend to ignore these glances,
and she did, but they aroused a fierce resentment in her breast and
hardened a resolution already half formed--she was sick of this place,
she was sick of these people, she was sick of her undue prominence in a
small town where every one knew all about every one else, and she
proposed to shake its dust from her high heels at the first opportunity
that offered.
At the tannery, Nelson opened the door when he recognized her through
the peephole and greeted her with a shake of the head.
"No use, Drusilla. He isn't here, and he wouldn't talk to you if he
was. Said to tell you he'd no time to waste on Maxon's women."
"He did, did he!" flared the girl. "Then you can tell him for me that
he's goin' to get into a peck of trouble if he don't look out!"
"I wouldn't say things like that if I was you, Drusilla," admonished
the watchman. He had always liked the girl and regarded her with as
much kindly tolerance as was fitting to a respectable family man.
"There's talk around town already that your Charlie knows more about
the fires we've had than he ought to."
"Sort of thing this town would say! How could he start a fire when he
was locked up in jail? Answer me that."
"He's got friends, ain't he?"
"That's neither here nor there. You can take it from me, he don't know
anything about those fires."
"You may be wrong, Drusilla, a man don't have to tell a woman all he
knows. Anyway, it will be best for you and best for him if you keep
your mouth shut." He looked around them cautiously. "I know what I'm
talking about. Take my tip and watch your step."
"What do you mean?"
"Varr's sending to New York for a detective."
"A detective!" Miss Jones was startled, and made no effort to conceal
the fact. "How do you know?"
"Mr. Bolt was here this morning with a friend of his from New York, and
I heard them speakin' about it as they went out. So you tell Charlie
Maxon to be a good little boy and put away his box of matches."
"He had nothing to do with those fires," reiterated Drusilla
mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere. She had met country detectives
and done business with them on terms satisfactory to both sides, and
she held them consequently in contempt, but a detective from New York
was an unknown and possibly ominous quantity. "When's he comin'?"
"Dunno. To-morrow, I'd say likely."
"Well, to-morrow's another day," remarked Drusilla easily, recovering
something of her poise. "I guess he won't amount to so much! I'm
obliged to you just the same for tipping me off. Drop in at Martin's
one of these evenings and have one on me--he's serving a pretty good
brand just now."
"Don't you try to vamp me, Drusilla," grinned Nelson. "I'm a decent
married man."
Miss Jones tossed her head and strolled away.
She quickened her step presently as she decided on a course of action
that appealed to her restless, rather adventurous nature. She had
played with this same idea previously, but had lacked the animus to put
it through. Nelson, with his good-natured hint about a detective from
the city, had supplied that.
She went straight to the dance hall, closed at this hour to its
nocturnal patrons, where she knew she would find Tom Martin in the
office back of the main room. He was there as she expected--a
keen-eyed, sharp-featured little cockney whose history from the time he
disappeared from London in a fog to the day when he emerged in this
unlikely corner of the great United States would have made a thrilling
story--particularly to the English police! Through the open door of
his office he was keeping an eye on the activities of several waiters
who were cleaning up the dance hall and straightening the small round
tables where "only soft drinks" were served, and he looked up to
welcome his visitor with a nod of surprised recognition.
"'Ello, Drusilla. Wotcher doin' 'ere at this time o' dye?"
Miss Jones had two wants and voiced them promptly.
"Give me a quart of rye, Tom, and a couple of knock-out drops."
Mr. Martin jumped in his chair and shot a nervous glance at the men in
the outer room. "The rye's all right--you've got some wiges comin' ter
yer an' I'll take it out o' them. But I don't know nothin' about them
other things, Drusilla. Wot are they?"
"Don't try the baby-innocent act on me, Tom! I want some knock-out
drops, same's you put in the beer of that drummer from the city last
Tuesday night--and I mean to have 'em!"
Hers was a carrying voice, and she was speaking with fearful
distinctness. A visible shudder ran through Mr. Martin's slender frame
as he sprang to his feet and hurriedly shut the door.
"All right, Drusilla, you can have 'em--but fer the luv o' Mike don't
tell th' blinkin' world abaht it! Wotcher want 'em for?"
"What you don't know won't hurt you," responded the girl.
That gave him pause, but in the end she had her way after some cajolery
and a few loud threats. She left the premises with a paper parcel in
her hand and the wished-for pellets in her bag.
Her house was not far removed from the police station, in the rear of
which was the small square building that served as a lockup for such
casual unfortunates as were not of a quality to be sent to the county
jail. Here Charlie Maxon was incarcerated, his quarters consisting of
a small room with a grille door and a barred window too high for
anything but light and ventilation. The only additional deterrent to
his escape was to be found in the person of a nondescript elderly man
who received a dollar a day from the town funds to act as jailer when
the lockup was in use. His name was Moody, his chief characteristic
the determined grouch he had cherished since the advent of prohibition.
He was seated on the stone steps of the jail, smoking a small but
powerful pipe, when Drusilla Jones appeared from the direction of her
house. She bore a basket in one hand, its contents scrupulously
covered with a white napkin. It was about six o'clock.
"Good evening, Mr. Moody!"
"Hullo."
"I've brought a few things I've cooked myself for Charlie's dinner,"
she informed him. "Want to look 'em over?" She put down the basket
and whipped off the napkin, replacing it when the jailer had cast a
gloomy eye over the contents and signified his satisfaction with a nod.
"Come and unlock the door so I can give it to him, there's an old dear!"
The old dear arose grumbling and proceeded to obey, pulling the door
key from his pocket. She followed him into the building, where their
advent was hailed with joy by the prisoner, upon whose hands time was
already beginning to hang heavy.
"That you, Drusilla? Say--that's fine! Twenty-five cents a day is the
food allowance in this jail, and nineteen of that is grafted by some
one before it turns into grub." He accepted the basket from Moody, who
promptly relocked the door of the cell. "Get a chair, Drusilla, and we
can talk while I polish off this dinner."
"No, you don't," corrected Moody. "What do you think this is--a hotel?
You can have five minutes, young woman, an' then out you go!"
He went back to his doorstep and resumed his pipe. He might or might
not be within earshot; Drusilla could not determine which and she dared
not take chances. Fortunately she had guarded against such a
contretemps as this by providing a second line of communication, and
after chatting loudly with her _vis-a-vis_ through the bars of his cell
she suddenly dropped her voice and whispered swiftly:
"Bottom of the basket. A note. Read it!"
He registered his perfect comprehension by an eloquent wink the while
he discoursed long and loudly upon more innocent topics. They
exchanged sally and quip through the forbidding grille until a warning
grumble from the doorstep marked the expiration of the five minutes and
the end of their interview.
"'Night, Charlie. See you again soon!"
"'Night, Drusilla--and thanks. If you run into old Varr, give him a
bust on the head for me!"
"Hush, Charlie--you shouldn't talk that way! Should he, Mr. Moody?"
she added brightly to Cerberus as she passed him. "I'm always telling
him he talks too much and doesn't mean half what he says."
"Every one talks too much except me," declared the disappointed
disciple of Bacchus. "I only talk when I'm drinkin', and I haven't
said a word for months and I haven't been what you might call
loquacious for some years."
"Charlie knows where to get liquor," suggested Drusilla, quick to seize
this happy opportunity to titivate the jailer's thirst. "Make him get
you some!"
"On your way!" said Mr. Moody virtuously--but thoughtfully.
Charlie Maxon, hearing their voices and sure that he was unobserved,
delved rapidly into the bottom of the basket at some cost to a custard
pie that recklessly intervened. He discovered a quart of rye which he
promptly thrust into concealment beneath the single blanket on his
narrow cot, a half dozen excellent cigars that he stored in a pocket of
his vest, and an envelope that contained two white pellets and a
hastily-written note.
The latter he carried nearer to the window and read its contents
hurriedly; a soundless whistle relieved his emotions when he had
finished its perusal. He was briefly pensive.
"Well--why not?" he demanded of himself finally. "She's not such a bad
looker--and she's sure got a brain!"
He secreted the letter inside his shirt, proposing to destroy it at the
first opportunity, then settled himself to the tranquil enjoyment of
Drusilla's dainties quite as if no weightier matter than her pastry
portended. A hearty eater always, he did not desist until the last
fragment of the damaged pie concluded his repast. Then he went to the
door of his cell, stuck his head between the bars and hailed the seated
figure of his personal attendant.
"Wotcher want?" asked Moody, grudgingly coming to his call.
"Thought you might like a cigar," explained his prisoner, poking one
through the grille. "Smoke 'em, don't you?"
"When I c'n get 'em," admitted the jailer, and regarded this one with
the dark suspicion of a man who has been the victim of practical jokes
before. "What's the matter with it?"
"Nothin'. Smoke up! Gimme a match, will you?"
"You ain't supposed to smoke in your cell," objected Moody, but
produced the match and lighted both their cigars. "However, I guess
you won't tell the Chief of Police if I don't!"
"No fear. You're a good sport, Moody. I always knew that."
"Fine cigar," commented the jailer critically.
"Leave it to Drusilla. You can bet she helped herself from the best
box Tom Martin has."
"Women are useful when they provide a man with good tobacco, but in
other ways they can get you into a mortal lot of trouble. Take it from
me, Charlie, and steer clear of 'em."
"I guess you know your way around, eh, Moody?"
"You can tie to that. Frinstance, if you knew as much as me you never
would've got into this jail."
"I expect you're right. You've got a head on your shoulders!"
"Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody some good," reflected the
jailer complacently. "I'm gettin' a dollar a day because you coveted
your neighbor's tomatoes and then had no more sense than to shy one at
him. Missed him, too, they tell me."
"I won't miss him another time if I get a shot at him, whether it's
with a tomato or something else!" snapped Maxon with sudden
viciousness. "I'd like to pitch him into one of his own vats!"
"You don't love him much, eh?"
Charlie Maxon thereupon expressed his exact opinion of his late
employer in studied terms to which Mr. Moody lent the attentive and
appreciative ear of a connoisseur in language. When the recitation was
ended, he nodded approval and returned to his doorstep, where he sat
down and contentedly finished his cigar.
Maxon dropped on his cot, eased the cork from the bottle of rye and
took one satisfying drink of the invigorating liquor. More, he dared
not allow himself for the moment.
At nine o'clock Moody rose from his doorstep and came inside, carefully
locking and double-locking the door and putting its key in his pocket.
He did the same by the rear exit, and was preparing to retire to the
privacy of his own small room when he was hailed a second time by his
charge.
"Now, what?" Moody went to the barred door of the cell with more
alacrity on this occasion, hopeful of further largesse. "Can't you let
a man have a minute's peace?"
"Going to bed so soon?"
"Nothin' else to do."
"Remember two years ago how we used to play checkers at the Workmen's
Club?"
"What of it?"
"You used to beat me then pretty regular, but I guess it'd be different
now. I'd beat you four out of five."
"That's nonsense. What are you gettin' at anyway?"
"What's the matter with letting me out of here for a while? A few
games of checkers wouldn't do any harm--help pass the time."
"Help pass--! Say, where do you think you are? Why don't you ask me
to take you to the movies? Mebbe you'd like me to send for Drusilla
so's we could have a dance? Want me to lose my job, huh?"
"Who's going to know anything about it except us? Slip out and get a
board--and a couple of glasses!"
"_Glasses_? What kind of glasses?"
"Whisky glasses."
Moody started. He looked keenly at his prisoner. Slowly, a warm light
stole into his eye, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Quit your kiddin'!"
"I'm not kidding--look here!"
Maxon knew his man. Satisfied that he had Moody quivering with
anticipation, he stepped to his cot, produced the flat bottle and shook
it invitingly. The rich gurgle was music to the jailer's ear. A more
hard-boiled, professional warder would have followed just one course
with decision and dispatch, to Moody's credit be it said, it did not
once occur to him that he might safely confiscate the treasure and
dedicate it to his own delight.
"I'll go after those glasses," he said promptly. "Sure it's good
stuff, Charlie?"
"Wouldn't drink it myself if I wasn't, would I? Hustle up--I'm ready
for a drink right now."
Tempted beyond his strength, the faithless keeper of the Hambleton
lockup departed on winged feet. He was back in remarkably quick time,
a checkerboard under his coat and two bar glasses in his pockets. A
last feeble flicker of responsibility stayed his hand an instant as he
opened the cell door.
"No tricks, Charlie!"
"'Course not. Cross my heart and hope to die."
With the doors locked and no windows through which they could be seen,
they sat themselves confidently at a small table, a glass at each side,
the checkerboard between them and the precious bottle on the floor
within easy reach. The proceedings opened with one apiece.
"A-a-a-ah!"
"Told you it was good, didn't I? Have another."
"Thanks. This is like old times. Black moves first."
"Teach your grandmother. Chin-chin."
"If that's bootleg, it's good enough for me."
"It ain't, though. He gets it from Canada himself."
"An empty glass is a mournful sight. Thanks. Your move."
They played and drank and drank and played. Moody won most of the
games, which suited both of them. An hour passed. There was lots of
time, Charlie told himself. He wasn't due at Drusilla's until
eleven-thirty--the rendezvous she had made in the event that all went
well. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel the effect of the
whisky he was drinking. It wouldn't do to get tight himself. Better
speed things up a bit, then take a walk for half an hour or so before
going to Drusilla's--
"Em-py glash--mournful shight."
Charlie's left hand hovered an instant over the mournful sight, his
fingers crumbling something; then he picked up the glass and filled it.
"A-a-a-ah."
Five minutes later he was half-carrying, half-dragging the inert figure
of his jailer to the cell which by rights he should have been occupying
himself. He dropped Moody on the narrow cot, relieved him of his keys
and stepped out, grinning as he locked the door behind him. It would
be a long, long time before the recreant warder awakened to discovery
and disgrace. No one from outside would come near the place until
eight or nine in the morning; he had oceans of time in which to make
good his escape before the alarm could be given.
He possessed himself of a slouch hat that he found in Moody's room and
drew its brim well down over his eyes, then cautiously unlocked the
back door of the jail. This gave on to a narrow, unlighted alley,
which led to a quiet side-street. There was little chance of his
meeting any one at that hour of the night. After a quick survey which
assured him the alley was deserted, he left the building and locked the
door.
The fresh night air after the stuffy atmosphere of the jail hit him
hard. It sent the potent fumes of the whisky to his head, and by the
time he had reached the end of the alley he was staggering perceptibly.
He vaguely realized his condition and the peril it implied, and paused
for an instant at the first corner to steady himself against the wall
of a building while he strove to clear his brain. He jerked off his
hat to give the air access to his head, too fuddled to note that a
street-lamp not ten yards away was shining directly on his face.
Then a tight grip fastened on his arm and he was pushed back into the
obscurity of the alley.
"Charlie Maxon, by glory! Who let _you_ out?"
"Wh-who are you?"
"Who am I? Well, that's pretty good! Mean to say you can't _see_ me?
I'm Langhorn!"
_XII: Starlight on Steel_
When he had finished his examination of the broken window in the
living-room, Herman Krech contrived--partly by his sheer physical bulk
and partly by the exercise of a soft assertiveness that was saved by
his bland geniality from being plain rudeness--to sequester Simon Varr
for a word in private. To accomplish this end he was obliged to shake
off his own wife, the tanner's wife, the Jason Bolts and Miss Ocky
Copley, the last lady in especial revealing the pertinacity of a
cockle-burr in her objection to being shaken off. Krech didn't succeed
in losing her until he had shut the door of the study in her face with
a courteously affected air of absent-mindedness.
"What do you want?" inquired Varr ungraciously.
"I've got a message for you--sorry if I'm intruding," replied the big
man, half-amused and half-resentful at his host's tone. "I'm afraid it
will annoy you--but most things do, don't they? But Creighton thought
it best to give you a tip and of course I feel obliged to pass it on as
received."
"All right. What is it?" said the tanner less irascibly.
"Practically a repetition of the warning I gave you this morning on my
own account. I read him that note over the telephone. He said it
sounded like the work of a nut, and added that a bad nut is often a
dangerous proposition. He thinks you should take reasonable
precautions against a personal attack at least until he gets here."
"When peace will mantle the earth, I suppose!"