Chapter 7

"Any one would think you hated the poor man," she suggested at length.

"That," said Mr. Sherwood, "exactly expresses my feeling toward him."

"But--but, Leslie--" Miss Ocky was groping for the truth back of all this--"I don't understand! Why do you hate a man you haven't even seen for over twenty years?"

"Some hates have very lasting qualities, Ocky. They endure for ever and a day."

"Then--whatever it was--happened before you left here?"

"Yes. Simon came between me and something that I wanted--and did it in a way that made a mortal enemy of me. Sounds theatrical, doesn't it? But it's true. He contrived at the same time to cause the trouble between me and my father that has kept me from returning to Hambleton until now, when the old gentleman has ended with worldly cares."

"I wish you'd tell me the whole story in words of one syllable," begged Miss Ocky. "It's not that I'm just curious. I'm trying to learn all that I can about Simon. He interests me as a--as a specimen."

"I would hardly have told you as much if I weren't willing to tell you all. I'm puzzling over a problem that might be simplified by a woman's wit. We can't talk here, though. Too public."

"Suppose you escort me home. I've a torch, and I'm going up this short-cut. We can chat on the way." She glanced downhill. "This excitement is about over; shall we start?"

"Whenever you please."

They were turning away side-by-side when a fitful gust of wind swept up to them from the direction of the sinking flames. There is only one thing more malodorous than a tannery, and that is a burning tannery. Miss Ocky choked.

"Pwhew!" she gasped. "It smells like--like--"

"Like the soul of Simon Varr," supplied Sherwood promptly.

_VIII: Two Victims of Theft_

Varr remained at the tannery until the last dying ember had been extinguished. Not till then did Marshal August Wimpelheimer come gayly up to him, his regalia a trifle the worse for wear and his breath coming a little short from his exertions but his expression that of one who has been hugely enjoying himself. He saluted with a flourish.

"All over, Mr. Varr! I told you we'd handle it. I'm sorry we couldn't save those first two buildings, but they had too much of a start. Full of that inflammable stuff and with a breeze like this blowing sparks as big as my helmet"--the article of attire referred to was nearly as large as himself--"We were lucky to get control--"

"Have you seen anything of Fay about?"

"Your watchman? Yes, sir, he was in the thick of everything! I'd like to add him to my Department. But the boys all did splendidly--smoke-eaters, Mr. Varr, every mother's son of 'em! I hope you noticed, sir, that when it came to volunteers for the bucket-gang a lot of your workmen stepped up. They forgot about the strike and pitched in with both hands! It shows there's a heap of good in human nature."

"It shows they know which side their bread is buttered!" grunted the tanner. "How would they get their jobs back if they let the whole outfit burn? Eh?"

The Fire Marshal flushed, but the grocer bit back the words that trembled on his lips. Little Wimpy had gallantry to spare when it came to facing fire, which is a clean foe and a clean fighter, but his courage stopped there. Varr owned his store, Varr held a chattel mortgage on his fixtures--and there were the little Wimpies to be thought of!

"Good night, sir!" he said, and went sadly home.

Simon Varr joined the stragglers who were leaving by way of the hall through the office building, but he did not go with them as far as the exit. He ascended the creaky stairs, went into his office and snapped on the electric light. He had seen nothing of Fay, but he confidently expected the watchman to seek him out as soon as possible.

In this he was not disappointed. The man had only paused to remove some of the traces of his activities before presenting himself for Simon's inquisition.

"Well, Fay, what can you tell me about this? Where were you when you discovered the fire?"

"I was making my second round at twenty-five minutes to eleven. You'll remember, sir, you left orders that I should make another trip about the premises five minutes after my regular round, which was ten-thirty in this case. That was a good idea, sir, if you'll let me say so; it certainly led to my seeing the fire right after it started."

"That scoundrelly fire bug was watching you, depend on that!"

"Yes, sir; there's dozens of places he could keep a look-out from, once he got inside. Soon as he saw me finish one round and go out front, he commenced his dirty work."

"You say you caught a glimpse of him?"

"A poor one, sir. I was just quietly passing one of those storage buildings when I saw a flicker of light beneath the doorsill. It was too soon to hear the crackle of burning wood or smell any smoke, but I knew what was up. I pushed open the door. That was when I saw the two oil-tins lying on their sides and the whole floor flooded with the stuff. There was smoke enough, then, sir! That's why I could only get a poor look through it at the feller."

"He was in the building when you saw him?"

"Yes, sir--and out of it again like a deer, by the door at the other end, as soon as he saw me. I couldn't run through the flames, and by the time I'd jumped back and cut around the building, he was lost in the darkness. I swept my torch this way and that, but never a sign of him. I heard him, though," he added significantly.

"Yes? Where?"

"He stumbled over something near the left-hand corner of the yard where the fence runs down to the brook. That tells us what we didn't know before, sir. He doesn't come over the fence, nor under it; he either wades the brook around the end of it, or else scrambles around by way of the bank. Unless I'm all wrong, sir, we'll find his footprints there in the morning."

"We'll find them there now," Varr corrected him curtly. "You have your torch? Come along, then."

He extinguished the light in the office and led the way downstairs and out into the yard. They passed the smoking ruins of the two destroyed buildings and came in a few seconds to the spot described by Fay. Varr took the torch from him and played its beam on the ground near the juncture of fence and brook.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "Here are footprints--and that piece of wire is what you heard him trip over. Take a close look at those prints, Fay, while I hold the light. Don't muck 'em up with your own dainty feet! Anything noticeable about them?"

The conscientious watchman dropped on his hands and knees and seemed to fairly sniff at the marks like a bloodhound.

"No, sir," he reported regretfully. "They're just footprints."

Varr corroborated the truth of this when he bent to make his own examination. The prints were sharp and distinct, but their very clearness only added to the general obscurity. They were large and clumsy, rude of outline, and had obviously been made by a pair of heavy shoes such as workmen wear--and they might have been worn by any one of a million workmen! Varr grunted his disgust as he sought in vain for some little mark by which they might be distinguished from two million like them.

"A big man," was the extent of his deductions.

"Yes, sir, that was what he looked like to me. I wish I could have seen his face--though I've a notion he might have been masked."

"_Masked_!" Varr fell back a step. "_Masked_?"

"Why--yes, sir. That wouldn't be so unlikely, considering the errand he come on! But I'm not sure--I had just that moment's look at him through a swirl of smoke."

"Could you tell how he was dressed?"

"He was in black, sir. I thought so at first, and the way he got out of sight in the darkness makes it seem likely. What, sir?"

Varr had muttered an oath. A figure dressed in black, with a mask! That was circumstantial enough, the Monk had been busy--launching a thunderbolt of wrath, presumably! Simon's lip curled; Ocky's familiar of the Spanish Inquisition was a pretty scurvy knave if he would stoop to firebrands by night--!

"Fay," he commanded abruptly. "Keep a close tongue in your head about this. I've my reasons for it. Don't tell any one of these footprints until I give you permission. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied the watchman dutifully and dolefully. He had rather been looking forward to public kudos and acclaim. "You'll tell Steiner, sir, I suppose?"

"Do as I tell you, and leave the rest to me!" Varr returned sharply. He handed back the borrowed torch, first glancing at his watch by its light. "Only half-past one! I could have sworn I'd been down here the best part of the night. Come along!"

They returned to the office building, Varr leaving a few more directions for increased and unceasing watchfulness as the exhausted Fay dropped into his chair in the front hall. Then Simon betook himself to his car and drove slowly homeward.

His bad temper had largely worn itself out on the various irritations that had kept it jumping, and in sooth the time had come for anger to give way to calculation. There were so many things to be thought of! Enough to make a man's head spin!

The matter of Copley by itself--! He did not know yet just what was back of the boy's angry declaration that his father was "finished" with him. Was he planning to leave home? A nice row there'd be with a wounded mother! And Copley--Simon judged others by himself--would be sure to make the most of his grievance with her over a parental stratagem that had miscued!

The thought of that nasty few minutes in the study reminded him of Graham. Another coil. Jason Bolt would have some bitter comment on the wisdom of firing a useful man with no substitute in sight; Jason had a rough tongue at times for all his good-nature. That would be still another quarrel--and he couldn't fire Jason!

And this blasted Monk, with his anonymous letters and talk of thunderbolts! He must be taken seriously after this night's work. True, there was no definite proof to connect him with the fire but it was too probable a hypothesis to be lightly dismissed. What had he better do to cut that fellow's claws? There was hope, of course, that he had worked off his spleen in firing the tannery, and also that a wholesome fear of being caught and convicted of arson might cool his spirit! Unless he was mad--!

He left his car in the garage and locked the sliding-door behind him with a feeling of relief that the balance of the night was likely to pass without further incident. As he walked from the garage to the house, he remembered the decanter and glass still standing on the study table and welcomed the idea of another bracer before bed. He had earned it.

The darkened house, as he approached it, provided him with a new grievance. Every one asleep! What did they care if the tannery went up in smoke? More than likely they'd be _glad_!

It was not in him to feel a sense of shame when he presently learned that his assumption of their indifference was unjustified. As he let himself in with his key, a slippered step shuffled from the rear to greet him. It was Bates, sleepy but inquisitive.

"The fire's out. Yes, it was the work of an incendiary. The actual damage is immaterial." Varr's answers were curt. "Every one asleep, I suppose?"

"I expect so, sir. Miss Ocky went down to the fire, but she came home long ago and told us it was under control. Miss Lucy came downstairs and waited until she heard that, then she went to bed. She wanted you to wake her when you came in and tell her all that happened."

"Humph. I'll go up in a few minutes. And--my son?"

"He's not in, sir. I haven't seen him all evening."

"Very well. Go to bed. Leave the door unlatched."

The old butler wished him good night and padded softly up the front stairs. Simon struck a match and went along the darkened hall to his study, where he struck another and lighted the wall-lamp near his desk. It was then he noticed something that caused him to fall back a pace and utter a sharp exclamation. The roll-top cover had been thrust up to its fullest extent--and the same glance showed him that his red-leather notebook, which he distinctly remembered tossing on to the desk, was gone! With a cry of pure rage, he darted to the door of the study.

"Bates!" he shouted. "Bates! Come down here! At once!"

The butler heard, and hurried to obey the urgency in Simon's voice. He found the tanner standing before his desk and examining its rather inadequate lock.

"We've been burgled," announced the victim grimly. "It just needed that to round the night off nicely."

"Burgled! Robbed! Surely not, sir!"

"Don't talk like an idiot! Get your torch. We'd best have a look around, though there's no doubt the dirty devil got what he came for! Where were you while--"

"What is it _now_?" interrupted a plaintive and sleepy voice from the doorway. "Another fire?"

Varr wheeled toward the speaker and saw Miss Ocky regarding him with wondering eyes. She had slipped on a vivid negligee, a trophy from some Eastern bazaar, and she made a most attractive picture in the soft, kindly light from the lamp as she stood there looking her inquiry at one and the other of the two men. Simon was somehow glad to see her, for much as he disliked her, he admitted her level-headed shrewdness and welcomed the help of another brain in coping with a situation that was rapidly getting beyond him.

"Some one has broken open my desk and taken the notebook in which I keep memoranda of formulas and experiments," he explained gruffly. "I don't miss anything else. It must have been done within the last few hours."

"I see. I thought I detected a note of tragedy in the way you hollered for Bates just now." She eyed the butler reflectively as she drew a silver case from a pocket of the negligee and lighted a cigarette. "Bates--I see you are still dressed! Where have you been for the past few hours?"

"Right in the pantry, Miss Ocky, except when I came out to let you in a while back. I heard nothing, nor no one."

She turned, as if to measure distances with her eye. "Right in the pantry," she repeated. "Fifteen yards--and two closed doors--away. Still, it's queer you heard nothing."

"I was reading a paper, Miss Ocky, and I dozed once or twice."

"Ah. That probably accounts for it. Have you found out yet how he got into the house?" She moved her shoulders slightly as she put the question. "I can feel a draught on the back of my neck, now. Something is open--in the living-room, perhaps. Did you lock up as carefully as usual this evening, Bates? Things were rather upset!"

"That didn't make any difference, Miss Ocky," he protested eagerly. "I had closed everything as usual--I had even started for bed--before the siren blew and I heard Mr. Varr hurrying out to the garage. Nothing was left unlocked."

At the first mention of the living-room, Simon had secured a small torch from a nearby stand. Together, they trooped through the door leading to the parlor, where he flashed the light on the two sets of tall French windows that gave on to a side veranda. They exclaimed in chorus at the sight of one pair ajar.

"That's that," said Miss Ocky. She took the flash from Simon, opened the window wide and turned the light on the planking of the piazza. "Nothing to be seen by this light!" She directed the beam at the fastenings of the window. "Huh! Didn't take much to force this affair! Your defenses are pretty flimsy, Simon!"

"You're not in the heart of Asia, Ocky. We don't go in much for fortifications in this country."

"Well, I could wish you did. I don't want to wake up some night and find a burglar going off with my treasures. What did you say this one took--a notebook?"

"Yes."

"What's the idea? Who wants an old notebook?"

"Exactly what I'm asking myself, Ocky." Simon sent a sideways look at the old butler as if reluctant to speak too openly. "It was full of important data relative to tanning processes. Not much of a loss to me, for I know 'em all by heart--but it might be extremely useful to any one else in the business or--or to any one who might be expecting to go into it--" His voice trailed off as if he were lost in some thought that had just struck him. "Humph!" he grunted.

"What is it?" demanded Ocky alertly.

"Nothing--nothing to be discussed now, anyway. Bates!"

"Sir?" The butler had just finished lighting the lamp on the center table and he glanced at Varr with expressionless face. "Yes, sir?"

"Stop fiddling with that lamp. There's nothing to be done to-night. And look here--I don't want this business mentioned to the other servants or any one else until I have decided just what action I shall take. Understand? Go to bed, then,--and I hope you stay there this time!"

"One moment, Bates." Miss Ocky had moved over to the table and was contemplating it with thoughtful gaze. "Simon--what sort of an implement would have forced that desk of yours? A knife, for instance?"

"Yes, that would have done the trick. It could have been slipped under the top near the lock; a slight pressure would have done the rest."

"I like a lock that is a lock," sniffed Miss Ocky.

"A matter of taste, I suppose. Bates, you know that Persian dagger of mine I've been using here lately for a paper-cutter? When did you see it last?"

"This evening, Miss Ocky."

"Sure?"

"Yes, Miss Ocky. I was straightening up in here just after you went to your room the first time, and I knocked the book you had been reading on to the floor. When I picked it up, the dagger fell out. I knew I'd lost your place and was sorry, but I couldn't do anything to find it again so I just laid the dagger down beside the book--right here." He indicated a perfectly blank spot on the table and looked mystified.

"I came down for the book just before one o'clock--couldn't seem to get to sleep," explained Miss Ocky musingly. "The dagger was not here then--but it didn't occur to me to raise the house about it. I took it for granted there was some simple reason for its being gone, and I didn't stop to look for it, as I was only striking matches to find what I wanted." She made a face. "For all I know, the burglar was right in this room at that very minute!"

"Pity you didn't run on to him," grunted Simon. "What are you suggesting, anyway?"

"I think your burglar came in here and noticed the dagger--he probably had a flash--and decided it was just what he needed in his business! He opened the desk with it, and unless he dropped it around somewhere when he was finished with it, I guess _I've_ been robbed, _too_."

"Huh. Wasn't valuable, was it?" asked Simon impatiently.

"Well, I don't care about losing it--thanks for your kind and sympathetic interest!" retorted his sister-in-law tartly. "Thank you, Bates, that's all."

"Yes, Miss Ocky." The old man bowed. "Good night, sir," he said, for the third time that night.

"I'll be off, too," said Miss Ocky, moving toward the door, where she lingered for a parting shot. "If I were you, Simon, I'd either have my locks seen to or else have my more valuable possessions nailed down. Good morning!"

She was gone before he could think of an effective retort. He occupied himself briefly in dragging a heavy chair against the broken window, then put out the lamp and went into his study. Bed seemed to make no appeal, though there was a suggestion of weariness in the way he dropped into his chair before the desk. He was mentally tired.

Who had dealt him this latest blow--a shrewder one than he had confessed to Ocky. That notebook full of formulas, the results of a lifetime of experiment and research, would be worth more than a gold mine to a competitor. There were men in the business who would pay handsomely for the picking of Simon Varr's brain! But who had known that, and turned his knowledge to advantage by the crooked way of burglary?

Two names kept bobbing up in the back of his brain. Copley was one; Graham the other. Either might have done it, or they might have entered into an unholy partnership of crime. Both knew the value of the notebook, and both had seen it in his desk that evening. Where had they been since? He had not noticed either of them at the fire; had they been robbing his desk while they knew him safely absent?

No sentiment played any part in these cogitations. He measured the possibility of his son's guilt as coldly as if the young man had been a complete stranger--or an ex-convict. Measured it, perhaps, unconsciously, by his own standards of behavior. He had done things in his time that would have made a self-respecting burglar blush.

There was a third possibility. The Monk. Simon tried to shake off that thought. There was no sense in it. Queer how anything like that masquerader's mischief-making could get under a sensible man's skin--dig its way into his brain until it became an obsession! Suppose he _had_ set fire to the tannery--was that any reason to believe he had proceeded to further activities the same night? There was not a shred of proof connecting him with the burglary.

He yielded to the fascination that the scrap of brown paper was beginning to exercise over him and drew it from the pigeonhole. He opened it and let his eye travel over the illiterate text to the threat at the end that was already known to him by heart: "Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of wrath!" Then he started violently in his chair, for he had come upon the very proof he had thought lacking.

Beneath the last line of the message a few words had been scrawled with a blunt, blue crayon and then deeply underscored for emphasis. He stared at them, his face flushing and paling by turns, his lips soundlessly shaping the ill-formed characters.

"_Behold, the bolts are loosed!_"

_IX: Simon Seeks Advice_

The discovery that his unknown enemy after first firing the tannery had then rounded off a perfect evening by burglarizing his house threw Simon Varr into a state of mental confusion. Here was a saturnalia of crime condensed into the space of a few hours. And the man's audacity was no less bewildering than his swift efficiency! Who, in this hitherto quiet township of Hambleton, had suddenly developed a brand of vicious courage that nerved him to commit arson and burglary? Simon reviewed an imposing procession of possible suspects until his brain wearied, and his wits, seeking vainly for light, were hopelessly at fault in a fog of conjecture.

It was nearly three o'clock before he laid an aching head on his pillow, it was nearly five before sleep came to him, but he was up at his usual hour and downstairs in his study by eight. Physically he was still tired, but the brief spell of slumber had at least rested his brain and cleared it against the problems of a new day.

However undeserving he might be of sympathy, mere humanity would suggest that it would be pleasanter, far pleasanter, to record that this day of all days in Simon Varr's life was peaceful and calm, but the truth is exactly the reverse. It was destined to be a day of bitterness and strife, terminating in actual violence.

The trouble began with Jason Bolt.

Lucy Varr did not descend for breakfast, nor did Ocky, who elected to depart from custom and have a tray brought up by Janet to her bedroom balcony. Simon ate his usual hearty meal with more deliberation than appetite, and had barely returned to his desk when he heard the squeal of brakes that distinguished Jason's car from its numerous fellows.

He came straight back to the study and threw himself into a chair, his round, good-humored face unwontedly grave.

"Well, Simon, here's a pretty kettle of fish!"

"There are several kettles of fish. Which do you mean?"

"Well--Billy Graham's, to commence with. He was around to see me an hour ago--"

"Was he sober?"