wasn't nice to think of him lying out there in a tomato-patch!
However, I suppose you're disappointed."
"Why? Oh, I see! You're assuming that I might be interested in the
investigation. That doesn't seem likely. I came here on some matter
of burglary--and quite possibly that has ceased to be of importance
now. I must talk to Norvallis, though."
"If you investigate the robbery, you will be investigating the murder,"
said Miss Ocky quietly. "When Simon's notebook was stolen, his desk
was forced open by a Persian dagger, belonging to me, that happened to
be lying handy. That was missing with the notebook--and it was found
again this morning in--in Simon!"
"Golly!" Creighton looked at her with renewed interest. "Not pleasant
for you, that!"
"It seems to link the two crimes, doesn't it?"
"Decidedly. Here we are, I see."
A small crowd of curiosity-seekers was gathered at the gate which gave
access to the driveway from the highroad, and a policeman in uniform
was chatting with them amiably while barring their closer approach. He
saluted as Miss Ocky waved her hand to him and vigorously honked her
way through the staring crowd.
"I'll drop this bag in the hall for the time being," said the detective
as they mounted the piazza steps and entered the house. "Will you put
me deeper in debt to you by finding Mr. Krech for me?"
She said she would, and departed on the errand while he lingered in the
hall. The sight of no less than twelve automobiles of various sizes
and sorts parked in front of the house had prepared him for a mob
inside. A hum of voices reached him from a room on his left, the door
of which was discreetly closed, and another hum came from one on the
right, which he could see was a dining-room. Farther back in the hall,
three solid-looking gentlemen had their gray heads together in a
serious confab. For some reason they appeared to regard his entrance
with considerable interest, and seemed to be discussing him while he
waited. He put it down to the fact that he was a stranger where it was
the custom for every one to know every one else. Then Herman Krech
came out of some room in the rear and swept down upon him, accompanied
by a short, stout, worried-looking individual.
"Hello, Creighton. This is Mr. Bolt, Mr. Varr's partner."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bolt." Creighton barely acknowledged the
introduction as he searched his friend's face. "Krech, how did this
happen? I wouldn't have had it--"
"I know." The big man broke in quickly, earnestly. "I know what you
are thinking. Forget it! It isn't your fault, nor mine. I warned him
yesterday morning on my own account, and again in the afternoon after I
had talked with you. He simply disregarded it."
"A pity!" muttered the detective. His face had cleared somewhat at
Krech's statement. "Thank goodness, I haven't got that negligence on
my conscience! It has been worrying me ever since I heard the news.
So he wouldn't listen to you?"
"Nary a bit. Let's go out on the piazza. There's a place around the
corner that this merry throng hasn't discovered."
He led the way with his easy self-assurance and they followed at his
heels. He was right about the privacy of the retreat to which he took
them; a few men were standing around the front piazza, but no one had
turned the corner.
"I'm glad to have a chance to speak to you, Mr. Bolt," said the
detective when they had found seats. "This is a shockingly different
state of affairs than I expected to find. What of the burglary that
Mr. Varr had on his mind? Has that any importance now apart from its
obvious connection with the crime?"
"Yes, indeed, great importance for me and a number of other people who
may suffer from the theft of Simon's notebook." Jason looked ten years
older than when he had risen that morning. "If that has gone it will
be a serious blow to our tanning business--and a gold-mine to any
competitor who might get his hands on it and not be honest enough to
return it."
"Um. Secret formulas--that sort of thing?"
"Exactly. On my own behalf, and out of respect for my partner's
wishes--his last wish, practically,--I would be very glad to have you
take a hand in the affair and see if you can locate that notebook."
"The theft and the murder are linked by the dagger. If the police have
their eye on the murderer, the notebook should be recovered when he is
arrested."
"That's only a possibility, Mr. Creighton--and--oh, frankly, I want you
to take the case anyway! Mr. Krech and I must try to tell you the
whole story as we heard it from Simon yesterday. He was the victim of
an unknown enemy. Threats--robbery--arson--murder! I won't be
satisfied until that scoundrel is well and truly--_hanged_! As for the
police--well, I think better of them than Simon, perhaps, but I'd still
be glad of another string to my bow. It's proper for me to employ
extra assistance if I wish, isn't it?"
"Perfectly. I quite understand how you feel--and I will be glad to do
what I can. The family won't object, I suppose?"
"Not a scrap," said a woman's voice behind him. They started to their
feet at the sight of Miss Ocky, who had come upon them unawares. "I
can answer for the family. Please sit down again. I'll take this
sofa--unless you're talking secrets," she added, with a faint smile for
Herman Krech. "I tried to stay quiet in my room upstairs,
but--nerves!" She lifted her shoulders and looked apologetic.
They assured her they had no secrets from her. She sat down and
listened attentively as Jason Bolt, at Creighton's request, gave a
careful account of the events preceding Varr's death as he had heard
them from his partner, appealing to Krech from time to time for
corroboration. His voice shook with emotion as he described his horror
that morning when the news of Simon's fate was brought to him.
"A rotten business," he ended huskily.
Miss Ocky eased the tension by suddenly producing her cigarette case
and passing it around; Creighton accepted one and lighted it, a thought
surprised at this touch of outer-worldliness in a demure, middle-aged,
country lady. It might be, he mused, that she called herself not an
old maid, but a bachelor girl. He liked her, though; liked the bright
eyes that lost nothing that passed, the alert brain that missed no
trick, the strength of character revealed in the finely-modeled mouth
and chin that were still invested with feminine charm.
"Let's tackle this business at once," he suggested. "Sooner the
better. In a murder, look for the motive. Miss Copley--Mr. Bolt--can
either of you tell me who might have wanted to kill Simon Varr?"
They looked uncomfortable. It was Krech who took the bull by the horns.
"_De mortuis ml nisi bonum_," he said gravely. "Otherwise, I should
say that it would be simpler to give you a list of the people who
didn't." He spared a regretful glance for Bolt's hurt little
exclamation. "I know it jars on you just now, but truth is truth.
I've seen enough in the last three days to know that Varr must have had
a host of enemies."
"Yes," said Miss Ocky. "A notable collection."
"That won't do," objected the detective. "To dislike a man is one
thing, to hate him to the point of murdering him is another."
"Greed is a motive for murder," said Krech. "Who stood to profit
financially by his death?"
Jason Bolt stirred uneasily in his seat. Miss Ocky looked
uncomfortable. Krech glanced from one to the other, then nodded to
Creighton.
"It's the same answer," he said. "A lot of people."
"Neither the question nor answer are pertinent," commented the
detective. "This murderer did not kill for money."
"Why are you so sure?" demanded Krech stubbornly.
"If he made up his mind that it would pay him to kill Simon Varr, he
would have gone to work and done it out-of-hand, skillfully or clumsily
as his limitations might permit. He wouldn't have wasted a lot of time
with ineffective fires, bugaboo masquerading--and, above all, he never
would have been so gracious as to send a warning note!" Creighton had
the satisfaction of seeing his argument score a grand slam; there was
conviction in the eyes of Krech and Jason Bolt, and something like
admiration in Miss Ocky's. "No, the motive was not mercenary whatever
else it may have been."
"There's this strike we've had on our hands," offered Jason. "I'll
swear most of the men are decent fellows, but there are always some
exceptions. They knew pretty well that Varr was the man who was
fighting them--in other words, locking them out. With him out of the
way, they knew they could count on better terms from me." He added
diffidently, "Mightn't one of them have done it?"
"I spoke of the fires just now as being ineffective," replied
Creighton. "I have gathered that they were. The second was the more
serious of the two, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, was it serious enough to cripple the business? Was it a vital
blow?"
"Not at all. The contents of the two buildings burned were worth
money, of course, but they were only reserve stuff."
"But there are buildings in the yard whose loss might have hit you
hard?"
"Oh, yes. Several."
"Then, if one of the striking workmen had set the fire, he would have
selected one or more of them. I think we may safely assume that the
incendiary was unfamiliar with the tannery and consequently was not one
of the strikers."
"You win," said Jason Bolt, after a pause. "I've wondered why the
scoundrel didn't touch off something more important, but the
significance of his failure to do so never occurred to me. Go on, Mr.
Creighton; I'm getting a lesson in straight thinking."
"Not so very straight," smiled the detective. "Given a fact, you have
to think over and under and all around it before you can grasp its
every implication. It's only because I've had a lot of experience that
I can draw inferences a shade faster than the average man--and often
quite as inaccurate!"
"If it wasn't either a striker or a person actuated by the desire for
gain," said Krech, "who is left? What other motives are there for
murder?"
"Revenge. Jealousy. What about the last, Miss Copley? Was he
interested in any other woman than his wife?"
"No," said Miss Ocky, "and remarkably little in her!"
"Um. Friction?"
"No--not friction."
He saw her reluctance to answer this line of questioning and took it
for granted that the presence of the others embarrassed her. He
dropped the topic, intending to pursue it at a later, more favorable
moment.
"Revenge," he continued. "Did Varr ever wrong any one to the extent of
driving them to murder him?"
"No," said Jason Bolt. "Simon was a hard man but not as bad as that."
"No," said Miss Ocky--but she had gasped, and Creighton had heard her.
He made a mental note of that.
"We're getting along nicely," said Herman Krech, who never liked to be
out of the limelight too long. "It wasn't for money, it wasn't for
revenge, it wasn't jealousy; by the time we've eliminated a few more
motives we'll have only the correct one left."
"Meanwhile," said Creighton, "what's going on in the house? Who is
running the police show?"
"Chap named Norvallis," answered the big man. "The Sheriff, the County
Physician and a few plainclothes sleuths are in attendance, but
Norvallis is the real leader of the gang. He has been going through
the usual motions--asking everybody about everything--"
"Hold on!" broke in Jason. "I don't know that I agree with you.
Seemed to me his questions were mighty casual and indifferent. Did it
strike you that he had a sort of a pleased-with-himself air? I got the
impression that he might already have made up his mind as to who was
the guilty man and considered everything else relatively unimportant."
"It's not impossible that you're right," suggested Creighton. "The
murderer may have left some glaring clue to his identity. Naturally,
the police wouldn't talk about it until they got their hands on him."
He turned to Krech. "You told him about this monk business, didn't
you? How did he take it?"
"His first attitude," said Krech, "was that of a polite but skeptical
child listening to a bedtime story. I soon convinced him of its
importance, though. He says it simplifies things."
"Um. He must be even quicker at inferences than I am!"
"By the way, I told him about you and he said he wanted to see you the
moment you got here."
"Well, this is a nice time to tell me!" laughed Creighton. He stood
up. "I'd better take my place in line."
"I can count on you, then, to help us in the matter of locating that
notebook?" asked Jason Bolt.
"Yes, sir," the detective assured him for the second time. "I can
promise to take a personal as well as a professional interest in this
case. I feel deeply the fact that Mr. Varr should have met death in
such a fashion after he became my client."
"You did what you could to warn him."
"Now, about my headquarters; there's a hotel in the town?"
"Yes, but I've been hoping you would let us put you up." Bolt wrinkled
his brows thoughtfully. "Mr. and Mrs. Krech are staying with us, but
there's always room for one more."
"You're both talking nonsense," interrupted Miss Ocky. "The logical
place for Mr. Creighton is right _here_."
"Kind of you, Miss Copley, but I hardly think I'll add to your
problems. Let us agree that the hotel is the best for the time being.
It is too soon yet to say where my activities will center."
_XIV: Lucy Varr_
There were four men in the living-room when Creighton tapped on the
door and entered in response to a command. Two of them were standing
by a French window which they appeared to be examining and discussing,
and as Creighton knew that the theft of the notebook had been prefaced
by the breaking of one of the windows in this room, he had no
difficulty in deducing that this was the one and that the two men were
plainclothes detectives of the county staff.
The other two were seated at the table in the center of the room, a
litter of papers scattered in front of them. They looked up
inquisitively as Creighton advanced and laid his card on the pile of
memoranda before the more important gentleman of the pair.
"Ah, yes. Glad to meet you, Mr. Creighton. Very glad, indeed. My
name's Norvallis--County Attorney's office. This is Sheriff Andrews,
of Wayne County. Andrews, this is Mr. Peter Creighton of New York."
"Your name's familiar to me, Mr. Creighton," said Andrews, and
stretched forth a long, bony arm with a calloused hand at the end of
it. He was a mild-eyed individual with a soft, sweeping,
tobacco-stained mustache. "I read the New York papers pretty reg'lar
and I've followed one or two of your cases."
Norvallis was a stout, prosperous-looking man of forty-odd, a typical
product of country politics. His manner was carefully bluff and hearty
and characterized by a sort of _bonhommie_ that was useful in
impressing voters with the fact that he was a pretty good fellow, his
close-set eyes sparkled with intelligence that his low brow defined as
cunning rather than wisdom, and there were puffy semicircles beneath
them that told of parties not entirely political.
"Your friend Krech told us the circumstances under which you were sent
for," broke in Norvallis before Creighton could find some polite
acknowledgment of the Sheriff's interest. "Must have been quite a
shock to you to learn of Mr. Varr's death."
"It certainly was. Fortunately for my peace of mind, I took care
yesterday to warn him against taking undue risks. He disregarded the
advice."
"Oh. You warned him? You had some reason to believe his life was in
danger?"
"Nothing so definite as that, but it was apparent that he had some sort
of a queer, tough customer on his trail and it's always in order to
take reasonable precautions."
"A queer customer, eh? This monk we've been hearing so much about!
What opinion have you formed about that?"
"None at all," replied Creighton promptly.
Norvallis did not quite conceal the disappointment he felt at the flat
negative. He changed the subject.
"I think you have a piece of evidence that should properly be turned
over to me. Didn't Mr. Krech send you an anonymous note that Mr. Varr
received from his enemy?"
"Yes." Creighton took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to
Norvallis. "There it is, in good order. I had it tested for
fingerprints this morning before I left the city."
"Find any?"
"Only those made by Mr. Varr himself. Further than that, the
microscope showed that the surface of the paper had been uniformly
abraded before it was written on, as if the crook had taken a rubber
eraser and removed all traces of any prints that might have been there
already."
"Cautious devil, wasn't he?"
Creighton did not answer. His eye had suddenly fallen on an object
imperfectly concealed beneath a blank sheet of paper at Norvallis'
elbow.
"Is that the knife that was used?" he asked.
"Yes." The county official rather reluctantly uncovered the exhibit.
"Don't touch!"
"No fear!" Creighton reassured him.
He moved nearer to the ghastly souvenir and bent over it. A fine bit
of Oriental workmanship that any museum might have valued; the haft was
of silver, exquisitely chased, the blade was straight and slender,
narrowing to a needlelike point, so that it belonged rather to the
stiletto type than the dagger. An inscription ran lengthwise down the
steel, which was of a distinct bluish tinge where it was not darkly
stained. About an inch from the tip a tiny triangular nick had been
made in one of the sharp edges, the only flaw in the weapon's
perfection. Creighton looked up from it to meet the Sheriff's
speculative eye.
"Can you read what it says on the blade, Mr. Creighton?"
"No! I have my limitations."
"It means, 'I bring peace'!" The officer tugged at his mustache and
smiled. "Miss Copley told us that. It belongs to her."
"Well, I expect she won't want it back."
Norvallis put down the anonymous letter which he had been reading. His
eyes were alight with satisfaction.
"This case will make people talk when it gets into the papers, Mr.
Creighton!"
"Sure to."
"Have you any other information, or evidence, or exhibit, for me?"
"Not a scrap."
"Mr. Varr's death must alter your plans, of course. May I ask if you
are returning to New York this afternoon or evening?"
Creighton knew perfectly well that Norvallis had been eager to put that
question since the moment he had come into the room. He shook his head
smilingly.
"Mr. Bolt has invited me to do what I can to recover the notebook that
was stolen from Mr. Varr's desk."
"Oh." Norvallis exchanged a quick glance with the Sheriff. "Then, in
a sense, we'll be working together. Possibly it hasn't occurred to Mr.
Bolt that when the murderer is found, the thief will be found."
"Yes, he knows that. But my inquiry may diverge from yours, Mr.
Norvallis. It may have to go farther than yours. Of course, you
realize that yourself."
"Eh? Ah--yes, yes!" said the other blankly.
"I expect our relations will be both amicable and of mutual benefit,"
continued Creighton cheerfully. "If I turn up anything good I'll let
you know, and I can hope for as much from you, can't I?"
"Er--well, I don't know about that." Norvallis looked pink and
uncomfortable as he began to fidget with the papers on the table. "I
don't know about that, Mr. Creighton. I may not feel free--er--no, on
the whole I think it would be preferable if we conducted our
investigations independently of each other. Yes, that would be
better!" He had an air of relief as he got that dictum off his chest.
"All right," agreed Creighton, still cheerfully. He surmised the
reason for the official's embarrassment, the police already knew, or
thought they knew, the identity of the murderer, and it was a secret
they proposed to guard jealously until they could cover themselves with
glory by making an arrest. He did not blame them in the least, and
accepted the rebuff good-humoredly. "As you please, Mr. Norvallis."
The two men by the window apparently had concluded their examination.
One of them sauntered over to the table and reported.
"Nothing much there, sir. There's a few prints made by the butler
opening and shutting the doors."
"Just as I expected," said Norvallis composedly. "Lucky we don't have
to rely on fingerprints in this case, Mr. Creighton."
"Found none at all?"
"Not one. I'll make you a present of that bit of news."
"Thank you for nothing," grinned Creighton, then added mischievously,
"Of course, before you can find fingerprints you have to know where to
look for them."
"Oh."
"Yes. You stick to that window and Varr's desk and the hilt of this
dagger--and leave the less obvious places to me."
"Indeed. I suppose it would be useless for me to ask you to designate
some of those less obvious places?"
"Quite useless," answered Creighton truthfully.
He was smiling over that as he excused himself and left the room. He
could not have answered the hypothetical question on a bet, for his
remark had been a chance shot simply intended to annoy. No one would
have been more surprised than himself to learn that this same shot
would develop the qualities of a boomerang.
He was stopped in the hall by a pale, gray-haired man whose trembling
hands betrayed the strain under which he labored.
"Mr. Creighton, isn't it, sir? Miss Copley told me to fix up some
sandwiches and coffee in the butler's pantry. There's so many coming
and going through the house she thought it would be quieter there. Mr.
Krech is there already, waiting for you, sir."
"Very thoughtful of her. What is your name?"
"Edward Bates, sir. I'm the butler."
"Oh, yes, Miss Copley spoke of you. She tells me you handled things
very well this morning after Mr. Varr was found."
"I did what I could, sir. I knew the body mustn't be moved, so I kept
the news from Miss Lucy--that's Mrs. Varr, sir--until the police and
the doctor got here."
"Knew that, did you? Been with the family long, Bates?"
"Thirty-five years, sir. I worked for old Mr. Copley before his
daughter married Mr. Varr. This is a shocking business, sir."
The conversation carried them to the pantry door, whither Bates had led
them. His hand was on the knob when Creighton checked him with a touch
on his elbow, at which the old man jumped nervously.
"One moment. A butler who keeps his ears open often knows a lot that
other people don't. What is your idea about this? Can you guess who
murdered Mr. Varr?"
"No, sir!" His voice was almost panicky. "Indeed I can't, sir!"
"Uh-huh," said Creighton easily. Was the old fellow suffering from
frazzled nerves or from hidden knowledge? Another little matter for
future examination. "By the way, how is Mrs. Varr standing the shock?"
"Not too well, sir. She bore up like the brave lady she is until Mr.
Norvallis was through with her, then broke down. She's in bed. The
doctor says she must keep quiet and that she'll be all right, but he's
coming again this afternoon."
"Get him to give you something for yourself," was Creighton's kindly
admonition. "You're trembling like a leaf. The family will be
depending on you a lot these next few days. Don't let them down by
getting sick."
"I won't, sir. Thank you, sir."
Creighton permitted him to escape, well satisfied with the new tone in
the man's voice as he acknowledged his appreciation of the detective's
interest. Creighton was never harsh with a witness, never tried to
bulldoze or rattle him, until all else had failed. His policy was to
put people at their ease and gentle them into talking freely, a course
that was all the more facile for him by reason of his genuine sympathy
and understanding and his native kindliness.
Krech was waiting patiently behind a plate piled high with sandwiches.
There was coffee, too, and before the butler left them alone, he stood
an interesting decanter on the table. A shadow of gloom that
overspread the big man's extensive countenance was visibly lightened by
this.
"Bolt's gone home," he announced. "Mrs. Bolt and Jean must be
suffering agonies of curiosity. I stayed here because I felt I might
be able to help you."
"Stout fellow," said Creighton with a grin, and selected a huge
sandwich. "Where do you think we'd better begin?"
"There's no use adopting that superior attitude with me. You know
perfectly well I come in handy at times. Say--I'm sore at Bolt! He
did you out of a good job."
"Me? How come?"