"Hello--here we are!" An angry red abrasion on the big man's forehead
had caught his attention. He touched it, and smiled as it elicited a
groan from the victim that sounded to Creighton like celestial music.
"A crack on the head--knocked him out!" he muttered, then raised his
voice. "I say, Krech--come to, old man, come to!"
The adjuration seemed to penetrate Mr. Krech's dazed faculties. His
eyes opened, blinked once or twice, opened again and stared tranquilly
up into Creighton's. His lips moved and words issued.
"A fall like that," he observed calmly, "would have killed an ordinary
man."
"Thank heaven!" ejaculated the detective fervently. "Are you much
hurt? What happened?"
"Tripped--came down with a dirty wallop and cracked my head on
something awfully hard." He raised himself cautiously to a sitting
position and glanced about him. "That chunk of granite there--doesn't
it look to you as if it were freshly broken?"
"I guess it was only this big root!" said Creighton, and laughed aloud
in his relief. Then his mirth abruptly gave way to surprise. "Hello,"
he said. "Hello--hello--hello!"
He had been looking around too, and now he picked up a loose end of
stout wire that was attached at one extremity to a sapling. There
could be no question as to what it was doing there. Until Krech's shin
had snapped it, it had been stretched taut across the trail a foot
above the ground.
"Gee Joseph!" exclaimed the big man, staring at the simple apparatus of
destruction. "Clever little hellion, ain't he?" He stood up, moved
his arms and legs tentatively and gave himself a shake.
"All right?" asked Creighton quickly.
"Never felt better in my life. Little shaking-up like that--good for a
man. Who was the ancient johnnie that used to bounce up from the earth
a bit stronger for every time he hit it?"
"Antaeus," suggested the detective absently.
"Uh-huh. H. Antaeus Krech--that's me." He added with more appropriate
seriousness, "What became of our little playmate?"
"Search me," replied Creighton, still thoughtful. "I'm trying to
figure out what was back of all this. It was a prearranged trap, of
course. He showed himself deliberately, invited us to chase him, then
arranged this wire to insure his get-away. But--why?"
"I can give you a good guess, Peter, my boy," said Krech slowly. "I
think I have inadvertently saved your life."
"Huh? What's that?"
"Suppose you are getting too close to the truth of who killed Simon
Varr--or suppose the murderer thinks you are, which comes to the same
thing. He doesn't care for the idea--not a-tall. So he has a happy
inspiration and plots this scenario as you have described it--only to
draw an anticlimax. You were supposed to do the chasing. Naturally he
couldn't foresee that your guardian angel, the unfortunate me, would
come galloping down here and spring his trap.
"What if it had been you who was slumbering peacefully in the middle of
the path instead of me? Would you ever have awakened again? Or would
you now be sitting somewhere on a cloud talking it all over with Simon?
How's that for a theory?"
"You think he'd have stuck a knife in me? I must admit there is a
nasty air of plausibility about your sketch." The detective mused a
moment. "There's one consolation if it's true; it's mighty
complimentary--almost flattering--to my ability!"
He stood up and rescued his torch from its resting-place in the tree.
As he took it down, its beam was deflected briefly along the trail, and
in that instant he uttered a quick exclamation.
"Look there!" he snapped. "What's that?"
_XXI: Twilight_
Krech came to attention at the detective's exclamation and his eyes
followed the ray of light from the torch as Creighton directed it to a
point on the ground scarcely two yards from their feet. An oblong,
flat package wrapped in brown paper lay in the trail. They dove for it
together and Creighton secured it, properly enough, since the
flash-light revealed his name on the face of it, scrawled in the same
uncouth writing that they had seen before on the anonymous
communication of the monk to Simon Varr.
"What's in it?" demanded Krech, and added a trifle anxiously, "It
doesn't tick, does it?"
"That cropper you came evidently hasn't hurt your imagination,"
chuckled the detective as he loosened the coarse string about the
package. "No, it isn't a bomb. It's--well, by golly, will you look at
what it is!"
Very gingerly, holding it in the tips of his fingers, he lifted a red
leather notebook from its nest of brown wrappings and showed it to
Krech. The big man nearly dropped the torch which he had taken from
his friend.
"Varr's notebook!" he cried. "It must be!"
"It is," confirmed Creighton, who had lifted one cover with the tip of
a finger nail and glanced at the contents of a page. "Now, isn't this
lovely! Who says we can't recover loot? The thief may have to hand it
to us on a tray, but it's only results that count! Say, Krech--there
goes your melodramatic theory of a plot to bump me off."
"I suppose so."
"He lured me down this trail so I'd find it, and to make sure I didn't
miss it, he strung that wire where it would throw me with my face
almost on the darn thing! You'd have seen it if you hadn't been
knocked silly, and I'd have seen it if I'd been thinking of anything
but you."
"He went to a lot of trouble that he could have spared himself for all
of me!" grunted Krech, feeling his forehead. "I must look like the
happy end of a barroom brawl. Why didn't he mail it?"
"By golly, I don't know. That's a mighty pertinent question, Mr.
Krech. We'll get the answer when we get the crook, I expect. I'm not
so fearfully surprised at getting back this notebook; did it ever
strike you that there might be another explanation of its disappearance
other than simple theft?"
"N-no. If there's another reason, I missed it."
"The dagger wasn't used to further the looting of Varr's desk. Just
the contrary is the truth, I believe. The notebook was stolen to cover
the theft of the dagger."
"Gee Joseph!" Krech whistled softly. "That checks up with the theory
of an inside job! Creighton--_who_?"
"That's something I hope to find out pretty soon," replied the
detective gravely. "Come on back to the house--and, listen! We lost
sight of the monk. We hunted a while until you tripped and hurt your
head, then we gave up the search and came home. Get it? Not another
word!"
"Right," said the big man obediently.
There was no one on the veranda when they emerged from the woods. Two
figures moved in the lamp-lit hall as they entered the house. Bates
came up to greet them nervously, and young Merrill lurked in the offing
looking curious.
"Is everything all right, sir?" asked the butler timidly.
"Perfectly all right. Where is Miss Copley?"
"Retired, sir. She left word for you that she would not be down again
this evening."
The news that she had left a message for him was welcome. He had been
troubled by the recollection of the cavalier fashion in which he had
shaken off her hand on his arm, and he was uncomfortably certain that
in his haste he had addressed her, as he thought of her, by her family
nickname.
"Go tap on her door, please, Bates, and tell her that I am back with
nothing to report. Wait--take Mr. Krech up with you and show him my
room. He has a forehead he wants to bathe."
The butler went off, and Krech, after a mild protest, accompanied him.
Creighton, when they were out of sight, beckoned Merrill to follow and
went swiftly into the living-room.
"Find out at once if any one has been absent from the house during the
past hour. Let me know."
"Done it already, sir. Thought you'd want it. Only one person I
haven't had my eye on."
"_Who?_"
"Janet Mackay, sir. She went to town immediately after dinner to a
movie."
"_Janet Mackay_! There is only one motion-picture theater?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go there at once. Check up on her. She's a regular patron--the
ticket-girl should be able to tell you if she's been there. When you
come back, signal to me, yes or no. Understand? _Beat it_!"
When Krech came down again he found Creighton sitting on the veranda,
smoking a cigar and apparently more in the mood to think than to talk.
It was nearly ten o'clock when a step sounded on the porch and Merrill
sauntered into view.
"Pardon!" he said promptly, and vanished again.
But he had obeyed his instructions and sent Creighton a sign that
started the detective's heart to thumping. Janet Mackay had not been
to the theater. Here was a coil with collateral complications that
were not pleasant to contemplate. His heart stopped thumping and made
a dive for his boots as he wondered what Miss Ocky would say when she
learned of his interest in Janet.
"I'm going to New York on the midnight," he said abruptly. "Will you
run me to the station on your way home?"
"Sure. Unexpected, isn't it? What are you going for?"
"Mostly on account of this notebook." Creighton tapped the side-pocket
of his coat in which he had placed his treasure, rewrapped and tied.
"It must go to the chap in Brooklyn who does my finger-print work, and
I don't care to trust it to the mail. I've another reason for going
which I don't propose to tell you."
"_Sus domesticus_!" cried Mr. Krech proudly, then obligingly translated
for his astonished companion. "Pig!"
"Oh. Well, if you feel so deeply about it I suppose I might toss you a
hint. I'm going to New York to give something a chance to happen that
might not happen if I stayed here. I'll be back to-morrow evening,
late--which reminds me that I'd better catch young Merrill and leave a
message for Miss Ocky. Bates has probably gone to bed."
He spent the night at his apartment in the city and surprised his staff
by entering his office the next morning at nine sharp--surprised them
pleasantly, it may be added, for they had come to be loyal friends no
less than faithful helpers. He exchanged cheerful greetings with a
very pretty young woman who left her typewriter and accompanied him
into his private room.
"Something didding, Rose, I do believe." He seated himself at his
handsome, flat-top desk. "Send Jimmy here. Get Kitty Doyle on the
wire, tell her to pack a bag and stand by the telephone in case I need
her."
A minute later he was smiling at the homely face of Jimmy Horton, his
chief of staff.
"Got that notebook, Jimmy!" He slapped the brown package on his desk.
"The story will have to wait. I want you to take this over to Martin
yourself. Leave it there. Ask him to make every effort to bring out
such prints as there may be on the covers. If he finds any, tell him
to compare them with the assortment I sent him from Hambleton last week
and see if any of them check. He is to telephone me his findings here,
or wire them to me at Hambleton if I've gone back. Understand?"
"Perfectly. Does he mail you the book?"
"No. When he's through with it, you go back and get it. Be careful of
it, Jimmy. If it comes to a choice of losing that book or losing your
life, you hang on to the book."
"I get you!" grinned Jimmy. "Doesn't the recovery of this notebook
technically end your commission? We're up to our ears in work here.
Why are you going back to Hambleton?"
"Because--because I darn well choose to!" Creighton writhed inwardly
as he felt his cheeks growing hot. "On your way, young man--you ought
to be under the East River by this time!"
Nevertheless, a certain compunction helped him to put the Varr case,
and even Miss Ocky, out of his mind for the balance of the morning
while he laboriously worked through an accumulation of other matters
that had been waiting for his personal attention. At one o'clock he
went to the basement of the building for a hurried lunch in the
rathskeller, leaving word of his whereabouts with Rose.
It was well that he did so. With the coffee came an extension
telephone that was plugged in at his elbow, and a distant voice spoke
clearly in his ear.
"Merrill speaking. I'm telephoning from the railroad station. You
guessed right, sir. The woman has just left for New York. Seemed a
bit low in her mind--been crying and was still sniffling. She's
wearing a dark-gray cloth dress--black oxfords--small black hat with a
green feather--black fur neck-piece--brown leather suit-case-- What's
that, sir? No, sir!" Mr. Merrill's voice was gently reproachful.
"She's not wearing the suit-case; she's carrying it. Yes, sir. I
thought she acted rather queer--nervous, unhappy and fidgety."
"And no doubt she is! Thank you, Merrill. Good work!"
Creighton hung up the receiver, shook his head at the waiter who came
for the instrument, then called an uptown number. A woman's voice
answered--bright, alert, faintly tinged with a soft brogue.
"Miss Doyle speaking."
"Hello, Kitty! Did you pack that bag? Good. I want you to meet the
train from Hambleton arriving four-thirty. Janet Mackay is on it. You
can't miss her--listen!" He rattled off Merrill's description of the
woman's dress. "Shadow her, Kitty; follow her to Kamchatka if you have
to. Keep your eyes and ears open. Use your own judgment in regard to
scraping up an acquaintance if an opportunity offers. She's dour, and
probably a bit suspicious. I can give you one useful tip about
her--she talks in her sleep. _Huh_! That will be all from you, Miss
Doyle; it doesn't matter how I know. Wire me any news as you get it to
Hambleton. Have you plenty of money?"
"Couple of hundred, I'll telegraph if I need more."
"Right. Whatever happens, Kitty--stay with her!"
"Like a Siamese twin," the bright voice assured him. "Is there
anything special I'm to try and find out?"
"Well, you know the nature of this case." Creighton hesitated. "A
confession would be very useful--if you could get it!"
"Crumbs!" gasped Miss Doyle. "Did _she_ do it?"
"I have no definite proof--yet. There's just enough evidence to
warrant our taking a warm interest in her. This sudden departure from
Hambleton may be--flight!"
"Oh-ho. And she chose her time while you were here, thus avoiding any
embarrassing farewell scene with you! Quite so. Leave her to me, Mr.
Creighton. I'll wire you from Liverpool or Buenos Aires or Paris--"
"Or Hoboken or Harlem!" he corrected her.
"Much more likely."
He sent away the telephone, ordered fresh coffee, lighted a cigarette
and glanced at his watch. Two courses were open to him. He could put
in the afternoon at the office and thereby clear up a lot of stuff for
Rose and Jimmy, returning late to Hambleton as he had planned, or he
could catch a train that would get him there just in time for dinner.
Um.
He caught the train that was to get him there just in time for dinner.
Bates, meeting him in the hall and relieving him of his bag, dashed his
hopes forthwith.
"I'm afraid we weren't expecting you, sir," said the butler
apologetically. "Miss Ocky is dining at Mrs. Bolt's. I'll have
something ready for you in about half-an-hour, sir. Will that be all
right, sir?"
"Fine, Bates; thank you."
"A judgment on me for my sins of omission!" he told himself
philosophically. "I should have stayed on the job at the office."
He went and put his head in at the dining-room door, where Merrill had
just commenced his solitary dinner. The young man signaled to him
instantly that he had a communication to make. Bates had vanished to
the upper floor with his bag, and when Creighton had assured himself
that there was no one in the pantry, he stepped quickly to Merrill's
side.
"I wanted to tell you that Miss Copley and the Mackay woman had a long
talk in Miss Copley's room very late last night--or early this morning,
rather. It was nearly four o'clock when Janet went to bed. They were
talking about something very--well, _fiercely_. Almost quarreling. I
couldn't make out the words. That's all, sir; I should really have
reported this to you over the wire."
"So you should, my boy, so you should," muttered Creighton absently.
"No harm done this time, fortunately."
He slipped away before the butler should return, and went out to the
veranda to wait until something had been prepared for him. He was glad
of the brief opportunity to be alone with his thoughts.
Merrill's latest bit of information was disturbing in the extreme--so
disturbing that he had to force his mind to consider a possibility from
which it shrank aghast. The two women had "talked fiercely." They had
"almost quarreled." _What about_? A hypothetical answer came to him
so ugly that it chilled him to the bone.
Granted that Janet Mackay, from motives yet obscure, had killed Simon
Varr, had Miss Ocky somehow learned the truth and become an accessory
after the crime? Swayed by her dislike of Simon and her friendship for
her companion of a score of years, had she condoned a crime and helped
a murderess to escape? What was that she had once said? "Janet and I
are fearfully responsible for each other!"
_Oof_! He took out his handkerchief and vigorously rubbed at the moist
palms of his hands.
He had sat in this very same spot the night before and worried over
Miss Ocky's probable reaction to a theory of Janet's guilt, but he had
not dreamed of anything so terrible as this. Ocky an accessory!
Finished with his palms, he shifted the handkerchief to his brow.
An unwelcome memory stirred in him of the scene the evening before when
he had leaped the piazza rail in pursuit of the monk. He could feel
again her grip on his arm. Had she known that the black figure was
Janet and sought to restrain him lest he catch her? Obvious! And he
had ascribed that action to timidity or even--blatant ass!--to fear for
his safety. Fear! As if October Copley knew the meaning of the word
either for herself or any one else! "Afraid for his safety?" His
cheeks were red as he spared a mirthless laugh for an egotistical idiot.
"Dinner is served, sir," announced Bates, appearing in his silent
fashion around the corner of the house. "It is not very elaborate, I'm
afraid, sir."
"It will be ample," Creighton assured him, and added a trifle bitterly,
"I don't seem to have much appetite this evening."
_XXII: A Cry in the Night_
During the progress of that mournful meal his discomfort was vastly
increased by the sudden reflection that he was now confronted with a
most disagreeable necessity. He bit his lip and frowned, strongly
tempted deliberately to sidestep a task so uncongenial.
No--he couldn't shirk it! Come what might, he would see this through
and force himself to act in every respect as he would have acted were
Ocky not involved. She was clean and straight herself, even if
misguided loyalty to Janet had caused her momentarily to swerve from
the narrow path of rectitude, and it would be no compliment to her if
he were to scamp his job. Antagonists they might be in this contest of
wits, but she was too sporting ever to want him to do aught but play
the game for all that was in him.
"What time will Miss Copley be back?" he asked the butler.
"She said about ten, sir."
That would give him ample time for what he proposed to do. The dreary
dinner ended, he went upstairs as though going to his room, but he did
not get quite so far. The hall was empty. The house was still. He
knew there was small chance of any one interrupting him while he worked.
Softly, he turned the knob of Miss Ocky's door, slipped inside and
closed it again behind him. He crossed the room and drew the curtains
of the French window before taking his torch from his pocket.
Then, tight-lipped, he set to work.
An hour passed before his search, swift, silent and sure, approached
its end. He had found nothing to incriminate Janet Mackay, nothing to
connect her departure with any guilty knowledge thereof on the part of
Miss Ocky. He smiled contentedly at the result, exulting in his
failure, then sobered suddenly as the light from his torch, playing
over her desk, discovered to him a neat, leather-bound book with the
word "Diary" stamped in gold across its top cover.
A diary! Why in thunder did people keep 'em? Ocky had got the habit
from keeping notes for her books, he supposed. Silly things, always
getting their owners into trouble! He glared at the innocent book a
full minute before he reluctantly opened it and sought the entries for
the past few weeks. There were not many, thank goodness; she was not a
faithful diarist. He scanned them rapidly, gathering courage as it
grew plain that there was nothing here the whole world might not read.
Then he caught his breath and stood transfixed as one entry, dated
three days back, sped its message to his brain.
"The usual talk with P. C. last night from balcony to balcony. He is
amusing and very entertaining--amazingly kind and sympathetic despite
his profession, which must tend to harden a man--though he will not
admit it!" So much was in her bold, firm writing, but underneath a
line had been added in fainter, more uncertain script. "Why couldn't
we have met twenty years ago!"
Creighton shut the book quickly, flicked off his torch, stood
motionless in the dark. His breast was a chaos of wild, conflicting
emotions. There was rejoicing at what he had found, loathing for the
way he had found it, terror of the problems it portended. That
regretful line in her diary revealed some feeling for him, he felt
sure, but what would become of that newborn sentiment when she learned
that he had--
The raucous blare of a motor-horn from the direction of the driveway
cut sharply through his abstraction. He leaped for the door and gained
the hall in safety, then sauntered downstairs to find not one arrival
but two. Miss Ocky had returned ahead of schedule, and a messenger on
a motorcycle had come with a telegram.
"Telegram for Creighton."
"Right here." He scrawled a signature in the book, opened the wire and
read it by his flash-light. "No answer."
He read it again as the boy putt-putted off into the darkness.
"_We leave for Montreal to-night. Cheers. Can I have one on you?
Address General Delivery, Montreal. K. Doyle._"
He struck a match and held it to the corner of the yellow sheet. By
the time it was burned and the charred fragments crunched beneath his
heel, Miss Ocky had garaged the car and come around to the front steps.
"Hello," she said, rather wearily. "Never dreamed you'd be back
already!"
"Couldn't stay away," he said lightly. "Have a nice time at the Bolts?"
"Rotten," answered Miss Ocky tersely. "My own fault--I've been low in
my mind all day." She pulled off her driving gloves and waved with
them toward the veranda. "Come and give me a cigarette."
"What has been worrying you?" he asked her quietly when they were
settled in the cozy corner. "Anything serious?"
"Janet has gone. I shall miss her--terribly--after all these years.
She insisted, though, and I had no right to refuse her."
"But she will miss you, too, surely."
"Possibly."
"She's going home to Scotland, I suppose?"
"N-no." Miss Ocky hesitated, then added calmly, "She is going to a
sister in New Orleans."
"Oh," said Creighton, and it seemed to him that some one else must have
uttered the word, so far away did it sound. "Very nice for her."
"Let's--forget her," suggested Miss Ocky.
There was no talk from balcony to balcony that night. Miss Ocky begged
off on the plea of fatigue, and it was fairly evident that the plea was
perfectly honest. She acted as if she were tired, she looked so, and
Creighton, grimly comparing the fiction of New Orleans with the fact of
Montreal, could no longer doubt that she had every reason to be tired,
mentally and physically.
He was none too fit himself when he came down to breakfast the next
morning after a miserable night's rest. He could scarcely eat
anything. He rose from the table finally and sped into the front hall
at the sound of a motorcycle, and when he accepted two wires from a
messenger and dismissed him, his powers of resistance were pitifully
inadequate to withstand the greatest shock he was ever to receive in
all his life.
The first was a night-letter from Martin, the finger-print expert.
"_Numerous prints on cover of took. Freshest superimposed on others
are one of thumb top cover four of finger tips on bottom, made by
number eight in collection you sent me. Characteristics distinctive.
No possibility of error. Martin._"
Number eight of the collection he had made! Made since the death of
Simon Varr, then, and by some one in the household! Here was a
tangible clue to the truth at last!