Chapter 17

"Before I recovered my wits, it--it happened! I had supposed Simon had gone to bed when his light went out, but now he appeared from around the corner of the house. It was obvious that he was stalking the monk. It was like watching a scene in a melodrama, and I couldn't have moved hand or foot to save my life. All of a sudden, Varr rushed him. I thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited. When Simon got close, the monk appeared to raise a sort of mask he wore. I heard Simon cry out something in a surprised voice, and then I saw a flash of steel as the monk threw up his arm and brought it down. Simon dropped to the ground and lay on his back--and the monk glided off down that trail before I realized that I had seen a murder!"

"Why didn't you chase him--holler--do _something_!" cried Miss Ocky.

"Couldn't seem to budge," said Sherwood briefly. He looked a little hurt. "If you think it was just cowardice you're jolly well mistaken! I had no sensation of fear at any time. You've heard the expression, 'rooted with amazement'? Well, I was it!

"I was still in that condition three minutes later, perhaps, when I heard another, heavier step on the trail. A man appeared, and from the way he walked I could tell he had been drinking. He staggered toward the body, but he was staring at the house and shaking his fist at it. He reeled off the cement path and almost stumbled over Simon before he saw him. He gave a cry, and stooped to look closer--then turned and bolted for dear life and vanished down the trail. He had been scared sober!

"I began to get back my senses. The first thing I thought of was my own position and what I should do. If I were called on to account for my presence there it would involve the mention of Lucy's name if I told the truth--and to save my neck I couldn't think of a plausible lie! There was none to explain my presence in Varr's kitchen garden at eleven o'clock at night!

"I felt under no obligation to give the alarm--it never once occurred to me that the second man wasn't tearing hell-for-leather to the police-station with his story! I did, however, feel that I could not leave Simon lying there with a knife in him while there was a possibility of his being still alive. It took all the nerve I had, but I walked out and took a careful look at him. I knew enough about anatomy to see at once that he had been stabbed through the heart and must have died instantly. Then I lost no time in getting away--"

"You kept to this cement path?"

"Yes; I had sense enough to leave no tracks in that soft earth. I got home without meeting any one, and I hoped I would never be drawn into the case.

"It gave me a jolt when I found the crime had not been reported by that second man. The inquest reassured me when it seemed as if everybody was at a loss to know who had committed the murder. They could remain at a loss for all of me, so long as I wasn't brought into the case--and Lucy! Then, the next morning, the papers had the news of Maxon's arrest! I haven't slept much since!"

"I'm hardly surprised," said Creighton dryly. "Your story does one thing to the Queen's taste--it corroborates Maxon's description of his movements that evening. He was drunk when he broke jail, he had an hour or so to kill before meeting Drusilla Jones, and he staggered up here with the tipsy notion of wrecking the garden to spite old Varr. He was sobered by what he found, as you noticed, but even then didn't have sense enough to see that his best bet was to go straight to the police. He claims he never stopped to think how black appearances against him would be. Would you be able to swear that he was the man you saw here after the murder?"

"Yes. I went to court when he was examined and remanded and I recognized him beyond a shadow of doubt."

"And I'm to understand you've kept silent simply out of consideration for Mrs. Varr?"

"That weighs a good deal with me," said Sherwood quietly. "I haven't enjoyed these past nine days, Mr. Creighton. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I came to Miss Copley to tell her of my difficulty."

"And I advised him to talk with you and be guided by your instructions," threw in Miss Ocky.

"What had I better do?" asked Sherwood hopelessly.

"Do! There's a man in the county jail with an ugly charge hanging over him that a word from you will lift--and you ask me what to do!" Creighton was scandalized. "Go to Norvallis--instantly! Tell him the truth and let him decide how much publicity must attend the liberation of Maxon. I don't think he will insist upon much!"

"You're right, Mr. Creighton--but not helpful."

"Helpful! What did you expect?" snorted the detective indignantly. "Did you think I'd encourage you to let Maxon rot in jail just to humor your quixotic notions about gossip and a woman's name? I sympathize with your difficulty, but that's as far as I can go. There are two things I've never done and never expect to do knowingly--let an innocent man suffer unjustly or a guilty one escape!"

"At this point there was loud applause from the gallery!" murmured Miss Ocky in her soft, amused drawl, and brought him to earth. "Go on, Leslie, and do your duty. It can't be helped."

"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood unhappily, and got off the rock. "Nothing more you want to ask me, is there?"

"N-no," answered the detective, a bit subdued by Miss Ocky's rebuke. "Yes--one thing. What did this confounded monk look like?"

"Well, I can't help you much there. I got the impression that he wore a mask--as Miss Copley did when she saw him on the trail. He was dressed from head to foot in black. He even wore black gloves; it was an odd thing that made me notice that. Have you ever seen a man straighten up from some completed task and stand looking down at it, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together as if to say, 'Well, there's a good job over and done with'? That's what this fellow did as he stood above Simon--"

"_Oh!_" gasped Miss Ocky, and collapsed limply on the bowlder, her face ashen. "Oh!"

"What is it?" snapped Creighton, wheeling upon her. "What is the matter?"

"It's all so ghastly--so--so cold-blooded!" she managed to stammer. "Don't mind me. I'm all right."

"Um," said Creighton, eyeing her doubtfully. "You come into the house and get a rest before dinner! Good-day, Mr. Sherwood!"

He carried his point without much difficulty. He hovered over Miss Ocky until he had her safely in the house and on her way to her room, and for once her militant spirit seemed burned out. He reproached himself bitterly for having let her listen to Sherwood, though nobody could have foreseen that the noodle-pated idiot would start embroidering his story with graphically gruesome tidbits! Why hadn't he kept his fat head shut? Serve him right if Norvallis jumped _him_ next and put him in the jug for political prestige! For a few minutes Creighton was almost cheerful as he pondered that possibility.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, Miss Ocky reappeared for dinner and impressed him as having entirely regained her composure. She was her usual gently mocking, always slightly cynical and amusing self. As the swift conversation flashed back and forth between them--past the apparently unconscious person of young Mr. Merrill--he gradually recovered his own equanimity and was quite himself again by the time he and Miss Ocky settled to coffee and cigarettes in the cozy corner of the veranda.

"Almost time for Mr. Krech to make his evening call," she suggested. "They dine earlier at the Bolts' than we do here."

"Queer thing about Krech," mused Creighton. "I've never seen him take so little interest in a case as he does in this. Usually he is at my heels from morning until night, spraying questions the way a machine-gun sprays bullets. Now he just blows in--and presently blows out."

"Oh!" said Miss Ocky. She sat up straight, scratched her chin meditatively with one slim forefinger, and darted him a look that he missed. "Mmph. Y-yes, that is queer."

"Of course he's devoted to his wife," continued the detective, "and I suppose that distracts a man from the pursuit of a mere hobby."

"Briefly," said Miss Ocky. "Briefly!"

"A charming woman ought not to be cynical--" Creighton broke off and raised his hand. "He's coming now; you can hear that car of Bolt's six miles on a quiet night! Shall we tell him about Leslie Sherwood?--the poor chap hasn't had anything so nourishing for a week."

"Swear him to secrecy," stipulated Miss Ocky.

Thus, when the big man appeared and dropped into a chair, he was duly pledged to discretion and informed of the fact that an eyewitness of the murder had turned up.

"My gosh!" he exclaimed when the details had been told. "Why, that just naturally blows Norvallis clean out of water! What'll he do if he loses Mr. Vote-getter Maxon?"

"Pinch Sherwood," chuckled Creighton. "That ought to net him even handsomer returns."

"Oh--_no_!" cried Miss Ocky, and turned white. "Oh, I think it is simply disgraceful that such things can happen in a civilized country! Bad enough to be the subject of gossip and suspected of a crime, but to be actually imprisoned on mere suspicion--"

"I was only joking," cut in the detective hastily. "Norvallis will make no such stupid blunder. I'm sorry to say there is a wide difference between what can be done to a mere workingman and what may be done to a country gentleman of position."

"So much the worse!" snapped Miss Ocky unappeased.

"This lets out Charlie Maxon," muttered Krech, and regarded his friend morosely. "Seems to me, Creighton, that every time this case takes one step forward, it slides back two. Jason Bolt is getting fearfully down in the mouth. When this news reaches him it will be the finishing touch."

"I had a talk with him this afternoon," said the detective, and flicked his cigarette over the veranda rail. "Reminded him that Rome wasn't built in a day and that murderers aren't always caught in a night, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and dropped a few other comforting thoughts in similar vein. I also mentioned that one never knew in a case of this kind when something might happen--"

"_It's happening now!_"

Krech hissed the words in a fierce whisper. His eyes had automatically followed the detective's glowing cigarette and had been attracted by something farther off, barely visible through the deepening dusk. Almost before Miss Ocky and Creighton could sense the meaning of his words, he had sprung to his feet and vaulted the veranda railing. Thanks to a downhill slope of the ground at this point the piazza floor was a full nine feet from the grass lawn, and they heard a hearty grunt as Krech alighted. Then he recovered his footing and sped with extraordinary swiftness for so large a man across the sward in the direction of that woods that edged it.

"What is it?" gasped Miss Ocky. "Oh--what is it?"

"The monk!" cried Creighton. "The monk!"

His glance, darting ahead of the speeding Krech, had discerned an unmistakable figure outlined against a clump of white birch as though the monk had deliberately chosen a background against which he would be most conspicuous to the group on the piazza. He was standing there motionless, apparently indifferent to the rushing menace of Krech, and through the detective's brain, searing it like a flame, shot the memory of something Sherwood had said, "I thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited!" He was waiting now!

"Krech!" cried the detective. "_Careful--careful!_"

His hands were on the rail of the veranda. It had not taken two seconds for him to size the situation and shout his warning, and those same seconds were occupied in getting out of his chair and dashing to the rail. He had one leg over this when two hands like steel clamps circled his right arm and gripped him fiercely.

"Please--oh, _please_!" stammered a frightened voice.

"_Ocky!_" he gasped in furious protest. "_Leggo!_"

He wrenched himself free and went sprawling over the rail, a wordless prayer in his heart that no broken legs or sprained ankles were to be his portion. He landed unhurt in a providential flowerbed, and struggled again to his feet to discover that both the monk and Krech had vanished.

There was a little-used trail which commenced near the birch-trees and ran sharply downhill to the small house that Miss Ocky had donated to her nephew and his bride. Creighton knew of its existence, and never doubted now that the monk had disappeared into it at the last moment with the impetuous Krech in full pursuit. He drew an electric torch from his hip-pocket as he raced for the dark entrance to the path, anxiety for his friend the paramount force that speeded his flying feet.

"Why did he try to jump him like that?" he thought. "If he had only used his head a bit! He could have sauntered into the house, out the back door, crept through the woods and taken the fellow in the rear. He has all the courage of a mad bull--and about as much sense."

This unkind summary of Krech's character was no sooner complete than Creighton himself was in the trail, plunging headlong down its sharp declivity with quite as much recklessness as his friend had shown, save the advantage of his flash. He played its powerful beam ahead of him as he ran and leaped, until twenty yards from the entrance he suddenly dug his heels hard into the rubble of the path to halt his wild career as the light showed him the body of a man lying face downward in the trail. Its bulk alone left no doubt of identity.

"_Hell!_" snapped the detective, and the one vicious word was the epitome of all that he felt.

With desperate haste he jammed the torch into a crotch of a small tree so that its rays illuminated the scene, then dropped to his knees beside the prone body of his friend, exerted all his strength and rolled it over on its back. His eager fingers, pressing, prodding, explored the still form throughout its length.

"No wounds--no broken bones," was his first relieved diagnosis. Then "Hello--here we are!" An angry red abrasion on the big man's forehead had caught his attention. He touched it, and smiled as it elicited a groan from the victim that sounded to Creighton like celestial music. "A crack on the head--knocked him out!" he muttered, then raised his voice. "I say, Krech--come to, old man, come to!"

The adjuration seemed to penetrate Mr. Krech's dazed faculties. His eyes opened, blinked once or twice, opened again and stared tranquilly up into Creighton's. His lips moved and words issued.

"A fall like that," he observed calmly, "would have killed an ordinary man."

"Thank heaven!" ejaculated the detective fervently. "Are you much hurt? What happened?"

"Tripped--came down with a dirty wallop and cracked my head on something awfully hard." He raised himself cautiously to a sitting position and glanced about him. "That chunk of granite there--doesn't it look to you as if it were freshly broken?"

"I guess it was only this big root!" said Creighton, and laughed aloud in his relief. Then his mirth abruptly gave way to surprise. "Hello," he said. "Hello--hello--hello!"

He had been looking around too, and now he picked up a loose end of stout wire that was attached at one extremity to a sapling. There could be no question as to what it was doing there. Until Krech's shin had snapped it, it had been stretched taut across the trail a foot above the ground.

"Gee Joseph!" exclaimed the big man, staring at the simple apparatus of destruction. "Clever little hellion, ain't he?" He stood up, moved his arms and legs tentatively and gave himself a shake.

"All right?" asked Creighton quickly.

"Never felt better in my life. Little shaking-up like that--good for a man. Who was the ancient johnnie that used to bounce up from the earth a bit stronger for every time he hit it?"

"Antaeus," suggested the detective absently.

"Uh-huh. H. Antaeus Krech--that's me." He added with more appropriate seriousness, "What became of our little playmate?"

"Search me," replied Creighton, still thoughtful. "I'm trying to figure out what was back of all this. It was a prearranged trap, of course. He showed himself deliberately, invited us to chase him, then arranged this wire to insure his get-away. But--why?"

"I can give you a good guess, Peter, my boy," said Krech slowly. "I think I have inadvertently saved your life."

"Huh? What's that?"

"Suppose you are getting too close to the truth of who killed Simon Varr--or suppose the murderer thinks you are, which comes to the same thing. He doesn't care for the idea--not a-tall. So he has a happy inspiration and plots this scenario as you have described it--only to draw an anticlimax. You were supposed to do the chasing. Naturally he couldn't foresee that your guardian angel, the unfortunate me, would come galloping down here and spring his trap.

"What if it had been you who was slumbering peacefully in the middle of the path instead of me? Would you ever have awakened again? Or would you now be sitting somewhere on a cloud talking it all over with Simon? How's that for a theory?"

"You think he'd have stuck a knife in me? I must admit there is a nasty air of plausibility about your sketch." The detective mused a moment. "There's one consolation if it's true; it's mighty complimentary--almost flattering--to my ability!"

He stood up and rescued his torch from its resting-place in the tree. As he took it down, its beam was deflected briefly along the trail, and in that instant he uttered a quick exclamation.

"Look there!" he snapped. "What's that?"

_XXI: Twilight_

Krech came to attention at the detective's exclamation and his eyes followed the ray of light from the torch as Creighton directed it to a point on the ground scarcely two yards from their feet. An oblong, flat package wrapped in brown paper lay in the trail. They dove for it together and Creighton secured it, properly enough, since the flash-light revealed his name on the face of it, scrawled in the same uncouth writing that they had seen before on the anonymous communication of the monk to Simon Varr.

"What's in it?" demanded Krech, and added a trifle anxiously, "It doesn't tick, does it?"

"That cropper you came evidently hasn't hurt your imagination," chuckled the detective as he loosened the coarse string about the package. "No, it isn't a bomb. It's--well, by golly, will you look at what it is!"

Very gingerly, holding it in the tips of his fingers, he lifted a red leather notebook from its nest of brown wrappings and showed it to Krech. The big man nearly dropped the torch which he had taken from his friend.

"Varr's notebook!" he cried. "It must be!"

"It is," confirmed Creighton, who had lifted one cover with the tip of a finger nail and glanced at the contents of a page. "Now, isn't this lovely! Who says we can't recover loot? The thief may have to hand it to us on a tray, but it's only results that count! Say, Krech--there goes your melodramatic theory of a plot to bump me off."

"I suppose so."

"He lured me down this trail so I'd find it, and to make sure I didn't miss it, he strung that wire where it would throw me with my face almost on the darn thing! You'd have seen it if you hadn't been knocked silly, and I'd have seen it if I'd been thinking of anything but you."

"He went to a lot of trouble that he could have spared himself for all of me!" grunted Krech, feeling his forehead. "I must look like the happy end of a barroom brawl. Why didn't he mail it?"

"By golly, I don't know. That's a mighty pertinent question, Mr. Krech. We'll get the answer when we get the crook, I expect. I'm not so fearfully surprised at getting back this notebook; did it ever strike you that there might be another explanation of its disappearance other than simple theft?"

"N-no. If there's another reason, I missed it."

"The dagger wasn't used to further the looting of Varr's desk. Just the contrary is the truth, I believe. The notebook was stolen to cover the theft of the dagger."

"Gee Joseph!" Krech whistled softly. "That checks up with the theory of an inside job! Creighton--_who_?"

"That's something I hope to find out pretty soon," replied the detective gravely. "Come on back to the house--and, listen! We lost sight of the monk. We hunted a while until you tripped and hurt your head, then we gave up the search and came home. Get it? Not another word!"

"Right," said the big man obediently.

There was no one on the veranda when they emerged from the woods. Two figures moved in the lamp-lit hall as they entered the house. Bates came up to greet them nervously, and young Merrill lurked in the offing looking curious.

"Is everything all right, sir?" asked the butler timidly.

"Perfectly all right. Where is Miss Copley?"

"Retired, sir. She left word for you that she would not be down again this evening."

The news that she had left a message for him was welcome. He had been troubled by the recollection of the cavalier fashion in which he had shaken off her hand on his arm, and he was uncomfortably certain that in his haste he had addressed her, as he thought of her, by her family nickname.

"Go tap on her door, please, Bates, and tell her that I am back with nothing to report. Wait--take Mr. Krech up with you and show him my room. He has a forehead he wants to bathe."

The butler went off, and Krech, after a mild protest, accompanied him. Creighton, when they were out of sight, beckoned Merrill to follow and went swiftly into the living-room.

"Find out at once if any one has been absent from the house during the past hour. Let me know."

"Done it already, sir. Thought you'd want it. Only one person I haven't had my eye on."

"_Who?_"

"Janet Mackay, sir. She went to town immediately after dinner to a movie."

"_Janet Mackay_! There is only one motion-picture theater?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go there at once. Check up on her. She's a regular patron--the ticket-girl should be able to tell you if she's been there. When you come back, signal to me, yes or no. Understand? _Beat it_!"

When Krech came down again he found Creighton sitting on the veranda, smoking a cigar and apparently more in the mood to think than to talk. It was nearly ten o'clock when a step sounded on the porch and Merrill sauntered into view.

"Pardon!" he said promptly, and vanished again.

But he had obeyed his instructions and sent Creighton a sign that started the detective's heart to thumping. Janet Mackay had not been to the theater. Here was a coil with collateral complications that were not pleasant to contemplate. His heart stopped thumping and made a dive for his boots as he wondered what Miss Ocky would say when she learned of his interest in Janet.

"I'm going to New York on the midnight," he said abruptly. "Will you run me to the station on your way home?"

"Sure. Unexpected, isn't it? What are you going for?"

"Mostly on account of this notebook." Creighton tapped the side-pocket of his coat in which he had placed his treasure, rewrapped and tied. "It must go to the chap in Brooklyn who does my finger-print work, and I don't care to trust it to the mail. I've another reason for going which I don't propose to tell you."

"_Sus domesticus_!" cried Mr. Krech proudly, then obligingly translated for his astonished companion. "Pig!"

"Oh. Well, if you feel so deeply about it I suppose I might toss you a hint. I'm going to New York to give something a chance to happen that might not happen if I stayed here. I'll be back to-morrow evening, late--which reminds me that I'd better catch young Merrill and leave a message for Miss Ocky. Bates has probably gone to bed."