CHAPTER VIII—RECKONINGS “Facts that contradict each other are not facts,” pronounced Chester Kent. Fumes of tobacco were rising from three pipes hovered about the porch of the Nook where Kent, Sedgwick and Lawyer Bain were holding late council. A discouraged observation from the artist had elicited Kent’s epigram. “Not all of them, anyhow,” said Bain. “The chore in this case is to find facts enough to work on.” “On the contrary,” declared Kent, “facts in this case are as plentiful as blackberries. The trouble is that we have no pail to put them in.” “Maybe we could borrow Len Schlager’s,” suggested the lawyer dryly. Kent received this with a subdued snort. “It is remarkable that the newspapers haven’t sent men down on such a sensational case,” he said. “On the contrary to you, sir,” retorted Bain, “so much fake stuff has come out of Lonesome Cove that the papers discount any news from here.” “All the better. The only thing that worries me more than the stupidity of professional detectives is the shrewdness of trained reporters. At least we can work this out in our own way.” “We don’t seem to be getting much of anywhere,” complained Sedgwick. “Complicated cases don’t clear themselves up in a day,” remarked Kent. “In this one we’ve got opponents who know more than we do.” “Schlager?” asked the lawyer. “And Doctor Breed. Also, I think, Gansett Jim. What do you think, Mr. Bain, is the mainspring of the sheriff’s action?” “Money,” said the lawyer with conviction. “He’s as crooked as a snake with the colic.” “Would it require much money to influence him?” “As much as he could get. If the case was in the line of blackmail, he’d hold out strong. He’s shrewd.” “Doctor Breed must be getting some of it.” “Oh, Tim Breed is Len’s little dog. He takes orders. Of course he’ll take money too, if it comes his way. Like master, like man.” “Those two,” said Kent slowly, “know the identity of the body. For good and sufficient reasons, they are keeping that information to themselves. Those reasons we aren’t likely to find out from them.” “Murderer has bribed ’em,” opined Bain. “Possibly. But that presupposes that the sheriff found something on the body which led him to the murderer, which isn’t likely. How improbable it is that a murderer—allowing, for argument, that there has been murder—who would go as far as to cover his trail and the nature of the crime by binding the body on a grating, would overlook anything like a letter incriminating himself!” “What did the sheriff find, then, in the dead woman’s pocket?” “Perhaps a handkerchief with a distinctive mark.” “And that would lead him to the identity of the body?” “Presumably. Also to some one, we may assume, who was willing to pay roundly to have that identity concealed.” “That would naturally be the murderer, wouldn’t it?” asked Sedgwick. “No. I don’t think so.” “It looks to me so,” said the lawyer. “He’s the one naturally interested in concealment.”