When he had finished his examination of the broken window in the living-room, Herman Krech contrived—partly by his sheer physical bulk and partly by the exercise of a soft assertiveness that was saved by his bland geniality from being plain rudeness—to sequester Simon Varr for a word in private. To accomplish this end he was obliged to shake off his own wife, the tanner's wife, the Jason Bolts and Miss Ocky Copley, the last lady in especial revealing the pertinacity of a cockle-burr in her objection to being shaken off. Krech didn't succeed in losing her until he had shut the door of the study in her face with a courteously affected air of absent-mindedness.
"What do you want?" inquired Varr ungraciously.
"I've got a message for you—sorry if I'm intruding," replied the big man, half-amused and half-resentful at his host's tone. "I'm afraid it will annoy you—but most things do, don't they? But Creighton thought it best to give you a tip and of course I feel obliged to pass it on as received."
"All right. What is it?" said the tanner less irascibly.
"Practically a repetition of the warning I gave you this morning on my own account. I read him that note over the telephone. He said it sounded like the work of a nut, and added that a bad nut is often a dangerous proposition. He thinks you should take reasonable precautions against a personal attack at least until he gets here."
"When peace will mantle the earth, I suppose!"
"Possibly so," answered the big man imperturbably. "I know if I were a crook engaged in a campaign of crime I'd be apt to desist if a detective suddenly appeared over the horizon. Wouldn't you?"
"Not if I thought he was scared of me!"
"Oh—I see." Mr. Krech's face, normally pink, deepened to a delicate shade of rose. "Rather cheap, that, isn't it, Varr? No, Creighton is not scared of crooks so you could notice it, but he's not a darn' fool either. Anyway, there it is. Take it or leave it."
"I'll leave it, thank you. Does he think I'm going to wire the Governor to turn out the militia?"
"He'd be more likely to suggest that you wire the nearest asylum for a competent keeper; he has a rough tongue at times."
"Humph. When's he coming?"
"First train in the morning. Gets here at eleven."
"I'll drive down and meet him. Will he stop at the hotel, or will he expect me to put him up here?"
"You'd better settle that with him, Mr. Varr. He's not a roughneck, if that's what you mean." Krech contemplated the tanner reflectively; there were several things he wished to tell him but he manfully swallowed them all. "Good-day, sir!"
His doubts of the morning were reborn as he left the study, unattended. Had he any right to inflict this specimen on Creighton? He could only hope that the detective's sense of humor would prove a buffer between him and his patron's boorishness. If not—
His cogitations ended abruptly as he spied Miss Ocky awaiting him in the living-room. He had caught her with her eye so attentively fixed on the study door as to suggest that a less refined woman might have had an ear glued to the keyhole. He beamed on her, his customary good-nature again in the ascendant as he left the irritating tanner behind.
"Hello," he greeted her cheerfully. "Others all waiting for me outside?"
"Yes. Your wife has apologized for you twice, I believe. I think it was mean of you to shut yourself up like that after getting me all excited about detectives and things! What were you two talking about?"
"Secrets," chuckled Mr. Krech. He continued to move implacably toward the front door as she marched with equal determination at his elbow. "Just a girly-girly heart-to-heart talk. Delightful fellow, isn't he?"
"Humph. You might remember he wasn't the only victim of the robbery. If he lost a notebook, I lost a perfectly good dagger. Why can't I know what's going on, too?" She cooed softly. "Please, Mr. Krech!"
"Well, if youmustknow! I asked him, 'Vot iss a tanner?' and he said, 'Vatdo you mean?', and then—"
"Oh!" cried Miss Ocky, and flounced. Then her indignation gave way to laughter. "Mr. Krech, you're a—asus domesticus!"'
"French for diplomat, I take it," he retorted amiably, and left her on the top step as he surged across the piazza and down to the waiting car. Nevertheless, he sought his more erudite spouse at the first opportunity.
"Jean, what's asus domesticus?"
"Gracious!" She wrinkled her beautiful brow for a moment, but she had taught school for a while before acquiring wedded affluence and the answer presently came to her. "Why—a common pig, I suppose."
"Gosh. Acommonpig? Not even a nice, clean, pink-and-white, prize-winning pig?"
"No. Whatareyou talking about?"
"Nothing. Nothinga-tall! Say—what did you think of that Copley woman?"
"Miss Copley? Very interesting. Very attractive. I liked her immensely. Didn't you?"
He thought that over an instant. Then, like Miss Ocky, he surrendered to amusement and gave one of his deep chuckles.
"Yes," he said. "I did. Sometime I'd like to pack a dictionary with me and drop in on her for a chat!"
After Krech had dropped his unwelcome warning and departed, Simon Varr turned to his desk and tried to forget some of his immediate problems by attacking a small mass of correspondence that he had brought home from the office after the innumerable interruptions of the morning. He did not succeed any too well in concentrating his thoughts on the task. They would persist in wandering to other matters, leaving him staring blankly at a letter while his wits went the weary round of his perplexities. With reflection came temper, and he rather welcomed the sound of his study door being opened with no preliminary knock. That foreboded more trouble of some sort, and he was in the humor for a fight— He swung his chair around and started at the sight of his wife in the doorway.
"Well? Come in. What is it?"
She accepted the invitation. She came into the room slowly, but she ignored his gesture toward a chair. She stood looking down at him, her face all the whiter for a touch of vivid color that burned in each cheek, her arms hanging loosely at her sides but her hands clenched in token of restrained emotion. Her voice was calm as ever when she spoke, but passion lent it a husky quality that smote ominously on his ear.
"What have you done to—my son?"
"Done to him? Done to him? What d'you mean?" He sputtered. "I haven'tdoneanything to him!"
"You quarreled with him?"
"Call it that if you choose. He forced the issue—though he probably went cry-babying to you with some other version!"
"He doesn't lie. And he told me just what I managed to drag out of him—no more. I got the impression that he was—ashamed of you, that's all."
"Well? I'll live it down, I guess! What do you expect me to do about it?"
"The decent thing, just for once in your life. I want you to go to him, or send for him, and—and make peace."
"You can see me doing it, can't you? Ha!"
"He has left our roof."
"His own choice!"
"You drove him to it."
"That's not so! He's free, white and twenty-one; he can do as he pleases elsewhere, but he'll do as I say while he's in my house!"
"Myhouse, please!"
"We've had that argument before and you've had precious little change out of it! As for Copley—let him rustle his own living or starve until he learns to obey my wishes!"
"You won't consider mine?"
"No!" The word was like a thunderclap.
"Very well." She held herself erect to every inch of her slim height, her steadfast gaze leveled at him from beneath straight brows. "I warn you, Simon, that you are going too far. I don't know if you realize all the brutalities, the ignominies, that I've suffered from you since we were married. Much kinder if you'd beaten me. It hasn't seemed possible to me that you can have realized—! Yours is a very curious nature—I've had to make allowances—often—" Her voice faded into silence.
"What are you going to do about it?"
She jumped beneath the lash of that crisp question.
"I don't know—yet." Abruptly, she turned on her heel and left the room.
"That's that!" Simon swung back to his desk, a grim smile on his lips. "It always boils down to the same thing—they don't know what they're going to do about it. Let 'em rant all they please, in the end what I saygoes!"
He resumed his correspondence, refreshed.
The only aftermath of this latest squall instantly apparent was the message Bates gave him as he announced dinner. Miss Lucy would not be down. She was indisposed.
"Another word for a bad disposition," Simon informed his sister-in-law, as they seated themselves at a table laid for two, indifferent to the fact that he was criticizing his wife within the hearing of a servant. "She'll have recovered by morning."
"We can't all have your sunny nature, Simon."
"Humph. You've heard about the roekus with Copley, I suppose?"
"Rumors have reached me." Miss Ocky peppered her soup composedly. "Need we discuss it now?"
"No. There's always the weather, if you prefer that."
The topic did not seem to appeal to her. They did not talk about the weather, nor anything else. A silence that would have been perfect but for the sound of a subdued champing from the head of the table was broken only once during the progress of the meal. Occupied though he was with his food, Varr gradually became conscious of a steady scrutiny that first puzzled, then irritated him. He glared at her angrily.
"What do you keep looking at me like that for?" he demanded.
"Interest, Simon. Pure, unadulterated interest."
"Well, stop it! I don't like it!"
For a wonder, she acceded to his insistence without a word. It cost her no effort to avoid looking at him for the remainder of the time at the table, after which they rose in silence and parted. Simon went inevitably to his study, Miss Ocky in sisterly fashion to Lucy's room to inquire the cause of hermalaise.
Two hours passed before she came down again. Two somewhat trying hours, to judge from the expression on her face, which wore a look as grim as any ever sported by Medusa. Her eyes were cold and hard as she marched promptly to the closed study door and rapped upon it—a gesture of icy politeness.
"Come in! Humph. So it's you, Ocky! Dropped in to take another good look at me?"
"No—to have a rather serious talk with you, Simon." From the effortless way in which she drew a heavy armchair into the position she desired, a shrewd observer might have gleaned a hint of the muscular strength that was her heritage from many a camp and trail. "Hope you don't mind."
"Quite the contrary. By a serious talk I presume you mean a row. Well—I've gotten so I thrive on 'em!"
"Yes. I pity you just enough, Simon, to wish you weren't so fond of them." Miss Ocky dropped into her chair and lighted a cigarette with pensive deliberation. "I don't know that I can offer you a real row, my idea was to hand you a few straight-from-the-shoulder remarks and then a couple of ultimatums. As for the brutal badinage in which you delight, I'm in no mood for it this evening."
"Let's have your remarks. I guess I can stand 'em."
"First, then—I suppose you know that you have played the cat-and-banjo with Lucy's happiness for the last twenty-odd years?"
"Don't assume I know anything. Just tell me!"
"Consider yourself told that, to start with. I was literally shocked when I came back and saw the change in Lucy. She's the shadow of her old self, nothing more. It is you who are responsible for that."
"Humph!"
"Now you have started on Copley—made a good start, too, if the boy's manner is any criterion. Possibly I may be doing him an injustice. It might have been consideration for his mother rather than fear of you that has restrained him until now. Anyway, I'm glad he has summoned the courage to defy you at last."
"Indeed. May I ask you one question? How long has it been considered good form for a woman to enter a man's house and interfere with his domestic relations. Eh?"
"It was my father's house first, then Lucy's. I am more at home here this minute than you could ever be."
"Try and prove it in a law-court!"
"Perhaps I shall—some day." She paused to scrutinize her polished finger-nails, brushed a speck from one of them, raised her eyes to his and added dryly, "After all, Simon, you know you only got in here by a trick."
"Atrick! Now—what do you mean bythat?"
"Memory gonephut, Simon? Perhaps I can refresh it. While I was watching the fire last night a man came up to me and called me by name. It was—Leslie Sherwood."
"Ah!" The exclamation was wrung from him through stiff lips. The color drained from his face as he leaned forward tensely, one hand gripping an arm of his chair like a vise. "G-go on!"
"That shot went home, did it?" asked Miss Ocky coolly, watching the effect of her words. "I've several more in the locker! We had quite a long talk together and he told me many things I didn't know. Interesting things—very!"
"What?" Simon's voice was hoarse. "He didn't tell you—he didn't dare tell you—" He stopped, a deadly fear in his eyes.
"Yes. He told me why he quarreled with his father. Why he left home. Why he has come back now, freed by his father's death. Shall I go on, Simon?"
He sank back in his chair, shaken in all his being. He could not speak until he moistened his lips with his tongue.
"Have you—told Lucy?"
"No. That is Leslie's right, I should say. No doubt he will use it. As far as I can see, there is only one way by which you can make a decent exit from the mess you're in."
"If—if you're suggesting—suicide—forget it!"
"Suicide? No! Why should I waste my breath proposing an act that requires courage? What I meant was—divorce."
"Divorce!"
"It needn't cost you a penny. Make it easy for her to get—your lawyers will arrange that. You'll have the tannery—and welcome! All you need do is—go! Go from this house!"
"Divorce! Stand aside—hat in hand—bow another man into my place—!" The rage of a cornered animal swept aside his fear. "I'll see you all in—"
"Don't shout."
"Sothatis why Sherwood has come back!" He gritted his words through set teeth. "He thinks he is going to make trouble for me, eh? Just let him try—just let him try! If he dares to say a word to Lucy—if he even dares to set foot on this property—" His clenched fist crashed on the desk beside him as he abandoned himself to a very ecstasy of fury. "If he dares try that, by Heaven, I'll kill him like a dog!"
"I wouldn't," advised Miss Ocky in her quiet, hard little voice. "Everything would have to come out in court, then, and you'd have a fearful time persuading any jury that it was justifiable." She had finished her cigarette, and since Simon's study boasted no ash-trays, she rose and went to the open window to toss the stub outside. She remained there, leaning against the casement and breathing deep of the cool night air. "Wouldn't you rather be divorced than hanged?"
"No!"
"Humph. Queer tastes, you have! Well—I've kept my promise. I've told you a few straight facts and issued an ultimatum. The rest is up to you. Would you like time to consider—"
"No! Not a minute—blast you!"
"I don't blast easily, Simon. I'm to assume, then, that you reject my well-intentioned—Hello! What's that!" Her voice dropped to an excited whisper as she bent her head and peered into the darkness.
The alteration in her manner penetrated through the fog of temper that had clouded his brain. He left his chair and was at her side in a bound, surmising her answer even before he snapped a swift question.
"What is it?"
"That monk—! I could have sworn—! Over there by the big silver birch—! I can't see him now. Can you make out anything?"
Side by side they leaned from the window, striving to accustom their eyes to the starlit night. A long minute passed.
"I must have been mistaken." Miss Ocky drew a long breath. "A shadow from a swaying bough—or imagination."
"There isn't wind enough to sway a twig!" he corrected curtly. He lingered a while longer, his angry gaze continuing to search the darkness, before he drew back into the room. "It's quite likely you saw him," he muttered. "No doubt he saw you, too, and heard you—and has slunk off with his tail between his legs!" He half made to pull down the sash, then contemptuously refrained. "I'd like to get my hands on him!" His fingers curled longingly.
After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his dismissal of the subject. She stepped back and confronted him.
"To return, then—divorce, Simon?"
"Never!" He fairly barked it.
"I know of just one thing to your credit, Simon," said Miss Ocky rather sadly, rather dully. "You do mean what you say. I must accept your decision as—final."
"You must!" The interlude had braced him. "And—what are you going to do about it?"
She shrugged her shoulders, looked at him with expressionless eyes—turned and walked quickly from the room. His sharp, sardonic laugh followed her down the hall.
"Another false alarm!"
He threw himself into his chair, mopping his brow. Some ten minutes went by before a thought occurred to him that was fortuitously anticipated by the sudden appearance of the old butler.
"That decanter of Bourbon, Bates! Then go to bed."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
History repeated itself. He drank two glasses of the fiery liquor in swift succession. As he did so it rather staggered him to reflect that barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had stood there the night before, doing the same thing. Gad—what a day! Last night that monk had interrupted him—
That monk! He muttered the words. Had Ocky really seen him? Was he loose again on some fresh errand of crime? Had he been frightened away by their appearance at the window? Had he been frightened awaypermanently?
On the spur of a swift impulse, born perhaps of the whisky, he reached up quickly and extinguished the solitary lamp. The room was instantly plunged into darkness, through which he groped his way cautiously as he set the stage for a game of cat-and-mouse. He pushed the chair that Ocky had used directly in front of the open window and settled himself in its depths, his hot eyes staring into the night and challenging it to yield its secrets.
He moved only once during the next half-hour. That was to pour himself another drink, which he sipped slowly while he continued to watch the neighborhood of the big birch that Ocky had indicated. Would he come back? Would he? Varr waited for the answer to that, waited and waited while a murderous rage filled his breast and grew ever more intense with each succeeding mouthful of raw drink. Would he come?
Yes!
The empty glass slipped from his fingers to fall with a light thud on the carpeted floor as he slowly rose from his seat. He rubbed his eyes, quite unnecessarily, for they were now used to the dim starlight. No possible doubt existed—the ominous black figure wasthere! Straight and tall, it stood, exactly as he remembered seeing it at the head of the trail. Now it was on a concrete path that bisected the kitchen garden, motionless, apparently inspecting the darkened house of the man it pursued.
Stealthy as a cat, nearly as swiftly, Simon rushed from his room and out of the house by the front door. His plan was to circle the building, taking advantage of every shadow, and get as close to his enemy as he could before revealing himself. Suppose the fellow took alarm and got off to a running start? Could he hope to catch him? For the first time in his life, he wished he had a revolver.
Less than ten yards intervened between them when he finally broke cover and hurled himself furiously forward, hatred in his heart, a deep oath on his lips. At last! His fingers itched for the throat of his enemy.
It was disconcerting suddenly to realize that he had not taken his foe by surprise; his swift approach was slightly checked as he saw that the figure was facing him, watching him—waiting for him! It was still as any statue up to the very instant when he flung out his arms to seize it; then it fell back a pace and its left hand went slowly up to lift the black veil that masked its countenance.
If another emotion as strong as his hatred existed in Simon's breast, it was curiosity as to the identity of his relentless enemy. His advance came to an almost involuntary halt as he thrust his head forward the better to distinguish the features of that face so dimly visible in the uncertain light.
Then it was his turn to step back, his arms dropping to his sides, his brain reeling from the shock as it apprehended the truth.
"You!" he gasped chokingly. "You!"
In that moment he was helpless, defenseless, mentally and physically paralyzed from sheer amazement. It was the moment for which his crafty foe had played—and won. The figure darted, forward, its right arm rose and fell. One flicker of starlight on metal, then the thud of steel driven home—
A single groan escaped the lips of Simon Varr before they were sealed in death.
The eleven o'clock train from New York was commendably punctual the next morning.
Its brakes had barely ceased squealing on one side of the Hambleton platform when Miss Ocky brought her small car to a smart halt on the other. She sprang to the planking and waited for the passengers to alight, her face reflecting the cheerful knowledge that she was looking her very best that morning in a becoming hat and a well-fitting coat and skirt of gray English tweed.
Not many people alight at Hambleton on even the liveliest occasions, and this time a mere handful descended from the train. Among them was a middle-aged man in a dark-blue serge, a light overcoat on one arm and a heavy suitcase suspended from the other. He was compactly built without being too heavy, his smooth-shaven face wore an expression of good nature, and his eyes looked out on the world from behind tortoise-shell glasses with a friendly twinkle that concealed something of their sharpness. They had an inquiring expression now as he glanced about him.
Miss Ocky did not have to be much of a detective herself to know that here was her search concluded, though no one in the world could have measured up less to her expectations. She had visualized something with large feet, a big mustache and a heavy jowl, that would descend from a smoker with a dead cigar gripped between its teeth. Silly of her, she admitted to herself as she walked over and accosted him briskly.
"Mr. Creighton, isn't it? Knew it must be. I'm Miss Copley, and if I hadn't come down for you I don't know who would!"
"Very good of you, Miss Copley." He looked not unnaturally mystified by her greeting. "I was rather expecting a friend of mine—"
"Mr. Krech? He couldn't get away from the police."
"The police!" He was startled at first, then the twinkle in his eye deepened. "Don't tell me that his sins have found him out at last!"
"I have to tell you something much more serious than that," she answered soberly. "Come along and stick that bag in the car. We can talk while I drive you to the house. To begin with, Simon Varr was found in his kitchen garden this morning—stabbed to the heart."
Peter Creighton had a fashion of receiving such bits of news in a little silence that gave him time to gather his wits. Miss Ocky saw that the good humor was gone from his face which was now grave and stern. He did not speak until he had deposited his bag in the tonneau of the car and seated himself at her side in the front.
"Murdered," he said; it was not a question.
"The doctor says the blow could not have been self-inflicted." She touched the starter and turned the car homeward. "Yes—murdered."
"That is terrible, Miss Copley. I feel deeply shocked. Has the murderer been identified?"
"I can't say positively. He was found about six o'clock this morning by the cook, and you can imagine that we have been simply inundated with police and officials ever since. They've been doing a lot of whispering and conferring and I think theydosuspect some one, but of course they haven't confided in me."
"Excuse me, Miss Copley—just who are you? I gather you are a member of the Varr household."
"He was my brother-in-law. He married my sister. I've been visiting them about two months."
"I see. Thank you. Now—what about Krech and the police?"
"Well, they notified Jason Bolt—he was Simon's partner—and he came right over, bringing Mr. Krech, who is staying with him. There was a lot of talk about a mysterious monk—I know something about him, too!—and just when it was time to go to the train, Mr. Norvallis was questioning your friend in the living-room. So I slipped away and came to your rescue. It's as well I did—there are no taxis in Hambleton!"
"It was very good of you to remember me, with so much else to think about. You—er—how did you know I was expected?"
"Mr. Varr told us yesterday that Mr. Krech was sending for you."
"'Us'?" He turned to look at her while she answered. "How many people knew that I was coming, do you suppose?"
"Oh—several, anyway! Why?"
"I'm wondering if the news could have reached the ears of the murderer," he explained. "Some one was persecuting Mr. Varr, we know that. If he suddenly learned that a detective was coming—you see?"
"He might have thought it better to—to strike while the striking was good? Yes, I see." She took her eyes from the road long enough to give him a quick look. "You think of things very quickly, Mr. Creighton!"
"Practice makes perfect," he murmured. "Who is Norvallis?"
"Assistant County Attorney, or something like that. Murders are rather too complicated to be handled by the local police, evidently."
"Yes, the County takes hold usually—sometimes the State, if the County can't make the grade. You spoke of a doctor—was that the County Physician? Has the body been moved yet?"
"Yes—thank goodness! I wasn't a great admirer of Simon's, but it wasn't nice to think of him lying out there in a tomato-patch! However, I suppose you're disappointed."
"Why? Oh, I see! You're assuming that I might be interested in the investigation. That doesn't seem likely. I came here on some matter of burglary—and quite possibly that has ceased to be of importance now. I must talk to Norvallis, though."
"If you investigate the robbery, you will be investigating the murder," said Miss Ocky quietly. "When Simon's notebook was stolen, his desk was forced open by a Persian dagger, belonging to me, that happened to be lying handy. That was missing with the notebook—and it was found again this morning in—in Simon!"
"Golly!" Creighton looked at her with renewed interest. "Not pleasant for you, that!"
"It seems to link the two crimes, doesn't it?"
"Decidedly. Here we are, I see."
A small crowd of curiosity-seekers was gathered at the gate which gave access to the driveway from the highroad, and a policeman in uniform was chatting with them amiably while barring their closer approach. He saluted as Miss Ocky waved her hand to him and vigorously honked her way through the staring crowd.
"I'll drop this bag in the hall for the time being," said the detective as they mounted the piazza steps and entered the house. "Will you put me deeper in debt to you by finding Mr. Krech for me?"
She said she would, and departed on the errand while he lingered in the hall. The sight of no less than twelve automobiles of various sizes and sorts parked in front of the house had prepared him for a mob inside. A hum of voices reached him from a room on his left, the door of which was discreetly closed, and another hum came from one on the right, which he could see was a dining-room. Farther back in the hall, three solid-looking gentlemen had their gray heads together in a serious confab. For some reason they appeared to regard his entrance with considerable interest, and seemed to be discussing him while he waited. He put it down to the fact that he was a stranger where it was the custom for every one to know every one else. Then Herman Krech came out of some room in the rear and swept down upon him, accompanied by a short, stout, worried-looking individual.
"Hello, Creighton. This is Mr. Bolt, Mr. Varr's partner."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bolt." Creighton barely acknowledged the introduction as he searched his friend's face. "Krech, how did this happen? I wouldn't have had it—"
"I know." The big man broke in quickly, earnestly. "I know what you are thinking. Forget it! It isn't your fault, nor mine. I warned him yesterday morning on my own account, and again in the afternoon after I had talked with you. He simply disregarded it."
"A pity!" muttered the detective. His face had cleared somewhat at Krech's statement. "Thank goodness, I haven't got that negligence on my conscience! It has been worrying me ever since I heard the news. So he wouldn't listen to you?"
"Nary a bit. Let's go out on the piazza. There's a place around the corner that this merry throng hasn't discovered."
He led the way with his easy self-assurance and they followed at his heels. He was right about the privacy of the retreat to which he took them; a few men were standing around the front piazza, but no one had turned the corner.
"I'm glad to have a chance to speak to you, Mr. Bolt," said the detective when they had found seats. "This is a shockingly different state of affairs than I expected to find. What of the burglary that Mr. Varr had on his mind? Has that any importance now apart from its obvious connection with the crime?"
"Yes, indeed, great importance for me and a number of other people who may suffer from the theft of Simon's notebook." Jason looked ten years older than when he had risen that morning. "If that has gone it will be a serious blow to our tanning business—and a gold-mine to any competitor who might get his hands on it and not be honest enough to return it."
"Um. Secret formulas—that sort of thing?"
"Exactly. On my own behalf, and out of respect for my partner's wishes—his last wish, practically,—I would be very glad to have you take a hand in the affair and see if you can locate that notebook."
"The theft and the murder are linked by the dagger. If the police have their eye on the murderer, the notebook should be recovered when he is arrested."
"That's only a possibility, Mr. Creighton—and—oh, frankly, I want you to take the case anyway! Mr. Krech and I must try to tell you the whole story as we heard it from Simon yesterday. He was the victim of an unknown enemy. Threats—robbery—arson—murder! I won't be satisfied until that scoundrel is well and truly—hanged! As for the police—well, I think better of them than Simon, perhaps, but I'd still be glad of another string to my bow. It's proper for me to employ extra assistance if I wish, isn't it?"
"Perfectly. I quite understand how you feel—and I will be glad to do what I can. The family won't object, I suppose?"
"Not a scrap," said a woman's voice behind him. They started to their feet at the sight of Miss Ocky, who had come upon them unawares. "I can answer for the family. Please sit down again. I'll take this sofa—unless you're talking secrets," she added, with a faint smile for Herman Krech. "I tried to stay quiet in my room upstairs, but—nerves!" She lifted her shoulders and looked apologetic.
They assured her they had no secrets from her. She sat down and listened attentively as Jason Bolt, at Creighton's request, gave a careful account of the events preceding Varr's death as he had heard them from his partner, appealing to Krech from time to time for corroboration. His voice shook with emotion as he described his horror that morning when the news of Simon's fate was brought to him.
"A rotten business," he ended huskily.
Miss Ocky eased the tension by suddenly producing her cigarette case and passing it around; Creighton accepted one and lighted it, a thought surprised at this touch of outer-worldliness in a demure, middle-aged, country lady. It might be, he mused, that she called herself not an old maid, but a bachelor girl. He liked her, though; liked the bright eyes that lost nothing that passed, the alert brain that missed no trick, the strength of character revealed in the finely-modeled mouth and chin that were still invested with feminine charm.
"Let's tackle this business at once," he suggested. "Sooner the better. In a murder, look for the motive. Miss Copley—Mr. Bolt—can either of you tell me who might have wanted to kill Simon Varr?"
They looked uncomfortable. It was Krech who took the bull by the horns.
"De mortuis ml nisi bonum," he said gravely. "Otherwise, I should say that it would be simpler to give you a list of the people who didn't." He spared a regretful glance for Bolt's hurt little exclamation. "I know it jars on you just now, but truth is truth. I've seen enough in the last three days to know that Varr must have had a host of enemies."
"Yes," said Miss Ocky. "A notable collection."
"That won't do," objected the detective. "To dislike a man is one thing, to hate him to the point of murdering him is another."
"Greed is a motive for murder," said Krech. "Who stood to profit financially by his death?"
Jason Bolt stirred uneasily in his seat. Miss Ocky looked uncomfortable. Krech glanced from one to the other, then nodded to Creighton.
"It's the same answer," he said. "A lot of people."
"Neither the question nor answer are pertinent," commented the detective. "This murderer did not kill for money."
"Why are you so sure?" demanded Krech stubbornly.
"If he made up his mind that it would pay him to kill Simon Varr, he would have gone to work and done it out-of-hand, skillfully or clumsily as his limitations might permit. He wouldn't have wasted a lot of time with ineffective fires, bugaboo masquerading—and, above all, he never would have been so gracious as to send a warning note!" Creighton had the satisfaction of seeing his argument score a grand slam; there was conviction in the eyes of Krech and Jason Bolt, and something like admiration in Miss Ocky's. "No, the motive was not mercenary whatever else it may have been."
"There's this strike we've had on our hands," offered Jason. "I'll swear most of the men are decent fellows, but there are always some exceptions. They knew pretty well that Varr was the man who was fighting them—in other words, locking them out. With him out of the way, they knew they could count on better terms from me." He added diffidently, "Mightn't one of them have done it?"
"I spoke of the fires just now as being ineffective," replied Creighton. "I have gathered that they were. The second was the more serious of the two, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, was it serious enough to cripple the business? Was it a vital blow?"
"Not at all. The contents of the two buildings burned were worth money, of course, but they were only reserve stuff."
"But there are buildings in the yard whose loss might have hit you hard?"
"Oh, yes. Several."
"Then, if one of the striking workmen had set the fire, he would have selected one or more of them. I think we may safely assume that the incendiary was unfamiliar with the tannery and consequently was not one of the strikers."
"You win," said Jason Bolt, after a pause. "I've wondered why the scoundrel didn't touch off something more important, but the significance of his failure to do so never occurred to me. Go on, Mr. Creighton; I'm getting a lesson in straight thinking."
"Not so very straight," smiled the detective. "Given a fact, you have to think over and under and all around it before you can grasp its every implication. It's only because I've had a lot of experience that I can draw inferences a shade faster than the average man—and often quite as inaccurate!"
"If it wasn't either a striker or a person actuated by the desire for gain," said Krech, "who is left? What other motives are there for murder?"
"Revenge. Jealousy. What about the last, Miss Copley? Was he interested in any other woman than his wife?"
"No," said Miss Ocky, "and remarkably little in her!"
"Um. Friction?"
"No—not friction."
He saw her reluctance to answer this line of questioning and took it for granted that the presence of the others embarrassed her. He dropped the topic, intending to pursue it at a later, more favorable moment.
"Revenge," he continued. "Did Varr ever wrong any one to the extent of driving them to murder him?"
"No," said Jason Bolt. "Simon was a hard man but not as bad as that."
"No," said Miss Ocky—but she had gasped, and Creighton had heard her. He made a mental note of that.
"We're getting along nicely," said Herman Krech, who never liked to be out of the limelight too long. "It wasn't for money, it wasn't for revenge, it wasn't jealousy; by the time we've eliminated a few more motives we'll have only the correct one left."
"Meanwhile," said Creighton, "what's going on in the house? Who is running the police show?"
"Chap named Norvallis," answered the big man. "The Sheriff, the County Physician and a few plainclothes sleuths are in attendance, but Norvallis is the real leader of the gang. He has been going through the usual motions—asking everybody about everything—"
"Hold on!" broke in Jason. "I don't know that I agree with you. Seemed to me his questions were mighty casual and indifferent. Did it strike you that he had a sort of a pleased-with-himself air? I got the impression that he might already have made up his mind as to who was the guilty man and considered everything else relatively unimportant."
"It's not impossible that you're right," suggested Creighton. "The murderer may have left some glaring clue to his identity. Naturally, the police wouldn't talk about it until they got their hands on him." He turned to Krech. "You told him about this monk business, didn't you? How did he take it?"
"His first attitude," said Krech, "was that of a polite but skeptical child listening to a bedtime story. I soon convinced him of its importance, though. He says it simplifies things."
"Um. He must be even quicker at inferences than I am!"
"By the way, I told him about you and he said he wanted to see you the moment you got here."
"Well, this is a nice time to tell me!" laughed Creighton. He stood up. "I'd better take my place in line."
"I can count on you, then, to help us in the matter of locating that notebook?" asked Jason Bolt.
"Yes, sir," the detective assured him for the second time. "I can promise to take a personal as well as a professional interest in this case. I feel deeply the fact that Mr. Varr should have met death in such a fashion after he became my client."
"You did what you could to warn him."
"Now, about my headquarters; there's a hotel in the town?"
"Yes, but I've been hoping you would let us put you up." Bolt wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. "Mr. and Mrs. Krech are staying with us, but there's always room for one more."
"You're both talking nonsense," interrupted Miss Ocky. "The logical place for Mr. Creighton is righthere."
"Kind of you, Miss Copley, but I hardly think I'll add to your problems. Let us agree that the hotel is the best for the time being. It is too soon yet to say where my activities will center."