Chapter 8

"Of course he was, don't be too unjust, Simon! Graham doesn't make a practice of drinking, and if he took one or two too many last evening, as he admits he did, I for one don't blame him. That confounded pup Langhorn told him what he overheard--"

"I know--I know all that. I have fired Langhorn and I have fired Graham." Simon's jaw tilted truculently. "What about it?"

"That's what I've come to ask. What about it? If you keep on at this rate, another week will see you down to bed-rock--reduced to one partner and one idle tannery. And some one seems determined to burn that up piecemeal!"

"I didn't see you there last night."

"No, thank goodness, I was in blissful ignorance of our latest trouble. We have guests, you know. Mary and I took the Krechs to Barney's road house just to give them a taste of night-life in Hambleton. Mr. Krech and Barney spent the evening extemporizing cocktails--"

"I'm not interested in your orgies. What did Graham have to say this morning?"

"Nothing that wasn't mighty decent, all things considered. He is sorry to go after all these years, but he doesn't question your right to fire him. He prefers to discuss the details attendant on his quitting with me--you have no objection?--and he is writing to Rochester to tell the Thibault crowd he accepts their offer."

"That doesn't break my heart. The sooner he gets to Rochester the better pleased I'll be."

"Oh, yes--because of Copley, I suppose, and the girl. Well--I guess Billy Graham isn't in the market for sympathy. He tells me that he is fairly familiar with the Thibault tanneries from hearsay and he is confident that he is taking them some tips that will make him solid with them from the start."

"Eh? What's that?" Suddenly intent, Simon Varr leaned forward and fixed a sharp gaze on the speaker. "What is he taking them? What did he refer to?"

"Why--nothing specific, Simon! No doubt he has picked up a score of useful tips during the time he has been associated with us. We can't stop him from giving them the benefit of his experience; that's the sort of thing you must expect when you fire a good man without any reason except that he has a pretty daughter whom you can't keep your only son away from. I must say, Simon--"

"Must you? Please try not to!"

Jason complied with a shrug of his shoulders; why waste his breath on this human lump of obstinacy?

Varr relaxed in his chair again, thinking. He ran over the events of the previous night. Graham had drunk at least enough to render him irresponsible for his impulses and actions. He had seen the notebook lying on the desk. Enough time had elapsed between his departure and the alarm of fire to have enabled him to slip down the hill and fire the tannery. He might then have returned and watched his opportunity to break into the house. Yes--it was possible, physically, for him to be the guilty man. "Taking something valuable to Thibault?" The notebook? Would he have the brazen nerve to make such a remark if he were the thief? Yes! If Graham were the man, that identified him with the masquerading monk, and _he_ had nerve enough for anything!

It struck Simon--while his partner waited in glum silence--that it would be interesting to learn where Graham had been on the night before after leaving him in the study. To put it more bluntly--had the man an alibi? How did one go to work to learn such things, short of asking open questions? Varr shelved the problem temporarily, though an idea in the back of his head was slowly shaping itself into the answer. He would do nothing decisive until he had weighed things more carefully and was sure--

"How shall we replace Billy Graham?" said Jason Bolt, having fidgeted in silence to the limit of his patience. "Have you any one in mind?"

"Certainly I have!" snapped his partner, who had given not a thought to the matter until that moment. "D'you suppose I'd fire a man unless I saw my way free of that difficulty? There's old Maple; let him take hold when he is hungry enough to come back to work."

"Maple? A good, steady man, Simon, but not the sort I'd pick. Not a scrap of initiative. He knows enough to do just what he's told to do, but--"

"That's the sort of man I want."

"And what you say goes! Don't trouble to point that out; I have heard it before. Do you mind, however, if I mention another man whom I've been thinking might fit in?"

"Well--who?"

"Copley. Your son. Don't look as if a snake had bit you! I think he would make up in intelligence anything he lacks in experience. He is quick to learn--"

"You may leave him out of your calculations."

Jason started at the tone of the remark, glanced at Varr's set face and shot at him an impulsive question.

"Simon! You haven't gone and quarreled with him _too_, have you?"

"Never mind that."

"By thunder, you _have_!" Jason Bolt regarded his partner open-mouthed. Then he added, half to himself: "'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!'"

"What's that?" snapped Simon. The quotation had jarred on him, something in its phraseology savoring unpleasantly of the anonymous message he had received. "I'm a long way from being mad!"

"You can't prove it by me," said Jason rudely. He came to his feet. "I'll be getting back home; only blew in to talk with you about Billy." He hesitated before continuing. "By the way, Simon, are you going to be at the office this morning?"

"Very likely--yes, I shall. Why?"

"This chap who's staying with me--Herman Krech--very nice fellow--he's the broker I was speaking of to you the other day. I thought I might bring him in and introduce him to you."

"Listen to me, Jason!" Varr's face was slowly flushing with anger. "We are _not_ going to incorporate!"

"Oh--bless me, I'd practically abandoned that notion myself," said Mr. Bolt, airily mendacious. "Nothing was farther from my thoughts; I just thought I'd show him around and introduce him to you--let him see all the sights, huh? You may as well meet him; we're bound to be dining together either here or at my house as soon as our wives get their heads--"

"Bring him in by all means," interrupted Varr. The idea in the back of his head had suddenly burgeoned while his partner rambled on. "If either of you mentions the word incorporate I'll have you thrown out, but there is another matter in which he may be of service to me."

"Krech? Why, you don't even know him!"

"Well, you're going to fix that difficulty, aren't you?" Varr turned to his desk in his usual gesture of dismissal. "I'll be there at eleven."

True to his word, at a few minutes past ten Simon left home for the tannery. He would have a busy day, there, what with insurance data and other matters relative to the fire. The prospect fretted him--and it steeled his resolution to leave no stone unturned to bring the author of his troubles to book. Blast him! He'd learn that it was safer to monkey with a buzz-saw than with Simon Varr!

He stopped at the door of the office-building for a word with Nelson, who was already yawning at his post. Without any suggestion other than the promptings of good-nature, he had turned out long before daybreak to relieve the tired Fay.

"Mr. Bolt and another gentleman are in back, sir," he reported. "Just looking around. A young man was in about the insurance--said he'd be back later. Steiner was here, very curious about the fire, but I told him he'd have to see you."

"Right. You can tell Mr. Bolt that I'm upstairs. Did you or Fay look around any more in the neighborhood of those footprints?"

"Footprints? He said nothing to me--"

"True; I told him to keep his head shut. I will talk to you about that later, Nelson. There hasn't been any trouble from the strikers?"

"I haven't seen a soul, sir, but I've heard they are having a sort of a meeting this morning. There's been talk of appointing a committee to call on you and discuss things."

"There's nothing to discuss. However, I'm perfectly willing to meet a committee from them and tell them again that they'll gain nothing by their strike but trouble for themselves. You have to tell a fool the same thing over and over again before he'll believe it. Send 'em up when they come--but not more than three of 'em, I don't want a whole mob mucking up my office."

"Yes, sir. There's been a young woman askin' for you, too, sir. A girl named Drusilla Jones."

"Never heard of her." Simon, on the point of turning away, paused and looked curious. "What does she want?"

"She's been goin' around pretty steady with Charlie Maxon, sir. I guess she'll want to see you about lettin' him out."

"Humph. He's where he belongs, and I wouldn't do anything to get him out even if I could. Tell her that, and say I won't see her. Make it clear, Nelson, I've no time to waste on Maxon's women."

"Yes, sir."

The watchman had nothing further to offer, and Varr went up to his office and busied himself with the morning mail. There were more indignant demands from aggrieved customers, and the fact that Simon had expected them did not lessen their power to annoy. His face grew steadily redder and redder as he worked through the pile of correspondence.

A clock in the outer office struck eleven, and as the last loud stroke thinned to silence there came the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Jason Bolt believed in punctuality.

He entered with a cheerful greeting that suggested he had recovered some of his equanimity since his earlier talk with his partner. On his heels came his friend, a genial-looking, red-faced, smooth-shaven gentleman whose personal dimensions and displacement were such that they seemed to dwarf the small office to the proportions of a room in a doll's house. He stood well over six feet, was broad, deep-chested and bulky, but moved with a light-footed agility that argues muscle rather than fat. Simon was not a small man himself, but he felt like a pigmy as his hand disappeared into one that opened like a suitcase.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Varr," said the newcomer pleasantly, in a voice that was deep but agreeably pitched. "Bolt has been showing me the whole works, here. You have a fine proposition."

"I think so," concurred Simon with mild gruffness. "Jason is dissatisfied with it, but it suits me very well."

"So I have gathered from talking with him," said Mr. Krech, genially. "No doubt you are right--at any rate, I seldom try to advise other men in respect to their own business." He took a huge cigar-case from his pocket and opened it, then offered it to Varr and Jason Bolt. "No? You don't mind if I do, though?" He carefully lighted a mammoth cigar and sat down on a chair toward which Simon had waved. "I see that some one else is dissatisfied with the tannery, too. You must have had a narrow escape from being burned out last night."

"Ah, yes! We have had some little trouble with a number of malcontent employees. I am gradually weeding out the more noxious of them--eh, Jason?" Mr. Bolt palpably winced. "In fact, Mr. Krech, there have been developments in connection with that fire, and certain other occurrences, that put it in my mind to ask something of you."

"Bolt told me that you wanted to see me about something," said the big man heartily as the tanner paused to choose his words. "If I can be of service to you I'll be delighted."

"Thanks. It's really a very simple matter. You see, I have decided to have this fire--and those other occurrences--investigated, competently investigated, and their perpetrator punished to the full extent of the law. Unfortunately, the local police are utterly incompetent to handle a case of this kind, and I don't think much more of the County officials. It finally struck me that a private detective agency might do the trick. But I don't know any such concern and I don't feel like employing one blindly, so I thought I'd take advantage of your coming from New York and ask you to hunt up a responsible agency for me."

"A private detective!" exclaimed Jason Bolt. "Why, Simon, what has happened to require any such critter as that? What are those other occurrences you speak of?"

"I'll tell you--I'll tell you in good time. First, I want to hear if Mr. Krech is disposed to assist me. He has facilities in New York for locating a reputable agency, no doubt."

"I don't have to go to New York for that," answered the big man promptly. "You've come to the right place for information, Mr. Varr. I know a very capable chap." He turned to Jason, and added slowly: "We don't talk much about it, as you can imagine, but possibly you have heard that my wife's brother was murdered under rather curious circumstances; a cold-blooded crime if ever there was one."

"I've heard Mary speak of it," admitted Bolt.

"Well, the detective I have in mind is the man who cleared up that mystery." His gaze shifted back to Simon. "Of course, knowing him and getting him are two different things. He's usually up to his ears in one thing or another. If it's not too confidential, and you want to give me an idea of your problem, perhaps it would help me interest him. At least, if it is out of his line, he will recommend some one else who'll be competent to handle it for you."

The tanner gagged a bit over the idea of any private detective rejecting his patronage, but after all he wanted a good man and not the first Tom, Dick or Harry to offer his services so he gulped down the tart comment that had sprung to his lips.

"There's nothing confidential about it--short of its getting into the papers and giving my show away. I've got to tell Jason about it, and if you care to listen I'll be glad of your opinion on the whole crazy business. It began with--"

He got no farther for the moment. There was a scuffling and shuffling of feet from the direction of the stairs, and Nelson appeared in advance of three rather ill-at-ease visitors. They were dressed in workmen's clothing and carried their caps respectfully in their hands.

"A committee from our strikers," explained Varr curtly to his partner. He stood up. "Don't bother, Jason, stay here with Mr. Krech while I talk to them in the outer room. It'll take me about two minutes to get rid of 'em!" he added grimly.

He strode from the room and met the approaching delegation halfway across the main office. From where they sat, Jason Bolt and his friend could watch the ensuing proceedings and hear every word that was spoken.

Varr was instantly wrathful at discovering in the gray-haired individual who turned out to be their spokesman an old employee whose name was Maple, the very man he had spoken of to Bolt as possibly replacing Graham as manager. He could almost hear Jason chuckling over the fact as he snapped a curt command at the fellow to state his business.

"We've come for a talk with you, Mr. Varr," began Maple soberly, "because there's some of us who feel that this strike has gone on too long as it is. It's bad for us, sir, and it must be bad for you and Mr. Bolt. We three have been appointed to call on you gentlemen and ask you to look into the whole situation with us. There's points on which we've been unreasonable, maybe, and there's others where we think you've been unreasonable. If we give in a bit and you give in a bit perhaps we can reach some sort of a compromise that'll let us all go to work--"

"Stop! I've been waiting for that word compromise! You can go back and tell your crowd that this strike isn't going to be settled--it's going to be _broken_!" Varr smashed one fist into the other as he roared his defiance. "Go back and tell 'em! Tell 'em I'll watch every man of you starving in the gutters before I'll be driven into doing what I've said I won't do. Go set some more fires in the tannery; you'll soon find that'll get you nowhere but in jail!"

"We've set no fires, Mr. Varr," answered Maple with dignity. "On the contrary, sir, the three of us here now were amongst them who helped to put out the fire last night. You've no call to blackguard honest men. As for starving in the gutter, sir--"

He stopped speaking to reach in his pocket and draw out a few small bills, which he held up for Varr's inspection, and at a nod of his head, his two companions also produced money from their trousers. Simon glanced at it and sneered.

"Found a union to support you, eh?"

"No, sir, not that. To tell the truth, Mr. Varr, there don't seem to be any good reason to tell you where this came from, or how it came, but we feel in duty bound to say it brought with it a message for you."

"A message? For me?" Simon repeated the phrases quickly, his mind alert for new alarms. "Well, what was it? Get it out!"

"We were told to tell you that while we held out against you we could count on getting money for our needs from the 'Black Monk'."

"The Black Monk!" Simon fell back a pace as he whispered the words. "The Black Monk! What--what do you mean?"

"That's all we can tell you, sir." Maple fumbled with his cap and coughed nervously. "We'll ask you again, sir, as in duty bound to our comrades, if you'll help us come to a compromise--"

"_No_!"

The committee shrank back from the explosive quality of the monosyllable that was like a door slammed in their faces.

"Very well, sir, then we'll wish you good day--and a kinder heart for your fellowmen."

"Stop!"

Sheer anger at this latest evidence of his enemy's activity had swept Simon Varr beyond self-control, beyond reasoning and beyond decency. He launched upon the stolid committee a rushing torrent of insult and invective. The veneer of dignity that had come to him with wealth and position slipped from him, as the old skin slips from a snake, and he went back to the vocabulary of his youth for terms sufficiently blasphemous and obscene to express his opinion of the strike, the strikers, the committee and its sponsors. He did not stop until his breath failed and left him panting.

The two men in the small office listened to that tirade in embarrassed silence. Jason Bolt fidgeted in his chair and grew pink to the tips of his ears. Herman Krech, as became a tactful bystander, gazed at the floor, stared at the ceiling, studied the glowing tip of his cigar, peered through the grimy window at the uninspiring view of Hambleton and generally comported himself with discretion and _savoir faire_. Inwardly, he was wondering if he had any right to inflict this termagant tanner on his unsuspecting friend, the detective. Not by a jugful, unless the mutt had a mighty interesting case--

"I think," said Simon Varr, reentering his office, "I think I have now made my position clear to those fellows!" A grim satisfaction was apparent in his voice and bearing, the usual aftermath with him of an outburst of temper. "Now we can resume where we left off."

"What was that stuff about a monk?" demanded Jason.

"That's part of my story. When Mr. Krech has heard it, he will tell us if it is likely to interest his friend." He sent a questioning glance at the big man. "By the way, what is his name?"

"Peter Creighton," said Mr. Krech.

_X: Creighton Takes the Case_

Jason Bolt and Herman Krech listened to Varr's narrative in rapt silence. The former's interest was mixed with amazement, the latter's with enthusiasm. As the tale progressed the big man hitched farther and farther forward in his chair, his expression that of a little child who proposes to miss no syllable of a fascinating fairy story. He considered himself something of a connoisseur in crime, did Mr. Krech, thanks to a few experiences with his friend Creighton, and a subject that had always made an appeal to his imagination was now become the hobby of his every idle moment. Although he would not have abandoned a lucrative business to take a position on Creighton's staff of operatives, it was his secret grief that the detective had never recognized his ability to the extent of offering him one.

He was beaming with delight by the time Varr had ended his curt account of his tribulations, and his distaste of the tanner's personality had been temporarily forgotten.

"Gee Joseph, Mr. Varr!" he burst out. "You really ought to congratulate yourself! You've been the victim of the prettiest piece of persecution I've ever heard of!"

"Thanks," returned Simon without enthusiasm.

"He seems to be waltzing all around you and jabbing you just where it will hurt the most, and yet he's clever enough to evade capture and even to keep you from guessing his identity. Why not make a list of your known enemies and check them off one by one?"

"Too many of 'em," retorted Simon briefly.

"Ah, yes--I should have thought of that!" A muffled snort from Jason marked his appreciation of the seemingly ingenuous jibe. "If a man's known by the enemies he makes, I should say this fellow was a lasting credit to you. You'll miss him when he's gone."

"I'll miss him with pleasure. But when is he going? D'you think this is a problem that will appeal to Mr. Creighton's critical taste?"

"It will have my hearty endorsement, anyway, when I submit it to him. He likes crooks with imagination, I know, and this bird has it. I wish you had brought along that note you got from him."

"I did." The tanner reached into his pocket and drew forth the message that he had found in the deft stick. "I decided to fetch it as long as I intended to tell you the story."

Krech accepted the bit of brown paper, carefully taking it by the tip of one corner and opening it with a shake. He held it out for Jason to read, but drew it back from the other's outstretched hand.

"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!"

"Fingerprints?" grunted Varr skeptically.

"It's a possibility we must consider," insisted the big man firmly. "I don't believe there are any, sort of pity if there were."

"Pity, eh? What do you mean, pity?"

"It would cheapen our crook. I don't believe he's the lad to leave clues." He added calmly, "Hush, now, and let me read this carefully."

Simon gasped and hushed. He consoled himself with the reflection that this human mastodon probably knew what it was about.

"Well, I'm hanged!" blurted Jason Bolt, when he had perused the missive. "What do you make of it, Krech?"

"Why, there are a number of curious features about it that leap to the eye," said Mr. Krech blandly. "I will call them to Creighton's attention, of course." He stepped to Varr's desk, helped himself to an unused envelope and inserted the note. "How many other people have touched this paper besides yourself, Mr. Varr?"

"Not a soul. I've shown it to no one."

"Oh, that's fine." He picked up a clean letterhead and held it out to the tanner. "Ink your thumbs and forefingers on that pad there and then press them on this." He waited until Simon had gruntingly obeyed. "Good. These will identify your marks on the message, and if there are any others they will be the sign manual of our crook."

"How can you be sure?" argued Jason. "It's obviously an old scrap of paper and a dozen people may have handled it before the crook got hold of it."

Mr. Krech regarded his friend with a look of dignified annoyance.

"There's always some one around to make difficulties," he said severely. "You're a fly on the wheel of progress."

"Excuse me for living," begged the fly meekly. Then he looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Hello. Our wives, Krech, our wives--! We're late for lunch already! Drop you anywhere, Simon?"

"I have my car." The tanner glanced at Krech. "You'll notify Creighton?"

"With pleasure. I'll keep these for him, too."

He placed the envelope containing the message and the fingerprints in his pocket, then moved to follow his friend, already on his way to the stairs. He paused at the door, however, and came back rather hesitatingly. "Say--just how did that couplet run?"

Simon made a wry face, but obligingly recited:

"_'Who meets the monk when dusk is nigh Within the fortnight he shall die.'_"