The Monk of Hambleton Part 24

Just let him try--just let him try! If he dares to say a word to Lucy--if he even dares to set foot on this property--" His clenched fist crashed on the desk beside him as he abandoned himself to a very ecstasy of fury. "If he dares try that, by Heaven, I'll kill him like a dog!"

"I wouldn't," advised Miss Ocky in her quiet, hard little voice.

"Everything would have to come out in court, then, and you'd have a fearful time persuading any jury that it was justifiable." She had finished her cigarette, and since Simon's study boasted no ash-trays, she rose and went to the open window to toss the stub outside. She remained there, leaning against the cas.e.m.e.nt and breathing deep of the cool night air. "Wouldn't you rather be divorced than hanged?"

"_No!_"

"Humph. Queer tastes, you have! Well--I've kept my promise. I've told you a few straight facts and issued an ultimatum. The rest is up to you. Would you like time to consider--"

"No! Not a minute--blast you!"

"I don't blast easily, Simon. I'm to a.s.sume, then, that you reject my well-intentioned--_h.e.l.lo! What's that!_" Her voice dropped to an excited whisper as she bent her head and peered into the darkness.

The alteration in her manner penetrated through the fog of temper that had clouded his brain. He left his chair and was at her side in a bound, surmising her answer even before he snapped a swift question.

"What is it?"

"That monk--! I could have sworn--! Over there by the big silver birch--! I can't see him now. Can you make out anything?"

Side by side they leaned from the window, striving to accustom their eyes to the starlit night. A long minute pa.s.sed.

"I must have been mistaken." Miss Ocky drew a long breath. "A shadow from a swaying bough--or imagination."

"There isn't wind enough to sway a twig!" he corrected curtly. He lingered a while longer, his angry gaze continuing to search the darkness, before he drew back into the room. "It's quite likely you saw him," he muttered. "No doubt he saw you, too, and heard you--and has slunk off with his tail between his legs!" He half made to pull down the sash, then contemptuously refrained. "I'd like to get my hands on him!" His fingers curled longingly.

After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his dismissal of the subject.

She stepped back and confronted him.

"To return, then--divorce, Simon?"

"Never!" He fairly barked it.

"I know of just one thing to your credit, Simon," said Miss Ocky rather sadly, rather dully. "You do mean what you say. I must accept your decision as--final."

"You must!" The interlude had braced him. "And--what are you going to do about it?"

She shrugged her shoulders, looked at him with expressionless eyes--turned and walked quickly from the room. His sharp, sardonic laugh followed her down the hall.

"Another false alarm!"

He threw himself into his chair, mopping his brow. Some ten minutes went by before a thought occurred to him that was fortuitously antic.i.p.ated by the sudden appearance of the old butler.

"That decanter of Bourbon, Bates! Then go to bed."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

History repeated itself. He drank two gla.s.ses of the fiery liquor in swift succession. As he did so it rather staggered him to reflect that barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had stood there the night before, doing the same thing. Gad--what a day! Last night that monk had interrupted him--

That monk! He muttered the words. Had Ocky really seen him? Was he loose again on some fresh errand of crime? Had he been frightened away by their appearance at the window? Had he been frightened away _permanently_?

On the spur of a swift impulse, born perhaps of the whisky, he reached up quickly and extinguished the solitary lamp. The room was instantly plunged into darkness, through which he groped his way cautiously as he set the stage for a game of cat-and-mouse. He pushed the chair that Ocky had used directly in front of the open window and settled himself in its depths, his hot eyes staring into the night and challenging it to yield its secrets.

He moved only once during the next half-hour. That was to pour himself another drink, which he sipped slowly while he continued to watch the neighborhood of the big birch that Ocky had indicated. Would he come back? Would he? Varr waited for the answer to that, waited and waited while a murderous rage filled his breast and grew ever more intense with each succeeding mouthful of raw drink. Would he come?

Yes!

The empty gla.s.s slipped from his fingers to fall with a light thud on the carpeted floor as he slowly rose from his seat. He rubbed his eyes, quite unnecessarily, for they were now used to the dim starlight.

No possible doubt existed--the ominous black figure was _there_!

Straight and tall, it stood, exactly as he remembered seeing it at the head of the trail. Now it was on a concrete path that bisected the kitchen garden, motionless, apparently inspecting the darkened house of the man it pursued.

Stealthy as a cat, nearly as swiftly, Simon rushed from his room and out of the house by the front door. His plan was to circle the building, taking advantage of every shadow, and get as close to his enemy as he could before revealing himself. Suppose the fellow took alarm and got off to a running start? Could he hope to catch him? For the first time in his life, he wished he had a revolver.

Less than ten yards intervened between them when he finally broke cover and hurled himself furiously forward, hatred in his heart, a deep oath on his lips. At last! His fingers itched for the throat of his enemy.

It was disconcerting suddenly to realize that he had not taken his foe by surprise; his swift approach was slightly checked as he saw that the figure was facing him, watching him--waiting for him! It was still as any statue up to the very instant when he flung out his arms to seize it; then it fell back a pace and its left hand went slowly up to lift the black veil that masked its countenance.

If another emotion as strong as his hatred existed in Simon's breast, it was curiosity as to the ident.i.ty of his relentless enemy. His advance came to an almost involuntary halt as he thrust his head forward the better to distinguish the features of that face so dimly visible in the uncertain light.

Then it was his turn to step back, his arms dropping to his sides, his brain reeling from the shock as it apprehended the truth.

"_You!_" he gasped chokingly. "_You!_"

In that moment he was helpless, defenseless, mentally and physically paralyzed from sheer amazement. It was the moment for which his crafty foe had played--and won. The figure darted, forward, its right arm rose and fell. One flicker of starlight on metal, then the thud of steel driven home--

A single groan escaped the lips of Simon Varr before they were sealed in death.

_XIII: A Deduction or Two_

The eleven o'clock train from New York was commendably punctual the next morning.

Its brakes had barely ceased squealing on one side of the Hambleton platform when Miss Ocky brought her small car to a smart halt on the other. She sprang to the planking and waited for the pa.s.sengers to alight, her face reflecting the cheerful knowledge that she was looking her very best that morning in a becoming hat and a well-fitting coat and skirt of gray English tweed.

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-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses with a friendly twinkle that concealed something of their sharpness. They had an inquiring expression now as he glanced about him.

Miss Ocky did not have to be much of a detective herself to know that here was her search concluded, though no one in the world could have measured up less to her expectations. She had visualized something with large feet, a big mustache and a heavy jowl, that would descend from a smoker with a dead cigar gripped between its teeth. Silly of her, she admitted to herself as she walked over and accosted him briskly.

"Mr. Creighton, isn't it? Knew it must be. I'm Miss Copley, and if I hadn't come down for you I don't know who would!"

"Very good of you, Miss Copley." He looked not unnaturally mystified by her greeting. "I was rather expecting a friend of mine--"

"Mr. Krech? He couldn't get away from the police."

"The police!" He was startled at first, then the twinkle in his eye deepened. "Don't tell me that his sins have found him out at last!"

"I have to tell you something much more serious than that," she answered soberly. "Come along and stick that bag in the car. We can talk while I drive you to the house. To begin with, Simon Varr was found in his kitchen garden this morning--stabbed to the heart."

Peter Creighton had a fas.h.i.+on of receiving such bits of news in a little silence that gave him time to gather his wits. Miss Ocky saw that the good humor was gone from his face which was now grave and stern. He did not speak until he had deposited his bag in the tonneau of the car and seated himself at her side in the front.