low hum of voices from the cozy corner at the end of the piazza. He
wondered who it might be, and curiosity turned his steps in that
direction. Instead of turning the corner, however, he halted abruptly
when he heard his own name spoken by unmistakable accents.
"Where is Mr. Creighton, do you know?"
"He's in the study with Master Copley. Do you wish to speak to him,
Miss Ocky?"
"No. Has he had any conversation with you yet, Bates?"
"No, Miss Ocky; nothing special."
"He probably will, though. It struck me, Bates, that you might
inadvertently mention our little talk of the other day if I didn't warn
you. I don't think that would be advisable."
"Nor do I, Miss Ocky! I was only afraid you might let it out yourself!"
"It would be a pity to put notions in his head," continued Miss Ocky
calmly. "I must say, Mr. Creighton seems to be unusually sensible, but
you can never tell which way a detective will jump."
"They're worse'n cats!" agreed the old butler.
_XVIII: Some Old Men Are Out_
There was a tinkle of silver and china suggestive of the butler picking
up a tray and preparing to depart, so Creighton fled from the vicinage
as softly as the furry felines to which Bates had spitefully compared
him. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. Utterly
shameless, he reminded himself that if listeners hear no good of
themselves, they also occasionally hear much that is valuable. So
Bates and Miss Ocky were in conspiracy to conceal from him some
conversation they had had! Um. It would be funny if he couldn't pry
the truth out of one of them; mentally, he girded up his loins for the
fray.
The immediate effect of what he had overheard was an alteration in his
plans for the balance of the afternoon. He wanted to see Judge Taylor
for more than one reason, but his brief essay in eavesdropping had
served to remind him of a chore neglected nearer home. The servants.
He must question them, painstakingly and at length, on the chance that
one or more of them might have heard or noticed something that would
bring him a step closer to the truth.
Copley Varr had gone upstairs, summoned to his mother's bedside by
Janet Mackay who was temporarily in attendance on the stricken Lucy.
That left the study clear for Creighton who immediately possessed
himself of it and touched the bell for Bates. The old man appeared
presently, gave an attentive ear to the detective's brief statement of
his intentions, and answered on behalf of himself and the staff that
all would be glad to assist Mr. Creighton in every possible way.
"The main essential is perfect frankness," said the detective.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I quite understand that," said the butler, a trifle
too promptly. "It's wrong to hold anything back."
"I'll begin with the cook. I had a few words with her yesterday, just
enough to learn she's nobody's fool. She's good-hearted, too--you can
tell it by the layer of fat on the ribs of that Angora I've seen
about." Creighton's eyes were laughing behind the shell-rimmed
glasses. "Did it ever occur to you, Bates, that you can learn a lot
about the cook by looking at the cat?"
"No, sir, it never did," said Bates, smiling faintly.
"It never did to me, either, until just this minute," admitted the
detective frankly, "but I dare say there's a lot in it. Anyway, ask
her to come here, please, and tell her I won't keep her long from her
work."
Thus he played upon the sensibilities of his witnesses after a fashion
whose worth he had demonstrated frequently in the past. He had put
Bates a little more at his ease and to that extent weakened his
defenses if it became necessary to startle him into speaking the truth,
and he had sent a bouquet of flattering phrases to the cook which he
confidently counted on Bates to deliver with his summons. That the
butler had indeed done so was apparent the moment the cook appeared,
her fat red face wreathed in smiles. A cross, recalcitrant woman who
had sorely tried the patience of Mr. Norvallis the day before was an
angel of sweetness as she responded to Creighton's inquisition.
Unfortunately, she did not have anything of value to offer in repayment
for his studied politeness. Hers was the most prosaic of lives. She
rose in the morning, cooked all day and went to bed, to rise and cook
again. She knew nothing of what went on in the front part of the
house, and Bates was the most close-mouthed butler she had ever worked
with, he never opened his head about what he heard in the dining-room.
That let her out, and Creighton dismissed her with a request that she
send in Betty Blake.
When she had recovered from a preliminary attack of nervousness, the
pretty young housemaid unexpectedly produced information that gave
Creighton furiously to think, for he reawakened an idea that had been
present, but dormant, in his brain since his talk with Copley. It
reminded him of a chance remark made by Jason Bolt to the effect that
Langhorn had accompanied Graham when the latter came to see Varr, for
Betty described how in passing through the hall on her way to bed she
had seen the tannery manager "quarreling with Mr. Varr in his study."
"Sure they were quarreling, Betty?"
"Oh, yes, sir. They were both angry and excited."
"That was the night of the fire? The night of the robbery?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were on your way to bed--do you know what time it was?"
"Just past ten, sir,--or maybe half-past."
"That's near enough."
After a few more questions he let her go, telling her to ask Janet
Mackay to join him in the study at her first opportunity. While he
waited for the "tall, gaunt nondescript" to appear he contemplated the
case of William Graham, and sitting in Varr's chair he came slowly to
the same dark suspicions that Varr had entertained.
"Graham saw the notebook here, and knew what it was. He could use what
was in it--none better. According to the watchman, Nelson, Graham
sympathized with the strikers even if he ranked with the bosses. He
was a bit the worse for liquor when he was here that evening, in the
mood to think of some wild act and perhaps drunk enough to carry out
the thought. He had time to slip down and set that fire, then come
back when it was under way and sneak into the house. Granting that he
used the dagger because it was handy, why did he carry it away with
him? Was he thinking of murder already? Was he cool enough to figure
that a weapon taken from Varr's own house would not readily be traced
to him? Can't answer these questions--now!" Creighton lighted a
cigarette and wrinkled his brow. "Graham has plenty of intelligence,
from all accounts. He is clever enough to have thought of an effective
disguise, and he probably knew the legend of the monk, since his
daughter showed it to Miss Copley in a book belonging to them. Um. Is
he the man I'm looking for?"
He did not have time for further reflection before the entrance of Miss
Janet Mackay, once of Aberdeen, now a citizen of the world and the
devoted henchwoman of Miss October Copley. She inclined her head
stiffly in reply to his pleasant greeting, refused a chair, and
remained standing in front of him, hands folded across her flat
stomach, her cold eyes fixed on him through her cheap, steel
spectacles. She was taller and gaunter and more angular than ever.
Creighton chuckled inwardly. If Miss Copley was October, then this was
January, or at best late December!
It did not take him long to discover that he had drawn another perfect
blank. Trying to extract information from Janet Mackay was about as
profitable as trying to squeeze water from a handful of Sahara sand.
She knew nothing, and said less. After ten minutes of fruitless effort
he gave it up.
"It's clear you know nothing!"
"I know the world is well rid of a selfish deevil."
"Tut, tut! Have you no respect for the dead?"
"Not a whit for him, dead or alive."
"How is Mrs. Varr?"
"Resting easier."
"Is her son with her still?"
"He went off somewhere an hour ago."
"That's all, then. Thank you."
She stalked away, head in air, stiff as any ramrod.
"Now for Bates," muttered the detective, and touched the bell. "I'll
swear he's got something on his mind!"
In this surmise he was perfectly correct. The old butler did have
something that was troubling him--a matter so grave and serious that
they did not finish discussing it until the study was dusk and sounds
from the dining-room indicated that Betty Blake was helpfully setting
the table in the unduly prolonged absence of its regular attendant.
When their talk was ended, it was the detective who wore a perplexed
expression, while Bates had lost the troubled, almost haunted look that
had been in his eyes since the death of Simon Varr.
Creighton hurried to his room to prepare for dinner, and when he
glanced from his window he observed for the first time that the weather
was about to exhibit itself in a petulant, ill-humored mood. Black
storm-clouds were rolling up, a chill, gusty wind was rattling the
windows and a heavy spat of rain dashed against the glass as he turned
away. It would be a nasty night.
Miss Ocky remarked on the fact when she joined him in the dining-room.
She looked unhappy.
"I hate cold," she told him. "Had enough of it in my life. I am going
to have a fire lighted in the living-room. If you want to talk to me
this evening you'll have to put up with having your toes toasted."
He assured her that toasted toes were his favorite delicacy. Then he
nodded to a third place set at the table and raised his eyebrows.
"For Copley, but he hasn't turned up."
"He may be dining with his new father-in-law," suggested the detective.
"Or with Jason Bolt, talking business."
She did not pursue the subject, but later, when they were seated before
a crackling fire in the living-room, she attacked him briskly.
"I haven't talked with either you or him since your interview in the
library. Was--was it satisfactory? Please tell me."
"With all the pleasure in the world. The interview was
satisfactory--and I think I know what you mean by that! He accounted
for his movements on the night before last with unimpeachable accuracy."
"Thank heaven!" said Miss Ocky. "I don't mean that I had any suspicion
of him, but I'm glad if he has cleared himself in your eyes."
"He has, perfectly."
"I wish I knew what your plan of campaign is to be! You half promised
to let me see just how a detective works, you know. What are you going
to do first?"
"Suppose I don't know myself?" He paused to light her cigarette and
one for himself, then added deliberately: "You can't always tell which
way a detective will jump; they're worse'n cats."
"Oh!" cried Miss Ocky, and choked on a puff of smoke. "Eavesdropper!"
she gasped.
"I didn't go for to do it. But if you _will_ have these little
intimate chats on a piazza without looking around the corner--! Now,
you can tell me what it was all about."
"I'll tell you first that it's a mistake to take overheard remarks too
seriously." Miss Ocky, recovered from smoke and emotion, smiled at the
fire. "Once, when I was a little girl of seven, I got an awful scare
that way--right in this very room, on a wild stormy night like this! I
had come in to say good night to my father and mother, who were sitting
before a fire as we are now. Just as I left the room, I heard my
mother say to him, 'The old man is out to-night!' Unless you were a
nervous, high-strung brat yourself, you can't imagine the effect of
that on me. I crept off to bed shivering, and lay awake half the
night. Every time the wind shook my windows, I pictured some
monstrous, hoary-headed creature trying to get in and gobble me up!"
She laughed a little. "It gives me a grue to think of it even yet. I
discovered the explanation of the phrase the next day. Can you guess
it?"
"No. Another local legend, perhaps?"
"Nothing half so thrilling." She pointed to a high shelf above the
mantelpiece. "There is the answer!"
Creighton followed the direction of her finger and smiled. On the
shelf stood one of those miniature Swiss chalets so popular in
drawing-rooms a generation ago. Two little figurines, a young woman
and an old man, operating on barometric principles, emerged from the
front door in turn as the weather indications were fair or stormy. At
this moment the old man was well out.
"Enough to scare any child to death," he admitted. "Now--"
"But tame when explained, like lots of overheard things. Once when I
was staying with a Chinese family in Pekin--"
"Where did you get the idea," inquired Creighton mildly, "that I was
fond of red-herring? As a matter-of-fact, I've always hated it."
"Mmph!" said Miss Ocky, and made a face at him. "Well, what do you
want to know?"
"You are probably aware that I had a long talk with Bates this
afternoon. He told me much that was interesting--but I'd like _your_
version of that conversation which you felt shouldn't be repeated to
me."
"I wish I'd kept still about it," sighed Miss Ocky repentantly. "Now
you'll probably magnify it out of all proportion. You see, I've known
old Bates ever since I was a youngster, and we've always been good
friends. He got in the habit years ago of bringing his troubles to me
and talking them over--'blowing off steam,' he always called it! That
was how we happened to have that talk a few days ago. Simon had been
unusually querulous even for him--and he could be very trying at times.
Bates had suffered a long while in silence, and when he got a chance to
air his grievance to me he--he blew off quite a lot of steam first and
last! He chiefly resented Simon's attitude toward Lucy, and I couldn't
blame him there. One thing led to another, and that's how we came
finally to agree that the world would be a brighter little planet if
Simon no longer lived on it." Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders. "The
sort of thing that means nothing at the time but sounds like the very
devil after a man is found murdered!"
"Yes, it does," answered Creighton gravely. "I had no idea you two had
been contemplating the possible death of Simon Varr. That is not at
all a pleasant bit of news."
"You--you had no idea! You had no--!" Miss Ocky sat up very straight.
"Didn't Bates tell you that?" she demanded crisply.
"No. He told me much, but he wouldn't tell me the subject of your
conversation with him because he'd promised you he wouldn't. He was
adamant. That's why I've had to get it out of you."
"Oh!" She slumped again into her chair. "You--you _creature_!"
"I know," he said apologetically. "But what's a man to do if people
hold out on him?"
"I suppose," said Miss Ocky in a small voice, "this is a judgment on me
for wondering how a detective works!"
"Possibly. Did he make any threats?"
"_No!_" said Miss Ocky.
"Um. Would you tell me if he did?"
"N-no," said the lady.
"It makes a fellow long for the days of the Spanish Inquisition," said
Creighton, addressing the fireplace. He added darkly, "There are
several persons around that I could enjoy putting on a cozy little
rack!"
"It's no use being bloodthirsty," she informed him. "As for Bates--!
Oh, I do wish you'd stop getting ideas into your head!"
"I can't. It's the sort of head that gets 'em!"
"Well, I wish you'd draw the line at Bates! Why, I've known him all my
life!"
"There is always some one to say that about any criminal. Always some
one to say it isn't possible. The awful thing is, it is possible."
"But--Bates! How could any one associate the idea of murder with that
gentle, harmless old man? Ridiculous!"
"He was devoted to your father because Mr. Copley stood by him when he
didn't know where to turn. He had been in trouble. Did you know that?"
"Vaguely--from Bates himself. Why? What trouble was it?"
"Starvation. He had difficulty finding work because no one wished to
employ a man who had just been pardoned out of a penitentiary where he
was serving a life sentence for murder."
There was a brief silence.
"It can't be!" she whispered at length. "Not Bates! It can't be
_true_!"
"He was married in those days, and the other man was guilty of breaking
up the home. Extenuating circumstances, you see. He was lucky enough
to have a lawyer who didn't lose interest when the prison swallowed
him, and he brought the matter to the attention of a new Governor who
pardoned Bates after he had served five years. Your father happened on
him when he was near the end of his rope, gave him sanctuary and helped
him bury the past. That is his story."
"How did he come to tell you?"
"I persuaded him to. I've noticed ever since I've been in the house
that he was shaky, nervous--_worried_. Three times out of five, when
you see a servant in that condition following a mysterious crime, you
can look for the explanation in a shady past. I tackled him from that
basis. He didn't need much urging--in fact, he told me he had half
made up his mind to come to me with the story of his own accord. I
believe him. He had been in mortal terror lest the police discover
it." Creighton paused in order to study her serious, thoughtful face.
"He asked me to tell you this."
"He did!"
"He seems devoted to you. He had wanted to tell you himself, but could
never quite find the courage. He has wanted you to know the truth
about him, but has never been able to forget the way others used to
receive it. He has taken some hard knocks."
"Poor soul. Poor lonely soul!" Her voice was tender.
"I thought you'd feel that way about it! You'll find an opportunity to
make him understand, I suppose? Probably he won't want to talk much
about it, but you--you could give him a friendly pat on the arm or--or
something like that, couldn't you?"
Miss Ocky suddenly turned and looked at him with eyes that were shining
through unshed tears.
"You're a queer man! You can sit there suspecting him of murder and
still want me to be kind to him!"
"Have I said anything about suspecting him?" demanded the detective
with almost a touch of asperity.
"You accused me of suspecting Copley last evening and I had to remind
you that he'd probably turn up with a perfectly good alibi--and he did!
If there's a pessimist in human nature sitting around here, it isn't I!"
"Mmph. All right, little sunshine!"
"I don't care anything about suspicion. I want proof. Until I get it,
I try to preserve an open mind."
"Oh. Well, that's an improvement over Mr. Norvallis, I must admit!"
Miss Ocky turned her eyes back to the fire. "What you've told me about
Bates has given me quite a--a shock, Mr. Creighton. I won't drag any
more red-herrings around, but can't we _please_ talk of something else?"
He cheerfully and promptly consented. They talked a while on every
subject under the sun except the death of Simon Varr, and they were
both a trifle disconcerted when a wild shrieking of brakes and a heavy
step on the veranda announced the arrival of Herman Krech, who would
tolerate no other topic until he left at eleven.
It was just short of midnight when Creighton, sound asleep, was roused
by a discreet but persistent tapping on his door. He rolled out of
bed, struck a match, opened the door and discovered Copley Varr,
grinning broadly.
"I've got my father-in-law's blessing!" he announced.
"I congratulate you." The detective blinked. "Excuse me, but I was
with the angels! Did you call me back just to tell me this?"
"No. I thought you ought to know that we were a pair of nuts this
noon. Mr. Graham was holding pat hands in a poker game during the fire
and robbery, and he was presiding at a lodge-meeting in Hambleton the
night--the night before last!"
"With umpty-umph fellow-lodgers to prove it. Um. Touch 'em and they
vanish!"
"What?"
"I mean, I'd like to find a prospect that would stay put for a while at
least. As it is now, the moment I look sideways at any one he promptly
trots out an alibi."
"Like I did to-day! I see. Trying for a detective, eh?"
"Very trying," said Peter Creighton. "Good night!"
He shut the door, and presently rejoined the angels.
_XIX: Among Those Present_
After that midnight report from Copley Varr, ten days passed without
the occurrence of a single distinctive event. They were not empty
days, however, for Peter Creighton, who continued patiently to cast
hither and yon very much like an Indian brave seeking the trail of an
enemy warrior.
The full scope of his investigation was not apparent to the naked eye,
as Krech, who was chafing at the lack of developments and inclined to
accuse his friend of masterly inactivity, discovered one afternoon.
They were taking a stroll in the twilight at the detective's
insistence, and met a roughly-dressed individual with a cap on the back
of his head and a short pipe stuck in his mouth. He was loitering by
the side of the road, and to Krech's surprise, Creighton excused
himself and joined the man for a brief chat.
"Who's your rough-neck pal?" he demanded curiously as the detective
came back and suggested a return home. "His face is familiar but I
can't just place him."
"You once bought a painting from him when he was posing as an artist!"
Creighton chuckled. "He reminded me of it just now; said you're the
only connoisseur who ever really appreciated his work!"
"Gee Joseph! One of your men!"
"Fellow named Latimer."
"What is he doing around here?"
"Covering the tannery end of this affair. Latimer's an artist in more
ways than one. When I told him what I wanted, he got two books on
modern methods in tanning from the New York Public Library, studied
them on the train coming up, and landed a job as easy as you please
when Graham and Bolt started to replace the old hands who had left.
Snappy work!"
"Gosh. And I thought you were investigating this case single-handed!
You're a foxy guy at times, Creighton. Has Latimer learned anything
useful?"
"Not to me, I'm sorry to say. The few facts he has turned up seem
merely to darken the outlook for Charlie Maxon, that unfortunate
prisoner-pent. He appears to be quite as bad an egg as Mr. Norvallis
believes."
"Do you suppose Norvallis is making any progress with _his_ case?"
inquired Krech.
"He's sitting pretty with the voters!" said Creighton shortly. "By the
way, neither Bolt nor Graham knows who Latimer is. Don't tell 'em."
"I won't," promised the big man.
He did, however, after the fashion of husbands, tell his wife that
evening after dinner. They were standing together on the front steps
of their host's house, having been persuaded with no great difficulty
to lengthen their stay by at least another week, and Krech had just
lighted a cigar to keep him company while he strolled over to the Varr
home.
"You might have known Peter Creighton is never as idle as he looks,"
commented Jean Krech, when she had listened to the tale of Latimer.
"He probably has a dozen more irons in the fire that you don't dream
of. I suppose you're going over there now?"
"Uh-huh. There's always a chance he may have some news."
"Well, it's all right for you to drop in and ask," said Jean calmly.
"But--don't linger, melove, don't linger!"
"Huh? What do you mean, don't linger? Why not?"
"You blind old goose! Has it ever struck you that Creighton is a
rather lonely man?"
"Lonely?" Then the significance of her question suddenly hit him
between the eyes. "Gee Joseph! Are you trying to promote a romance
between him and Miss Ocky?"
"Precious little promotion is required," she corrected him. "It's as
plain as the nose on your face how things are going." She laughed when
her husband in his bewilderment reached up and felt of the promontory
indicated. "Yes, it's very plain!"
"But they've only known each other a week or so!"
"What of it? They're old enough to know their own minds--both in the
early forties. Neither of them has ever had a love-affair as far as we
know; probably it hits them harder and quicker when they're like that!"
"Maybe you're right." Krech reflected deeply, and then nodded his
head. "Suits me! I like her immensely, and of course he'd be a whole
lot happier if he were married. Any man is."
"Oh, _thank_ you!" cried his beautiful wife softly. She slipped a hand
beneath his elbow and gave his massive arm an affectionate squeeze
while her blue eyes twinkled up at his. "Is um itty-witty baby happy,
then?"
"Shut up," commanded Mr. Krech with intense dignity. "Don't go cooing
at me--not where any one might hear you, anyway!"