say that once or twice they had seen a woman near the scene of the
murder at that hour in the morning. Also, that she always ran into the
woods, and was dressed in black."
"Who were those old men?"
"Well, they were both reliable fellows. Their tales were laughed at, so
they refused to discuss the matter any more. They both claimed to have
seen her at a distance, however; and since they were on different
wagons, their stories seemed to corroborate each other."
We expressed our great interest in the news, and Dowd advised us to see
Reilly the porter, who had heard the story of the woman from the men
themselves.
We returned to the hotel, feeling much elated at the courtesy of Dowd
and at the prospect of learning something not generally known, and
bearing upon the murder.
Soon we managed to find Reilly. He came to our rooms on the excuse that
we had some orders to give concerning baggage that had not yet arrived
from New York.
The porter was decidedly intelligent, having been reduced to his
present position through adversity, as we already knew. It took only a
little questioning to elicit his story, which he told about as follows:
"You see, gentlemen, about the time of Smith's murder the milkmen were
in the habit of watering their horses at an old fountain just by our
curb, but since done away with.
"Well, about two weeks before Smith was murdered, one of the milkmen,
Moses Inkelman, a driver for a large farm north of here, told me that he
had that morning seen a very large woman on the crest of the hill as he
was driving to town. She was seemingly anxious to avoid notice and
stepped into the woods as he passed by. Moses asked me if I thought she
was anyone from Mona. He seemed so curious about the matter that several
who had heard his story laughed at him. He was very sensitive and did
not mention the episode again until after the murder--long after, I
remember--and then only to me, when he said: 'If these people would only
stop making fun of a Jew, and believe me, they might learn something.'
He disappeared a little while afterward, and we learned from his
successor that he had suddenly died of heart disease, on the farm.
"The other milkman never told his story save to a few--one night around
the stove in a grocery store. The others were inclined to scoff at him;
but I remembered what Moses had told me, and saw this fellow, Sullivan,
alone.
"It was about a year after the affair. He said that he had seen a
woman's figure lurking around the crest of the hill on two different
occasions before the murder."
"Did he say anything about her appearance?" I asked.
"No. He said he never came very near to her, but he saw that she always
wore black, and ran very heavily. He thought she was one of the drunken
creatures that sometimes infest the water front on Saturday nights.
"You see, gentlemen, there were more factories here then, and the town
was tougher than it is now, especially along the railroad and shore
where the canal-boats came in. The new piers farther down the river have
changed all that. Sullivan told his story to the police, but they saw
nothing in it, or pretended they didn't; so Sullivan shut up."
"What became of him?" Moore asked.
"Well, sir, that's the curious part of it, to my mind. He was found dead
only a short time ago on River Road, 'way down near Lorona, and there
were marks on his throat and blood in his mouth. The examiner said he
had had a hemorrhage and had choked to death, scratching himself in his
dying struggles. But----"
"Well, continue," commanded Moore.
"Gentlemen, I believe he was murdered."
"Why, what makes you think so?" I asked.
"I saw the body at the undertaker's in Lorona, gentlemen, and the marks
on the neck were not only scratches, but black and blue patches. The
examiner was a drunkard himself and not a good reasoner. I always had
the idea that the milkman was choked to death by the woman because he
had seen her.
"And the other fellow, Moses--I think he was done away with likewise,"
continued Reilly. "I tell you, gentlemen, there is more to all this than
is perhaps wise to know, unless one keeps pretty quiet."
We tipped Reilly a good fee and then turned in for the night in a most
uncomfortable frame of mind. As Moore said: "things are coming up so
rapidly here that we will all be twisted before long."
Our visit to the town had so far proved more valuable than we had hoped
for, and we both wished that Oakes could have been with us. Several
times in the night I awoke, and each time heard footsteps passing to and
fro, and subdued voices in the corridor downstairs, and could but
reflect how very different this was from the usual quietude of such a
place.
When we arose in the morning, Moore remarked that he never knew of such
a noisy hotel in a small town.
"Guess the place is going to give me nervous prostration pretty soon, if
things keep up like this," said he.
While we were at breakfast, Chief Hallen walked in and sat down beside
us in a rather pompous manner, I thought. He seemed desirous of calling
attention to himself. "Well, gentlemen," he said in a quiet enough way,
"don't be taken aback at anything you may witness to-day. You may have
a surprise. I want you to meet me in the hotel corridor soon and see who
comes on the nine o'clock train."
He bade us adieu, and walked out in an unnaturally aggressive manner.
"He's showing off like a schoolboy," said I.
"Or else acting," corrected Moore.
We sat down in the corridor by and by. Hallen was talking with the clerk
at the desk. The hangers-on were numerous and wore an air of expectancy;
they were waiting for some one.
The rickety old carriage from the station arrived at this moment, and
the man on the box opened the door with more than usual courtesy. Out
stepped a medium-sized man of good figure and a most remarkable face. It
was bronzed like that of a seafaring man; the eyes were black as jet and
piercing; the nose hooked and rather long. He wore a thick, short
moustache, which matched his hair and eyes in blackness; otherwise, his
face was smooth-shaven, and his attire was in the perfection of good
taste for a business man. When he spoke, one noticed particularly his
strong white, even teeth.
"He looks like a pirate from the Spanish Main, dressed up," said Moore.
"A remarkably attractive fellow, anyway."
"Yes," I said; "he has the air of a celebrated man of some kind."
As he walked to the desk, the by-standers spoke in subdued tones,
watching him the while. I heard one lounger say: "Sure, that is the
fellow. I've seen him before. Ain't he a wonder in looks?"
Chief Hallen advanced and spoke a few words to the stranger, and then
shook hands with him. He registered, and the clerk thumped the bell for
Reilly with an air of tremendous importance.
As though by accident, Chief Hallen espied us and, taking the stranger
by the arm, walked over to us.
We arose and bowed as the Chief repeated our names, saying, so that
those near could hear: "Gentlemen, you are from the city. Let me make
you acquainted with one of your fellow citizens--Mr. Quintus Oakes, of
New York."
Moore calmly shook hands and mumbled something, and then, in a side
whisper to me, said: "It's up to you, Stone; say something."
Although I was nearly as surprised as he, I managed to make a few
audible remarks about how glad the town would be to know that Quintus
Oakes was here. I saw a merry twinkle in Hallen's eyes, but the stranger
made a suitable reply, and left us with that peculiar business-like air
of his.
I turned to Moore and half-gasped: "What does this mean, old man?"
"A decoy," said he. "Just keep your nerve. Hallen has been giving us
practice in acting."
The by-standers and the groups in the street were discussing the
stranger with peculiar, suppressed excitement. Many of the smart ones
claimed to have seen him before and to know all about him; already,
"Quintus Oakes" rang familiarly from their lips.
We presently returned to the Mansion and related to our leader the facts
we had learned from Reilly regarding "the woman's" appearances before
the murder, the sudden ending of both the milkmen who had seen her, and
Reilly's own suspicions in the matter. Oakes was thoughtful for quite a
while.
"You have done more than I thought you could in so brief a time," said
he at last. "Have you any theories regarding the identity of the woman?"
We had none to offer, and he began to smile ever so slightly. "Well, it
seems to me your woman is a mistake--there was no woman. The assassin
was a man in a black robe. He ran heavily, of course. You have drawn the
murderer of Smith nearer to that of Mark. As regards the sudden deaths
of the milkmen, probably both were killed; the examinations after death,
conducted as these were, amount to nothing. The murderer of Smith, the
two milkmen and of Mark is probably one and the same. Stone, you nearly
fell a victim at the bridge the other night, too."
I did not reply, but a cold perspiration broke out over me. The chain of
events seemed clearer now in the light of Oakes's reasoning. Then he
turned to Moore.
"Doctor, loan me your cigar-cutter, will you?"
The physician reached for it, but it was gone.
"I think this must be it," said Oakes, holding out the missing article.
"Next time you hide on your stomach behind a tree, do it properly."
Moore was dumfounded.
"What!" I cried, "you know that too? We did not tell you."
"No, you did not. You began your narration at the wrong end--or perhaps
you _forgot_," and his eyes twinkled.
"But how did you learn of it?" demanded Moore, recovering. And Quintus
smiled outright.
"My man was behind another tree only ten feet away from you the whole
time. When you left, he picked up this as a memento of your brilliant
detective work."
Moore and I smarted a little under the sarcasm, and I asked what the man
was doing there.
"Oh, he was watching Mike and, incidentally, keeping you two from
mischief. You need a guardian. You never even suspected his presence,
and--suppose he had been the assassin!"
"Well," I said, "I suppose that you know all about your namesake in
town, and don't need any of our information."
He heard the chagrin in my voice and smiled as he replied:
"Don't mind those little things; they happen to all of us. I am glad
'Quintus Oakes' has arrived. Chief Hallen and I concluded that the
sudden arrival of such a man as our decoy would have a salutary effect
on the citizens. An appearance of action on Hallen's part would tend to
quiet their restlessness; and, now that public attention is focused upon
_him_, Mr. Clark and his friends can work more freely."
During the discussion that followed, he told us that Mike's errand on
horseback was as yet unknown, but that the man whom we followed and lost
on the way was from a stable in Lorona.
"You see," continued he, "Mike has been doing this before. The horse is
brought from Lorona in a roundabout way. Doubtless, on his return, he
leaves it at some spot where it is met and returned to the stable."
"Mike is a mystery. What is he up to?" said Moore. "Can he be the
murderer?"
"Wait and see," replied Oakes enigmatically, as he ended the
conversation.
_CHAPTER XVI_
_The Negro's Story_
Saturday came and went without event. So far, at least, Hallen's
arrangements for the preservation of order had been effective. Or was it
that the eyes and hopes of the people were centred upon the new arrival
in town, the great detective--as they were led to believe--who had grown
famous through his skill in ferreting out just such mysteries. In any
case, the Chief's forebodings of a lawless outbreak were unfulfilled.
The real Oakes spent most of his time in the Mansion while we remained
in town; but our little party came and went as it pleased. Our movements
had ceased to attract that attention which Oakes found so undesirable.
As he said, in the well-known phrase of the sleight-of-hand operators:
"the more you look, the less you see." The eyes of Mona were focused on
the _false_ Oakes--the wrong hand; we ourselves--the hand doing the
trick--were over-looked. And the more absorbed they became in the
movements of the decoy, the more oblivious were they of the fact that
keen eyes were studying them deeply. The criminal, unless very educated
and clever, would be fooled with the multitude and caught off his guard.
A rather curious fact was that, while Dowd's newspaper published an
article in its personal column about the great detective's arrival and
all that he was expected to accomplish, Skinner's journal remained
absolutely silent. Dowd said he could not understand it, unless the ruse
had failed to deceive Skinner, in which case we might hear from him
soon. We knew that our friend Quintus Oakes held the same idea. As he
said, if the cheat were discovered it would lead to trouble, which must
be met as it arose.
Moore and I became daily more imbued with the spirit of the adventure;
besides which, we were keenly alive to Oakes's feelings and his desire
to succeed. The newspapers far and near were following the case
carefully, and we knew that his reputation and financial success
depended largely on the outcome of this case.
A few evenings later Moore and I were standing in the square, discussing
the very apparent change in the temper of the crowd since their
attention had been directed by the arrival of the man they believed to
be Quintus Oakes.
"Yes," said Moore, in answer to a remark of mine, "it is a clever scheme
and makes the people think that Hallen is doing something; but how will
they take it if they discover the trick?"
"Well, perhaps by that time the real Oakes, our friend, will be in
position to reveal his identity--that would calm any bad feeling--they
would realize that work had been done quietly all the while."
Moore shook his head doubtfully. "I don't like Skinner's attitude," he
said, "he knows something."
Reilly approached us at this moment to say that Clark wanted us at the
Mansion immediately, and that a conveyance was waiting for us at the
hotel. We went at once and found it, a four-seated affair, with Hallen
and Dowd on the back seat. We two sat in front with the driver--one of
Oakes's men; and after we had left the town I turned to the Chief and
asked him if he knew what Oakes wanted of us.
"Yes," said he; "the _negro_ is here."
Oakes was awaiting us upstairs, with Martin and Elliott. The first thing
we learned was that Oakes had recognized the negro "Joe" as a former
boot-black on Broadway. Joe's identification of _him_ during the court
scene had placed the negro in a state of less fear than would otherwise
have been the case.
"He came readily enough," said Martin; "he was threatened with arrest if
he did not; but he is acting peculiarly. Seems more worried than an
innocent man should be."
"He naturally dreads the ordeal; innocent men frequently appear guilty
to the onlooker. The really guilty ones are prepared and go through more
coolly," said Oakes.
"Yes, sir, I know that; but this one is different. I should hardly say
he is guilty; still, his actions are peculiar--I cannot explain _how_."
"Think a little, Martin," said Oakes. It was the tone of the superior,
firm but kindly.
Martin thought a few seconds, then he said: "Well, sir, he seems anxious
to describe what he saw, and seems to think that you are his friend and
will believe him; but he appears to be actually fearful of punishment."
"Rather ambiguous," said Oakes. "Perhaps he is hiding some vital point,
Martin. Is he not?"
"Yes, sir; and that point is against himself."
"Of course it is, or he would not hide it; against himself, or one dear
to him."
Oakes's correction was without malice, polite and patient. He was the
clear reasoner, the leader, instructing a trusty subordinate--the kindly
Chief and his young, but able lieutenant.
We ranged ourselves round the centre-table--we four who had come in the
carriage, besides Elliott and Martin, who had brought Joe from New York.
Oakes stood near a chair, away from the table and the group. After a
moment the negro entered, ushered to the door by one of the men. We must
have looked a formidable conclave to the poor fellow, for he halted just
inside the door at sight of us all. He was a negro of that type seen in
the North--strong, lithe, with a clear-cut face whose features showed
the admixture of white blood. He advanced to the chair besides Oakes,
and sat down at a sign from the latter.
He was nervous, but a pitiful effort at bravery showed in his carriage
and manner. Bravery was necessary. A lone negro boy facing such a
gathering, and--worst of all to him--that mysterious, awe-inspiring
person, Quintus Oakes!
With consummate tact Quintus won the boy's confidence. Elliott spoke to
him, kindly and reassuringly; and Hallen walked over and shook his hand
with a protecting air. Joe brightened visibly. It was plain that the men
who hunted crime were going to try kindness and sympathy first. It has
always seemed to me a pity that such tactics are not more in vogue,
especially toward witnesses. The master detective can throw a sympathy
into his every act which will win secrets actually barred from other
methods of attack.
Reassured, Joe presently began his story. In a clear, remarkably able
way (for he had been to school), and with the peculiar, dramatic power
possessed by some negroes, he brought vividly before us the scenes he
had witnessed. As he warmed to his subject, Oakes and Hallen watched him
carefully, but without emotion, occasionally questioning him adroitly to
develop points which seemed to them valuable. Dowd took notes, at
Oakes's suggestion, for future use.
When Joe's mother died in Troy, he went up to attend the funeral. On his
return he stayed a few days in Lorona--a little place already mentioned.
It was without railway connections and lay to the east of Mona, along
the Highway. He had passed through the latter place afoot, late at
night, and had walked the ten miles to Lorona. His sister lived there in
service, also his sweetheart Jennie. Naturally, he did not pass it by.
He had left very early one morning to go back to New York and had cut
across country from the Highway on the east of Mona, coming around by
the hill and the pond, in front of the Mansion, to River Road. He had
arrived at the Corners in time to see a milkman pick up a gentleman on
the road and drive with him into the town. Joe wanted to get back to
New York early and begin work, for he had been absent a week. He was to
catch the seven o'clock train, so he had abundance of time, as he could
tell by the sun.
He started down the hill slowly, but took the woods along the north side
of the Highway; he was fond of the woods and he knew the way--he had
travelled it on previous visits. Just after he entered among the trees
he heard a shot, followed by a groan--on the road, he thought--a little
way above him. He trembled and stood still, then his courage manifested
itself, and he crept cautiously to the roadside, which was hidden
below by a few feet of embankment. What he saw paralyzed him! A man was
lying in the road, and a little lower down on this side, not a hundred
feet from himself, stood another in full view, with a smoking revolver
in his hand. Instantly the negro understood. A murder--and _he_ was a
_witness_! He did nothing--waited. To have shouted would have been to
invite death. But he kept his eyes open.
"I'se the only witness. I must look at him good," he thought. The man's
back was partly turned, but Joe took in all that he could at that
distance, and saw him retreat after a moment into the woods. Then he
grew frightened. The assassin was not far from him, but, fortunately,
going deeper into the woods, and down toward the stony glade below.
Did the negro run? No. He gathered a couple of good-sized stones and
followed. He thought the man on the road was dead; and he saw the other
one going down into the gully to cross the small stream at the bottom.
"Good!" he thought; "I'll follow him. If he sees me now, and comes after
me, I can run a long way before he can climb that hill."
The assassin was picking his way--carefully--until he came to the rocky
bottom. He wanted to cross the stream where a large flat rock gave an
invitation for stepping. He had followed the stony formation carefully,
avoiding the earth; he did not wish to leave marks to be traced.
Now, at this moment the negro became conscious of a new danger; he was
near the scene of the crime alone, and if found, he would be suspected
of having done it. So he looked about for a moment, and then decided to
run back to Lorona and his people. He was growing scared. Who could
blame him? He saw the murderer stoop down right below him, deep in the
gully; and the negro, obeying a sudden impulse, swung one arm and hurled
a stone straight at him. It struck the fugitive on the shoulder, turning
him half around; and he broke into a run, full tilt, for the brook and
the stepping-stone. Joe had not seen the murderer's face, but he told us
that the man's chest was protected only by an undershirt. It was a
chilly morning, and the fact had impressed him afterward as curious. He
watched, and saw the assassin take the brook like a frightened stag,
landing first on the rock in the centre, then on the other side. As he
stepped on the rock in the middle of the stream, the boy saw something
fall from his waist--something red. It fell into the water.
"I'd like to know what that is," he thought; "but I'd better _skip_."
Then horror took possession of him; he crossed the road quickly and
dashed into the Mark property. Then he ran to River Road and the bridge,
up the incline on the other side of the pond, and into the fields
beyond. On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a little
patch of wood and thought.
He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too far
away to know he was a negro. He was innocent, and perhaps he had better
wait and see the police. Had he done so then and there, all would have
been solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advise
him and he was alone with a terrible secret. He had done well; he could
identify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility.
He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning. In
the afternoon he sneaked into town, hungry and worn and terribly cold.
When he saw the people gathering in the court-room, curiosity conquered.
He listened with all his soul, and made up his mind to go in and tell
what he knew.
He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fast
and furious. He felt ill--the cold sweat poured from him as he heard;
but he remained, entranced. He was going to tell all, for surely that
tall fellow--Clark, they were calling him,--was the great detective
Oakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadway
before he went up-town. How peculiar that they didn't seem to know him!
Then intelligence came, and he said to himself: "These people don't know
him because he does not want them to." Joe did not understand all that
had been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakes
was playing a game.
Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tension
became too great. He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy that
he was, for Lorona.
There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train. His friends
gave him food--the murder story was yet vague in the little village--and
then he dashed on for New York. He shook the dust from his clothes and,
catching a train miles down the line, arrived safely in town. He was far
away from Mona at last, but he must see Mr. Elliott, his good friend,
and tell him all that he could.
As the negro finished his story he looked around, and partially
recovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation had
thrown him. His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had that
peculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of great
excitement.
Dr. Moore arose and walked to the boy, and, placing his hands on his
wrist, said reassuringly: "Good boy, Joe! you are a brave fellow."
Oakes handed him a drink of brandy--he needed it--and then we all joined
in praising him. He soon recovered himself, and then Oakes took up his
position beside him again.
"Now, Joe, what did the murderer drop when he jumped over the stream
from the rock?"
"I dunno, Master Oakes--but it was a banana, I think."
"What!" said Hallen; "a banana?"
The negro looked worried.