up the hill from the station and saw the body near the top of the hill.
He saw the wound from his seat on the wagon, for, realizing what had
happened, he did not alight. Fear had seized him. He knew he was perhaps
watched by the assassin, so he had lashed his horses and rushed for the
town and aid. The little boy who had ridden by his side was brave and
cool in the court-room; the Chief of Police had his arm on his shoulder
in a fatherly way. He corroborated the milkman's story, and said he was
scared even more than his uncle, the driver.
One or two others certified to the finding of the body and spoke of the
stranger, Mr. Clark, who had reached the place first, and of the wild
run from the town.
Then came the coroner's physician, who certified to the nature of the
bullet, a large one undoubtedly. Then he said in a courteous,
professional way: "Gentlemen, we have by accident among us Dr. Moore
from New York, who witnessed the finding of the body, and who has viewed
the injury. Dr. Moore is a well-known surgeon, and perhaps he will favor
us with an opinion--only an opinion--of the nature of the weapon used."
The coroner bowed and motioned to Dr. Moore, by my side. The physician
hesitated a moment, then advanced before the crowd of strangers. He was
a surgical lecturer, but this was an unusual audience.
"Dr. Moore, you have seen many wounds from firearms, have you not?
Please state where."
Dr. Moore answered in his pleasant voice: "I have seen quite a number in
hospital service in the last ten years, and very many in Cuba during the
Spanish War."
A murmur arose--the crowd hung on every word.
"State what your opinion is, please," said the coroner.
"To begin with," said Moore, "the bullet entered the breast; the point
of entrance is large, about the size of a 44-bullet. I know it entered
there, because a part of the coat was carried into the wound. It came
out at the back under the right shoulder-blade and pierced that bone,
tearing it partly away from its muscles. In piercing the bone it also
fractured it, and made a large hole of exit, as was to be expected."
"Explain, please."
"Under some circumstances a bullet losing its speed pushes the tissues
before it and makes a larger hole of exit than entrance, especially if
it shatters the bone."
"What do you think of the nature of the weapon used?"
"In my opinion it was certainly no modern pistol or rifle; they are of
smaller calibre and the powder used gives greater velocity, and less
tearing is evidenced."
"How is that?"
"Well, a small bullet going at great speed makes a clean hole usually,
at ordinary range. This was a large bullet, going only at moderate
speed."
"Could a rifle have done it?"
"Yes, if fired at a long distance, so that the speed was slackening."
"What seems the probable weapon to you?"
"A revolver, because a rifle of large calibre, to have produced such a
wound, must have been discharged at considerable distance, for the
bullet was losing its velocity when it found the victim. Now, to have
seen the victim from afar was impossible, the banks on each side of the
road and the incline of the hill would prevent it. That, to my mind,
excludes a rifle.
"The assassin could not have seen Mr. Mark much more than one hundred
and fifty feet away, owing to the configuration of the ground. Had he
been _much_ nearer than that distance, the bullet would have travelled
with greater speed than it did, and would probably have pierced the
shoulder-bone without so much crushing and pushing effect.
"Thus we see that a rifle in this case could not have been used far
enough away to cause such a wound. A heavy revolver discharged at good
distance for such a weapon would have met the requirements, however; and
I believe such a one was used. The assassin could not have been farther
off than the configuration of the ground permitted--about one hundred
and fifty feet--and judging from the wound, he was not very much
nearer."
The crowd shifted and a deep sigh of emotion arose.
"Now, Dr. Moore, you arrived in town this morning! Please tell us what
you know about the events that transpired," asked the coroner.
"Well, I arrived at six o'clock A.M. and walked up the hill. As I
reached the top, I noticed a man coming up behind. A milkman came along
and offered me a ride to the hotel--there he is," and he pointed to the
fellow. "As we rode along, we both heard a shot, and I remarked upon it.
The man in the wagon with me said it probably was a poacher. I have no
doubt, sir, it was the murderer at work."
This was getting near the horror, and the court-room seemed to echo the
deep breathing of the listeners.
Then the milkman, who had picked the doctor up, gave his testimony. He
had entered the highway at the Corners and had seen a man coming up the
hill. He drove in toward Mona, and picked up Dr. Moore, as related.
He corroborated Moore in his statements, and ended by saying that he
went about his business after leaving Moore at the hotel, and knew
nothing of the finding of the body by the other milkman and the boy,
until about eight o'clock.
"I remember the shot; it was short and dull. We said it didn't seem like
much of a gun."
"When did you hear the shot?"
"About 6.30, sir," was the answer.
"And, gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, "Mr. Mark lived until
seven, when he was found."
"If that shot was the one, he lived a long time. I believe he might have
done so, however. The hemorrhage was not very severe. He may have lain
unconscious for a while. As you know, the autopsy showed that the bullet
entered in front and, striking a rib, followed that around and came out
behind. It followed a superficial deflected course, as bullets
frequently do. Men sometimes live a long time with such wounds."
More evidence, of an unimportant nature, was given. The station-master
remembered the man getting off the train and following Moore. He knew
him well; he was Mr. Mark, and had lagged behind and spoken to him.
The body was undiscovered before, because most milk-wagons entered the
town at the Corners, and no one had alighted from the seven o'clock
train to climb the hill.
Charles Clark was now called, and the spectators made room for Oakes, as
he walked down and faced the audience. Watching the crowd, I saw its
excited expectancy. Here and there was a man, pale as death, nearly
overcome by the strain of the evidence. Everyone in that room knew that
the important part was at hand. Many expected the name of the assassin.
A man behind me sighed and said: "Gosh! why don't you hurry?" I knew
that he was nearly ready to collapse.
Oakes, or, as Mona knew him, Clark, crossed his hands behind him and
inclined his body a little. He glanced coldly around, then at the clock,
and instinctively the audience followed the movement. I noticed that the
time was four, and that the ticking was very heavy and noisy. Then I
remembered Oakes's orders, and watched the crowd. The coroner went
through the usual formalities, and Oakes began his testimony.
He spoke in that fluent style of his: "I reached the man ahead of the
others; he was breathing. Realizing that his name was important, I asked
him for it. He was conscious; he opened his eyes and looked at me. 'Mark
is my name; all Mona is my friend,' he answered. At mention of those
words I heard a sob and then another outbreak; the audience was going to
pieces."
Oakes resumed: "I then asked him, 'Who did this deed?' He seemed to be
losing consciousness. I repeated the question. This time he answered, in
an almost inaudible voice: 'The man--the man--with the great arms.'" As
Oakes uttered this sentence, he did it in a strong whisper--heard
clearly all over the court-room. He paused. Moore and I noticed that
one-half the men in sight mechanically put their hands to their
arms--curious is the effect of such scenes.
Others, seeing the actions of their comrades, glanced at them harshly
and suspiciously, but instantly began to smile.
Just then the fat grocer thought it was funny, and laughed outright in a
paroxysm of hysteria. The crowd began to titter, and then a roar, short,
sharp, of pent-up emotion--a laugh of suppressed excitement--pealed
forth like a thunder-clap; then all again was intensity.
Oakes now continued: "He did not say more, so I again asked quickly,
'Who did it? Speak, man! Speak!' Then he answered distinctly--it was a
last effort."
The audience leaned forward in awed expectancy. The faces of some were
hard and set, and the eyes of all were riveted on Oakes.
Moore whispered to me: "Watch the negro." I looked and saw him leaning
forward over the window-sill, his face ashen gray; one arm held on to
the sill, the other hung limply into the room.
"Mr. Clark, what did Mr. Mark say to you then, just before he died?"
asked the coroner.
"He said: 'It was the fellow--the man with the blue cross on his left
arm.'" As Oakes spoke, his voice became metallic and incisive, while
his quick eyes suddenly swept the audience.
There was a shuffling of feet, a turning of bodies, and a man of weak
nerves cried out: "The blue cross on the left arm!"
The negro made a lunge forward, swung both arms into the room, and cried
out: "Oh, Gawd! Oh, Gawd!" then dropped on the other side of the wall.
The Chief of Police stood up and pointed to the window.
"Catch that coon," he cried.
The tumult which followed was a relief, but the crowd lost sight of the
negro. No one had ever seen him before, and he escaped--at least for the
time being.
The jury brought in a verdict "that Mr. Mark came to his death at the
hands of a party or parties unknown."
As Dr. Moore and I discussed matters later, we could but agree that the
identity of Quintus Oakes had apparently been well hidden in that of
Charles Clark, the agent, and that our first day in Mona had been a
memorable one.
_CHAPTER VIII_
_The Mansion_
Mona was situated on a plateau terminating rather abruptly at the river
on the west, and elevated well above its waters. In the neighborhood of
the station it was high, and a long climb. A mile farther down stream,
where the Mansion sat on the edge of the cliff, the elevation was not so
great--perhaps a hundred feet or more above the railroad tracks by the
river. The Mansion end of the plateau was lower, therefore, than the
town. Beyond, up the river, the land lay at the same elevation as Mona.
The beautiful place itself was some distance back from the crest of the
plateau and was approached from the river by the highway we had known so
well that day. This was intersected at right angles on the plain above
by River Road, which ran parallel to the waters below.
The junction of these two roads was known as "The Corners." Upon
following River Road for nearly a mile toward the south one would
arrive at the Mansion gate.
The other road--the Highway, as it was called--led directly to Mona, in
the centre of the plateau which gradually terminated to the north, south
and east in the rolling hills of that region.
Never was town site better selected; never was place more hopeful until
recently, when the blackness and gloom of the unoccupied Mansion, with
its tale of dread, seemed to have extended to men's minds and laid its
grasp of uncanniness and uneasiness on business and pleasure. And now,
to make the slough of despond deeper, had come the sharp, quick act of a
murderer--above all, an unknown assassin--and a crime similar to one
scarce forgotten.
The Mansion gate opened directly from River Road, and a walk of about
two hundred yards brought the visitor to the front door. The back of the
Mansion faced the river directly to the west, the balcony of the back
parlor and dining-room half-circled the south and west sides of the
house, and had evidently been much used. The woodwork was old and the
flooring quite worn. The front of the place was pillared in old
Colonial style, and was of stone, hewn in the rough and built in a
permanent fashion.
Across River Road, right in front of the gate, came an uneven roll of
the country, or break in the plateau. The ground billowed deeply for at
least a quarter of a mile, parallel to the road. The slope from the road
was gradual to a little pond of considerable depth at the bottom of the
depression. On the farther side the ground rose more abruptly, but not
so high as on the Mansion side. The pond itself was about one hundred
feet in width; and one standing by the Mansion exit could see both the
pond and the ascent beyond, and, over the crest of the billowy ground,
the distant woods and the country to the east.
Down from the road a little path dipped, and at its foot a frail bridge
crossed the pond; for here the two shores were quite close. Either shore
projected into a point, and about fifty feet of bridge had been built
with logs, resting half-way on a rude pillar of stones in the water.
This bridge continued the path up the far slope and over the crest
beyond. It was a short cut to the country and the southern suburb of
Mona.
Within the grounds of the Mansion, extending northward to the Highway
and the scene of the murder, and southward into the uninhabited country,
was a forest of oak and of elm, interspersed with an occasional fir. One
could easily wander between the trunks of these trees, but having
entered a few rods, all traces would be lost of the outside world. It
afforded an excellent shelter for anyone desiring to escape detection.
We noticed all these points as we drove to the Mansion next morning. We
found the care-takers awaiting us, and more than glad to again see Mr.
Clark, as they knew Oakes.
The events of the day before had crowded fast upon us, and had left us
well known in the town. The name of Clark was on every tongue. Oakes
remarked that morning, before we started for the Mansion, that he hoped
the people would not identify him. "If they do, we cannot help it,
however," he said; "we cannot control events like these." Then he
suddenly asked me: "How about that negro? He was handsome, you say?"
"Yes, rather black, with remarkably clear-cut features."
"Indeed! Then he may be traced through his good looks."
"Do you think he is the murderer?"
"That's difficult," said Oakes; "but I should think not. Had the deed
been done by a negro boy, the victim would have remembered it; they are
uncommon here. He would have said, 'A negro, good-looking,' or something
of that sort. His color would have impressed the dying man."
"Well, why was the negro so scared?" I asked.
"Probably recognized the description as that of someone he knew."
"Perhaps not," said Moore. "He may have been just emotional; the race is
very superstitious."
"If I make no mistake," continued Oakes, "Mona is going to see queer
doings. The people's minds are at a great tension. In any event, this
affair is not ours. That is--not as we see it now."
Our welcome from the servants seemed genuine in its sincerity, and Cook
and his wife ushered us up to our rooms. The hall from the front door
was a long one, and the stairs leading to the upper floor was broad and
well carpeted. Our rooms, two in number, were over the parlor and the
dining-room, the latter the scene of the occurrences so frequently
described. Oakes was given the back room looking on the river, and over
the balcony; Moore and I occupied the front room, over the parlor. On
the other side of the hall were two large rooms--guest chambers, we were
told. They formed the roof of the dance or reception hall below--to the
right of the door as we entered--and always kept locked, as Annie told
us. In fact, the dance hall and the two large chambers overhead formed
the north side of the house and had not been used for many years.
According to tradition, the hall had been a gay centre in the years gone
by, when the Mansion was the leading house in the village. It had now
lost its prestige to new and magnificent residences of the rich New York
men of affairs, who had recently come into the town to make it their
home and to transform all its social conditions and to add life and new
energy to the country around.
During the forenoon we examined the downstairs rooms pretty
thoroughly. We did it in an unostentatious manner. The rooms had several
windows, and the front one facing the road in the distance had a large
fireplace. Oakes examined this carefully and shook his head in a
negative manner.
The back room facing the river on the west, the lawn and the estate on
the south, was the dining-room. Its four large windows, two on each
side, extended down, in the old style, to within a foot of the
encircling porch. Again there was a large fireplace, and I looked over
it closely; but it was solidly built and seemed to have been undisturbed
for years. The entire room was paneled in oak, and this appeared to be
new.
"It was right here that I had my experience," said the detective, as he
stood by the windows to the west.
I was near the centre of the room, leaning upon the table, and Moore was
farther along on the other side of the fireplace, near the eastern wall.
We were quite interested in the place, and I am sure I felt anything but
secure.
Dr. Moore laughed in his careless way. "Look out, old fellow," said he,
"it will catch you again."
Oakes and I stepped out on the balcony, through the low-silled window,
and looked across the river. I heard a rustle, I thought--a half-muffled
tread; a swish, a peculiar noise--and Oakes jumped to the centre of the
balcony.
"Look out! That's the noise," cried the detective.
We both glanced toward Moore, and saw a terrible sight. The strong man
was unsteady on his feet, his knees were bent, and his head thrown
forward. Great drops of perspiration were rolling off his pale face. He
looked like a man about to fall. "Help, for God's sake, help!" he cried,
and clutched at his neck.
That instant the physician came across the room, hurled by terrific
force. I caught him as he fell, and saved him from an injury against the
table. He was overcome completely; he held his neck in a pained position
and groaned.
Oakes, weapon in hand, advanced to the hall. We all heard a distant
muffled noise, preceded by a slam. At that instant our attention was
called to the balcony. A figure jumped on the porch from the west side
and dashed past the windows, leaving the balcony near its southern end,
and disappearing in the trees beyond.
"A man!" said Oakes, "and he was hiding behind the porch."
"Yes, but _he_ did not do it; how could he have run there so quickly?" I
answered.
"Better take Moore upstairs," saying which, Oakes jumped from the room,
and instead of going out of the front door, he sprang to the west end of
the hall near the dining-room, and opened a door I had not noticed.
"Where are you going?" said I.
"Into the cellar. Don't follow, unless I shoot." He was gone.
I partly carried, partly helped Dr. Moore up to his room and placed him
on the bed. He was pale, and I realized he was shocked. I found my
flask, and gave him a good drink, and then saw that the back of his neck
was bleeding. I bathed it, and tied it up in a clean towel.
As I worked, he held his revolver in his hand and watched the door,
talking quickly and earnestly. He told me about how he had wondered if
Oakes were insane, then of the assault on himself; how he had heard the
noise and had certainly been attacked by some living being, and was
satisfied that his suspicions could not be correct. He had been
thoroughly converted. All this took some time, and now we were wondering
what had become of our friend. The minutes passed, and I decided to
descend and see what the servants were doing, and raise an alarm.
Just as I was setting off we heard two pistol cracks, muffled, but the
noise from cartridges such as we carried, nevertheless. I grasped my
weapon and started downstairs. As I reached the top of the landing, I
heard the cellar door close with a bang on the floor below, and heard a
slow tread ascending the stairs. I retreated, so as to aid my wounded
companion.
The tread advanced along the hall. It was that of a man, limping. The
next instant we recognized Oakes's voice: "Where are you, anyway?"
We spoke, and the next instant he appeared on our threshold, revolver in
hand, with his face pale and drawn, and his figure less erect, less
self-reliant than usual.
He was bloody from a wound on his head, and his clothes were torn in
shreds. He steadied himself with his left hand against the door frame.
"Great goodness, Oakes, what is wrong?" said Dr. Moore, rising to help
his friend.
"What the devil!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been?"
"In the cellar," said Oakes.
"What have you been doing?" said Moore, in a most excitable way.
Back came the answer in a feeble tone: "Really, I don't know. Having a
little practice, I guess."
"Catch him, Stone," cried Moore.
I jumped forward, and the stalwart figure dropped vertically--collapsing
at the knees, then pitched headlong into the room.
I saved the face before it struck the floor.
_CHAPTER IX_
_Distrust and Suspicion_
The day following the murder of Winthrop Mark was one of uneasiness and
dejection for the towns-people of Mona. The court scenes of the day
before and the great excitement caused by the discovery of the crime had
left their stamp. Disquietude was bred and nurtured by the crime itself,
and the absence of clues save those of the arm. It was rumored and
reiterated that Chief Hallen had failed to discover the slightest
evidence as to the perpetrator, and that the bullet even had remained
unfound, as was most natural; but people look at things in a narrow
light sometimes, and this was an occasion of deep trouble and much
gossip for the town.
The peculiar action of the negro, whom few had seen but all had heard,
and who was pronounced a total stranger by those who had seen him,
pointed strongly to him as the possible assassin. With his escape had
come mutterings against Chief Hallen. Why had the court-house not been
watched? Where were the local authorities? Why had he been allowed to
get away so easily? All these questions remained unanswered, for few
stopped to think that there were _no_ local detectives, and only a few
local policemen.
Then in the midst of these disgruntled thoughts and assertions appeared
the mental picture of Clark, known in the town before, and now the most
conspicuous man in it, towering above all in his active personality, as
in his figure and sayings. Talk is cheap in such a place, and talk has
made or unmade many a man. The great run of Clark to the victim's side
and the dramatic and terrible evidence he gave at the inquest was spoken
of--at first with awe, and then with alarm. And to think he had gone to
the Mansion to spend a short time again, gone to the place of all others
that one should avoid at this time--gone to the house where terror dwelt
and at the end of whose grounds the murder had been committed! Hallen,
whose word was known to be "law," had vouched for this. The personality
of Clark--stood silhouetted on the sky of lowering discontent.
The only clue worth having was that one relating to the arms of the
murderer, and, given to the public as it purposely had been by Clark in
a moment of suspense, it had found deep rooting place in all minds. Who
was the man with the great arms, and with the "blue cross" on one of
them--the left?
Here was a small town--perhaps one thousand grown men. Who had the
cross--who? Might it be _anyone_? Yes, almost _anyone_! Did anyone know
of such a scar? No, but who knew of his neighbor's arms? Who could vouch
for his friend? Some few had been associated, one with another, as boys.
What of that? It was years ago.
Suspicion was growing like a prairie fire, first a light that goes out,
then flickers again and smoulders, anon meeting resistance and
apparently dying; but all the while treacherously gaining and advancing
in the roots and the dry stubble below, then suddenly bursting into
flame. With the first flame comes the inrush of air; then come the heat
and the smoke and the low wall of fire; then the glare, the roar and
the conflagration sweeping all before it.
So came suspicion to Mona. And friendship, respect and brotherly love
fled at its breath, as wild animals of the prairie flee before the
advancing destruction.