Chapter 15

"Hello, Judge!" Jason turned with a gesture of his hand. "I want you to meet Mr. Peter Creighton, of New York. This is Judge Taylor, Mr. Creighton, who has always handled our legal affairs and managed somehow to keep us out of jail! Judge, Creighton is here to investigate that robbery of the other evening when Simon's notebook was stolen."

"_And_ the dagger that killed him!" added Taylor significantly. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Creighton. I trust your inquiry will be successful." He jerked his head backward. "What did you think of this inquest?"

"Nicely stage-managed," said the detective, and an appreciative twinkle lit the lawyer's eyes. "May I have a chat with you sometime, Judge?"

"Whenever you please. Jason will show you my office."

"Hello! Who is this?" Creighton was facing the door from the hall, to which the other two men had their backs, and he was the first of them to notice a tall, prepossessing young man who hurried into the room. Behind him came Miss Ocky, looking pleased, and after her Krech, hunting for the detective from whom he had become separated. "Is it--?"

"Copley!" cried Jason Bolt and Judge Taylor with one voice. They greeted the newcomer warmly, but with the subdued sympathy suitable to the occasion. "When did you learn about this?" added Bolt.

"This morning's papers. I came as fast as I could." He spun around toward Miss Ocky. "My mother--?"

"Sleeping," answered his aunt. "It has been a shock, but you have no need to worry about her. Don't think of waking her up; I know you must want to go to her, but wait."

"This is a terrible business," said the young man to Bolt and the lawyer. He was yet unaware of Creighton, who had withdrawn slightly into the background. "I only know what I've read in the papers. As I came in just now I heard somebody say the inquest had drawn a blank. Is that so?"

"Yes. It is a complicated affair, Copley," answered Bolt. "It will take some time to tell you everything that has happened--"

"We'll go into it later, then. Just tell me now if everything possible is being done to identify the man who killed my father. That is the most important business before us. Have the police any clues?"

"I believe so, but they are saying little. On our own account, I have engaged this gentleman here--Mr. Creighton--to conduct an independent inquiry. Creighton, this is Mr. Varr's son, of whom you have heard."

Copley sent a keen look at the detective, then held out his hand.

"Glad to meet you--and very glad that Mr. Bolt has engaged your services. It is the very thing I would have wished. I have no confidence in the local authorities."

"That appears to make it unanimous," said Creighton, grinning. "Really, I'm beginning to wonder if these county fellows can be as stupid as they're reputed." He glanced at Jason Bolt. "Suppose I take Mr. Varr into the study here and give him a résumé of events to date? Somebody must, and I know the details better than any one else, perhaps."

There was a chorus of relieved approval from Bolt, Taylor and Miss Ocky and a quick nod of assent from Copley.

"I must have a talk with you, too, Copley, as soon as possible," added Jason Bolt. "It's hard to have to intrude business--"

"Oh!" interrupted the young man, and suddenly ran his fingers through his hair with a distraught gesture. "I'm in the deuce of a jam--! Aunt Ocky, when is the funeral?"

"We were waiting to hear from you. Now that you're here--shall we say to-morrow noon?"

"Very well. After that I must catch the one-thirty to New York." He shrugged his shoulders at Bolt's disappointed grunt. "It can't be helped, sir! And I'll be busy every minute until I leave. Are you sure that you need me after all?" He looked at the old lawyer who was eyeing him thoughtfully. "Judge Taylor, you had charge of my father's will, didn't you? Would it be improper for you to tell me whether or not I've inherited his interest in the tannery?"

"I'll risk the impropriety under the circumstances," said Taylor slowly, breaking a little silence that followed the question. "Yes, you have inherited a controlling interest without any restriction." He hesitated cautiously. "I'm assuming that no other will exists--I cannot believe there is any."

"In that case--you and I are partners, Mr. Bolt." Copley held out his hand rather bashfully. "You'll have a fearful lot to teach me, but you'll find me willing to learn." He continued more incisively. "I believe the first thing to do is to get that strike settled and the men to work. They'll listen to you, Mr. Bolt, if you ask them to return pending our decision to raise wages and improve conditions. Another thing--can you persuade Graham to stay with us?"

"I believe so--now," said Bolt slowly.

"The tannery must remain closed to-morrow, the day of the funeral. I'd like to see it open up the morning after at the usual hour."

"It will," said Jason flatly. "Leave it to me."

"That's what I want to do, for a fortnight anyway. After that you will find me ready to pull my weight in the boat." The young man turned to the others. "Aunt Ocky, you'll let me know, won't you, as soon as my mother wakes up? Come on, Mr. Creighton; I'm anxious to hear all you can tell me." He walked off to the study without waiting to see if the detective followed.

Creighton did not, for the moment. Bolt and Krech were leaving, and so was Judge Taylor. The detective had a few words with his friend as they followed the other two along the hall to the piazza, while Miss Ocky went up to her sister's room.

"What did you think of him?" asked Krech.

"Haven't thought much yet."

"He ought to be a pleasant change for Jason. He'll be open to reason, yet he'll have ideas of his own. Did you notice how he snapped into the business of getting work started again?"

"I noticed it."

"An up-and-coming lad," said Krech. "He couldn't have done it better if he'd been expecting the job."

Creighton glanced at the speaker quickly, but the big man's face was as ingenuous as a child's. They dropped the subject as they came up with the others.

When he had bidden them _au revoir_, the detective went to the small study, where he found Copley Varr restlessly pacing the short fairway between the door and his father's desk. The young man welcomed him with a gesture of relief.

"Thought you were never coming," he said, though not rudely. "If I can't see my mother yet, I'm in a hurry to--to attend to some other matters."

"Is an interview with William Graham one of them?" asked Creighton quietly as they sat down. He caught the sharp look that Copley sent him. "While digging into the history of this case it was inevitable that I should discover something of your private affairs. I will ask you to believe that I do not violate confidences--even though I have to force them at times."

"That's all right. You're a detective, aren't you?"

"I try to be!" smiled Creighton.

"Well, it's no use employing a detective and then cramping his style by refusing him information. I understand that."

"Good. We'll get along beautifully. Will you tell me, please, why you are obliged to return to New York? Is the reason--Miss Graham?"

"Not any more." For the first time since he had entered the house, Copley smiled a little. "It is Mrs. Varr, now. We were married yesterday morning in New York." The smile vanished abruptly. "And my father--scarcely cold! I won't forget the shock I got from the papers this morning if I live to be a hundred."

"Got a shock, did you?" repeated Creighton to himself, yet the boy's words had rung true. "If you're ready, Mr. Varr, I'll give you the story of what happened up to your father's death. I'll be brief."

At that, it was a lengthy narrative. It took more than an hour to relate, an hour in which Copley Varr did not once take his eyes from the detective's face. His gaze was expressionless; Creighton, returning it with interest, strove vainly to pierce that inscrutable veil to see what lay behind.

"And there is no definite clue to the murderer?" asked, Copley when Creighton finished. "Is the Maxon theory sound?"

"I think not. As for clues--well, such indications as I have turned up are too vague to be termed that."

"Do you suspect any one?"

"That question is out of order, Mr. Varr."

"Oh. Will you tell me then, in a general way, where those indications you mention seem to point?"

"In a general way, yes." Creighton meditated. "They point to a person who hated your father, who sympathized with the striking tanners, who was wealthy enough to supply them with money, either from sympathy or to further his grudge, a person of some education, familiar with local history and imaginative enough to adapt the costume of a legendary monk to a perfect disguise. Last, a person who was sufficiently familiar with this house to stage a burglary as bold as it was successful."

Copley Varr was pale as this hypothetical portrait was limned. His eyes now avoided the detective's.

"That description might fit a--a number of people," he said.

"Oh, yes. It's very vague. Now, I can ask a question that you mustn't, do _you_ suspect any one?"

"N-no."

"Come! are you weakening already about giving me information?"

"Suspicion--if I had any--is not fact!"

"Quibbles won't get us anywhere. I won't press you further to voice your suspicion--right now. In the meantime, I'll plod along with my investigation on the obvious lines."

"Obvious? I suppose they are to you, Mr. Creighton, but I do not see a single point of attack. Will you tell me what you plan to do, or is that also taboo?"

"I'm going to make a list of all the people that description might fit and then eliminate them one by one as circumstances dictate. I suppose competent alibis will let most of 'em out. Yes, I guess I'll have quite a fine assortment of alibis at the end." The detective was speaking easily, good-humoredly, and his voice was elaborately casual as he added:

"By the way, where were you the night of the burglary from ten to twelve?"

Copley Varr started violently and his face crimsoned. For a long minute he did not speak but sat staring angrily at his inquisitor. He clenched his hands as though ready to leap on the detective. Then, slowly, his fingers relaxed, the color faded from his cheeks and the anger from his eyes. Creighton watched the metamorphosis with approval; if he could get the best of his temper like that, would he have been likely to lose it to the extent of committing murder? Improbable!

"I was in the editorial rooms of the _News_ from ten-thirty until quarter to twelve, when I left to catch the midnight train to New York. At least three men connected with the paper will bear me out."

"That's bully!" said Creighton. "The crowd on my list will be in luck if they do half as well. One thing more, Mr. Varr, and then I'm off to real work. Was William Graham in the habit of coming to this house?"

Again Copley jumped, but this time with the air of shrinking from a blow rather than delivering one. His voice, when it came, was hoarse.

"Don't ask me that--now!"

"Um. Yes, it's rather a tough question--new father-in-law, new bride and all that! You needn't answer it, Mr. Varr!"

"Plainer than you have already, my son!" he added to himself as he left the room. "William Graham--to the bar!"

Creighton was light on his feet and invariably wore rubber-soled shoes--not, as he had been obliged to explain to Krech aforetime, because he was trying to be the complete pussy-footed sleuth, but because he really preferred them to leather. The result, however, whether designed or not, was to make him as soundless in his movements as a panther.

He slipped noiselessly along the hall to the front door, his thoughts busy with what he had just learned, his immediate intention to go to town for the talk he had promised himself with Judge Taylor. Lawyers often could throw light on an affair of this kind if they chose to; what if there were some secret, unsuspected page in Simon Varr's life--?

As he put on his hat and stepped out of the front door, he heard the low hum of voices from the cozy corner at the end of the piazza. He wondered who it might be, and curiosity turned his steps in that direction. Instead of turning the corner, however, he halted abruptly when he heard his own name spoken by unmistakable accents.

"Where is Mr. Creighton, do you know?"

"He's in the study with Master Copley. Do you wish to speak to him, Miss Ocky?"

"No. Has he had any conversation with you yet, Bates?"

"No, Miss Ocky; nothing special."

"He probably will, though. It struck me, Bates, that you might inadvertently mention our little talk of the other day if I didn't warn you. I don't think that would be advisable."

"Nor do I, Miss Ocky! I was only afraid you might let it out yourself!"

"It would be a pity to put notions in his head," continued Miss Ocky calmly. "I must say, Mr. Creighton seems to be unusually sensible, but you can never tell which way a detective will jump."

"They're worse'n cats!" agreed the old butler.

_XVIII: Some Old Men Are Out_

There was a tinkle of silver and china suggestive of the butler picking up a tray and preparing to depart, so Creighton fled from the vicinage as softly as the furry felines to which Bates had spitefully compared him. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. Utterly shameless, he reminded himself that if listeners hear no good of themselves, they also occasionally hear much that is valuable. So Bates and Miss Ocky were in conspiracy to conceal from him some conversation they had had! Um. It would be funny if he couldn't pry the truth out of one of them; mentally, he girded up his loins for the fray.

The immediate effect of what he had overheard was an alteration in his plans for the balance of the afternoon. He wanted to see Judge Taylor for more than one reason, but his brief essay in eavesdropping had served to remind him of a chore neglected nearer home. The servants. He must question them, painstakingly and at length, on the chance that one or more of them might have heard or noticed something that would bring him a step closer to the truth.

Copley Varr had gone upstairs, summoned to his mother's bedside by Janet Mackay who was temporarily in attendance on the stricken Lucy. That left the study clear for Creighton who immediately possessed himself of it and touched the bell for Bates. The old man appeared presently, gave an attentive ear to the detective's brief statement of his intentions, and answered on behalf of himself and the staff that all would be glad to assist Mr. Creighton in every possible way.

"The main essential is perfect frankness," said the detective.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I quite understand that," said the butler, a trifle too promptly. "It's wrong to hold anything back."

"I'll begin with the cook. I had a few words with her yesterday, just enough to learn she's nobody's fool. She's good-hearted, too--you can tell it by the layer of fat on the ribs of that Angora I've seen about." Creighton's eyes were laughing behind the shell-rimmed glasses. "Did it ever occur to you, Bates, that you can learn a lot about the cook by looking at the cat?"

"No, sir, it never did," said Bates, smiling faintly.

"It never did to me, either, until just this minute," admitted the detective frankly, "but I dare say there's a lot in it. Anyway, ask her to come here, please, and tell her I won't keep her long from her work."

Thus he played upon the sensibilities of his witnesses after a fashion whose worth he had demonstrated frequently in the past. He had put Bates a little more at his ease and to that extent weakened his defenses if it became necessary to startle him into speaking the truth, and he had sent a bouquet of flattering phrases to the cook which he confidently counted on Bates to deliver with his summons. That the butler had indeed done so was apparent the moment the cook appeared, her fat red face wreathed in smiles. A cross, recalcitrant woman who had sorely tried the patience of Mr. Norvallis the day before was an angel of sweetness as she responded to Creighton's inquisition.

Unfortunately, she did not have anything of value to offer in repayment for his studied politeness. Hers was the most prosaic of lives. She rose in the morning, cooked all day and went to bed, to rise and cook again. She knew nothing of what went on in the front part of the house, and Bates was the most close-mouthed butler she had ever worked with, he never opened his head about what he heard in the dining-room.

That let her out, and Creighton dismissed her with a request that she send in Betty Blake.

When she had recovered from a preliminary attack of nervousness, the pretty young housemaid unexpectedly produced information that gave Creighton furiously to think, for he reawakened an idea that had been present, but dormant, in his brain since his talk with Copley. It reminded him of a chance remark made by Jason Bolt to the effect that Langhorn had accompanied Graham when the latter came to see Varr, for Betty described how in passing through the hall on her way to bed she had seen the tannery manager "quarreling with Mr. Varr in his study."

"Sure they were quarreling, Betty?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They were both angry and excited."

"That was the night of the fire? The night of the robbery?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were on your way to bed--do you know what time it was?"

"Just past ten, sir,--or maybe half-past."

"That's near enough."

After a few more questions he let her go, telling her to ask Janet Mackay to join him in the study at her first opportunity. While he waited for the "tall, gaunt nondescript" to appear he contemplated the case of William Graham, and sitting in Varr's chair he came slowly to the same dark suspicions that Varr had entertained.

"Graham saw the notebook here, and knew what it was. He could use what was in it--none better. According to the watchman, Nelson, Graham sympathized with the strikers even if he ranked with the bosses. He was a bit the worse for liquor when he was here that evening, in the mood to think of some wild act and perhaps drunk enough to carry out the thought. He had time to slip down and set that fire, then come back when it was under way and sneak into the house. Granting that he used the dagger because it was handy, why did he carry it away with him? Was he thinking of murder already? Was he cool enough to figure that a weapon taken from Varr's own house would not readily be traced to him? Can't answer these questions--now!" Creighton lighted a cigarette and wrinkled his brow. "Graham has plenty of intelligence, from all accounts. He is clever enough to have thought of an effective disguise, and he probably knew the legend of the monk, since his daughter showed it to Miss Copley in a book belonging to them. Um. Is he the man I'm looking for?"

He did not have time for further reflection before the entrance of Miss Janet Mackay, once of Aberdeen, now a citizen of the world and the devoted henchwoman of Miss October Copley. She inclined her head stiffly in reply to his pleasant greeting, refused a chair, and remained standing in front of him, hands folded across her flat stomach, her cold eyes fixed on him through her cheap, steel spectacles. She was taller and gaunter and more angular than ever. Creighton chuckled inwardly. If Miss Copley was October, then this was January, or at best late December!

It did not take him long to discover that he had drawn another perfect blank. Trying to extract information from Janet Mackay was about as profitable as trying to squeeze water from a handful of Sahara sand. She knew nothing, and said less. After ten minutes of fruitless effort he gave it up.

"It's clear you know nothing!"

"I know the world is well rid of a selfish deevil."

"Tut, tut! Have you no respect for the dead?"

"Not a whit for him, dead or alive."

"How is Mrs. Varr?"

"Resting easier."

"Is her son with her still?"

"He went off somewhere an hour ago."

"That's all, then. Thank you."

She stalked away, head in air, stiff as any ramrod.

"Now for Bates," muttered the detective, and touched the bell. "I'll swear he's got something on his mind!"

In this surmise he was perfectly correct. The old butler did have something that was troubling him--a matter so grave and serious that they did not finish discussing it until the study was dusk and sounds from the dining-room indicated that Betty Blake was helpfully setting the table in the unduly prolonged absence of its regular attendant. When their talk was ended, it was the detective who wore a perplexed expression, while Bates had lost the troubled, almost haunted look that had been in his eyes since the death of Simon Varr.

Creighton hurried to his room to prepare for dinner, and when he glanced from his window he observed for the first time that the weather was about to exhibit itself in a petulant, ill-humored mood. Black storm-clouds were rolling up, a chill, gusty wind was rattling the windows and a heavy spat of rain dashed against the glass as he turned away. It would be a nasty night.

Miss Ocky remarked on the fact when she joined him in the dining-room. She looked unhappy.

"I hate cold," she told him. "Had enough of it in my life. I am going to have a fire lighted in the living-room. If you want to talk to me this evening you'll have to put up with having your toes toasted."

He assured her that toasted toes were his favorite delicacy. Then he nodded to a third place set at the table and raised his eyebrows.

"For Copley, but he hasn't turned up."

"He may be dining with his new father-in-law," suggested the detective. "Or with Jason Bolt, talking business."

She did not pursue the subject, but later, when they were seated before a crackling fire in the living-room, she attacked him briskly.

"I haven't talked with either you or him since your interview in the library. Was--was it satisfactory? Please tell me."

"With all the pleasure in the world. The interview was satisfactory--and I think I know what you mean by that! He accounted for his movements on the night before last with unimpeachable accuracy."

"Thank heaven!" said Miss Ocky. "I don't mean that I had any suspicion of him, but I'm glad if he has cleared himself in your eyes."

"He has, perfectly."

"I wish I knew what your plan of campaign is to be! You half promised to let me see just how a detective works, you know. What are you going to do first?"

"Suppose I don't know myself?" He paused to light her cigarette and one for himself, then added deliberately: "You can't always tell which way a detective will jump; they're worse'n cats."

"Oh!" cried Miss Ocky, and choked on a puff of smoke. "Eavesdropper!" she gasped.

"I didn't go for to do it. But if you _will_ have these little intimate chats on a piazza without looking around the corner--! Now, you can tell me what it was all about."

"I'll tell you first that it's a mistake to take overheard remarks too seriously." Miss Ocky, recovered from smoke and emotion, smiled at the fire. "Once, when I was a little girl of seven, I got an awful scare that way--right in this very room, on a wild stormy night like this! I had come in to say good night to my father and mother, who were sitting before a fire as we are now. Just as I left the room, I heard my mother say to him, 'The old man is out to-night!' Unless you were a nervous, high-strung brat yourself, you can't imagine the effect of that on me. I crept off to bed shivering, and lay awake half the night. Every time the wind shook my windows, I pictured some monstrous, hoary-headed creature trying to get in and gobble me up!" She laughed a little. "It gives me a grue to think of it even yet. I discovered the explanation of the phrase the next day. Can you guess it?"