Elliott, he said, "Come, Stone, you're strong enough"; and next moment
he had thrown a coat over my shoulders and was helping me down the
stairs to the dining-room. He seemed to me to have grown more serious,
more quiet than was his wont; but his actions were, as ever, strong,
quick, easy of execution, and I knew that it was the steadying of the
mind and body for the final strain. Oakes's reputation was at stake, and
he was fully cognizant that an error of judgment, a flaw in his
reasonings, a mishap in the execution of his well-formulated plans,
might readily result disastrously, not only to his reputation but to the
cause of justice.
Then I stepped across the threshold of the dining-room, and beheld a
scene that will always linger in my mind. At the head of the table sat
Hallen, and to his right was Dr. Moore, whose dress contrasted strangely
with the Chief's blue uniform and brass buttons. Across the table from
Moore was Dowd, and here and there about the room were some of Oakes's
men, and some of Hallen's as well, lounging, looking out of the windows
carelessly, but comprehensively.
As we entered, a deep guttural of welcome greeted me; and Oakes seated
me by Moore's side, and Elliott went over and sat with Dowd. Then the
detective took the chair at the foot of the table, near which was an
empty one.
It was evident at a glance that Oakes was to be the chief actor, while
to Hallen had been given the chief position.
There was a moment's silence, then Hallen turned to Dr. Moore: "Are you
positive," he said, "that Maloney is insane? I see no evidence."
"I am not positive as yet," was the reply. "Some signs indicate that he
may be in the so-called interval between outbreaks of mental disease;
but he is clever, as are almost all the insane, and he covers his
condition well. Still, we can, and will put him to the test; we will
soon determine if we are dealing with the 'insane root that takes the
reason prisoner.'"
"But how can it be? He is not violent. I do not comprehend."
Moore glanced at the Chief. "Let Mr. Oakes explain--I should be too
technical, I fear; he has an easier flow of words."
Hallen looked surprised. "Well, how is it, Oakes? How can you suspect
such a man? Nobody ever saw him violent. What reason have you?"
Then Oakes turned. He was somewhat nettled, I thought, at Hallen's
manner, but his voice did not betray him. His words came clearly, even
curtly; but as he revealed his comprehensive knowledge of the matter in
plain, every-day language, Hallen's manner changed wonderfully. Never
before had he had such an opportunity to see the education of the man
before him. Now it came as an overwhelming surprise.
"A lunatic does not necessarily rave or carry the ordinary signs of
rending passion," began Oakes as he turned a quiet face of
acknowledgment toward Dr. Moore. "The one who hears voices, real to him,
but really arising in the diseased mechanism of his own brain--ordering
him to be a martyr, a saviour of his country, or to spend the millions
he imagines he possesses, is usually melancholy, reserved, cautious,
ever on the watch, deceptive, but doubtful sometimes as to his own
brain-workings.
"Likewise, the man who possesses the homicidal mania may be cautious
and quiet--to the ordinary observer a normal citizen. But the aura of
insanity is around him; he lives and moves and deceives, and hides from
the outside world the words that come to him day or night--the words
that arise not in the voice of a living man, but in his own diseased
mind. The sufferer says nothing of the voices that tell him he is
persecuted--that the world's hands are against him. By accident, in a
moment of unwariness, he may reveal that he hears such voices; but it is
an even chance that he will be laughed at and the warning fall on ears
that fail to understand. He is considered a 'crank.'
"Then the unfortunate shrinks more into himself, becomes absolutely
dominated by the ideas and commands generated in his own false mind. He
may become violent by degrees, may scare and haunt the places where he
believes himself abused; and all the while the voices tell him he is
foolish, being put upon, and finally he becomes controlled by the
delusion that he is being persecuted. Then perhaps suddenly comes the
incentive, usually a command of false origin within his own brain, that
makes the worm turn that reveals to the world that he is a maniac--a
'killer.' He hears the word 'kill,' and his mind, no longer even
suspicions of its own disease as it was at first, becomes frenzied. He
sometimes attacks openly, but usually does so secretively, with the
cunning of the tiger, and kills and slaughters. Then he returns to his
dreams--quiet, satisfied, spent."
Oakes paused. "You understand, Hallen," he said, "I am no expert; but
such cases have come to my notice--it is not easy for me to explain more
fully."
"Go on," was Hallen's answer; "go on, sir. I am deeply interested--it
amazes me."
The Chief showed his words were those of genuine interest and surprise.
"The insane man leads a dual life," continued Oakes, "perhaps for a long
time. Such a man is not yet an inmate of an asylum. His case is
unrecognized--he is a soul battling with madness until some awful
tragedy occurs, like that of Mona, to reveal his greatest of all
misfortunes--the loss of reason."
We were all silent when Oakes finished speaking. Not a man there but
now recognized and realized more fully what we had been fighting
against. Then Hallen rose and looked at Oakes, then at all of us.
"Boys," he said, "according to custom, being Chief of Police of Mona, I
am to make the arrest. That I will do, but let me tell you right here it
is Mr. Oakes who will point out the culprit. I have been unable to get a
clue, and I am damned if I'll take credit from a man like that." As he
spoke he thumped the table with his hamlike fist. Hallen was not a
clever man. He was about the average, perhaps a little above; but he was
as honest as the day was long--a staunch, vigorous man--and we all
admired him.
"Sit down," commanded Oakes harshly. "Don't give us any more such
nonsense," and the Chief sat down, while we all half smiled at the
discomfiture of both.
"Now, gentlemen," said Oakes, "let us keep our wits about us. First let
me identify O'Brien, if possible, and let us study Maloney afterward.
Remember, if O'Brien is not Larkin the detective, my case is _not_
ready; if he _is_ the man we suspect, then we must turn to Maloney
regardless of any presence of insanity now, as he maybe in the quiescent
period, so called, and may succeed in baffling us. Having once excluded
O'Brien from suspicion, we will be justified in action against Maloney.
We must prove his knowledge of the heavy revolver, if possible. Then if
we succeed in forging that link to our chain, we will move quickly; upon
his arm should be the cross seen by the dying Mr. Mark."
_CHAPTER XXIII_
_The Test_
As Oakes ceased speaking there came a silence. Although we were many
there, there was not a motion for a space of seconds--not a sound save
the deep breathing of Hallen and of some of the others upon whom the
duty of the hour was to fall. Men trained for such scenes--always alive
to the possibilities, always alert for trickery or treachery--are yet
but human, and subject to the tension that is felt even by the most
courageous.
Then, in obedience to a signal from Oakes, Martin appeared, escorting
O'Brien, who was limping, into the room, and to the chair facing Oakes.
It soon became evident to us that Oakes's real identity was unknown to
O'Brien. Even if the latter were the detective Larkin, he had failed to
realize that Mr. Clark was anything but the agent for the property.
"You are wounded, my man! They tell me it happened in the Highway the
other day, and that afterwards, at night, you chased Maloney on the
plains of Mona, after he had fired upon us. Tell us about it, O'Brien."
Oakes's voice was calm and strong, but in it I fancied I detected a note
of pity.
O'Brien hesitated, stammered. "How did you know when I was shot?" he
exclaimed. "I told no one." Oakes smiled slightly. "Out with your story,
O'Brien. Did you chase Maloney for revenge, or for revenge and
business?"
O'Brien straightened in the chair. "Who is this man Clark? How peculiar
these questions are!" his look plainly said.
"Why, for revenge, of course," he answered.
"Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.
O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was still
enough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust his
trousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead,
throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.
We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view at
the line of the heavy hair. The man before us _was_ Larkin the
detective.
Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," and
said: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."
"I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding the
issue.
"I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkin
the detective you know more than it suits you to tell."
O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate--who dares
say I am a detective, sir?"
"Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us--why
should Maloney hate you?"
O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. He
hates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the man
responsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.
"Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.
"I believe he may be the murderer of Mr. Mark."
"What proofs have you?" asked Oakes, as we all leaned forward intently.
"No proof as yet."
"Exactly! But, Mr. Larkin, you deserve much credit," said Oakes, as he
led O'Brien to a chair by Hallen's side. "Sit here," he continued. "I am
going to have Maloney brought in now. He has always been a good
gardener--a decent sort of fellow. I must hear his story before I give
him up to the Chief. It has been suggested that Maloney may be mentally
unbalanced; you will excuse me, Mr. Larkin, if I use you as a foil to
draw him out while Dr. Moore assists me."
Then, by way of explanation, Oakes, whose identity was still unknown to
Larkin, went on:
"You see, Chief Hallen wishes to be sure of some little points, and so
do I. Perhaps Maloney will not resent my questioning; he should have no
feelings against the agent of this property, whereas he might object to
Hallen as an interlocutor."
Oakes was now a trifle pale, I thought. There were furrows on his
forehead; his manner was suave and deliberately slow. But little did I
dream the true depth of the man, the masterly manner in which he was
about to test the mental balance of Maloney.
To one who was ignorant of the terrible events this story tells of, and
the dire necessity of discovering once for all who was responsible for
them, the efforts of these keen, scientific men to entrap a weakened
brain would have seemed unfair and cruel.
But for those who knew the story and knew of the murderous deeds done in
Mona by some unfortunate with a cunning, diabolic, although probably
unbalanced mind, there remained only one alternative--to uncover and
catch the criminal at all hazards.
Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who was
dressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. His
face was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet and
reserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facing
him, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark."
The detective met him cheerily.
"Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here and
identify the man who shot at you the other day; O'Brien has reached the
end of his rope now."
As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he faced
O'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man!
Yes, he shot me," he cried.
Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposely
deceiving Maloney, playing with him--waiting for the moment when he
would make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail to
differentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to him
would hopelessly entangle him.
"The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We have
well-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across the
plain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Had _you_ not been
so close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here."
Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting the
facts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected--that
he was a hero.
"Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, old
man. I thank you."
A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Then
his brow darkened. There was some error here--he was no hero. But what
was it? Somehow things were wrong, but where?
Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; but
his eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were moving
silently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The man
was suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm,
although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation of
facts.
Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, and
cleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "you
need not thank me."
The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddled
the poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking.
"Maloney," said Oakes again--there was gentleness in the detective's
voice; he knew the man before him was going down--"Maloney, when we
were fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer--this man
O'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning--O'Brien dropped
the weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a great
army revolver, a 45-calibre weapon."
Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiar
subject. He remembered _that_, even though his mind failed to remember
the details of the assault.
But Maloney knew there was some mistake; it was his weapon, not
O'Brien's, that they were talking about. Suddenly, like a flash, came
full remembrance--momentarily, only--and he unguardedly blurted out:
"There is only one in the county like it"; then cunningly ceased
speaking as though he feared his tongue, but could not exactly reason
why.
There was a scarcely audible sigh of anxiety around the room--Oakes had
_proved_ Maloney's knowledge of the old revolver. Dr. Moore was gazing
intently at the gardener's neck. The carotid arteries were pumping full
and strong, down deep beneath the tissues, moving the ridges of his neck
in rhythmic but very rapid undulations--the man was showing great
excitement.
"Maloney," said Oakes again, quickly returning to the attack, "before we
were fired upon we fancied we heard a cry over the plain, a curious one
like someone yelling an oath or an imperious command. Did you hear it?"
"Yes," interpolated Moore. "We thought the words were 'Fire!' or 'Kill!
kill!'"
We all realized what the clever men were doing--telling imaginary
things, trying to draw from Maloney an acknowledgment of a delusion.
They were sounding his mind, playing for its weak spot.
The suspect looked surprised, bewildered, then suddenly fell into the
trap. His weakened mind had been reached at its point of least
resistance.
As in nearly all insane individuals, it took but a proper mention of the
predominant delusion to reveal that which might otherwise have gone
undetected for a long period.
"Yes," whispered Maloney. "I heard the command. It was 'Kill!' 'Murder!'
I have heard it before. I am glad you heard it then--that proves that I
am right. I knew I was right. I can prove it. Surely it is not uncommon.
Gentlemen, I have heard it before. I know--I believe--it was meant
for--ha! ha!--O'Brien--ha! ha!--no! no!--for _me_!"
Moore stepped toward the man, whose speech now came thick and fast and
unintelligible. Hallen closed nearer. Maloney was shaking. His face was
turning dark, his jugulars were bulging like whip-cords down his neck,
his eyes sparkling with the unmistakable light of insanity. He stooped.
"There it is again! 'Kill! kill!'" he cried in thick, mumbling tones,
and bending low. Then he straightened up suddenly and flung himself
around, felling Hallen and Martin as though they were wooden men.
He seized a chair and hurled it across the table at Elliott, who dodged
successfully, allowing it to crash through the opposite window. Quick to
see this means of escape, Maloney followed through the smashed panes--a
raving, delirious maniac.
* * * * *
The test, carried out with such consummate skill, had not only proved
Maloney's knowledge of the revolver and that he was subject to
delusions, but it had also precipitated an unexpected attack of insane
excitement--an acute mania.
And now Maloney was gone--escaped.
As Hallen and Martin staggered to their feet, the Chief bellowed forth
an order in a voice of deepest chagrin and alarm: "Catch him!" he cried.
"If he escapes, the people will rise in fury."
We all heard a sickening, wild yell of defiance from Maloney as he
reached the ground--a deep, guttural, maniac cry that struck terror to
my weakened nerves and which froze our men for an instant in their
tracks, like marble statues.
Someone broke the awful spell--it was Oakes, crying out: "He is going
for the pond and the bridge." And next instant he and Hallen were out of
the front door, the men following in a rushing, compact body.
_CHAPTER XXIV_
_Across the Bridge_
As I staggered behind the pursuers I saw the tall, erect figure of
Quintus glide rapidly across the road and disappear down the decline. In
the briefest space we were at the crest by the road, looking down upon
the pond. I saw Moore and O'Brien by my side--the latter swearing like a
trooper.
"Who is that Mr. Clark, anyway? How did he know who I was? Since
Hallen's men found me at the farm-house this man Clark--this agent--has
had a lot to say."
"He is a man by the name of Oakes," I said.
O'Brien, or rather Larkin, looked at me a moment.
"Quintus Oakes?"
"The same."
"The deuce you say! No disgrace to me then. I understand things now. But
I should have suspected."
The murderer reached the bridge and, hesitating, stooped suddenly at
its near side. He had evidently picked up something from under one of
the logs that formed the span. He straightened up and, turning, suddenly
fired at Oakes, who was rapidly approaching. The deep tones of a heavy
revolver were unmistakable. Maloney had secured his murderous weapon
when he stooped; he had had it in hiding under the log. He was armed now
with a weapon of terrible possibilities. In another instant he was
across and mounting the green sunlit slope beyond. A hundred feet behind
was Quintus, untouched by the bullet that had been sent his way. A few
steps, and he reached the other side, but as he struck the ground, the
bridge--frail thing that it was--loosened from its centre support and
went crashing into the pond, leaving Hallen, who was close behind Oakes,
on this side of the bridge with the rest of us. Oakes was alone,
pursuing the murderer up the slope of the hill on the other side of the
water, facing us. We saw him turn, as the bridge fell, and look at us;
then he made a sweeping gesture toward the north and south, and turned
again after the murderer, who was just half-way up the slope now; his
body dotting the surface of the ground with a shadow at his side--a
shadow of himself--company in the race for freedom.
We all simultaneously interpreted the gestures made by Oakes, and Hallen
dashed to the north end of the pond to skirt it, while Martin and Moore
dashed for the southern end, leaving Elliott, Larkin and myself standing
where we commanded full view of what was coming. We were conscious of
several other figures dashing by us, and we knew that his men were
straining every nerve and muscle to reach Oakes in his dangerous
position.
It was a long run to skirt either end of the pond, and to swing around
the opposite shore, and thence up the sloping sides to Quintus's aid. We
three remaining behind were anxious beyond expression. I leaned heavily
on Elliott, and really prevented him from joining in the chase, where he
would have been useless; the others were so much fleeter of foot.
"God--that man Oakes is alone with the murderer!" cried Larkin. "He is
too good a man to lose his life in the fight that is coming. Look!"
We saw Maloney halt and face about. Then came a slight flash, followed
by the heavy report of the revolver in his hand.
Quintus was running slowly up toward him and was perhaps one hundred
feet away. At the report he staggered, and dropped upon the green,
slippery sward.
"He is wounded," cried Elliott.
I felt sick at heart and weak, and sat down, Larkin by my side; we two
were powerless, being only convalescent.
"An elegant shot! That Maloney is a crack one," cried the detective.
"Yes," said Elliott; "it was determined before that Mark's murderer was
a good shot."
Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired.
Oakes remained quiet. His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.
"Damnation!" cried Elliott. "Is Oakes dead? He does not answer with his
revolver."
"No," cried Larkin. "I saw him move, and see--he is braced to prevent
himself slipping down the hill. He knows he is a poor target, and is not
anxious to move lest he slide into the pond. That grass is frosty and
very slippery."
Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into
the air as he ran. He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward
along the crest of the hill.
"Slightly wounded, thank Fate--but Oakes could have killed him had he
wished," cried Larkin.
We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as
the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious
excitement.
Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was
now an excellent target, he did not fire.
"Oakes is hit badly," exclaimed Elliott. Then the speaker did an
unexpected thing. Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again
and again in the direction of Maloney. "A long shot," he muttered, "but
I'll keep him guessing."
We could see the bullets hit somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed
disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in
that direction; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill. We heard
another shot ring out--a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then
emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive. Maloney fired
again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with
his revolver.
We heard Oakes's voice, clear and firm it came, wafted across the pond.
"Don't shoot again. He has no more ammunition. I will get him."
And Elliott, in suppressed excitement, exclaimed: "He was drawing
Maloney's fire all the time. He was not wounded."
"Yes, he knew Maloney had the old six-shooter, and he knows it is empty
now."
"That Oakes keeps everything in mind," said Larkin. "He is a good one."
Then we saw the figures of the runners skirting the northern end of the
pond. Hallen was leading. He fired at Maloney, evidently not having
understood Oakes's word, and again came that clear voice across the
pond.
"Don't fire, Hallen; remember, he is a lunatic and he can't get away
now."
We saw Oakes rush to close in on Maloney, but the latter met his attack,
and the detective was borne to the ground heavily.
"Shoot, Oakes, shoot!" I yelled, as did Hallen; but Quintus responded
not.
We saw that the fight was furious, but were unable at first to
distinguish the figures as they remained on the ground. They were locked
in one another's embrace in a deadly, awe-inspiring struggle. Then
across one man's neck we saw a forearm--the cuff was shining in the
sunlight--and Elliott cried out: "That is Oakes."
The two rose to their feet, powerful black objects, and by the outline
we recognized the tall figure of our friend as they swayed and surged,
gradually slipping and sliding down the incline, toward the deep waters
of the pond below.
"Oakes has got him," cried Larkin, "choking him. Look at them!"
We saw the murderer's body arch sideways and backward, with Oakes's
hands around his neck.