crook engaged in a campaign of crime I'd be apt to desist if a
detective suddenly appeared over the horizon. Wouldn't you?"
"Not if I thought he was scared of me!"
"Oh--I see." Mr. Krech's face, normally pink, deepened to a delicate
shade of rose. "Rather cheap, that, isn't it, Varr? No, Creighton is
not scared of crooks so you could notice it, but he's not a darn' fool
either. Anyway, there it is. Take it or leave it."
"I'll leave it, thank you. Does he think I'm going to wire the
Governor to turn out the militia?"
"He'd be more likely to suggest that you wire the nearest asylum for a
competent keeper; he has a rough tongue at times."
"Humph. When's he coming?"
"First train in the morning. Gets here at eleven."
"I'll drive down and meet him. Will he stop at the hotel, or will he
expect me to put him up here?"
"You'd better settle that with him, Mr. Varr. He's not a roughneck, if
that's what you mean." Krech contemplated the tanner reflectively;
there were several things he wished to tell him but he manfully
swallowed them all. "Good-day, sir!"
His doubts of the morning were reborn as he left the study, unattended.
Had he any right to inflict this specimen on Creighton? He could only
hope that the detective's sense of humor would prove a buffer between
him and his patron's boorishness. If not--
His cogitations ended abruptly as he spied Miss Ocky awaiting him in
the living-room. He had caught her with her eye so attentively fixed
on the study door as to suggest that a less refined woman might have
had an ear glued to the keyhole. He beamed on her, his customary
good-nature again in the ascendant as he left the irritating tanner
behind.
"Hello," he greeted her cheerfully. "Others all waiting for me
outside?"
"Yes. Your wife has apologized for you twice, I believe. I think it
was mean of you to shut yourself up like that after getting me all
excited about detectives and things! What were you two talking about?"
"Secrets," chuckled Mr. Krech. He continued to move implacably toward
the front door as she marched with equal determination at his elbow.
"Just a girly-girly heart-to-heart talk. Delightful fellow, isn't he?"
"Humph. You might remember he wasn't the only victim of the robbery.
If he lost a notebook, I lost a perfectly good dagger. Why can't I
know what's going on, too?" She cooed softly. "_Please_, Mr. Krech!"
"Well, if you _must_ know! I asked him, 'Vot iss a tanner?' and he
said, '_Vat_ do you mean?', and then--"
"_Oh!_" cried Miss Ocky, and flounced. Then her indignation gave way
to laughter. "Mr. Krech, you're a--a _sus domesticus_!"'
"French for diplomat, I take it," he retorted amiably, and left her on
the top step as he surged across the piazza and down to the waiting
car. Nevertheless, he sought his more erudite spouse at the first
opportunity.
"Jean, what's a _sus domesticus_?"
"Gracious!" She wrinkled her beautiful brow for a moment, but she had
taught school for a while before acquiring wedded affluence and the
answer presently came to her. "Why--a common pig, I suppose."
"Gosh. A _common_ pig? Not even a nice, clean, pink-and-white,
prize-winning pig?"
"No. What _are_ you talking about?"
"Nothing. Nothing _a_-tall! Say--what did you think of that Copley
woman?"
"Miss Copley? Very interesting. Very attractive. I liked her
immensely. Didn't you?"
He thought that over an instant. Then, like Miss Ocky, he surrendered
to amusement and gave one of his deep chuckles.
"Yes," he said. "I did. Sometime I'd like to pack a dictionary with
me and drop in on her for a chat!"
After Krech had dropped his unwelcome warning and departed, Simon Varr
turned to his desk and tried to forget some of his immediate problems
by attacking a small mass of correspondence that he had brought home
from the office after the innumerable interruptions of the morning. He
did not succeed any too well in concentrating his thoughts on the task.
They would persist in wandering to other matters, leaving him staring
blankly at a letter while his wits went the weary round of his
perplexities. With reflection came temper, and he rather welcomed the
sound of his study door being opened with no preliminary knock. That
foreboded more trouble of some sort, and he was in the humor for a
fight-- He swung his chair around and started at the sight of his wife
in the doorway.
"Well? Come in. What is it?"
She accepted the invitation. She came into the room slowly, but she
ignored his gesture toward a chair. She stood looking down at him, her
face all the whiter for a touch of vivid color that burned in each
cheek, her arms hanging loosely at her sides but her hands clenched in
token of restrained emotion. Her voice was calm as ever when she
spoke, but passion lent it a husky quality that smote ominously on his
ear.
"What have you done to--my son?"
"Done to him? Done to him? What d'you mean?" He sputtered. "I
haven't _done_ anything to him!"
"You quarreled with him?"
"Call it that if you choose. He forced the issue--though he probably
went cry-babying to you with some other version!"
"He doesn't lie. And he told me just what I managed to drag out of
him--no more. I got the impression that he was--ashamed of you, that's
all."
"Well? I'll live it down, I guess! What do you expect me to do about
it?"
"The decent thing, just for once in your life. I want you to go to
him, or send for him, and--and make peace."
"You can see me doing it, can't you? Ha!"
"He has left our roof."
"His own choice!"
"You drove him to it."
"That's not so! He's free, white and twenty-one; he can do as he
pleases elsewhere, but he'll do as I say while he's in my house!"
"_My_ house, please!"
"We've had that argument before and you've had precious little change
out of it! As for Copley--let him rustle his own living or starve
until he learns to obey my wishes!"
"You won't consider mine?"
"No!" The word was like a thunderclap.
"Very well." She held herself erect to every inch of her slim height,
her steadfast gaze leveled at him from beneath straight brows. "I warn
you, Simon, that you are going too far. I don't know if you realize
all the brutalities, the ignominies, that I've suffered from you since
we were married. Much kinder if you'd beaten me. It hasn't seemed
possible to me that you can have realized--! Yours is a very curious
nature--I've had to make allowances--often--" Her voice faded into
silence.
"_What are you going to do about it?_"
She jumped beneath the lash of that crisp question.
"I don't know--_yet_." Abruptly, she turned on her heel and left the
room.
"That's that!" Simon swung back to his desk, a grim smile on his lips.
"It always boils down to the same thing--they don't know what they're
going to do about it. Let 'em rant all they please, in the end what I
say _goes_!"
He resumed his correspondence, refreshed.
The only aftermath of this latest squall instantly apparent was the
message Bates gave him as he announced dinner. Miss Lucy would not be
down. She was indisposed.
"Another word for a bad disposition," Simon informed his sister-in-law,
as they seated themselves at a table laid for two, indifferent to the
fact that he was criticizing his wife within the hearing of a servant.
"She'll have recovered by morning."
"We can't all have your sunny nature, Simon."
"Humph. You've heard about the roekus with Copley, I suppose?"
"Rumors have reached me." Miss Ocky peppered her soup composedly.
"Need we discuss it now?"
"No. There's always the weather, if you prefer that."
The topic did not seem to appeal to her. They did not talk about the
weather, nor anything else. A silence that would have been perfect but
for the sound of a subdued champing from the head of the table was
broken only once during the progress of the meal. Occupied though he
was with his food, Varr gradually became conscious of a steady scrutiny
that first puzzled, then irritated him. He glared at her angrily.
"What do you keep looking at me like that for?" he demanded.
"Interest, Simon. Pure, unadulterated interest."
"Well, stop it! I don't like it!"
For a wonder, she acceded to his insistence without a word. It cost
her no effort to avoid looking at him for the remainder of the time at
the table, after which they rose in silence and parted. Simon went
inevitably to his study, Miss Ocky in sisterly fashion to Lucy's room
to inquire the cause of her _malaise_.
Two hours passed before she came down again. Two somewhat trying
hours, to judge from the expression on her face, which wore a look as
grim as any ever sported by Medusa. Her eyes were cold and hard as she
marched promptly to the closed study door and rapped upon it--a gesture
of icy politeness.
"Come in! Humph. So it's you, Ocky! Dropped in to take another good
look at me?"
"No--to have a rather serious talk with you, Simon." From the
effortless way in which she drew a heavy armchair into the position she
desired, a shrewd observer might have gleaned a hint of the muscular
strength that was her heritage from many a camp and trail. "Hope you
don't mind."
"Quite the contrary. By a serious talk I presume you mean a row.
Well--I've gotten so I thrive on 'em!"
"Yes. I pity you just enough, Simon, to wish you weren't so fond of
them." Miss Ocky dropped into her chair and lighted a cigarette with
pensive deliberation. "I don't know that I can offer you a real row,
my idea was to hand you a few straight-from-the-shoulder remarks and
then a couple of ultimatums. As for the brutal badinage in which you
delight, I'm in no mood for it this evening."
"Let's have your remarks. I guess I can stand 'em."
"First, then--I suppose you know that you have played the cat-and-banjo
with Lucy's happiness for the last twenty-odd years?"
"Don't assume I know anything. Just tell me!"
"Consider yourself told that, to start with. I was literally shocked
when I came back and saw the change in Lucy. She's the shadow of her
old self, nothing more. It is you who are responsible for that."
"Humph!"
"Now you have started on Copley--made a good start, too, if the boy's
manner is any criterion. Possibly I may be doing him an injustice. It
might have been consideration for his mother rather than fear of you
that has restrained him until now. Anyway, I'm glad he has summoned
the courage to defy you at last."
"Indeed. May I ask you one question? How long has it been considered
good form for a woman to enter a man's house and interfere with his
domestic relations. Eh?"
"It was my father's house first, then Lucy's. I am more at home here
this minute than you could ever be."
"Try and prove it in a law-court!"
"Perhaps I shall--some day." She paused to scrutinize her polished
finger-nails, brushed a speck from one of them, raised her eyes to his
and added dryly, "After all, Simon, you know you only got in here by a
trick."
"A _trick_! Now--what do you mean by _that_?"
"Memory gone _phut_, Simon? Perhaps I can refresh it. While I was
watching the fire last night a man came up to me and called me by name.
It was--Leslie Sherwood."
"_Ah!_" The exclamation was wrung from him through stiff lips. The
color drained from his face as he leaned forward tensely, one hand
gripping an arm of his chair like a vise. "G-go on!"
"That shot went home, did it?" asked Miss Ocky coolly, watching the
effect of her words. "I've several more in the locker! We had quite a
long talk together and he told me many things I didn't know.
Interesting things--very!"
"_What?_" Simon's voice was hoarse. "He didn't tell you--he didn't
dare tell you--" He stopped, a deadly fear in his eyes.
"Yes. He told me why he quarreled with his father. Why he left home.
Why he has come back now, freed by his father's death. Shall I go on,
Simon?"
He sank back in his chair, shaken in all his being. He could not speak
until he moistened his lips with his tongue.
"Have you--told Lucy?"
"No. That is Leslie's right, I should say. No doubt he will use it.
As far as I can see, there is only one way by which you can make a
decent exit from the mess you're in."
"If--if you're suggesting--suicide--forget it!"
"Suicide? No! Why should I waste my breath proposing an act that
requires courage? What I meant was--divorce."
"Divorce!"
"It needn't cost you a penny. Make it easy for her to get--your
lawyers will arrange that. You'll have the tannery--and welcome! All
you need do is--go! Go from this house!"
"Divorce! Stand aside--hat in hand--bow another man into my place--!"
The rage of a cornered animal swept aside his fear. "I'll see you all
in--"
"Don't shout."
"So _that_ is why Sherwood has come back!" He gritted his words
through set teeth. "He thinks he is going to make trouble for me, eh?
Just let him try--just let him try! If he dares to say a word to
Lucy--if he even dares to set foot on this property--" His clenched
fist crashed on the desk beside him as he abandoned himself to a very
ecstasy of fury. "If he dares try that, by Heaven, I'll kill him like
a dog!"
"I wouldn't," advised Miss Ocky in her quiet, hard little voice.
"Everything would have to come out in court, then, and you'd have a
fearful time persuading any jury that it was justifiable." She had
finished her cigarette, and since Simon's study boasted no ash-trays,
she rose and went to the open window to toss the stub outside. She
remained there, leaning against the casement and breathing deep of the
cool night air. "Wouldn't you rather be divorced than hanged?"
"_No!_"
"Humph. Queer tastes, you have! Well--I've kept my promise. I've
told you a few straight facts and issued an ultimatum. The rest is up
to you. Would you like time to consider--"
"No! Not a minute--blast you!"
"I don't blast easily, Simon. I'm to assume, then, that you reject my
well-intentioned--_Hello! What's that!_" Her voice dropped to an
excited whisper as she bent her head and peered into the darkness.
The alteration in her manner penetrated through the fog of temper that
had clouded his brain. He left his chair and was at her side in a
bound, surmising her answer even before he snapped a swift question.
"What is it?"
"That monk--! I could have sworn--! Over there by the big silver
birch--! I can't see him now. Can you make out anything?"
Side by side they leaned from the window, striving to accustom their
eyes to the starlit night. A long minute passed.
"I must have been mistaken." Miss Ocky drew a long breath. "A shadow
from a swaying bough--or imagination."
"There isn't wind enough to sway a twig!" he corrected curtly. He
lingered a while longer, his angry gaze continuing to search the
darkness, before he drew back into the room. "It's quite likely you
saw him," he muttered. "No doubt he saw you, too, and heard you--and
has slunk off with his tail between his legs!" He half made to pull
down the sash, then contemptuously refrained. "I'd like to get my
hands on him!" His fingers curled longingly.
After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his dismissal of the subject.
She stepped back and confronted him.
"To return, then--divorce, Simon?"
"Never!" He fairly barked it.
"I know of just one thing to your credit, Simon," said Miss Ocky rather
sadly, rather dully. "You do mean what you say. I must accept your
decision as--final."
"You must!" The interlude had braced him. "And--what are you going to
do about it?"
She shrugged her shoulders, looked at him with expressionless
eyes--turned and walked quickly from the room. His sharp, sardonic
laugh followed her down the hall.
"Another false alarm!"
He threw himself into his chair, mopping his brow. Some ten minutes
went by before a thought occurred to him that was fortuitously
anticipated by the sudden appearance of the old butler.
"That decanter of Bourbon, Bates! Then go to bed."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
History repeated itself. He drank two glasses of the fiery liquor in
swift succession. As he did so it rather staggered him to reflect that
barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had stood there the night
before, doing the same thing. Gad--what a day! Last night that monk
had interrupted him--
That monk! He muttered the words. Had Ocky really seen him? Was he
loose again on some fresh errand of crime? Had he been frightened away
by their appearance at the window? Had he been frightened away
_permanently_?
On the spur of a swift impulse, born perhaps of the whisky, he reached
up quickly and extinguished the solitary lamp. The room was instantly
plunged into darkness, through which he groped his way cautiously as he
set the stage for a game of cat-and-mouse. He pushed the chair that
Ocky had used directly in front of the open window and settled himself
in its depths, his hot eyes staring into the night and challenging it
to yield its secrets.
He moved only once during the next half-hour. That was to pour himself
another drink, which he sipped slowly while he continued to watch the
neighborhood of the big birch that Ocky had indicated. Would he come
back? Would he? Varr waited for the answer to that, waited and waited
while a murderous rage filled his breast and grew ever more intense
with each succeeding mouthful of raw drink. Would he come?
Yes!
The empty glass slipped from his fingers to fall with a light thud on
the carpeted floor as he slowly rose from his seat. He rubbed his
eyes, quite unnecessarily, for they were now used to the dim starlight.
No possible doubt existed--the ominous black figure was _there_!
Straight and tall, it stood, exactly as he remembered seeing it at the
head of the trail. Now it was on a concrete path that bisected the
kitchen garden, motionless, apparently inspecting the darkened house of
the man it pursued.
Stealthy as a cat, nearly as swiftly, Simon rushed from his room and
out of the house by the front door. His plan was to circle the
building, taking advantage of every shadow, and get as close to his
enemy as he could before revealing himself. Suppose the fellow took
alarm and got off to a running start? Could he hope to catch him? For
the first time in his life, he wished he had a revolver.
Less than ten yards intervened between them when he finally broke cover
and hurled himself furiously forward, hatred in his heart, a deep oath
on his lips. At last! His fingers itched for the throat of his enemy.
It was disconcerting suddenly to realize that he had not taken his foe
by surprise; his swift approach was slightly checked as he saw that the
figure was facing him, watching him--waiting for him! It was still as
any statue up to the very instant when he flung out his arms to seize
it; then it fell back a pace and its left hand went slowly up to lift
the black veil that masked its countenance.
If another emotion as strong as his hatred existed in Simon's breast,
it was curiosity as to the identity of his relentless enemy. His
advance came to an almost involuntary halt as he thrust his head
forward the better to distinguish the features of that face so dimly
visible in the uncertain light.
Then it was his turn to step back, his arms dropping to his sides, his
brain reeling from the shock as it apprehended the truth.
"_You!_" he gasped chokingly. "_You!_"
In that moment he was helpless, defenseless, mentally and physically
paralyzed from sheer amazement. It was the moment for which his crafty
foe had played--and won. The figure darted, forward, its right arm
rose and fell. One flicker of starlight on metal, then the thud of
steel driven home--
A single groan escaped the lips of Simon Varr before they were sealed
in death.
_XIII: A Deduction or Two_
The eleven o'clock train from New York was commendably punctual the
next morning.
Its brakes had barely ceased squealing on one side of the Hambleton
platform when Miss Ocky brought her small car to a smart halt on the
other. She sprang to the planking and waited for the passengers to
alight, her face reflecting the cheerful knowledge that she was looking
her very best that morning in a becoming hat and a well-fitting coat
and skirt of gray English tweed.
Not many people alight at Hambleton on even the liveliest occasions,
and this time a mere handful descended from the train. Among them was
a middle-aged man in a dark-blue serge, a light overcoat on one arm and
a heavy suitcase suspended from the other. He was compactly built
without being too heavy, his smooth-shaven face wore an expression of
good nature, and his eyes looked out on the world from behind
tortoise-shell glasses with a friendly twinkle that concealed something
of their sharpness. They had an inquiring expression now as he glanced
about him.
Miss Ocky did not have to be much of a detective herself to know that
here was her search concluded, though no one in the world could have
measured up less to her expectations. She had visualized something
with large feet, a big mustache and a heavy jowl, that would descend
from a smoker with a dead cigar gripped between its teeth. Silly of
her, she admitted to herself as she walked over and accosted him
briskly.
"Mr. Creighton, isn't it? Knew it must be. I'm Miss Copley, and if I
hadn't come down for you I don't know who would!"
"Very good of you, Miss Copley." He looked not unnaturally mystified
by her greeting. "I was rather expecting a friend of mine--"
"Mr. Krech? He couldn't get away from the police."
"The police!" He was startled at first, then the twinkle in his eye
deepened. "Don't tell me that his sins have found him out at last!"
"I have to tell you something much more serious than that," she
answered soberly. "Come along and stick that bag in the car. We can
talk while I drive you to the house. To begin with, Simon Varr was
found in his kitchen garden this morning--stabbed to the heart."
Peter Creighton had a fashion of receiving such bits of news in a
little silence that gave him time to gather his wits. Miss Ocky saw
that the good humor was gone from his face which was now grave and
stern. He did not speak until he had deposited his bag in the tonneau
of the car and seated himself at her side in the front.
"Murdered," he said; it was not a question.
"The doctor says the blow could not have been self-inflicted." She
touched the starter and turned the car homeward. "Yes--murdered."
"That is terrible, Miss Copley. I feel deeply shocked. Has the
murderer been identified?"
"I can't say positively. He was found about six o'clock this morning
by the cook, and you can imagine that we have been simply inundated
with police and officials ever since. They've been doing a lot of
whispering and conferring and I think they _do_ suspect some one, but
of course they haven't confided in me."
"Excuse me, Miss Copley--just who are you? I gather you are a member
of the Varr household."
"He was my brother-in-law. He married my sister. I've been visiting
them about two months."
"I see. Thank you. Now--what about Krech and the police?"
"Well, they notified Jason Bolt--he was Simon's partner--and he came
right over, bringing Mr. Krech, who is staying with him. There was a
lot of talk about a mysterious monk--I know something about him,
too!--and just when it was time to go to the train, Mr. Norvallis was
questioning your friend in the living-room. So I slipped away and came
to your rescue. It's as well I did--there are no taxis in Hambleton!"
"It was very good of you to remember me, with so much else to think
about. You--er--how did you know I was expected?"
"Mr. Varr told us yesterday that Mr. Krech was sending for you."
"'Us'?" He turned to look at her while she answered. "How many people
knew that I was coming, do you suppose?"
"Oh--several, anyway! Why?"
"I'm wondering if the news could have reached the ears of the
murderer," he explained. "Some one was persecuting Mr. Varr, we know
that. If he suddenly learned that a detective was coming--you see?"
"He might have thought it better to--to strike while the striking was
good? Yes, I see." She took her eyes from the road long enough to
give him a quick look. "You think of things very quickly, Mr.
Creighton!"
"Practice makes perfect," he murmured. "Who is Norvallis?"
"Assistant County Attorney, or something like that. Murders are rather
too complicated to be handled by the local police, evidently."
"Yes, the County takes hold usually--sometimes the State, if the County
can't make the grade. You spoke of a doctor--was that the County
Physician? Has the body been moved yet?"