hill must have admitted that Mrs. Krech had considerable grounds for
her romantic suspicions. Twice during the ten days aforementioned
Creighton was obliged to go to New York and spend half a day on
business that would not be denied, and each time he returned bearing
books and candy and a vast quantity of assorted and exotic fruits for
which Miss Ocky had expressed a casual longing and which the marts of
Hambleton could not provide. On the first occasion he pretended they
were for Lucy Varr, still confined to her room, but on the second he
abandoned pretense.
Then there was the incident of the picnic, sponsored by Miss Ocky.
They took their lunch and plunged into the wilderness of hills that lay
to the north of Hambleton, their destination the cave that was reputed
to have sheltered the legendary monk. It was Miss Ocky's suggestion
that in the haunts of the old monk they might come upon some traces of
the new, if that imaginative imitator had carried his masquerade to the
extent of using his predecessor's quarters, and Creighton, without the
flutter of an eyelash, agreed that nothing was more likely. They found
the cave--or some cave--but nothing else. Their disappointment weighed
lightly upon them, and the detective enjoyed the day with all the
artless abandon of a schoolboy playing hooky.
Even more significant than the picnic was the _pilau_. Miss Ocky had
described this supposedly delectable dish to Creighton at some length,
and the next day was impelled to possess herself of the kitchen and
compose a _pilau_ such as she swore appeared daily on the tables of the
first epicures of Constantinople. However that might be, affairs are
approaching a crisis when a woman is seized with a desire to
demonstrate her culinary accomplishments to a man.
The _pilau_ was an amazing dish. At table with them during those days
was a very pale, very thin young man with gold pince-nez, fair hair and
a painfully self-effacing manner, who had been quartered on the house
by Judge Taylor for the purpose of documenting a vast accumulation of
papers in Simon Varr's study. He took a mouthful of the pilau, started
slightly, and took a second to make sure his senses had not deceived
him about the first. Ten minutes later, the closest approach to any
emotion that he ever revealed was visible on his face as Creighton sent
back his plate for a third helping.
If Miss Ocky noticed his tactless expression of awe--and she rarely
missed anything so obvious--it probably did nothing to raise the young
man in her esteem. She frankly disliked him.
"That Merrill!" she grumbled to Creighton when they were by themselves
after dinner. "A perfect imposition on the part of Judge Taylor! Of
course I couldn't very well refuse under the circumstances, but I'll be
glad when we lose him!"
"He must have nearly finished his work," Creighton consoled her.
"After all, he's harmless. Why does he annoy you?"
"I don't know," was the conclusively feminine reply. "He just does."
On the afternoon of the eleventh day after the death of Simon Varr,
Creighton had a chat with Jason Bolt in the office of the tannery that
was in no-wise remarkable except for the odd timeliness of the
detective's farewell observation. Jason had asked him if he was
satisfied with the progress made to date or whether he was discouraged
by the present lull which so closely resembled stagnation. Could he
say when the mystery might take some definite turn toward solution?
"Ask me when the millennium is coming and be done with it," said
Creighton rather plaintively, wondering why so many people seemed to
credit detectives with oracular powers. "If Norvallis has the right
pig by the ear, Maxon may break down, turn State's evidence and hang
his accomplice. That's one possibility. Another--we may as well face
it--is that this case will go to swell the great army of unsolved
mysteries." He hesitated, then added, "There's a third possibility, of
course."
"What is it?"
"The chance that a break will come from some totally unexpected quarter
when we've all but given up hope. I've seen that happen a score of
times. There's no predicting it--no counting on it. But when it
comes--then look out! A case that has been placid and smooth as a mill
pond will suddenly develop the characteristics of a maelstrom!" He
smiled encouragement at the troubled Jason. "If one starts in this
case, we may reasonably expect that its gurgitations will yield us that
missing notebook if nothing more."
He was on foot that afternoon by choice, for he had long held that a
daily walk is the best exercise for a man whose profession does not in
itself provide him with much physical activity. He preferred it to
gymnasium stuff, too; a man can think deeply while walking with perfect
safety, if he avoids traffic, whereas the hospitals are full of
misguided gentlemen who have committed the error of thinking deeply on
some other subject while engaged, say, in "skinning the cat."
He had much to make him thoughtful these days. He was not at all
satisfied with the situation in this Varr case, though he refrained
from revealing his pessimism to others, and was reluctantly coming to
fear that Norvallis had indeed gotten the jump on him--and jumped in
the right direction. The possibility irritated him. He wished to
clear up this murder himself more than he had ever wished for anything
in his life. Wasn't Miss Ocky waiting confidently for him to do just
that?
The intrusion of her name into his thoughts turned them into a new
channel. He knew now that before he dropped his personal supervision
of this case, before he left Hambleton for New York to attend to
matters which were pressing there, he would have to ask Miss October
Copley one of the most important questions he had ever asked in the
course of a career devoted mostly to inquisitions. The prospect gave
him a shivery feeling up and down his spine!
He walked briskly up the short-cut through the woods and came out at
the end of the kitchen garden, now associated with a grimmer business
than the growing of vegetables. It was due to his swift pace that he
was in the open, in plain view, before he noticed two figures seated on
the big granite bowlder near the tomato-patch. He would have retreated
to the obscurity of the trees and watched that interview if Miss Ocky
had not spied him and risen instantly from her seat on the rock.
"Come here!" she called. "The very man we want!"
He walked over to them, and Miss Ocky's companion, a tall, handsome,
fair-haired man, stood up to acknowledge the impending introduction.
He looked pale and worn, more haggard even than that morning at the
inquest.
"Mr. Creighton--Mr. Leslie Sherwood," said Miss Ocky quickly. "You
haven't met each other yet, have you?"
"No, I haven't _met_ Mr. Sherwood," acknowledged the detective,
accenting the verb very slightly.
"But you've been on my track!" said Sherwood, smiling rather nervously.
"My valet was shrewd enough to suspect the man who scraped an
acquaintance with him and showed so much interest in discovering my
whereabouts on the night of Simon Varr's murder! He followed his new
acquaintance one afternoon and saw him report to you."
"You appear to be more fortunate than I in the intelligence of your
followers," said Creighton rather glumly. "I'm glad, though, to have
this matter brought into the open." He glanced at Miss Ocky and back
to Sherwood. "May I speak frankly, or shall we adjourn to the house by
our two selves?"
"I have nothing to conceal from Miss Copley," answered Sherwood,
flushing slightly. "As a matter of fact, I've just been making a full
statement to her of my actions that evening and she had just advised me
strongly to consult you when you suddenly appeared."
"Excellent advice. I'll explain my curiosity first, though. During
the course of my investigation I've had to poke up a lot of gossip and
more or less ancient history, and some of it related to you. According
to my information you were once--attentive--to Miss Lucy Copley. You
left, and she married Simon Varr. You returned, and Simon Varr, who
had not proved a kind husband, is presently murdered. I had already
noted your agitation at the inquest, and without entertaining definite
views, I still thought it advisable to learn what I could about you."
"Quite naturally," admitted Sherwood with a certain urbanity, though
his color deepened. "I can see now that you had some reason to regard
me askance. However, the fact that you are already so well posted in
my affairs has its consoling virtues--it makes it easier for me to tell
you more." He hesitated, looked toward Miss Ocky as if for
encouragement, received it in a short nod and added slowly, "I may as
well begin with a circumstance that would probably have crystallized
your suspicions of me if you had learned it for yourself."
"What was that?" asked the detective a bit impatiently.
"I was present at the murder," said Sherwood.
_XX: H. Antaeus Krech_
Miss Ocky, who had heard the story already, sat down on the rock and
calmly waited its continuance, but Creighton's eyes narrowed.
"You were present! At the murder!"
"In the background only, I assure you," amended Sherwood, and plunged
rather desperately into his account. "It is a habit of mine to grab my
hat and stick and take a short walk every evening before going to bed,
and that was how I came to be out that night. I had no special
objective, and--and because old memories had been stirred by my return
I almost unconsciously cut across the fields near my house and headed
for that path which leads to this garden. I used to do that twenty-two
years ago when--when there used to be some one to meet me right by this
rock! Somehow, I felt as if I wanted to--to look at a certain lighted
window before I turned in. I don't expect you to understand--"
"I do, however! What time was all this?"
"Half-past ten, roughly. When I got here, the only light burning was
in Simon's study--otherwise the house was in darkness, which seemed to
me an ironic commentary on my foolish gesture! The study light went
out almost immediately, but I lingered on. I sat down on a fallen log
in the deep shadow of those trees--there, to the right of the path--and
began to think back to old times. One discovery I made was that I
hated Simon Varr more than ever after all these years. Damaging
confession, I suppose?
"Twenty or thirty minutes must have passed. Then I heard a cautious
step on the trail--and nearly fell off my log when a figure in the garb
of a monk glided into the open. Rather weird! Sounds silly here, of
course, but for a moment my hair stood on end. I had a notion that I
was seeing a ghost!
"Before I recovered my wits, it--it happened! I had supposed Simon had
gone to bed when his light went out, but now he appeared from around
the corner of the house. It was obvious that he was stalking the monk.
It was like watching a scene in a melodrama, and I couldn't have moved
hand or foot to save my life. All of a sudden, Varr rushed him. I
thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited. When
Simon got close, the monk appeared to raise a sort of mask he wore. I
heard Simon cry out something in a surprised voice, and then I saw a
flash of steel as the monk threw up his arm and brought it down. Simon
dropped to the ground and lay on his back--and the monk glided off down
that trail before I realized that I had seen a murder!"
"Why didn't you chase him--holler--do _something_!" cried Miss Ocky.
"Couldn't seem to budge," said Sherwood briefly. He looked a little
hurt. "If you think it was just cowardice you're jolly well mistaken!
I had no sensation of fear at any time. You've heard the expression,
'rooted with amazement'? Well, I was it!
"I was still in that condition three minutes later, perhaps, when I
heard another, heavier step on the trail. A man appeared, and from the
way he walked I could tell he had been drinking. He staggered toward
the body, but he was staring at the house and shaking his fist at it.
He reeled off the cement path and almost stumbled over Simon before he
saw him. He gave a cry, and stooped to look closer--then turned and
bolted for dear life and vanished down the trail. He had been scared
sober!
"I began to get back my senses. The first thing I thought of was my
own position and what I should do. If I were called on to account for
my presence there it would involve the mention of Lucy's name if I told
the truth--and to save my neck I couldn't think of a plausible lie!
There was none to explain my presence in Varr's kitchen garden at
eleven o'clock at night!
"I felt under no obligation to give the alarm--it never once occurred
to me that the second man wasn't tearing hell-for-leather to the
police-station with his story! I did, however, feel that I could not
leave Simon lying there with a knife in him while there was a
possibility of his being still alive. It took all the nerve I had, but
I walked out and took a careful look at him. I knew enough about
anatomy to see at once that he had been stabbed through the heart and
must have died instantly. Then I lost no time in getting away--"
"You kept to this cement path?"
"Yes; I had sense enough to leave no tracks in that soft earth. I got
home without meeting any one, and I hoped I would never be drawn into
the case.
"It gave me a jolt when I found the crime had not been reported by that
second man. The inquest reassured me when it seemed as if everybody
was at a loss to know who had committed the murder. They could remain
at a loss for all of me, so long as I wasn't brought into the case--and
Lucy! Then, the next morning, the papers had the news of Maxon's
arrest! I haven't slept much since!"
"I'm hardly surprised," said Creighton dryly. "Your story does one
thing to the Queen's taste--it corroborates Maxon's description of his
movements that evening. He was drunk when he broke jail, he had an
hour or so to kill before meeting Drusilla Jones, and he staggered up
here with the tipsy notion of wrecking the garden to spite old Varr.
He was sobered by what he found, as you noticed, but even then didn't
have sense enough to see that his best bet was to go straight to the
police. He claims he never stopped to think how black appearances
against him would be. Would you be able to swear that he was the man
you saw here after the murder?"
"Yes. I went to court when he was examined and remanded and I
recognized him beyond a shadow of doubt."
"And I'm to understand you've kept silent simply out of consideration
for Mrs. Varr?"
"That weighs a good deal with me," said Sherwood quietly. "I haven't
enjoyed these past nine days, Mr. Creighton. When I couldn't stand it
any longer, I came to Miss Copley to tell her of my difficulty."
"And I advised him to talk with you and be guided by your
instructions," threw in Miss Ocky.
"What had I better do?" asked Sherwood hopelessly.
"Do! There's a man in the county jail with an ugly charge hanging over
him that a word from you will lift--and you ask me what to do!"
Creighton was scandalized. "Go to Norvallis--instantly! Tell him the
truth and let him decide how much publicity must attend the liberation
of Maxon. I don't think he will insist upon much!"
"You're right, Mr. Creighton--but not helpful."
"Helpful! What did you expect?" snorted the detective indignantly.
"Did you think I'd encourage you to let Maxon rot in jail just to humor
your quixotic notions about gossip and a woman's name? I sympathize
with your difficulty, but that's as far as I can go. There are two
things I've never done and never expect to do knowingly--let an
innocent man suffer unjustly or a guilty one escape!"
"At this point there was loud applause from the gallery!" murmured Miss
Ocky in her soft, amused drawl, and brought him to earth. "Go on,
Leslie, and do your duty. It can't be helped."
"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood unhappily, and got off the rock.
"Nothing more you want to ask me, is there?"
"N-no," answered the detective, a bit subdued by Miss Ocky's rebuke.
"Yes--one thing. What did this confounded monk look like?"
"Well, I can't help you much there. I got the impression that he wore
a mask--as Miss Copley did when she saw him on the trail. He was
dressed from head to foot in black. He even wore black gloves; it was
an odd thing that made me notice that. Have you ever seen a man
straighten up from some completed task and stand looking down at it,
nodding his head and rubbing his hands together as if to say, 'Well,
there's a good job over and done with'? That's what this fellow did as
he stood above Simon--"
"_Oh!_" gasped Miss Ocky, and collapsed limply on the bowlder, her face
ashen. "Oh!"
"What is it?" snapped Creighton, wheeling upon her. "What is the
matter?"
"It's all so ghastly--so--so cold-blooded!" she managed to stammer.
"Don't mind me. I'm all right."
"Um," said Creighton, eyeing her doubtfully. "You come into the house
and get a rest before dinner! Good-day, Mr. Sherwood!"
He carried his point without much difficulty. He hovered over Miss
Ocky until he had her safely in the house and on her way to her room,
and for once her militant spirit seemed burned out. He reproached
himself bitterly for having let her listen to Sherwood, though nobody
could have foreseen that the noodle-pated idiot would start
embroidering his story with graphically gruesome tidbits! Why hadn't
he kept his fat head shut? Serve him right if Norvallis jumped _him_
next and put him in the jug for political prestige! For a few minutes
Creighton was almost cheerful as he pondered that possibility.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, Miss Ocky reappeared for dinner and
impressed him as having entirely regained her composure. She was her
usual gently mocking, always slightly cynical and amusing self. As the
swift conversation flashed back and forth between them--past the
apparently unconscious person of young Mr. Merrill--he gradually
recovered his own equanimity and was quite himself again by the time he
and Miss Ocky settled to coffee and cigarettes in the cozy corner of
the veranda.
"Almost time for Mr. Krech to make his evening call," she suggested.
"They dine earlier at the Bolts' than we do here."
"Queer thing about Krech," mused Creighton. "I've never seen him take
so little interest in a case as he does in this. Usually he is at my
heels from morning until night, spraying questions the way a
machine-gun sprays bullets. Now he just blows in--and presently blows
out."
"Oh!" said Miss Ocky. She sat up straight, scratched her chin
meditatively with one slim forefinger, and darted him a look that he
missed. "Mmph. Y-yes, that is queer."
"Of course he's devoted to his wife," continued the detective, "and I
suppose that distracts a man from the pursuit of a mere hobby."
"Briefly," said Miss Ocky. "Briefly!"
"A charming woman ought not to be cynical--" Creighton broke off and
raised his hand. "He's coming now; you can hear that car of Bolt's six
miles on a quiet night! Shall we tell him about Leslie Sherwood?--the
poor chap hasn't had anything so nourishing for a week."
"Swear him to secrecy," stipulated Miss Ocky.
Thus, when the big man appeared and dropped into a chair, he was duly
pledged to discretion and informed of the fact that an eyewitness of
the murder had turned up.
"My gosh!" he exclaimed when the details had been told. "Why, that
just naturally blows Norvallis clean out of water! What'll he do if he
loses Mr. Vote-getter Maxon?"
"Pinch Sherwood," chuckled Creighton. "That ought to net him even
handsomer returns."
"Oh--_no_!" cried Miss Ocky, and turned white. "Oh, I think it is
simply disgraceful that such things can happen in a civilized country!
Bad enough to be the subject of gossip and suspected of a crime, but to
be actually imprisoned on mere suspicion--"
"I was only joking," cut in the detective hastily. "Norvallis will
make no such stupid blunder. I'm sorry to say there is a wide
difference between what can be done to a mere workingman and what may
be done to a country gentleman of position."
"So much the worse!" snapped Miss Ocky unappeased.
"This lets out Charlie Maxon," muttered Krech, and regarded his friend
morosely. "Seems to me, Creighton, that every time this case takes one
step forward, it slides back two. Jason Bolt is getting fearfully down
in the mouth. When this news reaches him it will be the finishing
touch."
"I had a talk with him this afternoon," said the detective, and flicked
his cigarette over the veranda rail. "Reminded him that Rome wasn't
built in a day and that murderers aren't always caught in a night, that
the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and dropped a few other
comforting thoughts in similar vein. I also mentioned that one never
knew in a case of this kind when something might happen--"
"_It's happening now!_"
Krech hissed the words in a fierce whisper. His eyes had automatically
followed the detective's glowing cigarette and had been attracted by
something farther off, barely visible through the deepening dusk.
Almost before Miss Ocky and Creighton could sense the meaning of his
words, he had sprung to his feet and vaulted the veranda railing.
Thanks to a downhill slope of the ground at this point the piazza floor
was a full nine feet from the grass lawn, and they heard a hearty grunt
as Krech alighted. Then he recovered his footing and sped with
extraordinary swiftness for so large a man across the sward in the
direction of that woods that edged it.
"What is it?" gasped Miss Ocky. "Oh--what is it?"
"The monk!" cried Creighton. "The monk!"
His glance, darting ahead of the speeding Krech, had discerned an
unmistakable figure outlined against a clump of white birch as though
the monk had deliberately chosen a background against which he would be
most conspicuous to the group on the piazza. He was standing there
motionless, apparently indifferent to the rushing menace of Krech, and
through the detective's brain, searing it like a flame, shot the memory
of something Sherwood had said, "I thought the fellow would run, but
instead of that he waited!" He was waiting now!
"Krech!" cried the detective. "_Careful--careful!_"
His hands were on the rail of the veranda. It had not taken two
seconds for him to size the situation and shout his warning, and those
same seconds were occupied in getting out of his chair and dashing to
the rail. He had one leg over this when two hands like steel clamps
circled his right arm and gripped him fiercely.
"Please--oh, _please_!" stammered a frightened voice.
"_Ocky!_" he gasped in furious protest. "_Leggo!_"
He wrenched himself free and went sprawling over the rail, a wordless
prayer in his heart that no broken legs or sprained ankles were to be
his portion. He landed unhurt in a providential flowerbed, and
struggled again to his feet to discover that both the monk and Krech
had vanished.
There was a little-used trail which commenced near the birch-trees and
ran sharply downhill to the small house that Miss Ocky had donated to
her nephew and his bride. Creighton knew of its existence, and never
doubted now that the monk had disappeared into it at the last moment
with the impetuous Krech in full pursuit. He drew an electric torch
from his hip-pocket as he raced for the dark entrance to the path,
anxiety for his friend the paramount force that speeded his flying feet.
"Why did he try to jump him like that?" he thought. "If he had only
used his head a bit! He could have sauntered into the house, out the
back door, crept through the woods and taken the fellow in the rear.
He has all the courage of a mad bull--and about as much sense."
This unkind summary of Krech's character was no sooner complete than
Creighton himself was in the trail, plunging headlong down its sharp
declivity with quite as much recklessness as his friend had shown, save
the advantage of his flash. He played its powerful beam ahead of him
as he ran and leaped, until twenty yards from the entrance he suddenly
dug his heels hard into the rubble of the path to halt his wild career
as the light showed him the body of a man lying face downward in the
trail. Its bulk alone left no doubt of identity.
"_Hell!_" snapped the detective, and the one vicious word was the
epitome of all that he felt.
With desperate haste he jammed the torch into a crotch of a small tree
so that its rays illuminated the scene, then dropped to his knees
beside the prone body of his friend, exerted all his strength and
rolled it over on its back. His eager fingers, pressing, prodding,
explored the still form throughout its length.