arrived? Well, that was the Board of Selectmen of Hambleton, yes,
sirree, b'gosh. Bolt had told 'em you were coming and they were all
het up. They don't get along with the county crowd too well, and for
that reason they'd about decided to retain your services just to show
they were ready to hold up their end. Then Bolt came along and blurted
out that he had commissioned you to investigate the matter and they
pulled their horns in like a bunch of frightened snails. If he had
only kept still you could have made a deal with them."
"I see. And what makes you think I'd be guilty of the indelicacy of
letting two outfits pay me for the same job?"
"'Thnot 'n 'ndelicathy," said Mr. Krech vigorously through a sandwich.
"If Bolt can have a second string to his bow, why can't you have a
couple of employers?"
"Krech, you're a nice fellow with all the instincts of a crook."
"Huh. I suppose nothing could ever lead you from the narrow path of
rectitude?"
"No," laughed Creighton, "nothing ever could!"
"Well, it won't be the Hambleton Selectmen, anyway. The three of them
were pale when they discovered how close they'd been to spending a
bunch of money unnecessarily."
They finished their lunch without the loss of much time, the detective
setting the pace. Once into a case, he could be as patient and
plodding as an ox, but the preliminaries found him restless and
impatient. He detested the inevitable gathering of masses and masses
of information that must subsequently be pulled to pieces and mulled
over until the most of it had been discarded and the important residue
determined. It all took so much time--precious time that the criminal
might be using to strengthen his own position.
"Let's have a look at the place marked 'X' in the picture," he
suggested, rising. "Kitchen garden, wasn't it? That means the rear of
the house. Let's go out this back way, through the kitchen. Sometimes
it pays to look the servants over in a casual fashion before having
them on the mat. They're less apt to be on guard."
He bustled cheerfully into the kitchen, asked a question or two about
the exact location of the crime, and left the house by the rear door,
Krech close behind.
"One Irish cook," summarized the detective when they were safely out of
hearing. "Fat and fifty, good-natured and violent by turns. One
rather pretty girl, a housemaid from the white cap, frightened, been
crying, inclined to be hysterical. Old Bates, the butler. Last, one
gaunt, tall, vinegary, nondescript female. Who's the nondescript,
Krech?"
"Search me. Here's the place."
Creighton took one look and groaned. Whatever precautions the police
might have taken in the first stages of their investigation had
evidently been relaxed thereafter. The garden might have been the
scene of a recent rodeo. A mob of curious Hambletonians had held high
revel in it from one end to the other.
"That ought to be classed as criminal negligence," snorted the
detective, turning away.
"It's no use to you?" asked his friend disappointedly.
"Not for the moment. If I were nature-faking a book on Africa I could
run a picture of it as an elephant's playground, but that's all." He
stopped and gazed at the house long enough to memorize the windows that
commanded a view of the garden. "No use going back there, now," he
decided. "Chuck full of a man named Norvallis. Suppose we drop down
to the tannery. Not far, is it? Where's that short cut through the
woods in which Varr first saw his monk?"
"Right over here." The big man had gleaned that piece of information
earlier in the day. The two men crossed the garden by its path,
passing the very spot where Simon Varr had met his tragic end, and
plunged into the trail. Like the garden, this had been trampled by a
multitude of feet. "What are you going to do at the tannery?" asked
Krech, yielding to his favorite weakness, curiosity.
"Talk to whoever is in charge. Poke around the premises. We know the
crook was there twice, on the occasions of the fires, and where a man
has been he may leave a trace. It's an off-chance, but we can't
neglect it."
In default of any orders to the contrary, the watchman, Nelson, was at
his post behind the office building door, though he shrewdly suspected
that the chief necessity for guarding the premises had ceased with
their owner's death. He willingly admitted Krech, whom he recognized
afar, and nodded comprehension when Creighton introduced himself and
his present mission.
"Yes, sir, I've been wondering when you would get here."
"The deuce you have! You knew I was coming?"
"Yes, sir. I heard Mr. Bolt and this gentleman mentioning you
yesterday as they went out of here."
Creighton turned and looked at his friend sardonically. Beneath that
fixed regard Mr. Krech reddened, but stoutly defended himself.
"That was Jason Bolt," he averred. "He was full of the subject and I
remember his chattering about it as we left."
"Um. Can't be helped now." He shifted his gaze to the watchman. "Do
you remember if you mentioned it to any one?" Nelson hesitated, and
the detective was on him in a flash. "You did! Speak out. Tell the
truth, and you'll have no reason to be afraid of me or any one else.
This is a murder case, you know. It's an awful mistake to hold
anything back. Who did you tell?"
"Only one person sir. A woman. It just slipped out--"
"And probably did no harm. Don't get worried. Who was she?"
"A girl named Jones, sir, Drusilla Jones." An expression akin to
horror dawned in Nelson's eyes as he grasped for the first time the
significance of what he was about to add. "She had been keeping
company with a fellow named Charlie Maxon, who was put in jail a few
days ago by Mr. Varr--and last evening Charlie drugged his keeper and
never was missed until this morning!"
"My sainted aunt! What time did he break jail?"
"Moody--the keeper--says the last thing he remembers was the clock
strikin' ten."
"Krech, do they know what time Varr was murdered?"
"Approximately at eleven."
"Let's hope for his sake that Charles has a whacking good alibi! Have
you told the police about your talk with Drusilla Jones?"
"No, sir, they haven't been near me yet."
"Oh. Well, eventually you will find yourself having a heart-to-heart
talk with a man named Norvallis. Don't fail to tell him about your
chat with the lady--and you might just say that I advised you to repeat
it to him, will you?"
"Why, yes, sir. Do you think that Charlie Maxon--?"
"No embarrassing questions, please! Now I'd like to have a look about,
if I may."
"Yes, sir." Painfully anxious to escape any suspicion of withholding
more information, Nelson hurriedly related the incident of the previous
afternoon when he and Simon Varr had examined the tracks left by the
incendiary. "There was some light rain last night, sir, but those I
put the box over will be plain enough."
"Good. Show us where they are at once."
The watchman obeyed with alacrity.
Together the three men stood by the edge of the sluggish little brook
and contemplated the tracks that Nelson indicated. The detective did
not even take his eyes from them as he accepted and mechanically
lighted one of the cigars that Krech offered his companions.
"Big feet!" said Krech presently.
"That's what Mr. Varr remarked yesterday, sir."
"Um." Creighton slowly came out of his trance. He pointed to a small
piece of wood that lay down by the water's edge. "Krech, will you step
down there and get that for me? I want to look at it."
"Sure." Astonished but amiable, the detective's willing assistant
strode to the object indicated and retrieved it handsomely. His
astonishment increased when Creighton, after turning it over two or
three times in his hands, suddenly pitched it into the water. "Don't
like it?"
"No. That's all I want here just now."
They returned to the office building, where Creighton patiently
questioned Nelson at some length about the various phases of the
strike. It was not until they had left the tannery and were walking
back up the hill that Krech was able to put an eager question.
"What was the racket with that piece of wood?"
"That was a stunt to cover my real interest from the watchman. No use
letting the whole world in on what I'm thinking about."
"You didn't fool him any more than you did me. Please explain why I'm
going home with over an inch of mud on my expensive shoes."
"I wanted you to make a set of tracks alongside those of the
incendiary. I didn't want to ask you right out loud to do it, so I
asked you to get me that bit of wood. When you did so, you left a very
nice set of footprints parallel with his. Thus I was enabled to
compare them, as were you, if you happened to think of doing so."
"Well, I didn't! Why should I?"
"Suppose you were a small man about to commit a crime and wished to
disguise yourself past recognition. What would you do?"
"Make myself look like a large man," said Krech slowly.
"Exactly. Suppose again that you were an educated man about to write
an anonymous, threatening letter. How would you go about doing that?"
"I'd use a typewriter to conceal my handwriting. I'd sign the thing in
an awkward scrawl." Krech saw the drift of it now. "And I'd take good
care to misspell a bunch of words!" he concluded triumphantly.
"That he faked illiteracy was a pure surmise, a mere possibility, until
now, when it gains color from the evidence of the footprints. A mental
twist that would make a small man disguise himself as a large one would
make an educated man resort to illiteracy. Logical, I think."
"Very likely. But how did you get this from footprints?"
"They were too shallow. I noticed that at once, and proved it by
parading yours alongside them. That fellow wore shoes as big as yours
and was running to boot, but his tracks were scarcely half the depth of
those you made. Get it?"
"Oh, yes," said Krech rather mournfully. "Two and two always make four
when you add them up. They never run to more than three and a half for
me." He sighed. "Creighton, I'd like once--just for _once_--to score
a beat over you!"
"Well, you may do it in this very case," remarked his friend
encouragingly. "You never can tell."
_XV: Treasure Trove_
The instant they stepped into the house they knew that the police had
left it. A calm, almost holy, peace seemed to have settled upon the
place, a far more fitting atmosphere considering the motionless form
that lay in a room upstairs, its eyes closed and its face more
reposeful than ever it had been in life. "I bring peace," wrote some
long-forgotten craftsman on the blade of the dagger he had just
fashioned, and in some measure wrote the truth.
"And I've got to stir them all up again," said Creighton half
regretfully.
"Can't make omelets without breaking eggs," was the responsive
platitude from Herman Krech. "I suppose you mean you're going to start
in asking questions."
"Millions of 'em. I've been here just a few hours and I've barely
scratched the surface of this case, yet I've learned already that Mr.
Varr had a fine bunch of evil-wishers. Where is that desk which was
broken open? Do you know?"
"Yes. It's in a small study in the back of the house that he used as a
sort of office, I guess. Come along and I'll show you. There's not a
soul in sight and we may as well make ourselves at home."
Creighton agreed, but before they reached the study a light step on the
stairs warned them that their privacy was to be invaded. Miss Ocky
advanced upon them with determination, and instantly revealed that she
had at least one quality in common with the inquisitive Mr. Krech.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "What have you been doing? I
sent Bates to look for you a while ago and he reported you missing."
"Anything special, Miss Copley?"
"Mostly curiosity," she confessed shamelessly. "I've never seen a
detective at work and I've always wanted to. I think yours must be the
most fascinating profession in the world even if it's a rather sad one.
Don't you find after looking into the hearts of people and dissecting
their mean little minds and motives that you grow cynical on the
subject of humanity?"
"Indeed I do not," he answered earnestly. "Your question makes you
sound more cynical that I ever dreamed of being. My experience is that
very few persons have mean minds and motives, and they are often
victims of some pressure of circumstance they can't control or resist.
I've put handcuffs on more than one poor devil for whom I've had
nothing but sympathy."
"You put them on just the same, though?"
"Certainly. I'm supposed to, you know."
"It seems very hard-hearted. If you knew that 'poor devil' was morally
justified in committing his crime, wouldn't you be tempted to--leave
the key of the handcuffs where he could get it?"
"Tempted, perhaps; that's all."
"Suppose it was some one who had a claim on you--a sister or brother or
child?"
"You must ask that of some unfortunate sleuth with a family. My
nearest relative is a third cousin who lives in Chicago but has
nevertheless shown no criminal tendency to date. I'm remarkably
well-protected from any potential struggle between duty and
inclination." He smiled, and added apologetically, "Detective ethics
is a pretty complicated subject to discuss, and I'm afraid it isn't
getting on with the problem of who stole a notebook from Simon Varr's
desk."
"Of course it isn't--and I'm much more interested in seeing you attack
that! But I warn you our conversation is only postponed!"
They entered the study, where Creighton went straight to the window and
stood looking out at the now devastated garden where Simon Varr had
been found.
"Who _did_ find him, by the way?" he voiced a sudden thought.
"Katie, the cook. She came down first, as usual, and saw a man lying
flat on his back in the tomato patch. Her first idea was that some one
had taken a drop too much and had strayed there and gone to sleep, so
she went up to Bates' room and routed him out. He came down and
discovered the awful truth--and he behaved wonderfully. He seemed to
know just what had to be done, and he actually managed to keep the news
from the family until official permission had been received to bring
the body into the house. Poor Lucy--my sister--was at least spared the
thought of his lying out there."
"Who saw him last--in the house, I mean, of course?"
"Bates, who brought him a decanter of whisky here to the study, wished
him good-night and left him."
"What time was that? Did the butler notice?"
"Yes, because he was interested in getting to bed. It was about
ten-thirty."
"Um. He was left here--alone--with a decanter of whisky and a troubled
mind. It's safe to assume that he took a drink or so. Tell me, was
your brother-in-law an impulsive sort of person--liable to outbursts of
passion--inclined to do things in a headlong, reckless way?"
"A very good description indeed."
"I've been wondering how he happened to be out in the garden so
opportunely for the murderer. If he was sitting in this room, looked
out the window and spotted the fellow hanging around, his first impulse
might have been to rush from the house and tackle him. Does that
impress you as being a likely scenario, Miss Copley?"
"Very. To tell you the truth, when he was really angry I'm inclined to
think he was scarcely responsible for his actions."
"His enemy knew that, you may be sure, and counted on it to his own
advantage. Now, another question about the matter of time. You told
me, Krech, that the hour of the murder had been approximately set at
eleven. Do you know how that was determined?"
"It was the doctor's opinion, for one thing. Then it was pretty
plausibly substantiated by a trick of the weather. There was a shower
at eleven-thirty last night from which the ground was still wet early
this morning. The local Chief of Police covered himself with glory by
noticing that the earth beneath Varr's body was as dry as a bone when
they took him up."
"Good enough. I must have a chat with that lad. I wonder if he
noticed anything else that was useful."
"Somebody did," commented Miss Ocky thoughtfully. "There was a man out
there making a plaster cast of some footprints. Why do you suppose he
was doing that, Mr. Creighton?"
"My golly!" The detective's eyes flashed with excitement. "Did you see
them, Miss Copley?"
"Yes, but they meant nothing to me."
"How large were they, do you remember?" He waved a hand at Mr. Krech's
extremities. "Large as those?"
"Oh, my, no," said Miss Ocky, glancing at the objects indicated. "Not
nearly as large as those."
"I'd like to interrupt these proceedings," declared Krech in an injured
voice, "long enough to remark that any sculptor would tell you they are
beautifully proportioned to my size."
"I wasn't criticizing their--architecture," said the lady.
"Second time to-day he's called attention to them!"
"Shameful. What was the first?"
"Oh, that was rather interesting. I'll tell you about it if he'll let
me."
"Tell me anyway. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to us at
all. What _is_ he doing?"
"Hush! he's thinking," said the big man vindictively after a brief
inspection of his friend. "He always looks like that when he thinks.
Scientists aver the eye reflects the mind; note the perfect blankness
of his?"
That effectively aroused Creighton from his momentary abstraction. He
grinned at the two of them.
"Pay no attention to him, Miss Copley. Yes, you can tell her what we
found at the tannery, Krech." He looked at Miss Ocky. "That is in
deference to your interest in the art of detection; may I count on you
not to breathe a word of what I tell you to any one?"
"You may."
"It's a bargain. Go ahead, Krech, while I amuse myself looking over
his desk."
Miss Ocky listened eagerly to Krech's somewhat embroidered account of
their activities at the tannery, but managed to keep an eye on Peter
Creighton the while. He was going over the desk and its roll-top cover
inch by inch, peering at its surface, trailing his fingertips over the
polished wood in case touch might find something that vision hadn't.
Once he interrupted Krech by asking him to bring a magnifying glass
from his bag in the hall.
"What are you looking for?" asked Miss Ocky in the interim.
"Nothing--anything. I expect the first and may chance on the second.
This is just routine, Miss Copley. When I know a crook has been in a
certain spot, I go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. You'd be
surprised to know the number of microscopic bits of evidence a man can
leave behind him in spite of every precaution."
"Have you found anything here?"
"No." He accepted the glass that Krech handed him and went back to his
task. "This fellow was careful, sure enough."
The big man resumed his story. She interrupted him with a quick little
exclamation when she heard of Charlie Maxon's escape. Her interest
brought a question from the detective.
"Know him, Miss Copley?"
"I've spoken to him once or twice. Casually."
"How did that happen? Where did you meet him?"
"In a grocery store in the town. He came in for something while I was
there. Of course he knew who I was, and he started talking to me about
the strike and how hard it was on the men."
"Um. What sort of a chap is he? Capable of--murder?"
"Good gracious, I don't think so!" Miss Ocky straightened in her chair
and shot a quick glance at the detective. "He's the agitator
type--more bark than bite. I don't believe he'd have the courage to
kill a man. Is--is he suspected?"
"I can't tell you. We may know more about that after the
inquest--unless Norvallis gets it adjourned, which he may. I don't
think he'll want to show his hand so soon."
"This will be a spicy bit of gossip for Janet," mused Miss Ocky half to
herself, then caught Creighton's raised eyebrow and explained her
remark. "Janet Mackay is my maid, and she used to know Maxon in
Scotland when he was a youngster."
"Um. Have they seen anything of each other lately?"
"No. Janet has no use for him. She says he was always getting into
trouble as a boy."
"He doesn't seem to have lost the habit. Is Janet a tall thin woman
who wears steel-rimmed glasses?"
"Yes. You noticed her in the kitchen this morning, didn't you? She
told me you went through that way."
"Has she been with you long?"
"Twenty-five years. She came here as a sort of companion-maid to my
sister and me a few years before my father's death. She was very fond
of Lucy, but she didn't care so much for Simon, so when I went East I
took her with me. We've been together ever since."
"No need to ask, then, if you trust her."
"Trust her! Trust Janet?" Miss Ocky's voice was warm. "I'd trust her
with my life!"
Creighton dropped the subject, but added another fragment to the data
he was compiling. Janet, the nondescript lady, didn't care much for
Varr, and was acquainted with Charlie Maxon. Important? Um--too soon
to say. He concentrated his attention once more on his search.
"Nothing," he finally announced briefly. He rose as he spoke--he had
been on his hands and knees the better to examine the floor in front of
the desk--and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "Said I expected
as much, didn't I? Now for that window in the living-room."
Krech had finished his story and Miss Ocky was looking at the detective
with considerable interest and some respect.
"That was clever of you to notice the shallowness of the footprints,"
she said. "And your deductions from them and the note are quite
shrewd. A small educated man instead of a large illiterate one?"
"Yes. Not that I'd advise you to bet on it. Quite often the brilliant
deduction falls by the wayside and leaves the obvious conclusion to jog
home a winner. You had a good look at the fellow didn't you? You got
the impression that he was tall? How tall?"
"Oh, six feet perhaps. It was dusk, you know, and he brushed by me
very quickly. I was too scared to do much observing!"
"Uncomfortable experience," said Krech, "having a masked monk pop out
at you from a peaceful countryside. What did you think about it? Did
you know the fool legend?"
"N-no. I learned about that next day from Sheila Graham. I was
telling her my experience and she remembered the story and went and got
the book."
"She's the daughter of Billy Graham, the manager whom Varr had decided
to get rid of?" Creighton's face was serious.
"How in the world did you know _that_!" cried Miss Ocky.
"Gossip. I love to listen to it. Ever talk to a chap named Nelson, a
watchman at the tannery? He's full of it." It was a trick of Peter
Creighton's to sound most flippant when he was soberest inside, and
Krech, who knew it, fell to watching him sharply. But the detective's
face was inscrutable. "So Graham's daughter had a book containing the
legend of the monk, eh? Just what was the trouble between him and Mr.
Varr?"
"Well--I suppose I may as well tell you," said Miss Ocky reluctantly.
"It wouldn't be right to keep anything back from you, especially as
you'd be bound to hear about it anyway. The trouble between them was
mostly started by my brother-in-law, who objected to the interest his
son was showing in Sheila Graham. They considered themselves engaged--"
"What? Varr had a son?" Creighton broke in on her abruptly,
unconsciously raising his voice in his surprise. "Where is he?"
"His father drove him from the house!" cried a hoarse voice from the
door. "I don't know where he is. He ought to be with me now---_and I
don't know where he is_!"
Creighton wheeled swiftly toward the speaker, Krech shot out of his
chair as though a powerful spring had been released beneath him, and
Miss Ocky darted, birdlike, to the side of a slender figure which
swayed in the doorway, gripping the woodwork for support. It was Lucy
Varr.
"Lucy! What are you doing down here?" Miss Ocky circled her sister's
slender waist with a gently compelling arm. "Come with me!"
"I rang and rang and nobody came. I wanted water. I was _so_
thirsty!" She muttered the words feverishly and the brightness of her
big eyes told its own story of a tortured brain. "I heard somebody
talking in here--"
"Come, Lucy! I'll bring you the water."
"Was it you who was asking for my son?" Her gaze passed over Krech,
whom she appeared vaguely to recognize, and fixed itself on the grave,
sympathetic face of the detective. "You're Mr. Creighton, aren't you?
They tell me you have come to find out who killed my husband--"
"Lucy, dear! Please--"
"I--I'm sure I wish you luck!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Varr," said Creighton quietly, choosing to ignore the
irony in her tone. "I'll do my very best, I promise you."