There were four men in the living-room when Creighton tapped on the door and entered in response to a command. Two of them were standing by a French window which they appeared to be examining and discussing, and as Creighton knew that the theft of the notebook had been prefaced by the breaking of one of the windows in this room, he had no difficulty in deducing that this was the one and that the two men were plainclothes detectives of the county staff.
The other two were seated at the table in the center of the room, a litter of papers scattered in front of them. They looked up inquisitively as Creighton advanced and laid his card on the pile of memoranda before the more important gentleman of the pair.
"Ah, yes. Glad to meet you, Mr. Creighton. Very glad, indeed. My name's Norvallis—County Attorney's office. This is Sheriff Andrews, of Wayne County. Andrews, this is Mr. Peter Creighton of New York."
"Your name's familiar to me, Mr. Creighton," said Andrews, and stretched forth a long, bony arm with a calloused hand at the end of it. He was a mild-eyed individual with a soft, sweeping, tobacco-stained mustache. "I read the New York papers pretty reg'lar and I've followed one or two of your cases."
Norvallis was a stout, prosperous-looking man of forty-odd, a typical product of country politics. His manner was carefully bluff and hearty and characterized by a sort ofbonhommiethat was useful in impressing voters with the fact that he was a pretty good fellow, his close-set eyes sparkled with intelligence that his low brow defined as cunning rather than wisdom, and there were puffy semicircles beneath them that told of parties not entirely political.
"Your friend Krech told us the circumstances under which you were sent for," broke in Norvallis before Creighton could find some polite acknowledgment of the Sheriff's interest. "Must have been quite a shock to you to learn of Mr. Varr's death."
"It certainly was. Fortunately for my peace of mind, I took care yesterday to warn him against taking undue risks. He disregarded the advice."
"Oh. You warned him? You had some reason to believe his life was in danger?"
"Nothing so definite as that, but it was apparent that he had some sort of a queer, tough customer on his trail and it's always in order to take reasonable precautions."
"A queer customer, eh? This monk we've been hearing so much about! What opinion have you formed about that?"
"None at all," replied Creighton promptly.
Norvallis did not quite conceal the disappointment he felt at the flat negative. He changed the subject.
"I think you have a piece of evidence that should properly be turned over to me. Didn't Mr. Krech send you an anonymous note that Mr. Varr received from his enemy?"
"Yes." Creighton took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Norvallis. "There it is, in good order. I had it tested for fingerprints this morning before I left the city."
"Find any?"
"Only those made by Mr. Varr himself. Further than that, the microscope showed that the surface of the paper had been uniformly abraded before it was written on, as if the crook had taken a rubber eraser and removed all traces of any prints that might have been there already."
"Cautious devil, wasn't he?"
Creighton did not answer. His eye had suddenly fallen on an object imperfectly concealed beneath a blank sheet of paper at Norvallis' elbow.
"Is that the knife that was used?" he asked.
"Yes." The county official rather reluctantly uncovered the exhibit. "Don't touch!"
"No fear!" Creighton reassured him.
He moved nearer to the ghastly souvenir and bent over it. A fine bit of Oriental workmanship that any museum might have valued; the haft was of silver, exquisitely chased, the blade was straight and slender, narrowing to a needlelike point, so that it belonged rather to the stiletto type than the dagger. An inscription ran lengthwise down the steel, which was of a distinct bluish tinge where it was not darkly stained. About an inch from the tip a tiny triangular nick had been made in one of the sharp edges, the only flaw in the weapon's perfection. Creighton looked up from it to meet the Sheriff's speculative eye.
"Can you read what it says on the blade, Mr. Creighton?"
"No! I have my limitations."
"It means, 'I bring peace'!" The officer tugged at his mustache and smiled. "Miss Copley told us that. It belongs to her."
"Well, I expect she won't want it back."
Norvallis put down the anonymous letter which he had been reading. His eyes were alight with satisfaction.
"This case will make people talk when it gets into the papers, Mr. Creighton!"
"Sure to."
"Have you any other information, or evidence, or exhibit, for me?"
"Not a scrap."
"Mr. Varr's death must alter your plans, of course. May I ask if you are returning to New York this afternoon or evening?"
Creighton knew perfectly well that Norvallis had been eager to put that question since the moment he had come into the room. He shook his head smilingly.
"Mr. Bolt has invited me to do what I can to recover the notebook that was stolen from Mr. Varr's desk."
"Oh." Norvallis exchanged a quick glance with the Sheriff. "Then, in a sense, we'll be working together. Possibly it hasn't occurred to Mr. Bolt that when the murderer is found, the thief will be found."
"Yes, he knows that. But my inquiry may diverge from yours, Mr. Norvallis. It may have to go farther than yours. Of course, you realize that yourself."
"Eh? Ah—yes, yes!" said the other blankly.
"I expect our relations will be both amicable and of mutual benefit," continued Creighton cheerfully. "If I turn up anything good I'll let you know, and I can hope for as much from you, can't I?"
"Er—well, I don't know about that." Norvallis looked pink and uncomfortable as he began to fidget with the papers on the table. "I don't know about that, Mr. Creighton. I may not feel free—er—no, on the whole I think it would be preferable if we conducted our investigations independently of each other. Yes, that would be better!" He had an air of relief as he got that dictum off his chest.
"All right," agreed Creighton, still cheerfully. He surmised the reason for the official's embarrassment, the police already knew, or thought they knew, the identity of the murderer, and it was a secret they proposed to guard jealously until they could cover themselves with glory by making an arrest. He did not blame them in the least, and accepted the rebuff good-humoredly. "As you please, Mr. Norvallis."
The two men by the window apparently had concluded their examination. One of them sauntered over to the table and reported.
"Nothing much there, sir. There's a few prints made by the butler opening and shutting the doors."
"Just as I expected," said Norvallis composedly. "Lucky we don't have to rely on fingerprints in this case, Mr. Creighton."
"Found none at all?"
"Not one. I'll make you a present of that bit of news."
"Thank you for nothing," grinned Creighton, then added mischievously, "Of course, before you can find fingerprints you have to know where to look for them."
"Oh."
"Yes. You stick to that window and Varr's desk and the hilt of this dagger—and leave the less obvious places to me."
"Indeed. I suppose it would be useless for me to ask you to designate some of those less obvious places?"
"Quite useless," answered Creighton truthfully.
He was smiling over that as he excused himself and left the room. He could not have answered the hypothetical question on a bet, for his remark had been a chance shot simply intended to annoy. No one would have been more surprised than himself to learn that this same shot would develop the qualities of a boomerang.
He was stopped in the hall by a pale, gray-haired man whose trembling hands betrayed the strain under which he labored.
"Mr. Creighton, isn't it, sir? Miss Copley told me to fix up some sandwiches and coffee in the butler's pantry. There's so many coming and going through the house she thought it would be quieter there. Mr. Krech is there already, waiting for you, sir."
"Very thoughtful of her. What is your name?"
"Edward Bates, sir. I'm the butler."
"Oh, yes, Miss Copley spoke of you. She tells me you handled things very well this morning after Mr. Varr was found."
"I did what I could, sir. I knew the body mustn't be moved, so I kept the news from Miss Lucy—that's Mrs. Varr, sir—until the police and the doctor got here."
"Knew that, did you? Been with the family long, Bates?"
"Thirty-five years, sir. I worked for old Mr. Copley before his daughter married Mr. Varr. This is a shocking business, sir."
The conversation carried them to the pantry door, whither Bates had led them. His hand was on the knob when Creighton checked him with a touch on his elbow, at which the old man jumped nervously.
"One moment. A butler who keeps his ears open often knows a lot that other people don't. What is your idea about this? Can you guess who murdered Mr. Varr?"
"No, sir!" His voice was almost panicky. "Indeed I can't, sir!"
"Uh-huh," said Creighton easily. Was the old fellow suffering from frazzled nerves or from hidden knowledge? Another little matter for future examination. "By the way, how is Mrs. Varr standing the shock?"
"Not too well, sir. She bore up like the brave lady she is until Mr. Norvallis was through with her, then broke down. She's in bed. The doctor says she must keep quiet and that she'll be all right, but he's coming again this afternoon."
"Get him to give you something for yourself," was Creighton's kindly admonition. "You're trembling like a leaf. The family will be depending on you a lot these next few days. Don't let them down by getting sick."
"I won't, sir. Thank you, sir."
Creighton permitted him to escape, well satisfied with the new tone in the man's voice as he acknowledged his appreciation of the detective's interest. Creighton was never harsh with a witness, never tried to bulldoze or rattle him, until all else had failed. His policy was to put people at their ease and gentle them into talking freely, a course that was all the more facile for him by reason of his genuine sympathy and understanding and his native kindliness.
Krech was waiting patiently behind a plate piled high with sandwiches. There was coffee, too, and before the butler left them alone, he stood an interesting decanter on the table. A shadow of gloom that overspread the big man's extensive countenance was visibly lightened by this.
"Bolt's gone home," he announced. "Mrs. Bolt and Jean must be suffering agonies of curiosity. I stayed here because I felt I might be able to help you."
"Stout fellow," said Creighton with a grin, and selected a huge sandwich. "Where do you think we'd better begin?"
"There's no use adopting that superior attitude with me. You know perfectly well I come in handy at times. Say—I'm sore at Bolt! He did you out of a good job."
"Me? How come?"
"Did you notice three solid-looking citizens in the hall when you arrived? Well, that was the Board of Selectmen of Hambleton, yes, sirree, b'gosh. Bolt had told 'em you were coming and they were all het up. They don't get along with the county crowd too well, and for that reason they'd about decided to retain your services just to show they were ready to hold up their end. Then Bolt came along and blurted out that he had commissioned you to investigate the matter and they pulled their horns in like a bunch of frightened snails. If he had only kept still you could have made a deal with them."
"I see. And what makes you think I'd be guilty of the indelicacy of letting two outfits pay me for the same job?"
"'Thnot 'n 'ndelicathy," said Mr. Krech vigorously through a sandwich. "If Bolt can have a second string to his bow, why can't you have a couple of employers?"
"Krech, you're a nice fellow with all the instincts of a crook."
"Huh. I suppose nothing could ever lead you from the narrow path of rectitude?"
"No," laughed Creighton, "nothing ever could!"
"Well, it won't be the Hambleton Selectmen, anyway. The three of them were pale when they discovered how close they'd been to spending a bunch of money unnecessarily."
They finished their lunch without the loss of much time, the detective setting the pace. Once into a case, he could be as patient and plodding as an ox, but the preliminaries found him restless and impatient. He detested the inevitable gathering of masses and masses of information that must subsequently be pulled to pieces and mulled over until the most of it had been discarded and the important residue determined. It all took so much time—precious time that the criminal might be using to strengthen his own position.
"Let's have a look at the place marked 'X' in the picture," he suggested, rising. "Kitchen garden, wasn't it? That means the rear of the house. Let's go out this back way, through the kitchen. Sometimes it pays to look the servants over in a casual fashion before having them on the mat. They're less apt to be on guard."
He bustled cheerfully into the kitchen, asked a question or two about the exact location of the crime, and left the house by the rear door, Krech close behind.
"One Irish cook," summarized the detective when they were safely out of hearing. "Fat and fifty, good-natured and violent by turns. One rather pretty girl, a housemaid from the white cap, frightened, been crying, inclined to be hysterical. Old Bates, the butler. Last, one gaunt, tall, vinegary, nondescript female. Who's the nondescript, Krech?"
"Search me. Here's the place."
Creighton took one look and groaned. Whatever precautions the police might have taken in the first stages of their investigation had evidently been relaxed thereafter. The garden might have been the scene of a recent rodeo. A mob of curious Hambletonians had held high revel in it from one end to the other.
"That ought to be classed as criminal negligence," snorted the detective, turning away.
"It's no use to you?" asked his friend disappointedly.
"Not for the moment. If I were nature-faking a book on Africa I could run a picture of it as an elephant's playground, but that's all." He stopped and gazed at the house long enough to memorize the windows that commanded a view of the garden. "No use going back there, now," he decided. "Chuck full of a man named Norvallis. Suppose we drop down to the tannery. Not far, is it? Where's that short cut through the woods in which Varr first saw his monk?"
"Right over here." The big man had gleaned that piece of information earlier in the day. The two men crossed the garden by its path, passing the very spot where Simon Varr had met his tragic end, and plunged into the trail. Like the garden, this had been trampled by a multitude of feet. "What are you going to do at the tannery?" asked Krech, yielding to his favorite weakness, curiosity.
"Talk to whoever is in charge. Poke around the premises. We know the crook was there twice, on the occasions of the fires, and where a man has been he may leave a trace. It's an off-chance, but we can't neglect it."
In default of any orders to the contrary, the watchman, Nelson, was at his post behind the office building door, though he shrewdly suspected that the chief necessity for guarding the premises had ceased with their owner's death. He willingly admitted Krech, whom he recognized afar, and nodded comprehension when Creighton introduced himself and his present mission.
"Yes, sir, I've been wondering when you would get here."
"The deuce you have! You knew I was coming?"
"Yes, sir. I heard Mr. Bolt and this gentleman mentioning you yesterday as they went out of here."
Creighton turned and looked at his friend sardonically. Beneath that fixed regard Mr. Krech reddened, but stoutly defended himself.
"That was Jason Bolt," he averred. "He was full of the subject and I remember his chattering about it as we left."
"Um. Can't be helped now." He shifted his gaze to the watchman. "Do you remember if you mentioned it to any one?" Nelson hesitated, and the detective was on him in a flash. "You did! Speak out. Tell the truth, and you'll have no reason to be afraid of me or any one else. This is a murder case, you know. It's an awful mistake to hold anything back. Who did you tell?"
"Only one person sir. A woman. It just slipped out—"
"And probably did no harm. Don't get worried. Who was she?"
"A girl named Jones, sir, Drusilla Jones." An expression akin to horror dawned in Nelson's eyes as he grasped for the first time the significance of what he was about to add. "She had been keeping company with a fellow named Charlie Maxon, who was put in jail a few days ago by Mr. Varr—and last evening Charlie drugged his keeper and never was missed until this morning!"
"My sainted aunt! What time did he break jail?"
"Moody—the keeper—says the last thing he remembers was the clock strikin' ten."
"Krech, do they know what time Varr was murdered?"
"Approximately at eleven."
"Let's hope for his sake that Charles has a whacking good alibi! Have you told the police about your talk with Drusilla Jones?"
"No, sir, they haven't been near me yet."
"Oh. Well, eventually you will find yourself having a heart-to-heart talk with a man named Norvallis. Don't fail to tell him about your chat with the lady—and you might just say that I advised you to repeat it to him, will you?"
"Why, yes, sir. Do you think that Charlie Maxon—?"
"No embarrassing questions, please! Now I'd like to have a look about, if I may."
"Yes, sir." Painfully anxious to escape any suspicion of withholding more information, Nelson hurriedly related the incident of the previous afternoon when he and Simon Varr had examined the tracks left by the incendiary. "There was some light rain last night, sir, but those I put the box over will be plain enough."
"Good. Show us where they are at once."
The watchman obeyed with alacrity.
Together the three men stood by the edge of the sluggish little brook and contemplated the tracks that Nelson indicated. The detective did not even take his eyes from them as he accepted and mechanically lighted one of the cigars that Krech offered his companions.
"Big feet!" said Krech presently.
"That's what Mr. Varr remarked yesterday, sir."
"Um." Creighton slowly came out of his trance. He pointed to a small piece of wood that lay down by the water's edge. "Krech, will you step down there and get that for me? I want to look at it."
"Sure." Astonished but amiable, the detective's willing assistant strode to the object indicated and retrieved it handsomely. His astonishment increased when Creighton, after turning it over two or three times in his hands, suddenly pitched it into the water. "Don't like it?"
"No. That's all I want here just now."
They returned to the office building, where Creighton patiently questioned Nelson at some length about the various phases of the strike. It was not until they had left the tannery and were walking back up the hill that Krech was able to put an eager question.
"What was the racket with that piece of wood?"
"That was a stunt to cover my real interest from the watchman. No use letting the whole world in on what I'm thinking about."
"You didn't fool him any more than you did me. Please explain why I'm going home with over an inch of mud on my expensive shoes."
"I wanted you to make a set of tracks alongside those of the incendiary. I didn't want to ask you right out loud to do it, so I asked you to get me that bit of wood. When you did so, you left a very nice set of footprints parallel with his. Thus I was enabled to compare them, as were you, if you happened to think of doing so."
"Well, I didn't! Why should I?"
"Suppose you were a small man about to commit a crime and wished to disguise yourself past recognition. What would you do?"
"Make myself look like a large man," said Krech slowly.
"Exactly. Suppose again that you were an educated man about to write an anonymous, threatening letter. How would you go about doing that?"
"I'd use a typewriter to conceal my handwriting. I'd sign the thing in an awkward scrawl." Krech saw the drift of it now. "And I'd take good care to misspell a bunch of words!" he concluded triumphantly.
"That he faked illiteracy was a pure surmise, a mere possibility, until now, when it gains color from the evidence of the footprints. A mental twist that would make a small man disguise himself as a large one would make an educated man resort to illiteracy. Logical, I think."
"Very likely. But how did you get this from footprints?"
"They were too shallow. I noticed that at once, and proved it by parading yours alongside them. That fellow wore shoes as big as yours and was running to boot, but his tracks were scarcely half the depth of those you made. Get it?"
"Oh, yes," said Krech rather mournfully. "Two and two always make four when you add them up. They never run to more than three and a half for me." He sighed. "Creighton, I'd like once—just foronce—to score a beat over you!"
"Well, you may do it in this very case," remarked his friend encouragingly. "You never can tell."
The instant they stepped into the house they knew that the police had left it. A calm, almost holy, peace seemed to have settled upon the place, a far more fitting atmosphere considering the motionless form that lay in a room upstairs, its eyes closed and its face more reposeful than ever it had been in life. "I bring peace," wrote some long-forgotten craftsman on the blade of the dagger he had just fashioned, and in some measure wrote the truth.
"And I've got to stir them all up again," said Creighton half regretfully.
"Can't make omelets without breaking eggs," was the responsive platitude from Herman Krech. "I suppose you mean you're going to start in asking questions."
"Millions of 'em. I've been here just a few hours and I've barely scratched the surface of this case, yet I've learned already that Mr. Varr had a fine bunch of evil-wishers. Where is that desk which was broken open? Do you know?"
"Yes. It's in a small study in the back of the house that he used as a sort of office, I guess. Come along and I'll show you. There's not a soul in sight and we may as well make ourselves at home."
Creighton agreed, but before they reached the study a light step on the stairs warned them that their privacy was to be invaded. Miss Ocky advanced upon them with determination, and instantly revealed that she had at least one quality in common with the inquisitive Mr. Krech.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "What have you been doing? I sent Bates to look for you a while ago and he reported you missing."
"Anything special, Miss Copley?"
"Mostly curiosity," she confessed shamelessly. "I've never seen a detective at work and I've always wanted to. I think yours must be the most fascinating profession in the world even if it's a rather sad one. Don't you find after looking into the hearts of people and dissecting their mean little minds and motives that you grow cynical on the subject of humanity?"
"Indeed I do not," he answered earnestly. "Your question makes you sound more cynical that I ever dreamed of being. My experience is that very few persons have mean minds and motives, and they are often victims of some pressure of circumstance they can't control or resist. I've put handcuffs on more than one poor devil for whom I've had nothing but sympathy."
"You put them on just the same, though?"
"Certainly. I'm supposed to, you know."
"It seems very hard-hearted. If you knew that 'poor devil' was morally justified in committing his crime, wouldn't you be tempted to—leave the key of the handcuffs where he could get it?"
"Tempted, perhaps; that's all."
"Suppose it was some one who had a claim on you—a sister or brother or child?"
"You must ask that of some unfortunate sleuth with a family. My nearest relative is a third cousin who lives in Chicago but has nevertheless shown no criminal tendency to date. I'm remarkably well-protected from any potential struggle between duty and inclination." He smiled, and added apologetically, "Detective ethics is a pretty complicated subject to discuss, and I'm afraid it isn't getting on with the problem of who stole a notebook from Simon Varr's desk."
"Of course it isn't—and I'm much more interested in seeing you attack that! But I warn you our conversation is only postponed!"
They entered the study, where Creighton went straight to the window and stood looking out at the now devastated garden where Simon Varr had been found.
"Whodidfind him, by the way?" he voiced a sudden thought.
"Katie, the cook. She came down first, as usual, and saw a man lying flat on his back in the tomato patch. Her first idea was that some one had taken a drop too much and had strayed there and gone to sleep, so she went up to Bates' room and routed him out. He came down and discovered the awful truth—and he behaved wonderfully. He seemed to know just what had to be done, and he actually managed to keep the news from the family until official permission had been received to bring the body into the house. Poor Lucy—my sister—was at least spared the thought of his lying out there."
"Who saw him last—in the house, I mean, of course?"
"Bates, who brought him a decanter of whisky here to the study, wished him good-night and left him."
"What time was that? Did the butler notice?"
"Yes, because he was interested in getting to bed. It was about ten-thirty."
"Um. He was left here—alone—with a decanter of whisky and a troubled mind. It's safe to assume that he took a drink or so. Tell me, was your brother-in-law an impulsive sort of person—liable to outbursts of passion—inclined to do things in a headlong, reckless way?"
"A very good description indeed."
"I've been wondering how he happened to be out in the garden so opportunely for the murderer. If he was sitting in this room, looked out the window and spotted the fellow hanging around, his first impulse might have been to rush from the house and tackle him. Does that impress you as being a likely scenario, Miss Copley?"
"Very. To tell you the truth, when he was really angry I'm inclined to think he was scarcely responsible for his actions."
"His enemy knew that, you may be sure, and counted on it to his own advantage. Now, another question about the matter of time. You told me, Krech, that the hour of the murder had been approximately set at eleven. Do you know how that was determined?"
"It was the doctor's opinion, for one thing. Then it was pretty plausibly substantiated by a trick of the weather. There was a shower at eleven-thirty last night from which the ground was still wet early this morning. The local Chief of Police covered himself with glory by noticing that the earth beneath Varr's body was as dry as a bone when they took him up."
"Good enough. I must have a chat with that lad. I wonder if he noticed anything else that was useful."
"Somebody did," commented Miss Ocky thoughtfully. "There was a man out there making a plaster cast of some footprints. Why do you suppose he was doing that, Mr. Creighton?"
"My golly!" The detective's eyes flashed with excitement. "Did you see them, Miss Copley?"
"Yes, but they meant nothing to me."
"How large were they, do you remember?" He waved a hand at Mr. Krech's extremities. "Large as those?"
"Oh, my, no," said Miss Ocky, glancing at the objects indicated. "Not nearly as large as those."
"I'd like to interrupt these proceedings," declared Krech in an injured voice, "long enough to remark that any sculptor would tell you they are beautifully proportioned to my size."
"I wasn't criticizing their—architecture," said the lady.
"Second time to-day he's called attention to them!"
"Shameful. What was the first?"
"Oh, that was rather interesting. I'll tell you about it if he'll let me."
"Tell me anyway. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to us at all. Whatishe doing?"
"Hush! he's thinking," said the big man vindictively after a brief inspection of his friend. "He always looks like that when he thinks. Scientists aver the eye reflects the mind; note the perfect blankness of his?"
That effectively aroused Creighton from his momentary abstraction. He grinned at the two of them.
"Pay no attention to him, Miss Copley. Yes, you can tell her what we found at the tannery, Krech." He looked at Miss Ocky. "That is in deference to your interest in the art of detection; may I count on you not to breathe a word of what I tell you to any one?"
"You may."
"It's a bargain. Go ahead, Krech, while I amuse myself looking over his desk."
Miss Ocky listened eagerly to Krech's somewhat embroidered account of their activities at the tannery, but managed to keep an eye on Peter Creighton the while. He was going over the desk and its roll-top cover inch by inch, peering at its surface, trailing his fingertips over the polished wood in case touch might find something that vision hadn't. Once he interrupted Krech by asking him to bring a magnifying glass from his bag in the hall.
"What are you looking for?" asked Miss Ocky in the interim.
"Nothing—anything. I expect the first and may chance on the second. This is just routine, Miss Copley. When I know a crook has been in a certain spot, I go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. You'd be surprised to know the number of microscopic bits of evidence a man can leave behind him in spite of every precaution."
"Have you found anything here?"
"No." He accepted the glass that Krech handed him and went back to his task. "This fellow was careful, sure enough."
The big man resumed his story. She interrupted him with a quick little exclamation when she heard of Charlie Maxon's escape. Her interest brought a question from the detective.
"Know him, Miss Copley?"
"I've spoken to him once or twice. Casually."
"How did that happen? Where did you meet him?"
"In a grocery store in the town. He came in for something while I was there. Of course he knew who I was, and he started talking to me about the strike and how hard it was on the men."
"Um. What sort of a chap is he? Capable of—murder?"
"Good gracious, I don't think so!" Miss Ocky straightened in her chair and shot a quick glance at the detective. "He's the agitator type—more bark than bite. I don't believe he'd have the courage to kill a man. Is—is he suspected?"
"I can't tell you. We may know more about that after the inquest—unless Norvallis gets it adjourned, which he may. I don't think he'll want to show his hand so soon."
"This will be a spicy bit of gossip for Janet," mused Miss Ocky half to herself, then caught Creighton's raised eyebrow and explained her remark. "Janet Mackay is my maid, and she used to know Maxon in Scotland when he was a youngster."
"Um. Have they seen anything of each other lately?"
"No. Janet has no use for him. She says he was always getting into trouble as a boy."
"He doesn't seem to have lost the habit. Is Janet a tall thin woman who wears steel-rimmed glasses?"
"Yes. You noticed her in the kitchen this morning, didn't you? She told me you went through that way."
"Has she been with you long?"
"Twenty-five years. She came here as a sort of companion-maid to my sister and me a few years before my father's death. She was very fond of Lucy, but she didn't care so much for Simon, so when I went East I took her with me. We've been together ever since."
"No need to ask, then, if you trust her."
"Trust her! Trust Janet?" Miss Ocky's voice was warm. "I'd trust her with my life!"
Creighton dropped the subject, but added another fragment to the data he was compiling. Janet, the nondescript lady, didn't care much for Varr, and was acquainted with Charlie Maxon. Important? Um—too soon to say. He concentrated his attention once more on his search.
"Nothing," he finally announced briefly. He rose as he spoke—he had been on his hands and knees the better to examine the floor in front of the desk—and shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "Said I expected as much, didn't I? Now for that window in the living-room."
Krech had finished his story and Miss Ocky was looking at the detective with considerable interest and some respect.
"That was clever of you to notice the shallowness of the footprints," she said. "And your deductions from them and the note are quite shrewd. A small educated man instead of a large illiterate one?"
"Yes. Not that I'd advise you to bet on it. Quite often the brilliant deduction falls by the wayside and leaves the obvious conclusion to jog home a winner. You had a good look at the fellow didn't you? You got the impression that he was tall? How tall?"
"Oh, six feet perhaps. It was dusk, you know, and he brushed by me very quickly. I was too scared to do much observing!"
"Uncomfortable experience," said Krech, "having a masked monk pop out at you from a peaceful countryside. What did you think about it? Did you know the fool legend?"
"N-no. I learned about that next day from Sheila Graham. I was telling her my experience and she remembered the story and went and got the book."
"She's the daughter of Billy Graham, the manager whom Varr had decided to get rid of?" Creighton's face was serious.
"How in the world did you knowthat!" cried Miss Ocky.
"Gossip. I love to listen to it. Ever talk to a chap named Nelson, a watchman at the tannery? He's full of it." It was a trick of Peter Creighton's to sound most flippant when he was soberest inside, and Krech, who knew it, fell to watching him sharply. But the detective's face was inscrutable. "So Graham's daughter had a book containing the legend of the monk, eh? Just what was the trouble between him and Mr. Varr?"
"Well—I suppose I may as well tell you," said Miss Ocky reluctantly. "It wouldn't be right to keep anything back from you, especially as you'd be bound to hear about it anyway. The trouble between them was mostly started by my brother-in-law, who objected to the interest his son was showing in Sheila Graham. They considered themselves engaged—"
"What? Varr had a son?" Creighton broke in on her abruptly, unconsciously raising his voice in his surprise. "Where is he?"
"His father drove him from the house!" cried a hoarse voice from the door. "I don't know where he is. He ought to be with me now—-and I don't know where he is!"
Creighton wheeled swiftly toward the speaker, Krech shot out of his chair as though a powerful spring had been released beneath him, and Miss Ocky darted, birdlike, to the side of a slender figure which swayed in the doorway, gripping the woodwork for support. It was Lucy Varr.
"Lucy! What are you doing down here?" Miss Ocky circled her sister's slender waist with a gently compelling arm. "Come with me!"
"I rang and rang and nobody came. I wanted water. I wassothirsty!" She muttered the words feverishly and the brightness of her big eyes told its own story of a tortured brain. "I heard somebody talking in here—"
"Come, Lucy! I'll bring you the water."
"Was it you who was asking for my son?" Her gaze passed over Krech, whom she appeared vaguely to recognize, and fixed itself on the grave, sympathetic face of the detective. "You're Mr. Creighton, aren't you? They tell me you have come to find out who killed my husband—"
"Lucy, dear! Please—"
"I—I'm sure I wish you luck!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Varr," said Creighton quietly, choosing to ignore the irony in her tone. "I'll do my very best, I promise you."
His promise was made to her retreating figure as she finally permitted her sister to lead her away. Left alone, the two men exchanged a quick glance and were silent for a minute. Then Krech jerked his head toward the door significantly.
"Could it be—her?" he whispered.
"Not grammatically!" retorted Creighton with a grin, much as if his friend's query had freed him from a spell. "Piffle, Krech. If a woman like that—high-strung, nervous—were to kill a man it would be in some swift fit of passion. Varr's death came as the climax of a deliberate campaign of persecution. She isn't capable of that."
"If you can tell me what any woman can or can't do—"
"Oh, I grant them an infinite capacity for surprising a man! However, this interesting little interlude isn't getting us anywhere. Come into the living-room. I want a look at that window before daylight goes."
"The police have probably mucked that all up," said Mr. Krech gloomily.
"I heard one of the detectives tell Norvallis they had found nothing. Anyway, if I don't miss my guess, they were so satisfied with something they're keeping up their sleeve that I don't believe they paid more than cursory attention to other details. Just gave everything a perfunctory once-over and let it go at that."
"What have they got, Creighton? Do you know?"
"Charlie Maxon seems an attractive prospect," replied the detective. They had gone to the window in the living-room and he was busily engaged upon the same eager scrutiny that he had given the desk. "They may have discovered something that links him with the murder—that business of taking plaster casts of footprints is very suggestive. Maxon could have reached here after breaking jail in plenty of time to knife Varr in keeping with the schedule as we know it. He's an ugly customer by reputation, and he certainly had no reason to love Simon Varr."
"How did he get the dagger? He didn't steal it, because the evening it was stolen he was safe in the hoosgow."
"Correct, Krech, absolutely correct." The detective was intently studying the brass lock of the door through his powerful glass. "Now you've started thinking, persevere! If Maxon committed the murder but didn't steal the knife, what's the answer?"
"An accomplice!" cried Krech. "A whole gang, perhaps!"
"Oh, don't be extravagant. One accomplice will do for the time being." Creighton dropped to his knees and transferred his interest to the flooring of the piazza outside the window and the carpet within. "By golly!"
The phrase fairly exploded from his lips. Krech, abandoning his cogitations, came quickly to his side, eager to learn what this exclamation portended.
Creighton, with his habitual care to miss nothing, had not contented himself with exploring the surface of the veranda or the surface of the heavy gray carpet that covered the floor of the room from edge to edge. That finished, he had thrust his fingers between the carpet and the wood of the window-sill, holding it back with one hand while he passed his magnifying glass over the accumulation of dust and dirt and sweepings that lay in the crack. His pains were rewarded. A tiny scrap of something that glittered in its nest of dirt caught his eye, but it was not until it lay on the tip of one finger beneath his glass that he realized the importance of his treasure trove. It was then he exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked Krech, craning for a better look.
"See for yourself!" Very carefully the detective pushed the object from his finger on to one of his friend's. "Don't drop it. What doyouthink it is? Here—take the glass."
"A chip of metal, I should say. Steel. Blue steel."
"Blue steel! Where have you seen blue steel before to-day?"
"Gee Joseph! That dagger!"
"Right. Did you notice the nick in it near the point?"
"N-no. They wouldn't let me really look at it."
"Well, there was one! And this piece will fit that nick, or I'm a dumb-bell!" His eyes were dancing with delight. "Know what this means?"
"Y-yes. When the fellow slipped back the catch of this window he nicked the blade. Probably never noticed it. This piece fell to the floor and has been there ever since."
"Fell to the floor—yes. It isn't likely that it went neatly into the crack. It was swept there. Ever stop to think that the detective's best friend is the housemaid who scamps her work? Bless their little souls, they will sweep into cracks! But that isn't what I had in mind when I asked you if you knew what this means?"
"Maybe I could dope it out in time—"
"He opened this window with the dagger! Don't you get it?"
"My brain isn't hitting on all sixteen cylinders—"
"Listen. The assumption has been that he broke in here, took the dagger from the table where it lay handy, and forced Varr's desk. If he got the dagger after he entered the house, why did he then force the window with it?"
"Gee Joseph! It's a blind! He faked the breaking and entering to make it appear an outside job!"
"Yes." Creighton's face was solemn as he reclaimed his chip of steel and added the obvious corollary to Krech's deduction. "If it's not an outside job it must be an inside one. Somebody in this house took that dagger and notebook."
"I'll bet it was—!"
"Hush!" whispered the detective sharply. "Some one coming!"