him, her face ashen. "Oh, what a fool I've been--what a wicked little
fool! I saw this coming--I never should have let it happen--oh, I
should have hit you over the head--k-killed you, too!--anything but let
this go on! But I d-didn't have the s-trength either! I wanted my bit
of happiness--I wanted to be cared for like--like that by some
one--by--by _you_ above all! And now--and now--!" She broke off on a
sob.
"But, Ocky! What is it, dear? We have the future--"
"That's just what we haven't got!" she gasped. "Oh, don't you
understand? Haven't you guessed why I have done all these things, why
I was able to play Destiny without fear of the consequences to myself,
why I called you in to-night to hear my confession?" She drew a
sobbing breath, "I told you I was very ill. Peter, I--I'm _dying_!"
Softly though it was spoken, the word crashed upon his ears like a
thunderclap. He sprang to his feet, shaken and bewildered.
"Ocky! What are you saying? Are you telling me the truth? What is
the matter with you?"
"Yes. It's the truth. Sit down--please! Don't get silly ideas into
your head about a doctor. Give me credit for some sense!" She managed
to smile, and gallantly pitched her voice to a note of lightness. "As
for what's the matter--well, we needn't wander off into pathology, need
we? I think we'll dispense with an ante-post-mortem, if there is such
an animal! I contrived to tie some of my little innards into bowknots
once when I was h-hunting hippopotamusses in the Himalayas, I guess.
"Months afterwards, I came down with a pain--a pain such as I could not
have believed a human being could experience and survive, I went to a
doctor in Paris, and he told me there was no hope. A few months later
I had a second attack. When I was able to travel, I went to a new man
in Rome. He said the next attack would be the--last.
"Then I came home. I wanted to see Lucy again, and if this stupid
business of dying had to be gone through I wanted to do it here in this
old house. I wanted a few weeks or months of peace and quiet and
h-happiness." Her voice broke, then steadied again. "Golly--what a
fizzle!" She shivered. "This afternoon I got my--notice! How I
wished you were here! I came up to my room, burned that diary--you
snooped just in time, Peter!--and wrote two letters. I didn't dare
leave the house to mail them. I might have dropped in the--_ah_!"
Swift as a flash of lightning it had come. Beyond that one moan she
fought silently, lips tight, one hand clutching at her side, through
seconds that seemed eternities to the man watching helplessly. At last
the spasm passed and speech returned to her.
"That's--just a preliminary twinge!" she whispered between her teeth.
"Peter--there's something beyond the stars! You believe that, don't
you?"
"My dear--my dear!"
"That's all right, then." She looked at him long. "I wonder if you'll
ever forgive me for hurting you like this. Try, won't you, Peter?"
Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears. "Will you get me a glass
of--water. On the table by my bed." She waited as he eagerly fetched
it, grateful that he could do even this much. "Thanks. Now, a
handkerchief--over there on the bureau." Again she waited, this time
until he was across the room by her dressing-table. Then she raised
the glass and spoke softly. "I'm glad I took this from _your_
hands--Peter!"
She had not thought him capable of such quickness. Not a drop had
passed her lips before he was upon her with the leap of a frightened
deer. A vicious sweep of his hand sent the glass from her fingers out
the window and through the moonlit night, to fall harmless on the lawn.
"Ocky--what were you doing?" he demanded almost furiously.
"Peter--what have you _done_?" she retorted. "That was all I had--all
I had! Oh, that was a cruel of you! Why do you want me to suffer?
Could you not let me die in peace?"
"You aren't going to die!" he cried. "Listen--how long will it be
before another of those attacks comes on?"
"I--don't know. Several hours, p-perhaps." She stared at him
open-eyed. "Wh-what are you going to do?"
"Local doctor, for temporary relief. To-morrow, the best
diagnosticians--and surgeons if necessary--in New York." He was alert,
now, coolly capable, free of the stupor of grief and despair. His face
was grimly defiant as he added, "We'll see how much those gentlemen in
Rome and Paris really know!"
"Oh--it's useless, Peter. And--and I _can't_ live! They'll h-hang me!
Peter, there's something I haven't told you. I hadn't stopped to think
until lately that an unsolved crime leaves so much ugly suspicion in
its wake! Innocent people--suspected all their lives! I couldn't die
with that on my soul so--so this afternoon I wrote a full confession
and mailed it to Norvallis--"
"Oh--_that_!" he said contemptuously. He reached into his pocket,
plucked forth two letters and dropped them in her lap. "There!"
"Peter!" She stared at them. "Where on earth--? I couldn't go to
town s-so I gave them to young Merrill to post. And he--he--"
"Is one of my men, introduced by Judge Taylor at my request! I'm glad
you picked him, Ocky! He placed them on my desk, as in duty bound."
He hesitated, eyeing her dubiously. "I'm going for that
doctor--Joliffe, the chap your sister has had. I liked his looks.
First, though, I suppose I'll have to rouse Bates to mount guard over
you!"
"No-no--not that! Whatever happens, let that be our secret!"
"You must promise me not to do anything foolish while I'm gone." He
took one of her hands and clasped it tightly in both of his. "Ocky,
keep your nerve, dear! I'm going to get you out of this--get you out
_somehow_! Leave it to me, dear, and stop worrying. Now, promise me!"
"There's another thing, Peter; I ought to tell you while we have this
opportunity to talk. Mr. Krech knows I--I did it!"
"Krech! _Krech_! How in thunder--"
"I don't know, but he does. It would have been funny last n-night if
it hadn't been so tragic! He got me alone for a few minutes and began
to drop hints; said you were practically certain of the criminal and
that if he were the murderer he would do almost anything desperate to
prevent himself from being caught, only he admitted he couldn't think
of anything!"
"Will wonders never cease! However, we needn't bother our heads about
Krech--I'd trust him with my life. Can't waste any more time on him
now. Promise me, Ocky!"
"It's--no--use--"
"_Promise me!_"
"I--I promise, Peter!"
He bent and kissed her almost fiercely--and was gone.
_XXIV: Beyond the Stars_
The next two hours for Peter Creighton were more like a nightmare than
a nightmare itself. First he aroused Bates and startled the old man
with the news of Miss Ocky's illness, and ordered him to call Lucy Varr
and suggest that she go immediately to her sister. He could not bear
the thought of Ocky sitting there alone with hideous memories of the
past and fearful doubts of the future. Then he ran to the garage,
jumped in the car and drove madly through the night to the home of
Doctor Joliffe. The physician was an elderly and experienced man
long-practiced in the art of turning out promptly for these midnight
emergencies, and he was pulling on his trousers almost before the
door-bell had ceased to ring, but to the anguished gaze of the
detective he resembled nothing more than a languid snail with white
whiskers. It seemed as if they would never get back to the house.
They finally did, and Joliffe took competent charge of the situation.
Creighton, banished peremptorily, went into his room, extinguished the
lamp, and sat down on the edge of his bed in the dark to await a
verdict from the doctor. At each side of him his fingers gripped the
corner of the mattress tensely.
He had not waited thus above fifteen minutes when he heard a familiar,
heavy tread in the hall outside. His door was unceremoniously flung
open and the space filled by a huge form.
"Creighton--you in here?"
"Hello, Krech. What are you doing here at this hour?"
"Haven't been sleeping well lately. Got up to smoke a cigar, looked
out my bedroom window and saw this house lighted up. What's doing?"
"Miss Copley is seriously ill--perhaps--dying."
"The deuce!" ejaculated Krech, startled. He fumbled in his pocket,
produced a match and struck it. "Mind if I light the lamp?" But the
flickering flame of the match showed him a face so white and drawn that
he caught his breath in sudden realization of the truth. He abandoned
his idea of lighting the lamp and fumbled his way to a chair near the
foot of the bed. "So--you _know_!" he said quietly.
"Yes," admitted the detective wearily. "But how did _you_?"
"I tumbled to it the night you went to New York," answered Krech, his
voice anything but happy. "I didn't go home after I left you at the
station. Came back here. You hinted something might happen if you
went away and gave it a chance, and I didn't see why it shouldn't
happen right away. I hoped the monk would turn up again; had a notion
that my head would feel better if I could once get my hands on that
wire-stretching humorist.
"I kept carefully out of sight in the woods and settled down at a point
where I could watch both the kitchen garden and the spot where we'd
last seen the monk. I waited three hours. If patience and
perseverance make a good detective I was the best in the world that
night.
"The reason I waited so long was that I was interested in a lighted
window--Miss Ocky's. She was keeping pretty late hours, talking to
Janet Mackay, I recognized her tall, thin shadow as it occasionally
fell on the blinds, and you know I had already suggested that there was
something dubious about Janet because of her acquaintance with Charlie
Maxon.
"That light didn't go out until three in the morning. A few minutes
later I saw some one slip out the back door of the house and hurry
across the garden to the trail. Janet! It was brilliant moonlight,
you'll remember, and I recognized her at once.
"I followed her, keeping a cautious distance behind. Lost her once
when she vanished from the trail into the woods, but she came back a
minute or two later with a bundle under her arm that she had retrieved
from some hiding-place. After that she took a bypath leading downhill
in the direction of that poisonous little brook which runs through
those meadows after passing the tannery.
"I watched her as she knelt down on the bank of the stream, weighted
her bundle with a couple of rocks and hove it as far out as she could
into the water. She stood watching the bubbles break above the spot
where it disappeared, then turned and marched away erect as a grenadier
and calm as a cucumber.
"I let her go, of course. My interest was centered in that stuff she
had sunk, and I scurried around until I found a long pole. Then I
started dredging operations that would have been a credit to De Lesseps
himself--and brought ashore that bundle.
"You've guessed what it was. The monk's disguise, complete even to the
shoes!
"You were gone, or I'd have brought the reeking mess to you. I
couldn't smuggle it into Bolt's house without embarrassing
explanations--after a dip in that brook, those clothes advertised their
presence to a distance of a hundred yards. Finally, I threw them back
into the water, making careful note of the exact location, and went off
to where I had left Jason's car.
"I was pretty well pleased with myself as I drove home. It seemed to
me that I had solved the mystery of who killed Simon Varr, and it
didn't injure my self-esteem any to think I had nailed the crime on the
very person I had first suspected. Great work! I finally appeared
before Jean all covered with mud and medals.
"It was when we were talking it over that the same awful idea came to
us both. The more we thought it out, the less plausible seemed the
theory of Janet's guilt. A sharper wit than hers had planned the
murder. I told Jean about the long interview with Miss Ocky before
Janet went out to destroy the evidence, and Jean groaned. It grew
plain as a pike-staff that Janet was at worst an accomplice, and more
probably only an accessory after the crime.
"Her abrupt departure the next day appeared to clinch this hypothesis.
She--she would not betray her mistress and friend, but the shock of the
discovery she must have made had proved too much for her. We figured
she had either left voluntarily to--to pacify her own conscience, or at
Miss Ocky's insistence because she was too dangerous to have around.
And--and that's all, Creighton!"
It wasn't all, as no one knew better than the detective himself. There
was something yet that had to be brought into the light and discussed.
Moved to the very depths of his being, he reached out in the dark and
dropped a hand gently on the big man's knee.
"Why didn't you tell me this at once, Krech?"
"I knew you'd ask that! Well, it was because Jean had some notion--and
I did, for that matter--that if you learned the truth you'd--you'd get
an awful jolt. We have both come to like Miss Ocky immensely, and I
needn't tell you how we feel toward you! When it came to a choice of
hurting you or condoning a crime we--we didn't hesitate long. Jean
said if I ever let out a peep about what I'd seen that night, she'd
divorce me--and, honestly, Creighton, I think she _meant_ it!"
Some emotions do not lend themselves readily to verbal expression.
Peter Creighton was silent, but there was eloquence in the tightening
of his hand on Krech's knee. The big man spoke again, mournfully.
"Do you remember that afternoon at the tannery when I said I'd like
just for once to find out something before you did? Well, I got my
wish the other night--and I'd have given an arm to alter the meaning of
what I'd found!"
"Thank you, Krech. You and Jean are two of the best friends a man ever
had." The detective paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I
expect you'd like to know how I stumbled on to the truth--? All right."
Though he was scarcely conscious of it, the telling of that story
brought him some measure of relief. It eased the ordeal of waiting for
news from the next room. He was forced to concentrate his thoughts on
what he was saying to the exclusion of anxieties and fears, and shortly
his chief concern was the clear presentation of his narrative.
He deemed it advisable that Krech, since he knew so much, should know
all. The single incident he left untold was his dashing of the lethal
glass from Ocky's lips--that, as she had stipulated, should remain
their own secret.
"You always manage to fool me, Creighton," said his friend as the
detective ended. "I never guessed Merrill was your man, and I never
dreamed that you knew about Janet's flight in time to wish Kitty Doyle
on her. Jean and I would have bet any amount of money that you weren't
within a hundred miles of the truth."
"Your bet would have been safe twenty-four hours ago."
"Now the question is--"
Creighton suddenly sprang into activity. A door had opened and shut
softly close at hand, a light footfall sounded from the hall, and the
detective leaped to fling back his door as a set of bony knuckles was
extended to rap on it.
Krech did not leave his chair, but his ears were strained to their
limit. He caught various illuminating phrases from a brisk, capable
little person with flowing white whiskers.
"Resting now ... Opiates ... Careful examination ... Curious case
... Similar one ... Medical text books ... To-morrow ...
MacNaughton ... Billy MacNaughton ... Best Man ... Know Him? ...
Fine fellow ... Exquisite touch with the knife ... I will telegraph
... No complications ... No reason for excessive alarm ... Very
simple ... Expert surgeon ... Splendid constitution ... Strong as a
Shetland pony ... Better go to bed yourself ... Good-night ...
Tut-tut, don't mention it ... _Good_-night!"
Creighton shut the door quietly, turned and lighted the lamp. Krech
saw that much of the trouble had gone from his face--much, but not all.
"You heard what he said, Krech?"
"She's going to pull through?"
"He thinks so."
"That's good news. At least--I suppose it is."
"Huh? What in thunder do you _mean_?"
Krech deliberately lighted a fresh cigar before he answered, eyeing his
friend steadily as he spoke.
"If she recovers, what will you do?" he asked calmly. "Hand her over
to the police--as you should?"
Creighton stared at him. Then he suddenly swore--crisply, concisely,
and without passion.
"That's all right, then!" said the big man with satisfaction. "I'll
tell Jean just what you have said. In the event of your learning the
truth, we felt some concern as to whether or not you'd be--be--"
"_What?_"
"Well--human!"
"Um." The detective gave a little laugh that was totally devoid of
mirth. "Yes, I'm going to be--human! I fought that battle all day
yesterday! I find that Ocky means more to me than--than honor, to put
it bluntly and melodramatically."
"Cheers!" cried the unscrupulous Mr. Krech. "Loud cheers!"
"I came to another decision," continued Creighton seriously, "one that
is dictated by common decency if nothing else. This is my last case.
My shingle is coming down forthwith. I haven't met the acid test.
I've quit under fire. I'm a deserter from the ranks. I'm--_through_!"
He shook his head as Krech started to protest. "No. Whatever happens,
that is definitely settled."
"Whatever happens," repeated the big man musingly, the phrase recalling
him to certain practical considerations. "Let's see. Jean and I know
the truth; we're mum. Janet knows it; she's safe. How about Kitty
Doyle? That young lady is sharper than a serpent's tooth, as I
remember her! Suppose she tumbles to It? Will she join the conspiracy
of silence?"
"I believe Kitty is a friend of mine," said Creighton, and added
simply, "I'm singularly fortunate in my friends, Krech."
The next moment he jumped nervously as some one rapped gently on his
door. He glanced at the big man appealingly, and sat down again on the
edge of his bed.
"All right," grinned Krech. "Leave it to me!"
"A telegram for Mr. Creighton, sir," said Bates, as the door was opened
to him. "The boy just brought it this minute."
"That must be something from Kitty now," muttered Creighton when the
butler had gone. "Open it and read it, will you? My nerve has gone to
pieces!" He shifted uneasily. "Hurry up!"
"Yes, it's from Kitty," confirmed Krech, opening the envelope and
glancing at the signature on the message. "A long one, too. Here
goes!" He held the paper under the lamp and began to read, casually at
first, then rapidly as the import of the dispatch quickened his pulse.
"_Arrived hotel. Secured room adjoining Janet. Bed early. Was
restless, talkative. Unable distinguish words. Picked lock
communicating door. Listened by bed. Incoherent. Suddenly awoke.
Surprised me. I used own judgment as instructed. Made best of bad
situation. Accused her of murder. Threatened her with police.
Terrible scene. Frantic denials followed by complete collapse. Full
confession. Made lengthy synopsis. Obtained signature. Abruptly she
seemed to go mad. Raved wildly. On point summoning assistance when
violently attacked. Threw me in corner. Threw bureau on top of me.
Before interference possible ran to open window. Jumped out. Six
stories. Death instantaneous. Wire instructions. K. Doyle._"
"Gee Joseph!" gasped Krech, and handed the telegram to the detective,
who had sprung to his elbow long since and peered over his shoulder.
The big man walked back to his chair and dropped into it limply. "I'm
all unstarched!" he said plaintively. "Save my sanity and tell me what
it's all about! How many people killed Simon Varr?"
"One!" answered Creighton grimly, but his eyes were shining. "Janet
Mackay! And Ocky--Ocky thought she was dying--! She tried to shield
Janet by assuming the guilt! Merciful Heaven, what a thing to do! No
wonder she insisted on my recalling Kitty Doyle at once! Threatened to
turn her sacrifice into a wasted gesture, Kitty did--and, by golly,
Kitty _has_! But it wasn't wasted as far as we're concerned--we can
always appreciate it! It was fine, Krech--fine!"
"But foolish," grunted Krech. "Think of the unhappiness she would have
caused every one who is fond of her if she'd been allowed to roll up
her reputation into a ball and kick it away!"
"Don't you suppose that thought hurt her?" cried Creighton. "If laying
down your life for a friend exemplifies the greater love, what of a
woman who lays down her reputation? Isn't that even finer?"
"Y-yes. Perhaps you're right. But--she condoned a crime."
"Uh-huh. And I think you and I are in a nice position to criticize
her, aren't we? Perhaps Jean might help us there!"
Creighton, carried out of himself by a _denouement_ almost beyond
belief, was close to laughter. Mr. Krech was not. He left his chair
and began to saunter uncertainly around the room, pausing finally at
the desk and staring down at its blotter, his back turned to his
companion. A more neutral observer than the other, he thought he could
see a question arising that had not yet occurred to the
less-unprejudiced detective. But Creighton would stumble upon it
eventually--far better to thrash it out now.
"Why did Janet kill Simon Varr?" he opened the subject.
"Why--why--" Creighton stammered, at a loss for a moment, but recovered
himself swiftly as an answer came. "Don't you understand that? Her
motive was the one Ocky professed! She was playing Destiny! She knew
all about Varr--they discussed him at length--and she had always had a
distaste for the man since the old days in this house. When Ocky told
her the story of the monk, it was she who conceived the idea of the
masquerade. It was she who knew Maxon's propensity for mischief-making
and selected him as a deputy. It was she who threatened Simon, fired
the tannery--but why go on? The two women are simply interchangeable,
and Ocky had only to repeat in her own person the confession she forced
from Janet--"
"Why was she so long suspecting Janet?"
"Huh? Well--if a murder is committed are you apt to suspect a person
you've known as well as you know yourself for twenty-five years? I've
been wondering what first directed Ocky's suspicion to her companion,
and I think I have the answer. The other day when Sherwood was
describing the actions of the monk at the time of the murder, Ocky
suddenly revealed a tremendous lot of emotion; depend upon it,
something he said then must have given her a clue to the truth. And
the incident of the fingerprints on the notebook--change one woman for
the other and that is explained! It was not the cautious Janet that
found the book in Ocky's bureau--it was the heedless Ocky who found it
somewhere among Janet's things and never stopped to think that she was
leaving prints when she picked it up!"
"But--this playing Destiny, as you call it. Ocky could do that without
fear of the consequences, since she believed her days to be numbered,
but could Janet?"
"Why not?" Creighton's voice was still confident but he had begun to
look askance at his friend as he caught a hint of something more
serious behind this inquisition. "Haven't we an explanation for that
in Kitty's telegram? She says 'Janet seemed to go mad'. Isn't that
the whole story after all? Janet was unbalanced; she pondered the
cussedness of Varr; she fell victim to an obsession. She began to
picture herself as a scourge of the unrighteous--she probably read up
on Jael and Charlotte Corday and women like that. Her brain cracked.
I'm not romancing, either. History is full of cold-blooded murders
committed from motives of altruism. Common enough, both the cause and
effect. Anyway, we have Janet's full confession coming to us--" He
broke off short at an involuntary movement on the part of his
friend--and abruptly a fear crept into his eyes. "_Krech_--what are
you thinking of?"
"The same thing you are, Creighton."
"Put it into words!" commanded the detective fiercely.
"You've done it yourself. You have pointed out that the two women are
interchangeable. So they are--even to the point where each makes what
is tantamount to a dying statement! Ocky's confession was convincing
when you heard it, wasn't it? Janet's will be equally so when it
arrives. Creighton--which are we to believe?"
"That's it!" whispered Creighton. "That's it!"