_XXIV: Beyond the Stars_

The next two hours for Peter Creighton were more like a nightmare than a nightmare itself. First he aroused Bates and startled the old man with the news of Miss Ocky's illness, and ordered him to call Lucy Varr and suggest that she go immediately to her sister. He could not bear the thought of Ocky sitting there alone with hideous memories of the past and fearful doubts of the future. Then he ran to the garage, jumped in the car and drove madly through the night to the home of Doctor Joliffe. The physician was an elderly and experienced man long-practiced in the art of turning out promptly for these midnight emergencies, and he was pulling on his trousers almost before the door-bell had ceased to ring, but to the anguished gaze of the detective he resembled nothing more than a languid snail with white whiskers. It seemed as if they would never get back to the house.

They finally did, and Joliffe took competent charge of the situation.

Creighton, banished peremptorily, went into his room, extinguished the lamp, and sat down on the edge of his bed in the dark to await a verdict from the doctor. At each side of him his fingers gripped the corner of the mattress tensely.

He had not waited thus above fifteen minutes when he heard a familiar, heavy tread in the hall outside. His door was unceremoniously flung open and the s.p.a.ce filled by a huge form.

"Creighton--you in here?"

"h.e.l.lo, Krech. What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Haven't been sleeping well lately. Got up to smoke a cigar, looked out my bedroom window and saw this house lighted up. What's doing?"

"Miss Copley is seriously ill--perhaps--dying."

"The deuce!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Krech, startled. He fumbled in his pocket, produced a match and struck it. "Mind if I light the lamp?" But the flickering flame of the match showed him a face so white and drawn that he caught his breath in sudden realization of the truth. He abandoned his idea of lighting the lamp and fumbled his way to a chair near the foot of the bed. "So--you _know_!" he said quietly.

"Yes," admitted the detective wearily. "But how did _you_?"

"I tumbled to it the night you went to New York," answered Krech, his voice anything but happy. "I didn't go home after I left you at the station. Came back here. You hinted something might happen if you went away and gave it a chance, and I didn't see why it shouldn't happen right away. I hoped the monk would turn up again; had a notion that my head would feel better if I could once get my hands on that wire-stretching humorist.

"I kept carefully out of sight in the woods and settled down at a point where I could watch both the kitchen garden and the spot where we'd last seen the monk. I waited three hours. If patience and perseverance make a good detective I was the best in the world that night.

"The reason I waited so long was that I was interested in a lighted window--Miss Ocky's. She was keeping pretty late hours, talking to Janet Mackay, I recognized her tall, thin shadow as it occasionally fell on the blinds, and you know I had already suggested that there was something dubious about Janet because of her acquaintance with Charlie Maxon.

"That light didn't go out until three in the morning. A few minutes later I saw some one slip out the back door of the house and hurry across the garden to the trail. Janet! It was brilliant moonlight, you'll remember, and I recognized her at once.

"I followed her, keeping a cautious distance behind. Lost her once when she vanished from the trail into the woods, but she came back a minute or two later with a bundle under her arm that she had retrieved from some hiding-place. After that she took a bypath leading downhill in the direction of that poisonous little brook which runs through those meadows after pa.s.sing the tannery.

"I watched her as she knelt down on the bank of the stream, weighted her bundle with a couple of rocks and hove it as far out as she could into the water. She stood watching the bubbles break above the spot where it disappeared, then turned and marched away erect as a grenadier and calm as a cuc.u.mber.

"I let her go, of course. My interest was centered in that stuff she had sunk, and I scurried around until I found a long pole. Then I started dredging operations that would have been a credit to De Lesseps himself--and brought ash.o.r.e that bundle.

"You've guessed what it was. The monk's disguise, complete even to the shoes!

"You were gone, or I'd have brought the reeking mess to you. I couldn't smuggle it into Bolt's house without embarra.s.sing explanations--after a dip in that brook, those clothes advertised their presence to a distance of a hundred yards. Finally, I threw them back into the water, making careful note of the exact location, and went off to where I had left Jason's car.

"I was pretty well pleased with myself as I drove home. It seemed to me that I had solved the mystery of who killed Simon Varr, and it didn't injure my self-esteem any to think I had nailed the crime on the very person I had first suspected. Great work! I finally appeared before Jean all covered with mud and medals.

"It was when we were talking it over that the same awful idea came to us both. The more we thought it out, the less plausible seemed the theory of Janet's guilt. A sharper wit than hers had planned the murder. I told Jean about the long interview with Miss Ocky before Janet went out to destroy the evidence, and Jean groaned. It grew plain as a pike-staff that Janet was at worst an accomplice, and more probably only an accessory after the crime.

"Her abrupt departure the next day appeared to clinch this hypothesis.

She--she would not betray her mistress and friend, but the shock of the discovery she must have made had proved too much for her. We figured she had either left voluntarily to--to pacify her own conscience, or at Miss Ocky's insistence because she was too dangerous to have around.

And--and that's all, Creighton!"

It wasn't all, as no one knew better than the detective himself. There was something yet that had to be brought into the light and discussed.

Moved to the very depths of his being, he reached out in the dark and dropped a hand gently on the big man's knee.

"Why didn't you tell me this at once, Krech?"

"I knew you'd ask that! Well, it was because Jean had some notion--and I did, for that matter--that if you learned the truth you'd--you'd get an awful jolt. We have both come to like Miss Ocky immensely, and I needn't tell you how we feel toward you! When it came to a choice of hurting you or condoning a crime we--we didn't hesitate long. Jean said if I ever let out a peep about what I'd seen that night, she'd divorce me--and, honestly, Creighton, I think she _meant_ it!"

Some emotions do not lend themselves readily to verbal expression.

Peter Creighton was silent, but there was eloquence in the tightening of his hand on Krech's knee. The big man spoke again, mournfully.

"Do you remember that afternoon at the tannery when I said I'd like just for once to find out something before you did? Well, I got my wish the other night--and I'd have given an arm to alter the meaning of what I'd found!"

"Thank you, Krech. You and Jean are two of the best friends a man ever had." The detective paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I expect you'd like to know how I stumbled on to the truth--? All right."

Though he was scarcely conscious of it, the telling of that story brought him some measure of relief. It eased the ordeal of waiting for news from the next room. He was forced to concentrate his thoughts on what he was saying to the exclusion of anxieties and fears, and shortly his chief concern was the clear presentation of his narrative.

He deemed it advisable that Krech, since he knew so much, should know all. The single incident he left untold was his dashing of the lethal gla.s.s from Ocky's lips--that, as she had stipulated, should remain their own secret.

"You always manage to fool me, Creighton," said his friend as the detective ended. "I never guessed Merrill was your man, and I never dreamed that you knew about Janet's flight in time to wish Kitty Doyle on her. Jean and I would have bet any amount of money that you weren't within a hundred miles of the truth."

"Your bet would have been safe twenty-four hours ago."

"Now the question is--"

Creighton suddenly sprang into activity. A door had opened and shut softly close at hand, a light footfall sounded from the hall, and the detective leaped to fling back his door as a set of bony knuckles was extended to rap on it.

Krech did not leave his chair, but his ears were strained to their limit. He caught various illuminating phrases from a brisk, capable little person with flowing white whiskers.

"Resting now ... Opiates ... Careful examination ... Curious case ... Similar one ... Medical text books ... To-morrow ...

MacNaughton ... Billy MacNaughton ... Best Man ... Know Him? ...

Fine fellow ... Exquisite touch with the knife ... I will telegraph ... No complications ... No reason for excessive alarm ... Very simple ... Expert surgeon ... Splendid const.i.tution ... Strong as a Shetland pony ... Better go to bed yourself ... Good-night ...

Tut-tut, don't mention it ... _Good_-night!"

Creighton shut the door quietly, turned and lighted the lamp. Krech saw that much of the trouble had gone from his face--much, but not all.

"You heard what he said, Krech?"

"She's going to pull through?"

"He thinks so."

"That's good news. At least--I suppose it is."

"Huh? What in thunder do you _mean_?"

Krech deliberately lighted a fresh cigar before he answered, eyeing his friend steadily as he spoke.

"If she recovers, what will you do?" he asked calmly. "Hand her over to the police--as you should?"

Creighton stared at him. Then he suddenly swore--crisply, concisely, and without pa.s.sion.