The Monk of Hambleton Part 32

The phrase fairly exploded from his lips. 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 pa.s.sed his magnifying gla.s.s over the acc.u.mulation of dust and dirt and sweepings that lay in the crack. His pains were rewarded. A tiny sc.r.a.p of something that glittered in its nest of dirt caught his eye, but it was not until it lay on the tip of one finger beneath his gla.s.s that he realized the importance of his treasure trove. It was then he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Krech, craning for a better look.

"See for yourself!" Very carefully the detective pushed the object from his finger on to one of his friend's. "Don't drop it. What do _you_ think it is? Here--take the gla.s.s."

"A chip of metal, I should say. Steel. Blue steel."

"Blue steel! Where have you seen blue steel before to-day?"

"Gee Joseph! That dagger!"

"Right. Did you notice the nick in it near the point?"

"N-no. They wouldn't let me really look at it."

"Well, there was one! And this piece will fit that nick, or I'm a dumb-bell!" His eyes were dancing with delight. "Know what this means?"

"Y-yes. When the fellow slipped back the catch of this window he nicked the blade. Probably never noticed it. This piece fell to the floor and has been there ever since."

"Fell to the floor--yes. It isn't likely that it went neatly into the crack. It was swept there. Ever stop to think that the detective's best friend is the housemaid who scamps her work? Bless their little souls, they will sweep into cracks! But that isn't what I had in mind when I asked you if you knew what this means?"

"Maybe I could dope it out in time--"

"He opened this window with the dagger! Don't you get it?"

"My brain isn't hitting on all sixteen cylinders--"

"Listen. The a.s.sumption has been that he broke in here, took the dagger from the table where it lay handy, and forced Varr's desk. If he got the dagger after he entered the house, why did he then force the window with it?"

"Gee Joseph! It's a blind! He faked the breaking and entering to make it appear an outside job!"

"Yes." Creighton's face was solemn as he reclaimed his chip of steel and added the obvious corollary to Krech's deduction. "If it's not an outside job it must be an inside one. Somebody in this house took that dagger and notebook."

"I'll bet it was--!"

"Hush!" whispered the detective sharply. "Some one coming!"

_XVI: A Woman of Note_

At the warning sound of approaching footsteps, Creighton whipped an envelope from his pocket and dropped into it the precious bit of blue steel he had recovered from the crack beneath the French window; he smoothed down the carpet with a quick sideways flirt of his foot, thrust the envelope into his coat, and had barely time to hiss one further admonition into Krech's attentive ear.

"Not a word of this to a soul!"

"My lips are sealed," declared the big man.

Miss Ocky entered the room to find two gentlemen engaged in conversation close by an open window out of which they were looking while their backs were tranquilly turned to the apartment. When she said, "Excuse me!" they pivoted about as one, and the synchronic prompt.i.tude with which they uttered the same question did credit to their bringing up.

"How is Mrs. Varr?"

"Much quieter--much better, thank you." Miss Ocky lighted a cigarette with the air of one who has earned it, and dropped wearily into a chair. "I was as much upset as you must have been when she turned up there in the study. Hardly necessary to make excuses for her, is it?

She is not very strong, and she has been through enough in the last two days to wreck an Amazon."

"Doctor worried about her?" asked Krech. "Is there anything Mrs. Bolt or my wife can do? I know that's the first thing they'll ask."

"Not a thing. Please thank them both for me. I'm not a bit diffident about asking favors of people and they can be sure I'll call for help if I need it. No, the doctor isn't alarmed; he just wants her to sleep as much as possible until the worst of the mental strain is over."

A faint clatter of silverware from the dining-room aroused Krech to the pa.s.sage of time. He looked at his watch and started as if he had been stung.

"Nearly seven! I'm a ruined man! Where on earth is Jason Bolt? He was to call for me long before this."

"That's true--you're stranded, aren't you? I'd forgotten you came with him." Miss Ocky reflected briefly. "I simply can't leave here myself just now, but I'll have Janet take the car and drive you home."

"Janet?" inquired Creighton. "Drives a car, does she? Quite an accomplished lady's-maid!"

"She's a remarkable person," said Miss Ocky. "I'll tell you about her some other time. Now--about yourself! Will you let me save you from the horrors of the local hotel?"

"I was going to ask you if your invitation was still open," answered the detective hesitantly. "But under the circ.u.mstances--with your sister ill--haven't you enough trouble on your hands?"

"This house runs itself, thank to Bates," she replied quickly. She met his eye frankly. "You won't inconvenience us in the least, and I'd really be grateful if you would stay. So would my sister. With only old Bates in the house she is inclined to be nervous while--while that man is still at large."

"It is very gracious of you to put it that way," he murmured.

"That's settled," she said briskly, and stood up. "Now I'll go find Janet."

"So Janet's a remarkable person, is she?" muttered Krech when Miss Ocky had left the room. "Hers was the name I was about to mention when you stopped me. Janet Mackay knows Charlie Maxon!"

"Easy! Don't let your imagination run away with you. What conceivable motive could she have had to conspire against Varr's life?"

"I don't know." Krech grinned. "If I lay the foundation, it's up to you to erect the edifice. Brain-work, not manual labor, is my forte."

Then he added more seriously, "I've thought of something; instead of the accomplice being actually a member of the household, mightn't he be just some one who has the entree--the run of the house? Some one who could carry off the situation if he had been discovered in the living-room or study by the servants?"

"That's a good point, Krech; a very good point. I'll inquire into that possibility."

"So you're going to make this your headquarters?"

"a.s.suredly." Creighton tapped his pocket. "This decided it."

"Well--take care of yourself, won't you?" There was genuine concern in the big man's voice as he went on with specious flippancy. "Miss Copley left a dagger kicking around; let's hope she hasn't dropped an automatic or a machine-gun here and there. If Mr. Monk got the idea that you knew too much--"

"All right." Creighton reached out and gave Krech's arm an affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry; I'm an artist at taking care of myself."

"I know a darn' sight better!" growled Krech, and the honking of a horn from the driveway ended their talk. "Good-by. I'm going to pump Jason Bolt and if I glean anything I'll let you know in the morning."