"Quite useless," answered Creighton truthfully.

He was smiling over that as he excused himself and left the room. He could not have answered the hypothetical question on a bet, for his remark had been a chance shot simply intended to annoy. No one would have been more surprised than himself to learn that this same shot would develop the qualities of a boomerang.

He was stopped in the hall by a pale, gray-haired man whose trembling hands betrayed the strain under which he labored.

"Mr. Creighton, isn't it, sir? Miss Copley told me to fix up some sandwiches and coffee in the butler's pantry. There's so many coming and going through the house she thought it would be quieter there. Mr.

Krech is there already, waiting for you, sir."

"Very thoughtful of her. What is your name?"

"Edward Bates, sir. I'm the butler."

"Oh, yes, Miss Copley spoke of you. She tells me you handled things very well this morning after Mr. Varr was found."

"I did what I could, sir. I knew the body mustn't be moved, so I kept the news from Miss Lucy--that's Mrs. Varr, sir--until the police and the doctor got here."

"Knew that, did you? Been with the family long, Bates?"

"Thirty-five years, sir. I worked for old Mr. Copley before his daughter married Mr. Varr. This is a shocking business, sir."

The conversation carried them to the pantry door, whither Bates had led them. His hand was on the k.n.o.b when Creighton checked him with a touch on his elbow, at which the old man jumped nervously.

"One moment. A butler who keeps his ears open often knows a lot that other people don't. What is your idea about this? Can you guess who murdered Mr. Varr?"

"No, sir!" His voice was almost panicky. "Indeed I can't, sir!"

"Uh-huh," said Creighton easily. Was the old fellow suffering from frazzled nerves or from hidden knowledge? Another little matter for future examination. "By the way, how is Mrs. Varr standing the shock?"

"Not too well, sir. She bore up like the brave lady she is until Mr.

Norvallis was through with her, then broke down. She's in bed. The doctor says she must keep quiet and that she'll be all right, but he's coming again this afternoon."

"Get him to give you something for yourself," was Creighton's kindly admonition. "You're trembling like a leaf. The family will be depending on you a lot these next few days. Don't let them down by getting sick."

"I won't, sir. Thank you, sir."

Creighton permitted him to escape, well satisfied with the new tone in the man's voice as he acknowledged his appreciation of the detective's interest. Creighton was never harsh with a witness, never tried to bulldoze or rattle him, until all else had failed. His policy was to put people at their ease and gentle them into talking freely, a course that was all the more facile for him by reason of his genuine sympathy and understanding and his native kindliness.

Krech was waiting patiently behind a plate piled high with sandwiches.

There was coffee, too, and before the butler left them alone, he stood an interesting decanter on the table. A shadow of gloom that overspread the big man's extensive countenance was visibly lightened by this.

"Bolt's gone home," he announced. "Mrs. Bolt and Jean must be suffering agonies of curiosity. I stayed here because I felt I might be able to help you."

"Stout fellow," said Creighton with a grin, and selected a huge sandwich. "Where do you think we'd better begin?"

"There's no use adopting that superior att.i.tude with me. You know perfectly well I come in handy at times. Say--I'm sore at Bolt! He did you out of a good job."

"Me? How come?"

"Did you notice three solid-looking citizens in the hall when you arrived? Well, that was the Board of Selectmen of Hambleton, yes, sirree, b'gosh. Bolt had told 'em you were coming and they were all het up. They don't get along with the county crowd too well, and for that reason they'd about decided to retain your services just to show they were ready to hold up their end. Then Bolt came along and blurted out that he had commissioned you to investigate the matter and they pulled their horns in like a bunch of frightened snails. If he had only kept still you could have made a deal with them."

"I see. And what makes you think I'd be guilty of the indelicacy of letting two outfits pay me for the same job?"

"'Thnot 'n 'ndelicathy," said Mr. Krech vigorously through a sandwich.

"If Bolt can have a second string to his bow, why can't you have a couple of employers?"

"Krech, you're a nice fellow with all the instincts of a crook."

"Huh. I suppose nothing could ever lead you from the narrow path of rect.i.tude?"

"No," laughed Creighton, "nothing ever could!"

"Well, it won't be the Hambleton Selectmen, anyway. The three of them were pale when they discovered how close they'd been to spending a bunch of money unnecessarily."

They finished their lunch without the loss of much time, the detective setting the pace. Once into a case, he could be as patient and plodding as an ox, but the preliminaries found him restless and impatient. He detested the inevitable gathering of ma.s.ses and ma.s.ses of information that must subsequently be pulled to pieces and mulled over until the most of it had been discarded and the important residue determined. It all took so much time--precious time that the criminal might be using to strengthen his own position.

"Let's have a look at the place marked 'X' in the picture," he suggested, rising. "Kitchen garden, wasn't it? That means the rear of the house. Let's go out this back way, through the kitchen. Sometimes it pays to look the servants over in a casual fashion before having them on the mat. They're less apt to be on guard."

He bustled cheerfully into the kitchen, asked a question or two about the exact location of the crime, and left the house by the rear door, Krech close behind.

"One Irish cook," summarized the detective when they were safely out of hearing. "Fat and fifty, good-natured and violent by turns. One rather pretty girl, a housemaid from the white cap, frightened, been crying, inclined to be hysterical. Old Bates, the butler. Last, one gaunt, tall, vinegary, nondescript female. Who's the nondescript, Krech?"

"Search me. Here's the place."

Creighton took one look and groaned. Whatever precautions the police might have taken in the first stages of their investigation had evidently been relaxed thereafter. The garden might have been the scene of a recent rodeo. A mob of curious Hambletonians had held high revel in it from one end to the other.

"That ought to be cla.s.sed as criminal negligence," snorted the detective, turning away.

"It's no use to you?" asked his friend disappointedly.

"Not for the moment. If I were nature-faking a book on Africa I could run a picture of it as an elephant's playground, but that's all." He stopped and gazed at the house long enough to memorize the windows that commanded a view of the garden. "No use going back there, now," he decided. "Chuck full of a man named Norvallis. Suppose we drop down to the tannery. Not far, is it? Where's that short cut through the woods in which Varr first saw his monk?"

"Right over here." The big man had gleaned that piece of information earlier in the day. The two men crossed the garden by its path, pa.s.sing the very spot where Simon Varr had met his tragic end, and plunged into the trail. Like the garden, this had been trampled by a mult.i.tude of feet. "What are you going to do at the tannery?" asked Krech, yielding to his favorite weakness, curiosity.

"Talk to whoever is in charge. Poke around the premises. We know the crook was there twice, on the occasions of the fires, and where a man has been he may leave a trace. It's an off-chance, but we can't neglect it."

In default of any orders to the contrary, the watchman, Nelson, was at his post behind the office building door, though he shrewdly suspected that the chief necessity for guarding the premises had ceased with their owner's death. He willingly admitted Krech, whom he recognized afar, and nodded comprehension when Creighton introduced himself and his present mission.

"Yes, sir, I've been wondering when you would get here."

"The deuce you have! You knew I was coming?"

"Yes, sir. I heard Mr. Bolt and this gentleman mentioning you yesterday as they went out of here."

Creighton turned and looked at his friend sardonically. Beneath that fixed regard Mr. Krech reddened, but stoutly defended himself.

"That was Jason Bolt," he averred. "He was full of the subject and I remember his chattering about it as we left."

"Um. Can't be helped now." He shifted his gaze to the watchman. "Do you remember if you mentioned it to any one?" Nelson hesitated, and the detective was on him in a flash. "You did! Speak out. Tell the truth, and you'll have no reason to be afraid of me or any one else.

This is a murder case, you know. It's an awful mistake to hold anything back. Who did you tell?"