Chapter 9

"Do you take that seriously?" asked the big man.

"Do you take me for a blasted fool?" snapped Simon irritably.

"Yes," said Mr. Krech simply. "Just the sort of blasted fool I would be in your place, or that nine out of ten men would be. Because the threat is directed at _you_, you scoff at it and ignore it."

"What are you getting at?"

"This: the fellow who wrote that note and does his stuff in a monk's costume has all the earmarks of a maniac. Maniacs are dangerous. If he has made use of this old local legend to further his purpose, he may go ahead with it to the bitter end--your bitter end! Until he is laid by the heels, why not play safe and stay home after dark?"

"Humph. I'm likely to, aren't I?" jeered Simon.

"No, you aren't, because, to use your own expression, you're 'a blasted fool,'" conceded Mr. Krech cheerfully. "Anyway, if you happen to get bumped off, don't come around haunting me on the score that I didn't warn you!" He smiled benignly. "Ta-ta!"

The tanner choked back an oath. For some time after the loud groaning of the stairs beneath his visitor's tread had died away, he sat at his desk and scratched his chin gently as he meditated. The striking of the clock in the outer office recalled him to more present matters. It was understood that if he did not return home by a certain hour in the middle of the day he would lunch downtown, and the hour was now past. On these occasions he usually walked to the Hambleton Hotel, the town's one hostelry, where he could regale himself on a couple of heavy sandwiches and a cup of doubtful coffee.

Thither he now betook himself, frowning on the way as he noted some condemnatory expressions on the faces of those he passed on the street. He knew that public opinion was antagonistic to him in the matter of the strike and his treatment of Maxon--the Hambleton _News_ had run a nasty paragraph about the last--and the censure irritated, if it did not move him.

He had no sooner entered the dingy lobby of the hotel than his eye rested on his son, Copley, seated at a rickety writing table and industriously scribbling on a pad of cheap paper. Varr strode across to his side and addressed him curtly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Living here," returned the young man, glancing up but making no move to rise. He met his father's angry glare coolly. "More convenient to my job."

"Your job!" echoed Simon derisively. "What mental incompetent has employed _you_?"

"Barlow, the editor of the _News_. I'm a reporter now."

"Humph. Why?"

"For ready money, naturally, until I can get something good."

"Am I to understand you have left my roof?"

"Absolutely. Left it last night, and returned for clothes and a few personal belongings this morning. You piled it on a bit thick last evening--too thick. I've quit."

"Saved me the trouble of throwing you out!" said Simon between his teeth. "What did you tell your mother?"

"The truth. I didn't intend to, but I found Aunt Ocky had overheard our little chat and had told her we'd had a holy row. Sorry."

"Blast your Aunt Ocky!"

That did not seem to call for a reply and Copley made none. After a few seconds of silence he raised his pencil suggestively.

"Speaking as a prominent citizen, Mr. Varr, what have you to say regarding the opening of the new sewer in State Street?"

"Nothing--except that I hope you'll fall into it!" said his father with asperity, and walked away.

Copley wrote an item on another sheet of paper. "Among those lunching at the Hambleton Hotel yesterday was Mr. Simon Varr, of the Varr-Bolt Tanneries. He did not tip the waiter." He cocked his head at a critical angle and contemplated the last six words before reluctantly obliterating them. Discretion must be his watchword, he told himself, and a job is better than a jest.

Simon finished his meal and returned to the office, noticing already the premonitory symptoms of the mild indigestion that habitually followed the greasy cooking of the hotel chef. He found his insurance man waiting for him and spent two tedious hours over an inventory and proofs of loss before he could rid himself of the fellow--and sped his going with a curse because the broker warned him the insurance company would certainly cancel their existing policies if they got wind of an incendiary.

That reminded Simon of the footprints in the tannery yard which he had wished to examine by daylight. He had intended to show them to that chap Krech, but Jason had spoiled things by hurrying him off to his silly lunch. He descended the stairs, called Nelson to join him, and went to the end of the fence around which the fire bug had fled.

He gave the watchman a brief account of Fay's experience at the commencement of the fire, when he had actually obtained a glimpse of the incendiary at his evil work. He discussed with Nelson, a shrewd man, the possible identity of the miscreant, but they arrived at no conclusion. Together they traced the footprints from the yard around the fence and up the muddy bank of the little stream until they vanished on the firmer ground outside the premises.

"Make anything of them?" asked Varr.

"Nothing more than you do, sir; they seem to be the tracks of a large man. That friend of Mr. Bolt's could have made 'em nicely."

"Get a couple of empty boxes," directed Simon, mindful of the protective device he had used in his kitchen garden to preserve the marks left by Charlie Maxon. "Cover up two good sets of these; they may come in handy later." He studied the skies. "We'll probably have rain before morning."

"Fay won't object to that," declared the watchman, grinning. "If he had his wish, it would rain chemical fire-extinguishing fluid!"

Simon lingered to see that the work of covering the tracks was properly done, and hoped that Mr. Krech and his detective would appreciate his thoughtfulness. Then he left the tannery, climbed into his car and drove home. The strain of the night before had told on even his iron physique--and there was the mute appeal of a decanter of Bourbon that he knew would freshen his nagging spirit.

Jason's dilapidated little touring car greeted his gaze as he drove past the front of the house to the garage, and a sound of light voices came to him from the side veranda. Easy enough to guess the meaning of that, the Bolts had dropped in with their friends for tea and a chat with Lucy, who counted Mary Bolt her closest friend.

He joined them a moment later. Lucy, he saw at once, had been crying. No amount of powder or superficial gayety could conceal that fact from him. She did not look at him directly, and her voice was frigid as she introduced him to the one member of the party he had not met.

"Mrs. Krech--my husband."

Varr bowed to a tall, slender, strikingly handsome young woman with deep-blue eyes and a mass of dark red hair, who was seated beside his sister-in-law on a couch. The two were talking earnestly together until he interrupted them, as though they had taken an instant liking to each other.

"Excuse me if I don't get up," apologized Krech from the deep chair in which he was sitting. "I'm anchored."

The handsome Angora had found him, and as though to mark his approbation of another animal as fine as himself, had leaped into his lap and curled up contentedly beneath his caressing hand. Despite his words, Krech put him down and rose immediately when Simon indicated that he did not propose to join them. He followed the tanner into the house and accosted him in the hall.

"I'd like to see the window where that burglar got in last night," he said. "Got a minute to show me?"

"Very well. In this way." They went into the sitting room and Varr spoke on the way of his recent activities in the tanning yard, a piece of foresight that Krech instantly applauded. "This is the window; it was either pushed open by main force, or the catch was pressed back by some tool."

"The last is it," announced the big man promptly. "See here where the paint has been broken near the lock and the brass of the bolt is scratched? It's a cinch to open these things--a child could do it with a penknife."

"You have sharp eyes," admitted Varr grudgingly. "I hadn't noticed those scratches on the brass."

"Oh, I've helped Creighton on his cases any number of times, and of course a man soon gets the trick of observing the least thing out of the ordinary. Smaller marks than those scratches have hanged many a man, Mr. Varr."

"What a cheerful thought!" exclaimed a laughing voice behind them. They turned and found Mrs. Krech, with Miss Ocky at her elbow. "What are you two talking about hanging for? Herman, I came in to look for you; we're just leaving."

"All right, Jean; I was just giving Mr. Varr my celebrated imitation of an expert criminologist!" He did not proceed further until he had glanced questioningly at his host, who gave permission with a nod and a shrug. "Some one broke in here last night and staged a burglary; I didn't tell you before because I didn't know how far it was being kept secret."

"Can't keep secrets in this place," grunted Simon. "I gave up trying long ago."

"Have the police any idea who did it?"

"The police! My dear Mrs. Krech, it's evident that you don't know much about country constabulary. I wasted no time telling them of my troubles. Your husband is going to place them in the hands of a friend of his."

"Peter Creighton! Is he coming here? Lovely!" She turned impulsively to Miss Ocky. "He's just the nicest man you ever met!"

"Who is he?" demanded Miss Ocky, but before she could get her answer, Varr had interrupted.

"We don't know yet that he is coming. You will surely write to him to-night, Mr. Krech?"

It was the very question the big man had been waiting for, but no one could have guessed it from his perfectly simulated surprise. His eyebrows were delicately arched as he made bland reply.

"You don't realize the value of time in these matters, Mr. Varr. Write to him! To-night! He'd have my life! No, sir, as soon as I left you this morning I went straight to the village and telephoned him. Bolt was fearfully annoyed about his lunch--he doesn't understand urgency, either."

"You got Creighton? What did he say?"

"He will handle it. He can't get here until the first train in the morning, but of course he is working on the case already."

"Working on the case?" repeated Simon impatiently. "How in thunder _can_ he? He doesn't know anything about it yet."

"Oh, yes, he does. You forget that I was able to give him a lot of information. We had a long talk--ask Bolt."

"But, what can he do in New York?"

"Plenty," said the big man airily. "You don't know him."

"May I ask again," said Miss Ocky plaintively, "who is this Peter Creighton? And what?"

"He's a dear!" said Mrs. Krech.

"He's a wonder!" said her husband.

"He's a detective," said Simon grimly.

"A detective! Coming here!" cried Miss Ocky, her eyes bright with interest. "My word, won't _that_ be jolly!"

_XI: Checkers and Chicane_

Miss Drusilla Jones, whose fortunes were temporarily bound up with those of Charlie Maxon, was a rather tall and shapely young woman, handsome in a coarse sort of way when her face was in a state of animation; in repose, its expression was marred by a too-great boldness in the big dark eyes and a suggestion of sullenness about the heavy, full-lipped mouth. She dressed well--"too well for an honest woman," was the dark verdict of ladies more reputable and less attractive--and, with a shrewdness surprising in one of her type, avoided the cheapening allure of cosmetics. She spent most of her days in bed, and earned her living, at least ostensibly, by spending most of the night at Tom Martin's dance hall, where she was kept on the payroll as an "entertainer." It was there she had first met Charlie Maxon.

In accordance with her promise to return at a later hour, she left her small house on the edge of the town shortly after four o'clock and turned her steps in the direction of the tannery, where she hoped to catch Simon Varr in his office. Her natural sullenness of expression was intensified as she walked slowly along her way, for certain friends of hers had pointed out to her that she was wasting her time. Simon could do nothing if he would, and would do less than that if he could, for the lover languishing in jail.

"Then I'll give him a piece of my mind!" she retorted. "I'm not afraid of old Varr nor any other man."

Her course led her through the heart of the town, and her exact social status could have been nicely determined by the glances of disfavor she received from certain thin-nosed, pursed-lipped matrons of Hambleton whom she passed en route. She could pretend to ignore these glances, and she did, but they aroused a fierce resentment in her breast and hardened a resolution already half formed--she was sick of this place, she was sick of these people, she was sick of her undue prominence in a small town where every one knew all about every one else, and she proposed to shake its dust from her high heels at the first opportunity that offered.

At the tannery, Nelson opened the door when he recognized her through the peephole and greeted her with a shake of the head.

"No use, Drusilla. He isn't here, and he wouldn't talk to you if he was. Said to tell you he'd no time to waste on Maxon's women."

"He did, did he!" flared the girl. "Then you can tell him for me that he's goin' to get into a peck of trouble if he don't look out!"

"I wouldn't say things like that if I was you, Drusilla," admonished the watchman. He had always liked the girl and regarded her with as much kindly tolerance as was fitting to a respectable family man. "There's talk around town already that your Charlie knows more about the fires we've had than he ought to."

"Sort of thing this town would say! How could he start a fire when he was locked up in jail? Answer me that."

"He's got friends, ain't he?"

"That's neither here nor there. You can take it from me, he don't know anything about those fires."

"You may be wrong, Drusilla, a man don't have to tell a woman all he knows. Anyway, it will be best for you and best for him if you keep your mouth shut." He looked around them cautiously. "I know what I'm talking about. Take my tip and watch your step."

"What do you mean?"

"Varr's sending to New York for a detective."

"A detective!" Miss Jones was startled, and made no effort to conceal the fact. "How do you know?"

"Mr. Bolt was here this morning with a friend of his from New York, and I heard them speakin' about it as they went out. So you tell Charlie Maxon to be a good little boy and put away his box of matches."

"He had nothing to do with those fires," reiterated Drusilla mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere. She had met country detectives and done business with them on terms satisfactory to both sides, and she held them consequently in contempt, but a detective from New York was an unknown and possibly ominous quantity. "When's he comin'?"

"Dunno. To-morrow, I'd say likely."

"Well, to-morrow's another day," remarked Drusilla easily, recovering something of her poise. "I guess he won't amount to so much! I'm obliged to you just the same for tipping me off. Drop in at Martin's one of these evenings and have one on me--he's serving a pretty good brand just now."

"Don't you try to vamp me, Drusilla," grinned Nelson. "I'm a decent married man."

Miss Jones tossed her head and strolled away.

She quickened her step presently as she decided on a course of action that appealed to her restless, rather adventurous nature. She had played with this same idea previously, but had lacked the animus to put it through. Nelson, with his good-natured hint about a detective from the city, had supplied that.

She went straight to the dance hall, closed at this hour to its nocturnal patrons, where she knew she would find Tom Martin in the office back of the main room. He was there as she expected--a keen-eyed, sharp-featured little cockney whose history from the time he disappeared from London in a fog to the day when he emerged in this unlikely corner of the great United States would have made a thrilling story--particularly to the English police! Through the open door of his office he was keeping an eye on the activities of several waiters who were cleaning up the dance hall and straightening the small round tables where "only soft drinks" were served, and he looked up to welcome his visitor with a nod of surprised recognition.

"'Ello, Drusilla. Wotcher doin' 'ere at this time o' dye?"

Miss Jones had two wants and voiced them promptly.

"Give me a quart of rye, Tom, and a couple of knock-out drops."

Mr. Martin jumped in his chair and shot a nervous glance at the men in the outer room. "The rye's all right--you've got some wiges comin' ter yer an' I'll take it out o' them. But I don't know nothin' about them other things, Drusilla. Wot are they?"

"Don't try the baby-innocent act on me, Tom! I want some knock-out drops, same's you put in the beer of that drummer from the city last Tuesday night--and I mean to have 'em!"

Hers was a carrying voice, and she was speaking with fearful distinctness. A visible shudder ran through Mr. Martin's slender frame as he sprang to his feet and hurriedly shut the door.

"All right, Drusilla, you can have 'em--but fer the luv o' Mike don't tell th' blinkin' world abaht it! Wotcher want 'em for?"

"What you don't know won't hurt you," responded the girl.

That gave him pause, but in the end she had her way after some cajolery and a few loud threats. She left the premises with a paper parcel in her hand and the wished-for pellets in her bag.

Her house was not far removed from the police station, in the rear of which was the small square building that served as a lockup for such casual unfortunates as were not of a quality to be sent to the county jail. Here Charlie Maxon was incarcerated, his quarters consisting of a small room with a grille door and a barred window too high for anything but light and ventilation. The only additional deterrent to his escape was to be found in the person of a nondescript elderly man who received a dollar a day from the town funds to act as jailer when the lockup was in use. His name was Moody, his chief characteristic the determined grouch he had cherished since the advent of prohibition.

He was seated on the stone steps of the jail, smoking a small but powerful pipe, when Drusilla Jones appeared from the direction of her house. She bore a basket in one hand, its contents scrupulously covered with a white napkin. It was about six o'clock.

"Good evening, Mr. Moody!"

"Hullo."

"I've brought a few things I've cooked myself for Charlie's dinner," she informed him. "Want to look 'em over?" She put down the basket and whipped off the napkin, replacing it when the jailer had cast a gloomy eye over the contents and signified his satisfaction with a nod. "Come and unlock the door so I can give it to him, there's an old dear!"

The old dear arose grumbling and proceeded to obey, pulling the door key from his pocket. She followed him into the building, where their advent was hailed with joy by the prisoner, upon whose hands time was already beginning to hang heavy.

"That you, Drusilla? Say--that's fine! Twenty-five cents a day is the food allowance in this jail, and nineteen of that is grafted by some one before it turns into grub." He accepted the basket from Moody, who promptly relocked the door of the cell. "Get a chair, Drusilla, and we can talk while I polish off this dinner."

"No, you don't," corrected Moody. "What do you think this is--a hotel? You can have five minutes, young woman, an' then out you go!"

He went back to his doorstep and resumed his pipe. He might or might not be within earshot; Drusilla could not determine which and she dared not take chances. Fortunately she had guarded against such a contretemps as this by providing a second line of communication, and after chatting loudly with her _vis-a-vis_ through the bars of his cell she suddenly dropped her voice and whispered swiftly:

"Bottom of the basket. A note. Read it!"

He registered his perfect comprehension by an eloquent wink the while he discoursed long and loudly upon more innocent topics. They exchanged sally and quip through the forbidding grille until a warning grumble from the doorstep marked the expiration of the five minutes and the end of their interview.

"'Night, Charlie. See you again soon!"

"'Night, Drusilla--and thanks. If you run into old Varr, give him a bust on the head for me!"

"Hush, Charlie--you shouldn't talk that way! Should he, Mr. Moody?" she added brightly to Cerberus as she passed him. "I'm always telling him he talks too much and doesn't mean half what he says."

"Every one talks too much except me," declared the disappointed disciple of Bacchus. "I only talk when I'm drinkin', and I haven't said a word for months and I haven't been what you might call loquacious for some years."

"Charlie knows where to get liquor," suggested Drusilla, quick to seize this happy opportunity to titivate the jailer's thirst. "Make him get you some!"

"On your way!" said Mr. Moody virtuously--but thoughtfully.

Charlie Maxon, hearing their voices and sure that he was unobserved, delved rapidly into the bottom of the basket at some cost to a custard pie that recklessly intervened. He discovered a quart of rye which he promptly thrust into concealment beneath the single blanket on his narrow cot, a half dozen excellent cigars that he stored in a pocket of his vest, and an envelope that contained two white pellets and a hastily-written note.

The latter he carried nearer to the window and read its contents hurriedly; a soundless whistle relieved his emotions when he had finished its perusal. He was briefly pensive.

"Well--why not?" he demanded of himself finally. "She's not such a bad looker--and she's sure got a brain!"

He secreted the letter inside his shirt, proposing to destroy it at the first opportunity, then settled himself to the tranquil enjoyment of Drusilla's dainties quite as if no weightier matter than her pastry portended. A hearty eater always, he did not desist until the last fragment of the damaged pie concluded his repast. Then he went to the door of his cell, stuck his head between the bars and hailed the seated figure of his personal attendant.

"Wotcher want?" asked Moody, grudgingly coming to his call.

"Thought you might like a cigar," explained his prisoner, poking one through the grille. "Smoke 'em, don't you?"

"When I c'n get 'em," admitted the jailer, and regarded this one with the dark suspicion of a man who has been the victim of practical jokes before. "What's the matter with it?"

"Nothin'. Smoke up! Gimme a match, will you?"

"You ain't supposed to smoke in your cell," objected Moody, but produced the match and lighted both their cigars. "However, I guess you won't tell the Chief of Police if I don't!"

"No fear. You're a good sport, Moody. I always knew that."

"Fine cigar," commented the jailer critically.

"Leave it to Drusilla. You can bet she helped herself from the best box Tom Martin has."

"Women are useful when they provide a man with good tobacco, but in other ways they can get you into a mortal lot of trouble. Take it from me, Charlie, and steer clear of 'em."

"I guess you know your way around, eh, Moody?"

"You can tie to that. Frinstance, if you knew as much as me you never would've got into this jail."

"I expect you're right. You've got a head on your shoulders!"

"Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody some good," reflected the jailer complacently. "I'm gettin' a dollar a day because you coveted your neighbor's tomatoes and then had no more sense than to shy one at him. Missed him, too, they tell me."