The Monk of Hambleton Part 29

"Only one person sir. A woman. It just slipped out--"

"And probably did no harm. Don't get worried. Who was she?"

"A girl named Jones, sir, Drusilla Jones." An expression akin to horror dawned in Nelson's eyes as he grasped for the first time the significance of what he was about to add. "She had been keeping company with a fellow named Charlie Maxon, who was put in jail a few days ago by Mr. Varr--and last evening Charlie drugged his keeper and never was missed until this morning!"

"My sainted aunt! What time did he break jail?"

"Moody--the keeper--says the last thing he remembers was the clock strikin' ten."

"Krech, do they know what time Varr was murdered?"

"Approximately at eleven."

"Let's hope for his sake that Charles has a whacking good alibi! Have you told the police about your talk with Drusilla Jones?"

"No, sir, they haven't been near me yet."

"Oh. Well, eventually you will find yourself having a heart-to-heart talk with a man named Norvallis. Don't fail to tell him about your chat with the lady--and you might just say that I advised you to repeat it to him, will you?"

"Why, yes, sir. Do you think that Charlie Maxon--?"

"No embarra.s.sing questions, please! Now I'd like to have a look about, if I may."

"Yes, sir." Painfully anxious to escape any suspicion of withholding more information, Nelson hurriedly related the incident of the previous afternoon when he and Simon Varr had examined the tracks left by the incendiary. "There was some light rain last night, sir, but those I put the box over will be plain enough."

"Good. Show us where they are at once."

The watchman obeyed with alacrity.

Together the three men stood by the edge of the sluggish little brook and contemplated the tracks that Nelson indicated. The detective did not even take his eyes from them as he accepted and mechanically lighted one of the cigars that Krech offered his companions.

"Big feet!" said Krech presently.

"That's what Mr. Varr remarked yesterday, sir."

"Um." Creighton slowly came out of his trance. He pointed to a small piece of wood that lay down by the water's edge. "Krech, will you step down there and get that for me? I want to look at it."

"Sure." Astonished but amiable, the detective's willing a.s.sistant strode to the object indicated and retrieved it handsomely. His astonishment increased when Creighton, after turning it over two or three times in his hands, suddenly pitched it into the water. "Don't like it?"

"No. That's all I want here just now."

They returned to the office building, where Creighton patiently questioned Nelson at some length about the various phases of the strike. It was not until they had left the tannery and were walking back up the hill that Krech was able to put an eager question.

"What was the racket with that piece of wood?"

"That was a stunt to cover my real interest from the watchman. No use letting the whole world in on what I'm thinking about."

"You didn't fool him any more than you did me. Please explain why I'm going home with over an inch of mud on my expensive shoes."

"I wanted you to make a set of tracks alongside those of the incendiary. I didn't want to ask you right out loud to do it, so I asked you to get me that bit of wood. When you did so, you left a very nice set of footprints parallel with his. Thus I was enabled to compare them, as were you, if you happened to think of doing so."

"Well, I didn't! Why should I?"

"Suppose you were a small man about to commit a crime and wished to disguise yourself past recognition. What would you do?"

"Make myself look like a large man," said Krech slowly.

"Exactly. Suppose again that you were an educated man about to write an anonymous, threatening letter. How would you go about doing that?"

"I'd use a typewriter to conceal my handwriting. I'd sign the thing in an awkward scrawl." Krech saw the drift of it now. "And I'd take good care to misspell a bunch of words!" he concluded triumphantly.

"That he faked illiteracy was a pure surmise, a mere possibility, until now, when it gains color from the evidence of the footprints. A mental twist that would make a small man disguise himself as a large one would make an educated man resort to illiteracy. Logical, I think."

"Very likely. But how did you get this from footprints?"

"They were too shallow. I noticed that at once, and proved it by parading yours alongside them. That fellow wore shoes as big as yours and was running to boot, but his tracks were scarcely half the depth of those you made. Get it?"

"Oh, yes," said Krech rather mournfully. "Two and two always make four when you add them up. They never run to more than three and a half for me." He sighed. "Creighton, I'd like once--just for _once_--to score a beat over you!"

"Well, you may do it in this very case," remarked his friend encouragingly. "You never can tell."

_XV: Treasure Trove_

The instant they stepped into the house they knew that the police had left it. A calm, almost holy, peace seemed to have settled upon the place, a far more fitting atmosphere considering the motionless form that lay in a room upstairs, its eyes closed and its face more reposeful than ever it had been in life. "I bring peace," wrote some long-forgotten craftsman on the blade of the dagger he had just fas.h.i.+oned, and in some measure wrote the truth.

"And I've got to stir them all up again," said Creighton half regretfully.

"Can't make omelets without breaking eggs," was the responsive plat.i.tude from Herman Krech. "I suppose you mean you're going to start in asking questions."

"Millions of 'em. I've been here just a few hours and I've barely scratched the surface of this case, yet I've learned already that Mr.

Varr had a fine bunch of evil-wishers. Where is that desk which was broken open? Do you know?"

"Yes. It's in a small study in the back of the house that he used as a sort of office, I guess. Come along and I'll show you. There's not a soul in sight and we may as well make ourselves at home."

Creighton agreed, but before they reached the study a light step on the stairs warned them that their privacy was to be invaded. Miss Ocky advanced upon them with determination, and instantly revealed that she had at least one quality in common with the inquisitive Mr. Krech.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "What have you been doing? I sent Bates to look for you a while ago and he reported you missing."

"Anything special, Miss Copley?"

"Mostly curiosity," she confessed shamelessly. "I've never seen a detective at work and I've always wanted to. I think yours must be the most fascinating profession in the world even if it's a rather sad one.

Don't you find after looking into the hearts of people and dissecting their mean little minds and motives that you grow cynical on the subject of humanity?"

"Indeed I do not," he answered earnestly. "Your question makes you sound more cynical that I ever dreamed of being. My experience is that very few persons have mean minds and motives, and they are often victims of some pressure of circ.u.mstance they can't control or resist.

I've put handcuffs on more than one poor devil for whom I've had nothing but sympathy."