a medley of vague impressions, confused, half-formed, inchoate. He
tried to fix his mind on Simon Varr and ended by surrendering it to the
vivid, vital personality of Miss Ocky.
When he went upstairs to his room the first object that caught his
attention was a slender volume, beautifully bound, that lay on his
dressing-table. "The Mystery of Lhasa." He had not heard of that one.
A glance at the title-page accounted for that. Privately printed. On
the flyleaf, inscribed in a bold, dashing hand, were the words, "For
Peter Creighton--a master of mysteries--from October Copley."
"That's mighty nice of her," he told himself, putting it down. "Golly,
what a woman! She has packed more life into each of her years than
most men get in their three-score-and-ten."
The hour was early for his metropolitan standards. He thought of the
balcony outside his window, and forthwith carried a comfortable chair
to that cool retreat. He had lighted a cigar and established himself
contentedly before a low voice challenged him from the darkness to the
right.
"So you have found your little veranda!"
"Hello, Miss Copley! You got one too?"
"Yes. I come out here nearly every evening for an hour before going to
bed. I love to watch the stars."
"No dearth of them in these skies."
"If we could look beyond them we might read the Riddle of the Universe.
I think we could--I think so!" Here was the undercurrent of sadness
again, sounding through an odd intensity of tone. "Surely, there is
something beyond them. There must be! What do you think?"
"I know there is. If you sat here long enough, Miss Copley, I believe
your doubts would be set at rest."
"What do you mean? What is behind the stars?"
"The dawn," he told her seriously. "These windows must face due East."
He mused briefly. "They also command a partial view of that kitchen
garden, come to think of it! You didn't happen to see or hear
any--last evening--"
"What a one-track mind!" lamented Miss Ocky. "_No!_"
They talked until very late.
_XVII: An Arrest is Made_
At eleven o'clock the next morning, the ground-floor of the big house
was again invaded by a heterogeneous collection of people drawn thither
by the coroner's inquest into the death of Simon Varr. Some were there
as witnesses or because they had a personal interest in the
proceedings, some because they were part of the legal machinery, and
many because they were driven by morbid curiosity. The Coroner, an
alert, bewhiskered old gentleman named Merton, took possession of the
big living-room and had one end of it fenced off with chairs the better
to mark the dignified exclusiveness of his court.
As on the previous day, the end of the veranda around the corner from
the front of the house escaped the notice of the invading horde.
Creighton spent the early part of the morning there, after a solitary
breakfast, reading the morning paper attentively. Barlow, the editor,
had covered the story of the murder with a competent pencil. The
account was graphic, lucid and comprehensive, a credit to himself and
his paper. When Creighton had finished its careful perusal he was
posted on many details of the case that sheer lack of time had
prevented him from learning the day before. With a considerable degree
of satisfaction, however, he noted that he had unearthed a fair amount
of information that the industrious scribe had missed.
Only second in interest to the big story itself was the half-column on
an inner page devoted to the jail-breaking exploit of Mr. Charles
Maxon--which would certainly have been largely featured at any other
time. Some lesser scribe on Barlow's staff had been assigned to this
minor item of news. He had gotten hold of the unfortunate Moody, and
under the caption, "Der Jail Is Oudt" he had written a racy, humorous
account of a Lady-Fair with Knockout Drops, a Resourceful Romeo and a
hoodwinked Jailer. It ended with the statement that Romeo and the Lady
were still missing, and that a ticket agent on night duty at the
railroad station had seen two muffled figures unostentatiously board
the last car of the midnight train without the formality of buying
tickets.
"That means they'll have had to pay on the train," mused Creighton,
"and of course the conductor will remember to what point they bought
transportation when the police get around to asking him. Um. Would a
murderer leave a trail as clear as that? I think not!"
It still lacked half-an-hour of the time set for the inquest.
Creighton was smoking a cigarette and mentally digesting the
information gleaned from the newspaper when Jason Bolt, accompanied by
Krech and Miss Ocky, came swooping down upon him.
"Developments!" said Jason, his face wreathed in smiles. "I've found
out what Norvallis has up his sleeve. Want to know?"
"I certainly do," said Creighton. "How did you find out?"
"Small-town stuff," declared Bolt cheerfully. "You can't keep a thing
dark in the country. Our local Chief of Police is sore as a pup
because Norvallis, when he gave the paper the story yesterday, failed
to give him credit for fixing the hour of the murder by the dry ground
beneath the body. Steiner--that's the chief--came to see me this
morning at the office to make some inquiries about the fire the other
night. He accepted a cigar, got to talking about his troubles--and
didn't hesitate to tell me the county officers' theory when I asked him
what it was."
"Charlie Maxon?" asked Creighton when Bolt paused for breath--and from
the corner of his eye saw Miss Ocky give a little start.
"You've guessed it," admitted Jason a trifle disappointedly. "I confess
I don't think much of their case, but Charlie Maxon is their choice.
He broke jail just after ten o'clock and came up here. That is
definitely proved to their satisfaction, at least, by footprints
recognized as his in the soft earth beside Simon's body. They were
identical with some he'd left when he came up here on an earlier
tomato-swiping raid. Norvallis swore out a warrant yesterday afternoon
and started a couple of sleuths on the trail of Maxon and his lady
friend, and they were arrested early this morning in the village of
Chiswick, about fifty miles down the line. What do you think of that?"
"What is the charge?"
"Indefinite. They're to be held on suspicion of being concerned in the
murder. That's why I say it sounds like a weak case."
"How do they trace the dagger to Maxon?"
"He is supposed to have an accomplice." Bolt looked a little more
serious. "Steiner was more cautious on that point--or else he was not
so much in the know. There was a discharged clerk named Langhorn who
accompanied Billy Graham to this house on the night of the robbery.
Langhorn must have recognized the notebook in Simon's hand during that
interview, and it was common knowledge among the clerks in the tannery
that it contained valuable matter. The police theory is that he took
advantage of Simon's absence at the fire to sneak back to the house,
enter the study and steal the book--using the dagger and carrying it
off with him afterward. He was seen talking to a man on the evening of
the murder at the corner of an alley behind the lock-up. The county
crowd think that man was Maxon, that Maxon was two-thirds drunk at
least, and that Langhorn gave him the knife and egged him on to kill
Simon. That's the gist of it."
"Um. Why should Langhorn flirt with the hangman? Discharged clerks
don't necessarily revenge themselves to that extent!"
"He wouldn't tell me if he could--and I don't believe he can!"
"There is something I don't understand," broke in Miss Ocky, frowning
thoughtfully. "Can a possibly innocent man be held just on suspicion
like that? Surely, Norvallis must have strong proofs."
"I may be doing him an injustice," answered Creighton quietly, "but I
think I have discovered the reason for Mr. Norvallis' activities. I
rather wondered why he was thrusting himself so eagerly into the
investigation instead of leaving it to the detectives. Yesterday I saw
a poster on a fence by the tannery and learned that he is up for
County-Attorney at the coming State election!" He caught a flicker of
comprehension in Jason's eye, but Miss Ocky and Krech looked blank.
"Don't you see? Here's a murder--a notable murder--committed in his
county a few weeks before election. He has to do something. Maxon
obligingly implicates himself enough to warrant his being held.
Norvallis arrests him. He can easily juggle things along until the
ballots have dropped in the box--meanwhile demonstrating that he's an
active, zealous and conscientious officer!"
"You've hit it," declared Bolt. "He's that kind."
"But that's--_vile_!" cried Miss Ocky.
"We'll give him the benefit of one doubt," said Creighton. "He
probably would not do that to a man he believed innocent; undoubtedly
he is convinced that Maxon is guilty and will fight tooth-and-nail to
convict."
"Well--is he right?" asked Bolt slowly. A dull red flushed his cheeks.
"Did Maxon do it?"
"I'm confident that he did not," said Creighton. A pressure of his arm
against his breast brought a crackle of paper and the comfortable
assurance that his chip from the blade of the dagger was safe. "Don't
press me for reasons yet, Mr. Bolt."
"I won't." Jason rose as Bates came around the corner to say the
inquest had opened. "Take your time, sir, but get me that notebook!"
The proceedings went swiftly and smoothly from beginning to end.
Whether or not he was a particularly good coroner--and Creighton felt
some doubt of that--Merton was certainly expert in the technique of his
job. He handled his witnesses capably, with deftness and dispatch,
extracting facts from them with the easy grace of a headwaiter pulling
corks, and each time a fact popped out he beamed benignly at his jury.
No mention was made of the police theory, and from the way Merton
neatly headed off one or two witnesses who came close to trespassing on
that forbidden ground, Creighton reckoned that Norvallis had persuaded
him to mark time "in the interests of justice." The crowd that had
come for a thrill were rewarded by the tale of the black monk, most of
which was told by Miss Ocky. Her soft, clear voice carried to every
ear, and her cool, matter-of-fact tones seemed rather to accentuate the
dramatic values of her testimony than otherwise. It was the highlight
of the whole picture, more interesting even than the verdict with its
orthodox tag of "person or persons unknown."
"Norvallis hasn't shown his hand," murmured Jason Bolt, who was sitting
next to Creighton.
"It'll make a louder splash in the papers to-morrow," retorted the
detective cynically.
He had taken care to seat himself at the beginning of the inquest in
such a way that he could watch the faces of the spectators who had come
to this macabre entertainment. There was so much to the case that was
hopelessly dark to him that he dared miss no opportunity to seek
something or somebody who might inject even a single ray of light into
the murk. He knew that the crowd at any inquest was quite likely to
include the very person or persons unknown mentioned in the verdict.
He watched the crowd here with a sharp eye for any one who might
display a deeper interest than that of the casual ambulance-chaser
brand.
He spotted just one among those present who seemed worthy of closer
attention. This was a strikingly handsome blond man, middle-aged and
well-dressed, who occupied an inconspicuous seat in the farthest corner
of the long room. He had about him an air of strained intensity as he
leaned forward to follow every word of the testimony, particularly when
Miss Ocky was giving hers, and he tugged nervously and continuously at
a close-cropped mustache. Creighton could see that his face was
haggard and bore lines of worry--and he could see that an unmistakable
look of relief came into his eyes as the jury returned its open verdict.
"Interesting," said the detective to himself, and touched Bolt on the
arm as the man hurried from the room at the conclusion of the
proceedings. "Who is that fair-haired chap just going out?"
"His name is Leslie Sherwood," answered Jason promptly. "He's a native
of these parts but he has been out in the great world making lots of
money. He has just returned and opened up the old Sherwood place,
which has been closed since his father's death a few months ago. Why?"
Creighton was spared a reply by the appearance of a dapper, sharp
little old gentleman who came up and greeted Bolt by his first name.
"Hello, Judge!" Jason turned with a gesture of his hand. "I want you
to meet Mr. Peter Creighton, of New York. This is Judge Taylor, Mr.
Creighton, who has always handled our legal affairs and managed somehow
to keep us out of jail! Judge, Creighton is here to investigate that
robbery of the other evening when Simon's notebook was stolen."
"_And_ the dagger that killed him!" added Taylor significantly. "Glad
to meet you, Mr. Creighton. I trust your inquiry will be successful."
He jerked his head backward. "What did you think of this inquest?"
"Nicely stage-managed," said the detective, and an appreciative twinkle
lit the lawyer's eyes. "May I have a chat with you sometime, Judge?"
"Whenever you please. Jason will show you my office."
"Hello! Who is this?" Creighton was facing the door from the hall, to
which the other two men had their backs, and he was the first of them
to notice a tall, prepossessing young man who hurried into the room.
Behind him came Miss Ocky, looking pleased, and after her Krech,
hunting for the detective from whom he had become separated. "Is it--?"
"Copley!" cried Jason Bolt and Judge Taylor with one voice. They
greeted the newcomer warmly, but with the subdued sympathy suitable to
the occasion. "When did you learn about this?" added Bolt.
"This morning's papers. I came as fast as I could." He spun around
toward Miss Ocky. "My mother--?"
"Sleeping," answered his aunt. "It has been a shock, but you have no
need to worry about her. Don't think of waking her up; I know you must
want to go to her, but wait."
"This is a terrible business," said the young man to Bolt and the
lawyer. He was yet unaware of Creighton, who had withdrawn slightly
into the background. "I only know what I've read in the papers. As I
came in just now I heard somebody say the inquest had drawn a blank.
Is that so?"
"Yes. It is a complicated affair, Copley," answered Bolt. "It will
take some time to tell you everything that has happened--"
"We'll go into it later, then. Just tell me now if everything possible
is being done to identify the man who killed my father. That is the
most important business before us. Have the police any clues?"
"I believe so, but they are saying little. On our own account, I have
engaged this gentleman here--Mr. Creighton--to conduct an independent
inquiry. Creighton, this is Mr. Varr's son, of whom you have heard."
Copley sent a keen look at the detective, then held out his hand.
"Glad to meet you--and very glad that Mr. Bolt has engaged your
services. It is the very thing I would have wished. I have no
confidence in the local authorities."
"That appears to make it unanimous," said Creighton, grinning.
"Really, I'm beginning to wonder if these county fellows can be as
stupid as they're reputed." He glanced at Jason Bolt. "Suppose I take
Mr. Varr into the study here and give him a resume of events to date?
Somebody must, and I know the details better than any one else,
perhaps."
There was a chorus of relieved approval from Bolt, Taylor and Miss Ocky
and a quick nod of assent from Copley.
"I must have a talk with you, too, Copley, as soon as possible," added
Jason Bolt. "It's hard to have to intrude business--"
"Oh!" interrupted the young man, and suddenly ran his fingers through
his hair with a distraught gesture. "I'm in the deuce of a jam--!
Aunt Ocky, when is the funeral?"
"We were waiting to hear from you. Now that you're here--shall we say
to-morrow noon?"
"Very well. After that I must catch the one-thirty to New York." He
shrugged his shoulders at Bolt's disappointed grunt. "It can't be
helped, sir! And I'll be busy every minute until I leave. Are you
sure that you need me after all?" He looked at the old lawyer who was
eyeing him thoughtfully. "Judge Taylor, you had charge of my father's
will, didn't you? Would it be improper for you to tell me whether or
not I've inherited his interest in the tannery?"
"I'll risk the impropriety under the circumstances," said Taylor
slowly, breaking a little silence that followed the question. "Yes,
you have inherited a controlling interest without any restriction." He
hesitated cautiously. "I'm assuming that no other will exists--I
cannot believe there is any."
"In that case--you and I are partners, Mr. Bolt." Copley held out his
hand rather bashfully. "You'll have a fearful lot to teach me, but
you'll find me willing to learn." He continued more incisively. "I
believe the first thing to do is to get that strike settled and the men
to work. They'll listen to you, Mr. Bolt, if you ask them to return
pending our decision to raise wages and improve conditions. Another
thing--can you persuade Graham to stay with us?"
"I believe so--now," said Bolt slowly.
"The tannery must remain closed to-morrow, the day of the funeral. I'd
like to see it open up the morning after at the usual hour."
"It will," said Jason flatly. "Leave it to me."
"That's what I want to do, for a fortnight anyway. After that you will
find me ready to pull my weight in the boat." The young man turned to
the others. "Aunt Ocky, you'll let me know, won't you, as soon as my
mother wakes up? Come on, Mr. Creighton; I'm anxious to hear all you
can tell me." He walked off to the study without waiting to see if the
detective followed.
Creighton did not, for the moment. Bolt and Krech were leaving, and so
was Judge Taylor. The detective had a few words with his friend as
they followed the other two along the hall to the piazza, while Miss
Ocky went up to her sister's room.
"What did you think of him?" asked Krech.
"Haven't thought much yet."
"He ought to be a pleasant change for Jason. He'll be open to reason,
yet he'll have ideas of his own. Did you notice how he snapped into
the business of getting work started again?"
"I noticed it."
"An up-and-coming lad," said Krech. "He couldn't have done it better
if he'd been expecting the job."
Creighton glanced at the speaker quickly, but the big man's face was as
ingenuous as a child's. They dropped the subject as they came up with
the others.
When he had bidden them _au revoir_, the detective went to the small
study, where he found Copley Varr restlessly pacing the short fairway
between the door and his father's desk. The young man welcomed him
with a gesture of relief.
"Thought you were never coming," he said, though not rudely. "If I
can't see my mother yet, I'm in a hurry to--to attend to some other
matters."
"Is an interview with William Graham one of them?" asked Creighton
quietly as they sat down. He caught the sharp look that Copley sent
him. "While digging into the history of this case it was inevitable
that I should discover something of your private affairs. I will ask
you to believe that I do not violate confidences--even though I have to
force them at times."
"That's all right. You're a detective, aren't you?"
"I try to be!" smiled Creighton.
"Well, it's no use employing a detective and then cramping his style by
refusing him information. I understand that."
"Good. We'll get along beautifully. Will you tell me, please, why you
are obliged to return to New York? Is the reason--Miss Graham?"
"Not any more." For the first time since he had entered the house,
Copley smiled a little. "It is Mrs. Varr, now. We were married
yesterday morning in New York." The smile vanished abruptly. "And my
father--scarcely cold! I won't forget the shock I got from the papers
this morning if I live to be a hundred."
"Got a shock, did you?" repeated Creighton to himself, yet the boy's
words had rung true. "If you're ready, Mr. Varr, I'll give you the
story of what happened up to your father's death. I'll be brief."
At that, it was a lengthy narrative. It took more than an hour to
relate, an hour in which Copley Varr did not once take his eyes from
the detective's face. His gaze was expressionless; Creighton,
returning it with interest, strove vainly to pierce that inscrutable
veil to see what lay behind.
"And there is no definite clue to the murderer?" asked, Copley when
Creighton finished. "Is the Maxon theory sound?"
"I think not. As for clues--well, such indications as I have turned up
are too vague to be termed that."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"That question is out of order, Mr. Varr."
"Oh. Will you tell me then, in a general way, where those indications
you mention seem to point?"
"In a general way, yes." Creighton meditated. "They point to a person
who hated your father, who sympathized with the striking tanners, who
was wealthy enough to supply them with money, either from sympathy or
to further his grudge, a person of some education, familiar with local
history and imaginative enough to adapt the costume of a legendary monk
to a perfect disguise. Last, a person who was sufficiently familiar
with this house to stage a burglary as bold as it was successful."
Copley Varr was pale as this hypothetical portrait was limned. His
eyes now avoided the detective's.
"That description might fit a--a number of people," he said.
"Oh, yes. It's very vague. Now, I can ask a question that you
mustn't, do _you_ suspect any one?"
"N-no."
"Come! are you weakening already about giving me information?"
"Suspicion--if I had any--is not fact!"
"Quibbles won't get us anywhere. I won't press you further to voice
your suspicion--right now. In the meantime, I'll plod along with my
investigation on the obvious lines."
"Obvious? I suppose they are to you, Mr. Creighton, but I do not see
a single point of attack. Will you tell me what you plan to do, or is
that also taboo?"
"I'm going to make a list of all the people that description might fit
and then eliminate them one by one as circumstances dictate. I suppose
competent alibis will let most of 'em out. Yes, I guess I'll have
quite a fine assortment of alibis at the end." The detective was
speaking easily, good-humoredly, and his voice was elaborately casual
as he added:
"By the way, where were you the night of the burglary from ten to
twelve?"
Copley Varr started violently and his face crimsoned. For a long
minute he did not speak but sat staring angrily at his inquisitor. He
clenched his hands as though ready to leap on the detective. Then,
slowly, his fingers relaxed, the color faded from his cheeks and the
anger from his eyes. Creighton watched the metamorphosis with
approval; if he could get the best of his temper like that, would he
have been likely to lose it to the extent of committing murder?
Improbable!
"I was in the editorial rooms of the _News_ from ten-thirty until
quarter to twelve, when I left to catch the midnight train to New York.
At least three men connected with the paper will bear me out."
"That's bully!" said Creighton. "The crowd on my list will be in luck
if they do half as well. One thing more, Mr. Varr, and then I'm off to
real work. Was William Graham in the habit of coming to this house?"
Again Copley jumped, but this time with the air of shrinking from a
blow rather than delivering one. His voice, when it came, was hoarse.
"Don't ask me that--now!"
"Um. Yes, it's rather a tough question--new father-in-law, new bride
and all that! You needn't answer it, Mr. Varr!"
"Plainer than you have already, my son!" he added to himself as he left
the room. "William Graham--to the bar!"
Creighton was light on his feet and invariably wore rubber-soled
shoes--not, as he had been obliged to explain to Krech aforetime,
because he was trying to be the complete pussy-footed sleuth, but
because he really preferred them to leather. The result, however,
whether designed or not, was to make him as soundless in his movements
as a panther.
He slipped noiselessly along the hall to the front door, his thoughts
busy with what he had just learned, his immediate intention to go to
town for the talk he had promised himself with Judge Taylor. Lawyers
often could throw light on an affair of this kind if they chose to;
what if there were some secret, unsuspected page in Simon Varr's life--?