Armstrong Livingston

“ Janet was perhaps the more likely of the two to commit murder—I know something of that dour Scotch temperament and its slow-burning fire that suddenly explodes into flame. She traveled with Ocky and imbibed her own share of Oriental fatalism. On the other hand, Ocky was far the cleverer of the two, there's no denying that. Hers would be the brain more apt to conceive the masquerade of the monk, the promotion of the strike, the concoction of that note with its queer phrases—'stiff-necked son of Belial', 'thunderbolts of wrath'—all that stuff. ”

“ Across the table from Varr sat his wife, Lucy, a pale, gentle soul who under happier circumstances might have retained more of her youthful freshness and beauty than she had. She appeared washed-out and bloodless, so that her sister had remarked to herself that living with Simon Varr must be not unlike associating permanently with a vampire. His own abundant vitality sapped the life-juice from those about him, leaving the desiccated bodies an easy prey to his appetite for dominance. ”

“ Simon had been afraid! And here was Leslie Sherwood expressing, not fear, but—but what?
"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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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?" ”

“ A man dressed like a monk? Wearing a mask?"
"A monk? In a mask?" The old man smiled indulgently at this quaint whimsy, which might have come more suitably from the little girl with flying pigtails whom he used to chase out of his pantry than from this sensible, middle-aged woman who was waiting with apparent seriousness for his answer. "A monk in a mask? Good gracious, no, Miss Ocky!" ”

“ Krech, abandoning his cogitations, came quickly to his side, eager to learn what this exclamation portended.
Creighton, with his habitual care to miss nothing, had not contented himself with exploring the surface of the veranda or the surface of the heavy gray carpet that covered the floor of the room from edge to edge. That finished, he had thrust his fingers between the carpet and the wood of the window-sill, holding it back with one hand while he passed his magnifying glass over the accumulation of dust and dirt and sweepings that lay in the crack. His pains were rewarded. ”

“ But I can't let Sheila in for a lot of hardship. It costs money, these days, to live in even the most moderate comfort, and all I could bring into the family treasury would be just what I could earn with my two hands—supposing I was lucky enough to find a job! It wouldn't be fair to Sheila—that's the long and short of it."
"Have you given her a chance to speak for herself?" His aunt sniffed contemptuously. "Gracious goodness, Copley, isn't there something more in life than money? Don't people think of anything else in America?" ”

“ Not many people alight at Hambleton on even the liveliest occasions, and this time a mere handful descended from the train. Among them was a middle-aged man in a dark-blue serge, a light overcoat on one arm and a heavy suitcase suspended from the other. He was compactly built without being too heavy, his smooth-shaven face wore an expression of good nature, and his eyes looked out on the world from behind tortoise-shell glasses with a friendly twinkle that concealed something of their sharpness. ”

“ Bolt—Pressure of business recalls me to New York early to-morrow morning before I can have an opportunity to see you. I am happy to say that Mr. Varr's notebook has been recovered, under circumstances which I hereby authorize Mr. Krech to describe to you. I will send it to you by messenger. I regret that I cannot name the thief, whose identity, in my opinion, will never be learned. I shall look forward to seeing you when I again visit Hambleton, which I hope to do after a short period of work and rest. Sincerely yours, Peter Creighton. ”

“ He chiefly resented Simon's attitude toward Lucy, and I couldn't blame him there. One thing led to another, and that's how we came finally to agree that the world would be a brighter little planet if Simon no longer lived on it." Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders. "The sort of thing that means nothing at the time but sounds like the very devil after a man is found murdered!"
"Yes, it does," answered Creighton gravely. "I had no idea you two had been contemplating the possible death of Simon Varr. That is not at all a pleasant bit of news." ”

“ These facts paraded through Creighton's brain and to a certain extent got ready to parade right on out of it. He could think all around a given subject, as he had described the process to Jason Bolt, and he was no fool to commit himself to half-baked hypotheses. Any theory of Copley's guilt could be countered with the same objection he made to Krech's hasty indictment of Mrs. Varr; a boy like that might strike down a man in the heat of passion but he would hardly set himself to calculated murder—or if he did, he would certainly arrange a better finish than a clumsy attempt at flight. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ It cost her no effort to avoid looking at him for the remainder of the time at the table, after which they rose in silence and parted. Simon went inevitably to his study, Miss Ocky in sisterly fashion to Lucy's room to inquire the cause of her malaise.
Two hours passed before she came down again. Two somewhat trying hours, to judge from the expression on her face, which wore a look as grim as any ever sported by Medusa. Her eyes were cold and hard as she marched promptly to the closed study door and rapped upon it—a gesture of icy politeness.
"Come in! Humph. So it's you, Ocky! ”

“ 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." ”

“ The fresh night air after the stuffy atmosphere of the jail hit him hard. It sent the potent fumes of the whisky to his head, and by the time he had reached the end of the alley he was staggering perceptibly. He vaguely realized his condition and the peril it implied, and paused for an instant at the first corner to steady himself against the wall of a building while he strove to clear his brain. He jerked off his hat to give the air access to his head, too fuddled to note that a street-lamp not ten yards away was shining directly on his face. ”