Chapter 12

"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 for _once_--to score a beat over you!"

"Well, you may do it in this very case," remarked his friend encouragingly. "You never can tell."

_XV: Treasure Trove_

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.

"Who _did_ find 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?"