her sister to lead her away. Left alone, the two men exchanged a quick
glance and were silent for a minute. Then Krech jerked his head toward
the door significantly.
"Could it be--her?" he whispered.
"Not grammatically!" retorted Creighton with a grin, much as if his
friend's query had freed him from a spell. "Piffle, Krech. If a woman
like that--high-strung, nervous--were to kill a man it would be in some
swift fit of passion. Varr's death came as the climax of a deliberate
campaign of persecution. She isn't capable of that."
"If you can tell me what any woman can or can't do--"
"Oh, I grant them an infinite capacity for surprising a man! However,
this interesting little interlude isn't getting us anywhere. Come into
the living-room. I want a look at that window before daylight goes."
"The police have probably mucked that all up," said Mr. Krech gloomily.
"I heard one of the detectives tell Norvallis they had found nothing.
Anyway, if I don't miss my guess, they were so satisfied with something
they're keeping up their sleeve that I don't believe they paid more
than cursory attention to other details. Just gave everything a
perfunctory once-over and let it go at that."
"What have they got, Creighton? Do you know?"
"Charlie Maxon seems an attractive prospect," replied the detective.
They had gone to the window in the living-room and he was busily
engaged upon the same eager scrutiny that he had given the desk. "They
may have discovered something that links him with the murder--that
business of taking plaster casts of footprints is very suggestive.
Maxon could have reached here after breaking jail in plenty of time to
knife Varr in keeping with the schedule as we know it. He's an ugly
customer by reputation, and he certainly had no reason to love Simon
Varr."
"How did he get the dagger? He didn't steal it, because the evening it
was stolen he was safe in the hoosgow."
"Correct, Krech, absolutely correct." The detective was intently
studying the brass lock of the door through his powerful glass. "Now
you've started thinking, persevere! If Maxon committed the murder but
didn't steal the knife, what's the answer?"
"An accomplice!" cried Krech. "A whole gang, perhaps!"
"Oh, don't be extravagant. One accomplice will do for the time being."
Creighton dropped to his knees and transferred his interest to the
flooring of the piazza outside the window and the carpet within. "_By
golly!_"
The phrase fairly exploded from his lips. Krech, abandoning his
cogitations, came quickly to his side, eager to learn what this
exclamation portended.
Creighton, with his habitual care to miss nothing, had not contented
himself with exploring the surface of the veranda or the surface of the
heavy gray carpet that covered the floor of the room from edge to edge.
That finished, he had thrust his fingers between the carpet and the
wood of the window-sill, holding it back with one hand while he passed
his magnifying glass over the accumulation of dust and dirt and
sweepings that lay in the crack. His pains were rewarded. A tiny
scrap of something that glittered in its nest of dirt caught his eye,
but it was not until it lay on the tip of one finger beneath his glass
that he realized the importance of his treasure trove. It was then he
exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked Krech, craning for a better look.
"See for yourself!" Very carefully the detective pushed the object
from his finger on to one of his friend's. "Don't drop it. What do
_you_ think it is? Here--take the glass."
"A chip of metal, I should say. Steel. Blue steel."
"Blue steel! Where have you seen blue steel before to-day?"
"Gee Joseph! That dagger!"
"Right. Did you notice the nick in it near the point?"
"N-no. They wouldn't let me really look at it."
"Well, there was one! And this piece will fit that nick, or I'm a
dumb-bell!" His eyes were dancing with delight. "Know what this
means?"
"Y-yes. When the fellow slipped back the catch of this window he
nicked the blade. Probably never noticed it. This piece fell to the
floor and has been there ever since."
"Fell to the floor--yes. It isn't likely that it went neatly into the
crack. It was swept there. Ever stop to think that the detective's
best friend is the housemaid who scamps her work? Bless their little
souls, they will sweep into cracks! But that isn't what I had in mind
when I asked you if you knew what this means?"
"Maybe I could dope it out in time--"
"He opened this window with the dagger! Don't you get it?"
"My brain isn't hitting on all sixteen cylinders--"
"Listen. The assumption has been that he broke in here, took the
dagger from the table where it lay handy, and forced Varr's desk. If
he got the dagger after he entered the house, why did he then force the
window with it?"
"Gee Joseph! It's a blind! He faked the breaking and entering to make
it appear an outside job!"
"Yes." Creighton's face was solemn as he reclaimed his chip of steel
and added the obvious corollary to Krech's deduction. "If it's not an
outside job it must be an inside one. Somebody in this house took that
dagger and notebook."
"I'll bet it was--!"
"Hush!" whispered the detective sharply. "Some one coming!"
_XVI: A Woman of Note_
At the warning sound of approaching footsteps, Creighton whipped an
envelope from his pocket and dropped into it the precious bit of blue
steel he had recovered from the crack beneath the French window; he
smoothed down the carpet with a quick sideways flirt of his foot,
thrust the envelope into his coat, and had barely time to hiss one
further admonition into Krech's attentive ear.
"Not a word of this to a soul!"
"My lips are sealed," declared the big man.
Miss Ocky entered the room to find two gentlemen engaged in
conversation close by an open window out of which they were looking
while their backs were tranquilly turned to the apartment. When she
said, "Excuse me!" they pivoted about as one, and the synchronic
promptitude with which they uttered the same question did credit to
their bringing up.
"How is Mrs. Varr?"
"Much quieter--much better, thank you." Miss Ocky lighted a cigarette
with the air of one who has earned it, and dropped wearily into a
chair. "I was as much upset as you must have been when she turned up
there in the study. Hardly necessary to make excuses for her, is it?
She is not very strong, and she has been through enough in the last two
days to wreck an Amazon."
"Doctor worried about her?" asked Krech. "Is there anything Mrs. Bolt
or my wife can do? I know that's the first thing they'll ask."
"Not a thing. Please thank them both for me. I'm not a bit diffident
about asking favors of people and they can be sure I'll call for help
if I need it. No, the doctor isn't alarmed; he just wants her to sleep
as much as possible until the worst of the mental strain is over."
A faint clatter of silverware from the dining-room aroused Krech to the
passage of time. He looked at his watch and started as if he had been
stung.
"Nearly seven! I'm a ruined man! Where on earth is Jason Bolt? He
was to call for me long before this."
"That's true--you're stranded, aren't you? I'd forgotten you came with
him." Miss Ocky reflected briefly. "I simply can't leave here myself
just now, but I'll have Janet take the car and drive you home."
"Janet?" inquired Creighton. "Drives a car, does she? Quite an
accomplished lady's-maid!"
"She's a remarkable person," said Miss Ocky. "I'll tell you about her
some other time. Now--about yourself! Will you let me save you from
the horrors of the local hotel?"
"I was going to ask you if your invitation was still open," answered
the detective hesitantly. "But under the circumstances--with your
sister ill--haven't you enough trouble on your hands?"
"This house runs itself, thank to Bates," she replied quickly. She met
his eye frankly. "You won't inconvenience us in the least, and I'd
really be grateful if you would stay. So would my sister. With only
old Bates in the house she is inclined to be nervous while--while that
man is still at large."
"It is very gracious of you to put it that way," he murmured.
"That's settled," she said briskly, and stood up. "Now I'll go find
Janet."
"So Janet's a remarkable person, is she?" muttered Krech when Miss Ocky
had left the room. "Hers was the name I was about to mention when you
stopped me. Janet Mackay knows Charlie Maxon!"
"Easy! Don't let your imagination run away with you. What conceivable
motive could she have had to conspire against Varr's life?"
"I don't know." Krech grinned. "If I lay the foundation, it's up to
you to erect the edifice. Brain-work, not manual labor, is my forte."
Then he added more seriously, "I've thought of something; instead of
the accomplice being actually a member of the household, mightn't he be
just some one who has the entree--the run of the house? Some one who
could carry off the situation if he had been discovered in the
living-room or study by the servants?"
"That's a good point, Krech; a very good point. I'll inquire into that
possibility."
"So you're going to make this your headquarters?"
"Assuredly." Creighton tapped his pocket. "This decided it."
"Well--take care of yourself, won't you?" There was genuine concern in
the big man's voice as he went on with specious flippancy. "Miss
Copley left a dagger kicking around; let's hope she hasn't dropped an
automatic or a machine-gun here and there. If Mr. Monk got the idea
that you knew too much--"
"All right." Creighton reached out and gave Krech's arm an
affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry; I'm an artist at taking care of
myself."
"I know a darn' sight better!" growled Krech, and the honking of a horn
from the driveway ended their talk. "Good-by. I'm going to pump Jason
Bolt and if I glean anything I'll let you know in the morning."
Creighton waved good-night to him from the veranda and stepped back
into the house to find the maid awaiting him in the hall.
"Your bag has gone up, sir. Shall I show you your room?"
"Thank you. By the way, what is your name?"
"Betty, sir. Betty Blake."
"Very pretty name, too." He motioned her to precede him up the stairs.
"Been with Mrs. Varr long?"
"About four months, sir."
"Are you a Hambleton girl?"
"Yes, sir, born and bred."
The room assigned to him was one of the best in the house. It was next
to Miss Ocky's own, he was to discover later, and like hers it had a
small rounded balcony outside the tall windows. He glanced about him
appreciatively. He could rough it with any man, but he vastly
preferred to be comfortable. Here he would be, if his eye didn't
deceive him.
"Native, eh?" he continued conversationally as the girl made to leave
him. "Then you must know every one in these parts. For instance--do
you know a young man called Maxon?"
"Charlie Maxon?" She tossed her head. "Yes, I know _him_!" Her
accent was richly scornful. "Pity they couldn't keep him in jail!"
There was a writing table with note paper on it in one corner of the
room, and as she finished speaking a scrap of crumpled paper on the
floor beneath it caught her eye. With instinctive neatness she went
across the room and picked it up, steadying herself as she stooped by
resting her fingertips lightly on the pile of paper.
"Is there anything more, sir?"
"Thank you, no," replied Creighton absently.
When she had closed the door behind her he went over by the writing
table and stood looking down at the topmost sheet of paper. The maid's
orderly spirit had given him a hint that he thought he might profitably
employ. He picked up the paper and held it slantwise to the light of
the window while he peered at its surface. Then he nodded contentedly.
He drew forth his pencil and made a neat number one at the top of the
sheet, which he then dropped in a drawer of the desk. He found a clean
page in a small memo-book that he carried and made a careful entry, "1.
Betty Blake."
"I'll get 'em all before I finish," he promised himself.
He went downstairs a few minutes later to meet the butler on his way up
with the announcement that dinner was served; a welcome piece of news
to a man who had had a long day on sandwiches only.
"Just the two of us," Miss Ocky greeted him as he entered the
dining-room. "I'll pay you the compliment of admitting that the
arrangement suits me perfectly. A crowd would have been terrible, but
to have dined by myself would have been ghastly."
"Nothing could have pleased me better," said the detective as they
seated themselves. "It has been growing increasingly clear to me that
I must look to you for a great deal of information. Yours is the most
authoritative voice around here."
"I'll play oracle within reason."
"Um. Don't let's start off with a reservation like that, Miss Copley.
You made a naive, but very wise, remark this afternoon when you said
you might just as well tell me something, especially as I was bound to
find it out anyway. Stick to that maxim. It will save me time and you
trouble."
"Mmph!" said Miss Ocky.
"About there only being two of us for dinner," continued the detective,
blandly ignoring the sniff, "there's a matter I'd like to clear up.
Where is Mr. Varr's son? Was the trouble between them so bitter that
it is to be perpetuated after death?"
"I couldn't bring myself to speak about that until we were by
ourselves," said Miss Ocky. She looked up at Bates with a friendly
glance. "I know you won't repeat anything, Bates! The trouble between
Simon and his son grew out of Copley's attachment for Sheila Graham. I
like her extremely, so I found myself in opposition to Simon. I cast
myself in the role of the heavy fairy godmother and took a hand in
shaping the destinies of the young couple--a fond aunt has an
inalienable right to barge into her nephew's affairs, hasn't she?"
"Second only to a grandmother's," he assured her.
"I persuaded them to elope," confessed Miss Ocky. "No date was set for
it that I heard of. Yesterday Copley succeeded in finding a job on the
Hambleton _News_ as a reporter--and the editor, Mr. Barlow, when he
arrived here this morning to cover this story told me that the boy had
immediately celebrated his getting a job by asking for a two-week
vacation to attend to some personal business. He left Hambleton last
night for parts unknown. Meanwhile, Sheila Graham had gone to visit
friends in New York for a fortnight. If you're a good detective, Mr.
Creighton, you may make the right deduction."
"He started off on a honeymoon the very day his father was murdered.
Rather--unpleasant coincidence."
"It struck me that way. I've been keeping mum just on that account.
Norvallis was apparently satisfied with a statement that Copley is
temporarily absent and that we are trying to get in touch with him."
"Norvallis is a very amiable gentleman; he has his reasons for being
so, I think. As for Copley--well, a good many newspapers will carry
the story of what happened last night and he will undoubtedly read it
by to-morrow morning--possibly this evening. Then he will come home."
"Keeping his marriage--if there was one--dark, I trust. With the
opposition--er--removed, I think it would be more suitable to have a
public ceremony after a decent interval."
"Um. A matter of taste, perhaps. Personally, I've seen so much
trouble caused by secret marriages that I'm inclined to eye them
doubtfully. But--may I ask you a few questions about the less romantic
adventures of the young man? Mrs. Varr declared this afternoon that
her husband had driven him from the house. Was their
disagreement--violent?"
"You must make allowances for my sister's nervous condition," answered
Miss Ocky quickly. Her perceptions were instantly alive to whither
this shift in the conversation might lead, and she resolved to limit
the information she gave him as much as possible to the facts he would
surely discover for himself. "Simon and Copley talked over the
situation, night before last; Lucy naturally exaggerates the affair."
"Mr. Varr and his son quarreled. Isn't that the plain truth?"
"Doesn't a quarrel depend somewhat on the natures of the two people
involved, Mr. Creighton? Simon was fearfully obstinate, and Copley is
a little high-tempered--just to the extent that is becoming to a young
man with any spirit--and I suppose that what might be merely a normal
discussion between two such natures might--might seem like a quarrel to
other people. Mightn't it?" she added, not very hopefully.
Despite himself, the detective was forced to grin at this ingenuous, or
ingenious, argument.
"They quarreled," he summed it up, regaining his gravity. "If you will
recollect, Miss Copley, when you came into the sitting-room a while ago
you excused your sister's indisposition on the plea that she had been
through enough the last _two_ days to wreck an Amazon. Why _two_ days,
unless it was the quarrel between her husband and her son that worried
her all of yesterday?"
"Oh, heavens! You're worse than a dictaphone!" Miss Ocky made a face
at him. "There's no help for it--I must go into a silence."
"Please don't, until I've asked one more thing. You can answer freely,
or the station master will. If Copley went to town last night, what
trains were available?"
"Only one," she admitted slowly. "There's a through train from the
West that stops at Hambleton for water--at midnight!"
"Ah," said Peter Creighton, then wished he hadn't.
A high-tempered youth--a pig-headed father--a balked romance--a
quarrel--a murder at eleven and a train away at midnight. These facts
paraded through Creighton's brain and to a certain extent got ready to
parade right on out of it. He could think all around a given subject,
as he had described the process to Jason Bolt, and he was no fool to
commit himself to half-baked hypotheses. Any theory of Copley's guilt
could be countered with the same objection he made to Krech's hasty
indictment of Mrs. Varr; a boy like that might strike down a man in the
heat of passion but he would hardly set himself to calculated
murder--or if he did, he would certainly arrange a better finish than a
clumsy attempt at flight.
He became aware that Miss Copley was watching him anxiously while he
meditated. He met her eyes--very nice eyes they were, he
reflected--and it was too bad they should reveal fear, as they had
since his monosyllabic exclamation.
"Are--are you suggesting--"
"Nothing, Miss Copley--nothing! Frankly and honestly! If you will
permit me to say so, I think you are trying to make a mountain out of
this molehill yourself. I haven't a doubt in the world that your
nephew will turn up with every minute of last evening properly
accounted for." He welcomed the slow reversion to normal of her
expression. "Come, if I'm a dictaphone, let's pretend I'm turned off!
Shall we talk of something else than murder? One might as well dine to
jazz!"
That brought a smile to her lips--a quavery, uncertain little smile but
an augury of better ones to come.
"With all my heart," she agreed. "What are your conversational
preferences?"
"Anything but shop. May I ask you a personal question?"
"Personal questions are always the most interesting."
"I've heard you addressed once or twice as 'Miss Ocky,' and I've been
wondering just what the abbreviation stands for?"
"Oh! You've landed squarely on a sore spot, but no matter. My father,
bless him, was one of the dearest men that ever lived, but now and then
he would get some particularly quaint idea into his head and proceed to
carry it out in spite of every opposition. I arrived in this world on
a chilly autumn day and was duly presented to my father's gaze. He was
quite inexperienced about babies and it's recorded of him that he
stared at me aghast and said: 'My gad, what a bleak-looking object!'
That inspired some by-standing lunatic to observe that I doubtless took
after the month, and my father promptly exclaimed: 'October! What a
jolly fine name for her. We'll call her October!'" Miss Ocky sighed
resignedly. "They let him get away with it. I was christened October.
It has the sole merit of being distinctive!"
"My golly!" Creighton had listened to the concluding phrases of her
anecdote with wonderment writ large on his face. He carefully put his
knife and fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair while he
continued to regard her with a rapt expression. "Are _you_ October
Copley?"
"Yes!" laughed the lady.
"_The_ October Copley?"
"I'm quite unique, I believe," said Miss Ocky cheerfully.
"Did _you_ write 'Thibetan Trails,' 'Passages from Persia' and those
bully Chinese things with the queer title?"
"'Chiliads of China.' Yes, I wrote 'em. Don't sit there and tell me
you've read them!"
"Read them--I've _loved_ them! It's a wonder I didn't connect your
name with them at once. My wits have been woolgathering. But, hang
it! Who could have expected to find an internationally famous writer
and traveler stuck away in this corner of the world? Why haven't
seventeen or ninety people _told_ me who you were?"
She laughed at his eager interest.
"A prophet is without honor in his own country," she said. "To my
family I'm just Ocky; to the natives of Hambleton I'm only 'that Copley
girl with the queer name who's come back from furrin parts'."
She laughed again, half surprised and half embarrassed, as he suddenly
rose from his chair, marched around the table, shook hands with her and
solemnly marched back again to his seat.
"Meeting a stray Miss Copley is one thing," he assured her. "Meeting
October Copley is quite another matter."
It was impossible for her not to be touched by such sincere,
whole-hearted enthusiasm. Her throat tightened queerly. Bates, too,
an astonished spectator of the scene, was discreetly impressed. A
stand-offishness that he had felt toward Peter Creighton, the
detective, was weakened in favor of a man who thus appreciated his own
Miss Ocky. An artist in simple gestures, he testified to his new
approbation by refilling the wineglass beside Creighton's plate.
"Now, tell me what you are doing here. I can't believe it is really
you sitting opposite me, there! If any one had asked me ten minutes
ago where I supposed you might be, I would have answered that you were
probably hunting hippopotamusses in the Himalayas or--or--"
"Tigers in Africa!" suggested Miss Ocky. "No, here I really am."
Creighton had already noticed that she was usually divided between two
moods, an amused, faintly mocking one, and another that had somehow an
undercurrent of sadness. This last seemed to hold her as she added,
"Here to stay, I think. My wanderings are done and now I must--settle
down."
"Another great light has just burst on me," exclaimed Creighton.
"Janet Mackay! She must be the companion you refer to so often in your
travel books. By golly, was it she who dove beneath an ice-pack and
brought you back to the air-hole through which you had fallen?"
"That was indeed Janet! I repaid the favor later by valiantly dashing
into a burning hotel and releasing her from a beam that had dropped
across her--well, she'd call 'em limbs! Regular movie stuff. Yes,
Janet and I are now fearfully responsible for each other."
"There was no mention of the fire in any of your books."
"Mmph. I'd be apt to bust into print with that, wouldn't I? But I
don't mind informing you--just between us girls, as your friend Mr.
Krech would say--that you're in the presence of an honest-to-goodness
heroine!"
"I knew that," said Peter Creighton simply.
There followed for him a somewhat curious evening. No detective worth
his salt will permit extraneous matters to thrust themselves between
his mind and the immediate problem with which it should be occupied,
and Creighton really had a very high sense of duty. When they had
taken themselves out of the house and settled down in the cozy corner
of the big veranda, he punctiliously strove to concentrate on a dagger
and a notebook and a murder, but ever and anon, as he tried to post
himself on the manifold ramifications of the affair to date, the
conversation would persist in taking unexpected trips to the Orient.
His interest in this topic was so keen that he blamed these divagations
on himself, and since a clever woman is cleverer than the cleverest
man, it never once occurred to him that the guiding-reins of their talk
lay in a pair of slender, capable, sun-browned hands. Miss Ocky
preferred almost any subject that evening to the one of paramount
importance.