Chapter 11

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 away _permanently_?

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 was _there_! 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.

_XIII: A Deduction or Two_

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 they _do_ suspect 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 right _here_."

"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."

_XIV: Lucy Varr_

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 of _bonhommie_ that 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.