He had seen my name and that of "Clark," whom he knew to be Oakes, on the register, and had located our rooms as right opposite his own. Perhaps he had better communicate with Oakes and myself, now it was six o'clock, he thought. He looked into the corridor and saw no one about, for no attendant watches in these little hotels in the country. He locked his door, and knocked at Oakes's. In a moment he heard the key click, and Oakes looked carefully through the partially opened door.The recognition was quick and Moore was admitted.
In another moment I had joined them, for Oakes's room and mine communicated; he had thought it best that we should have access to each other at all times, if possible.
We two hastily dressed, and Dr. Moore presented the cause of his visit as briefly as possible.
"Let me see the letter," said Oakes.
He read it carefully. "One thing is certain—it is written by a person of some education. That proves nothing, however. It may have been dictated originally by a very illiterate person."
"It was sent from New York."
"Oh, yes," said Oakes wearily, "but it may simply have been written there. It may have gone under cover in different language—from any place almost—and been copied or put into shape by an accomplice."
"Hard to trace it," said Moore.
"Yes, practically impossible, along those lines. But in any event it was written on a woman's paper; see the texture."
We all noticed its fineness and agreed.
"And the odor of musk is not a man's favorite, either," remarked Oakes, as we noticed the scent. He was standing erect, with a slightly abstracted air. He was thinking.
"Well," said Moore, "we cannot find out much then."
"Oh, yes, you can."
"The letter speaks of the color of my eyes. The originator has seen me many times at close range. This is an unintentional clue. The style of the writing, the paper and the perfume point to a woman, but the wording is a man's, as is the description of myself, I judge."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I hazard a guess that the letter was written or dictated by a man of some education, and rewritten by a woman as a disguise."
"Ah! And where was it written?"
"That it is impossible to say. Perhaps in New York—but it may have been here in Mona. As I said, the originator is a man, probably, who knows me by sight, and knows Mona and its affairs verywell, but who also knows New York and your city address, Moore; for the letter went there. By his knowledge of late events in Mona I should imagine that he perhaps lives here, but has recently been to New York, or else has an accomplice there—a woman—who rewrote and remailed the letter for him."
At breakfast we contrived to keep the waitress busy filling orders, for we wished to discuss our affairs and had no mind to be overheard. Oakes had prepared the proprietor for Moore's arrival, saying he expected him at any time; so his coming excited no particular attention. While the girl was out, the doctor narrated his morning's experience as far as the walk up the hill. We addressed Oakes as Clark, as had been previously agreed.
"Did Martin follow you?" asked the detective.
"Yes, I saw him ascending the hill after me."
Our leader thought a moment. "Curious! Why has he not made himself visible here? The chances are you were mistaken, Moore."
"Oh, no. I feel confident it was Martin."
We left the cheerless, low-ceiled dining-room and walked out into the corridor, where the porter wasmopping the floor, and the cigar-stand opening for business.
I went over and bought something to smoke. Moore took one, but Oakes refused. That meant he was worried, and not at his ease. Presently the doctor remarked: "Seems to be shooting around here."
"How? What do you mean?" asked Oakes.
"Yes, I heard a shot when I was in the wagon. The milkman said it was poachers on the Mark property."
Oakes wheeled and regarded Moore austerely.
"You heard shooting on the Mark grounds? Why did you not say so? You tell a poor story."
At this moment we heard a commotion outside, and the cry: "A runaway!"
We all stepped to the sidewalk, where a few early risers had gathered, and looked down the road. Coming over the crest of the hill from the station was a milk-wagon, rushing along at a terrific rate. The horses were leaping, with heads hung low. The smashing of cans was audible, even at the distance.
"That is no runaway," said Oakes. "Look at the horses' heads—they are low. Those animals are not scared."
We all looked, and beheld what Oakes had already noticed.
"Look at the driver," said a by-stander.
He was standing up on the dashboard plying his whip without mercy. By his side was a boy, hanging on for all he was worth.
In the quiet, self-possessed way that marks a leader in all emergencies, Oakes spoke up: "That is a race for help, boys, not a runaway."
Down the long road came the wagon—a heavy affair. Milk-cans were falling out and the roadway seemed scarcely enough for the swaying team. The driver, a strapping fellow, balanced himself as best he could, holding the reins with one hand and using the whip with the other. The intelligent animals were straining to their limit in dumb, intense brute desire to get there, or die. A murmur of applause arose from the crowd, and the country apathy gave way to subdued excitement. Never did Roman charioteer drive better! Never did artillery horses pull harder!
In a minute or so the team came abreast of us, and the driver, by a wonderful control of his animals, pulled up abruptly. He dropped his whip and held up his hand.
"There is a gentleman dying on the road by the top of the hill!"
"Who? Who?"
"I don't know, but he's on his face—with blood all over his back. He's been shot!"
Oakes turned to Moore. His arm made that quick, silent movement so peculiarly his own and rested lightly on the physician's shoulder.
"The shooting you heard," he remarked.
Moore turned pale and seemed almost to stagger. "Meant for me!" he blurted out.
"Yes, and Martin got it instead," said Oakes. "Come!" and in an instant he was off down the road.
We followed, and the crowd of about thirty closed in. It was a quick dash down that turnpike. Never had early-riser in Mona had such an experience before. The terrific flight of the milk-wagon and its dramatic ending had inspired life in the crowd. Hotel porters, barmen and milkman, gentlemen and loafers, all went down that road with one object in view—the succoring of a fellow being. As we ran, the strongest forged ahead. Moore and myself cameabreast in the rear of the leaders, but near to the bunch.
"Terrible! Poor Martin!" said Moore.
"Keep quiet," I said between breaths.
A murmur arose in the crowd. "Look at that fellow," said a runner near us.
We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain't he a beaut?" said another.
"Look at Oakes," said I.
"Shut up," said Moore. "Call him Clark, now."
The heavy breathing around us became noticeable; men were tiring now. It was a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of our friend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, even stride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner in college—a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went the feet of those around us—and always that tall figure in the lead, taking the ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distance between us.
As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down,the milk-wagons were beginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd of vehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slope and beheld Oakes—in the lead—halt, and bend over a figure. He seemed to be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood and heard the sighing breathing.
"Dying!" said Moore, by my side.
We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he and Oakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew what had taken place. The motley crowd uncovered, panting and pale-faced.
"Dead!" said Oakes, and turned to Moore, who had joined me in the crowd.
"Be careful," he said. "The murdered man isnotMartin."
The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see the face.
Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don't touch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner."
They obeyed. The first official now arrived on awagon. He hesitated as he saw the bloody back; and then turned the face so that all could see it.
Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "It's Winthrop Mark!"
CHAPTER VII
The Inquest
At the suggestion of Oakes, we mingled with the crowd for a short time and then returned to the town with some of the hotel employees, leaving the others in their excitement to await the action of the authorities.
"This man Winthrop Mark seems to have been very well known?" Oakes inquired of the hotel porter by his side.
The latter, anxious to identify himself with the town and its people, and also to please the stranger beside him who had made himself so prominent during the last few moments, gave much information.
"Yes, Mr. Clark, the murdered man has lived hereabouts for a long time; his brother owns the Mark Mansion over yonder; the town has been very proud of it, you know."
"Yes, a beautiful old place."
"It is, sir. But no place to live in; there has been something dangerous about it, sir."
"Seems to me I heard something of it when I was last in Mona," said Oakes.
"Did you have any experience, sir?"
"Experience! What do you mean?"
"I do not know, sir, butitalways appears. Something that scares people."
"Hurts the town, doesn't it?"
"Yes, indeed, sir; and this murder will spoil everything here now."
"I cannot quite follow you."
"Oh, sir, you don't know how good Mr. Mark was: Always improving the roads; always giving the town money; forever clearing up jealousies," said the porter.
Oakes looked at him: "Say, my man, how long have you been a porter? You don't speak like a man brought up in such work."
"I was not, sir. I used to be a merchant, years ago; burned out; no insurance; broke; went to work as a porter; nothing else to do. The old story, Mr. Clark; I am not the first one!"
We knew Oakes was seeking some information, so we remained quiet.
"Sad enough," said he; "perhaps times will improve for you."
The porter, Reilly by name, smiled and looked at Oakes with that expression of hopeful despair we have all seen, we who rub the world in our continuous efforts.
"Who could have shot Mr. Mark?" asked our companion, "did he have many enemies?"
"No, Mr. Clark. I know of none. But——" and the man paused.
"Well, what?" said the detective in an off-hand way.
"Well, it's peculiar," said Reilly, "very peculiar to me. Two or three years ago, sir, Smith, the leading man of the town, was shot at the very same spot in the road."
"What!" I cried; but a look from Oakes silenced me. "Indeed! quite a coincidence," said he. "Who shot him?"
"Nobody knows. I was just going to work when it happened."
"Early in the day, then?"
"Just about six o'clock, sir—and he was shot right through the chest," volunteered our informant. "Well, I hope they catch this fellow," said Oakes. "You have a good police chief here."
"Yes, sir, very. He came up here first for his health; but he was once chief in some large city."
"Ah, then he will get the murderer surely. Mona is fortunate in having such a man."
Reilly looked pleased at the compliment, and it seemed as though Oakes had won another follower.
Before we reached the hotel, we saw that the town was now wide awake. There were groups of men talking excitedly before nearly every business place—the bank, the dry-goods stores, drug-stores and newspaper offices. It was about their opening hour, and rumor had travelled fast.
On the main street, Oakes left us with a word of caution. "Be careful what you say. There may be a connection between this affair and the Mansion mystery, but—we know nothing of either. The inquest may tell us something. Meantime, you two find out what you can by mingling with the crowd.Learn all about Reilly; and anything you can pick up of the Smith murder he mentioned. I am going to see the Chief of Police; and, if possible, telephone to my office in New York."
Moore and I walked around in the fast-increasing crowd, and talked with those who were returning from the scene of the murder.
The people were settling down into a dull, sullen silence, as people will, after a great tragedy. This was a blow to the inhabitants here. The death of Mr. Mark was the loss of a friend to many, and of a leading citizen to all. Those engaged in business in what had been until recently a most prosperous little town foresaw the probable after-effect on confidence and the town's future.
The demon of vengeance was rising in many hearts. The report of the coroner's jury was awaited with anxiety. The murderer would probably have escaped by that time—but better so—if once his identity could be discovered, than have another mysterious horror in the community.
The police headquarters, a trim little brick building facing the square and the hotel, was the centre of real activity.
Oakes made his appearance alone at the top of the steps coming out from the corridor that led to the Chief's room. As he stood at the door glancing calmly around at the crowd, I thought what a magnificent man he was. He stood erect and composed, as though inviting scrutiny. His long overcoat was not carefully closed—its collar was turned partly up. He had put it on like the rest of us, after our return from the run, and he had done it quickly. His left hand was hanging down in a natural position; his right was in his overcoat pocket. The Fedora hat was slightly tilted back. He looked a half-careless, indifferent fellow, but the keen eyes missed nothing; they rested on me, on Moore and then on the crowd. He was the embodiment of searching coolness. The crowd recognized him and knew that he had seen the Chief of Police. They reasoned as one man that something important had been done. The tall city fellow had been first at the side of the victim; they had seen that. What did he know? And then they thought of that run and the exhibition of physical perfection that his powers had shown; and like a gentle ripple on thebrook came a murmur of admiration. Oakes stepped down and was the centre of much questioning. All the time the right hand remained in the coat pocket. I knew that it held death at command; that the revolver lay well in his grasp; that Quintus Oakes was now on guard, and the field was one with which he was well acquainted.
Soon he entered the hotel, and we followed him to his room. "You must be at the inquest—both of you. Dr. Moore, you are well known as a surgeon and will view the body with the local doctors. They wish you to do so. They say you are known to them by reputation. You will be required as an expert witness. I have made my identity known to the Chief of Police."
"Indeed," I said; "then everybody will know it."
"No, they won't," said Oakes. "The Chief knows me by name. I know all about him; he is a good, shrewd man. I have explained our mission here, and have disclaimed any desire to have anything to do with this mystery, unless—unless it touches the other. The Chief, Hallen, wants my evidence, and he knows enough to see that we can all stand in together."
"He may help in the Mansion affair later," said Moore.
"Yes," said Oakes. "I thought I might need him. Anyway, this murder is for the police at present. I succeeded in getting long-distance telephone, and found that Martin did not come here at all. He returned to the office after seeing Dr. Moore off on the train."
"Good!" we exclaimed. "And what did you learn from the dying man? He spoke to you, we thought."
"I learned something that has great possibilities," said Oakes. "Wait for the inquest. What haveyoulearned?"
I answered for us both: "Reilly is well known here and reliable. We could learn nothing of the Smith murder save that it had occurred about as this one, and was never solved. The old Chief of Police resigned on account of public opinion of his incompetency; the new Chief, Hallen, came in here a year or so ago."
"Well," said Oakes, "so far—so good; but it looks to me as though there is some connection between these murders. I do not envy the localofficials a bit; the people won't stand much more mystery up here. Suspicion of one's neighbors is a terrible thing in a small community. By the way, when I give my evidence, watch me but little—watch the audience more. The criminal might be there!"
"Yes," said Moore, turning to me; "they often seek the court under such circumstances, don't they?"
"I believe it has been recorded," I rejoined. Then seeing Oakes move away, I asked where he was going.
"I am going to look around for a while."
"Better be cautious; you may be the next to get a bullet, for the criminal probably knows that you saw Mark alive. He may be anybody in town," I said.
"Anybody! Nonsense. You may clear the women and children at least. That wound was made by a heavy-calibre weapon; it takes strength to handle such."
Then he walked away.
The coroner empanelled the jury that afternoon. It was composed of milkmen, porters and farmers, and some men of more substantial condition; for instance, the leading banker and the secretary of the Young Men's Christian Association. They were all alert to the importance of their position, and anxious to appear well in this drama that was opening in Mona.
The jury viewed the body in the anteroom, and the wound was examined carefully. They marched into the court-room next to the apartments of the Chief of Police, and were seated before the bench. The large room was filled to its utmost with the representative men of the place. To my eyes, the scene was novel indeed. My practice had been in the courts of the metropolis, and the methods here interested me. They were simple, straight-forward people. The intensity of their faces, the hush of the crowd, was awesome. I obtained a seat facing most of the people, and Dr. Moore was by my side.
The room looked on a lawn which extended to the next street, and opposite to me were three windows, the centre one of which was open. At the openwindow was a young negro, handsome and well built. He leaned on the sill with folded arms, and, judging by the height of the window from the ground, I knew he was standing on a box or a barrel. A couple of other faces were visible outside the closed windows. The crowd within was uneasy, but quiet—a volcano in its period of inactivity.
Then the milkman who discovered the body related his story. He had come 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 enteredthe 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 beenmuchnearer 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'clockA.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, wasgiven. 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 veryheavy 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, hisvoice 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 fornearly 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 theplace 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 wasa 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 longone, 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 downstairsrooms 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, buthedid 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 wereinsane, 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 hisescape 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 werenolocal 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 ofClark—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 beanyone? Yes, almostanyone! 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 andthe 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.
By evening of the second day the far-sighted and most influential citizens detected the condition of affairs. The older residents had noticed the peculiar similarity of this murder to that of Smith. The coincidence of time and place was another factor. Could it be the same assassin? Had he dwelt with them all the while since? The most respected and wealthy of the inhabitants shared the unenviable position of being under suspicion; there was no relief for anyone.
The two local newspapers published "extras," and could scarcely supply the demand. The murders of Smith and Winthrop were reviewed carefully, and their similarity much written about. The hotel and the two leading business streets were filled with suspicious, muttering groups.
Nothing had been found missing from the deadman; his watch and money were untouched. His arrival by such an early train was not unusual. He frequently went to New York for an outing, and returned before breakfast to his magnificent place on the hill to the east of the town, where he lived with two old maiden aunts—his mother's sisters.
Now all this uneasiness and suspicion had been noted—by Hallen, the Chief. He was a man who, after living in the country for many years, had finally pushed himself to the top of a large police force in a city of importance. The physical strain had told on him, however, and now he found himself back in a small town, recovered in health, but shut in as to future prospects. The murder of Mark had come to him as a thunderbolt from a clear sky, but he saw opportunities in it. When Oakes had visited him and made himself known, he had at first been jealous; but the former, with his wonderful insight, had made a friend of him.
"Hallen, if you manage this affair well, you will be famous. They are looking for good men in New York all the while. My work is in the Mansion; if our paths cross, let us work together."
So had suggested Oakes. He had known about Hallen, as he knew the history of all police officers, and had thus given hope to the man who had been used to better things. Instantly Hallen had seen that to antagonize Oakes would be foolish; to aid him, and perhaps obtain his advice and friendship, would ultimately redound to his own future credit and, possibly, advancement. For Oakes's work had brought him in contact with police heads in all the large cities. His boldness and genius for ferreting out mysteries were known to them all, and they had paid him the compliment of studying his methods carefully.
Hallen had agreed to have Oakes's testimony at the inquest taken at just the proper moment for effect, and had agreed to call Dr. Moore as an expert.
Of course, the coroner did what the Chief asked.
As Oakes had said: "If you want expert evidence, get it from Moore; if you don't ask him, you won't get it in Mona."
The idea of Oakes bringing in his testimony as he did was part of the plan to watch the audience. The planning of the Chief and himself had accountedfor the somewhat informal presentation of the evidence that I had noticed. In rural courts, affairs are not conducted as they are in the city, and I had observed a quick swing to affairs, hardly accounted for on the ground of practice. I recognized the hand of Quintus Oakes, and knew that the scene had been carefully manœuvred.
Hallen sat in his office on the evening of the day after the inquest, reviewing the happenings that had crowded so fast in Mona, and thinking, not without misgivings, of the wave of suspicion that was rising to interfere with the affairs of the town.
At this moment the editor of the "Mona Mirror" entered—a whole-souled, fat individual, breezy and decidedly agreeable. He was one of the natives, a man of growing popularity and decided education. Dowd was his name, and he hatedthat fellow Skinner, who edited the rival newspaper, the "Daily News."
Skinner had "bossed" things in a free-handed fashion until Dowd (a clerk in the post-office until middle life) had decided to enter the field of journalism—less than two years before. Dowd was inexperienced, but hewas bright, and he wielded a pen that cut like a two-edged sword; and the love that was lost between the two editors was not worth mentioning.
As Dowd entered and found Hallen alone, he took off his hat and overcoat, and laughed sarcastically. He really liked Hallen, and was on intimate terms with him. Hallen looked up. "Well, what's ailing you now?" he said.
"Oh, nothing. Only this town is going loony, sure as fate, Hallen. What are you going to do?"
Hallen chewed the end of a cigar viciously. "I am going to do the best I can to solve the mystery; if I cannot do that, I can at least keep order here. Give me a few 'specials' and the necessity, and I will make these half-crazy people do a turn or two."
The burly chief turned the conversation into other channels, but Dowd was satisfied. He knew the speaker well.
CHAPTER X
The Cellar
Meantime our first experience at the Mansion, previously recorded, bade fair to be a serious one. When Oakes had collapsed on his return from the cellar Dr. Moore fortunately was sufficiently recovered to reach his side in a few seconds.
"Elevate his feet, Stone. He'll be all right in a few minutes; he has fainted."
I did as directed, and Moore threw the half of a pitcher of water on the unconscious man's neck and face. Gravity sent the blood back to his head, and when the water touched him, he gasped and presently opened his eyes. Then we carried him to the bed.
In an instant he attempted to rise, but the Doctor refused to allow it, giving him instead an enviable drink from his flask. "Keep your guns by you," said Oakes, "and give me mine."
The tension had told on me, and Moore was nowby far the best man. He smiled and ordered me to take a drink also, and to sit down. I obeyed, for I felt, after the excitement, as limp as a boy after his first cigar.
Dr. Moore was examining Oakes's head. "Fine scalp wound," said he, and proceeded to sew it up and dress it. His pocket case came in handy. He had been wise to bring it. "Hurt anywhere else, old fellow?" asked he.
"No; sore as the devil all over, that's all," and Oakes arose, took off his coat, and began to bathe his face. "Keep an eye on that door," said he.
I was myself now, and took my chair to the hall door, sitting where I could command the head of the stairs and could also hear anyone who might approach from below.
"What happened?" asked Moore.
"Well, nothing very much," said Oakes; "only I guess I got a mighty good licking."
"You look it," said I. "Did you shoot for help?"
"Yes, I did. I could notshout. The shots saved my life."
"How? Did you kill anyone?"
"Don't know, only the other party kindly quit killing me when I began to shoot. I heard something drop, however, and there may be a dead body somewhere."
The shots had aroused the household, and we heard shouting and cries from the Cooks and from Annie. Soon they appeared, hunting for us, all distraught and frightened. They said they were in the kitchen when they heard the shots, and did not know whence they came. This was probable, as the cellar was away from their section. Annie cried when she saw Oakes, and ran out to bring in more help. One of the gardeners returned with her, and as he came into the room I received the impression of a silent, stern-looking man, past forty and rather strong in appearance, although not large. He had seen better days.
"Ah!" said he; "ye have run up aginst it agin, sorr. It's nerve ye have, to go nigh that room after what ye got last time." Oakes looked at me and at Moore, and we saw he wished us to keep silent.
"Yes! I shan't try it again in a hurry. What's your name?" he asked.
The question came quick as a flash. I knew he was trying to disconcert the fellow.
"My name is Mike O'Brien, sorr, gardener; you remimber, 'twas me that helped you last time, sorr."
"You mean you stood by and let the others help me, Mike."
We knew now that this was the indifferent gardener of whom Oakes had spoken.
"Thrue for ye, sorr; 'twas little enough I did, and that's a fact; I'm not used to being scared to death like ye be, sorr." Was that an unintentional shot, or was it a "feeler"?
Oakes had a sharp customer before him, and he knew it.
"Where were you when you heard the shots, Mike?"
"In the woods at the front of the house. I was raking up the leaves, be the same token."
"What did you see?" Oakes spoke in a commanding voice and fingered the breech of his revolver in a suggestive way.
"I seen a shadow come out av the cellar door."
"What door?"
"Theonlycellar door; near the side av the house, sorr."
"What sort of a shadow?"
"'Twas the shadow av a man, and a big one. The sun cast it on the side av the house, sorr."
Oakes thought a moment, then arose and said: "Step here, Mike, and point out the side of the house you mean."
Mike hesitated. The other servants withdrew at Oakes's suggestion that he wished to talk with the gardener. The latter advanced. We felt that Oakes was trying to spring a trap.
"The side of the house where the cellar door is," reiterated Mike.
"Nonsense, O'Brien. Your story is impossible. The sun was then in the east and the shadow would have been thrown on the east wall. There is no door on that side; it is on the west side of the house."
O'Brien looked at Oakes defiantly.
"Yer intirely wrong, sorr.There isthe cellar door to the east." He pointed to a hatch, opening about forty feet from the house, near the well. "The dooryesaw on the west is niver opened—'tis nailed up."
The tables were turned. Oakes was disconcerted.
"If what you say is true, you have my apology. I have not investigated closely."
"So I thought, sorr," was the answer. And we all wondered at the amazing coolness and self-possession of the man. It was one against three, and he had held his own.
"Sit down, Mike," said Oakes. "How long have you been here?"
"Only a matter av six weeks. I came from New York and tried for a job. Maloney, the head man, giv me wan."
"Where is Maloney?"
"He was in the tool-house whin I come by, sorr. He didn't hear the commotion, being sort o' deef."
"All right, Mike! Stay where you are a moment." Then Oakes turned to us.
"Just after Moore was attacked I heard a sound like a quick footstep, and having certain suspicions of my own, made a dash for the cellar. I found there was no cellar under the north wing; but toward the west, and directly beneath the dining-room, was a door. As I opened it all wasdark; but my eyes soon accustomed themselves to the light, and I made out a good-sized chamber—and what I took for a man near the farther end. I remained silent, pretending I had seen nothing, and, closing the door, made a movement back up the cellar stairs. There I waited for about five minutes. The ruse worked. The door of the chamber opened, and a man, dressed in a dark cloak and a mask, partly emerged, and, Ithought, started for the other stairs at the west end of the cellar. I jumped and grappled with him, but he struck me with the butt end of a revolver, and I was dazed; in another minute, he was punishing me severely. I fired two shots, then he threw me away from him and disappeared. He was stronger than anyone I ever met," said Oakes, apologetically, "a regular demon, and he got in the first blow. I think I wounded him, however."
"What shall we do?" said Moore.
"Go quickly and investigate," was the answer. "Here, Mike, you lead the way."
Mike did not hesitate. If playing a game, he did it well.
"Want a gun?" said Oakes.
"No, sorr, not if youse all are armed. Guess we can give him all the scrap he wants."
We descended the stairs, Oakes last, as became his condition. He touched Moore and myself, and pointed to Mike. "Watch him; he may be already armed," he whispered.
The cellar was lighted by one window at the western end. A door at the same end, which evidently led to some stairs, was padlocked, and, as Oakes said, had not been recently opened. The dust lay upon it undisturbed and the padlock was very rusty. This corroborated Mike's story. The door above that opened on the ground. It was boarded up, he said.
No means was found of passing beneath the dance hall, as Oakes had said. From the lay of the ground, we concluded that the cellar was very low there and not bottomed—a shut-in affair such as one finds in old buildings of the Colonial epoch. Across the cellar, to the other side—the south—the same thing pertained except at the western extremity under the dining-room; there a door opened into a cellar room or chamber.
"Here! take this," said Oakes, handing Mike a small pocket taper. "Light it."
Mike did as told, and stepped into the room, I after him. Oakes held the cellar door open, and I, happening to look at him, saw that he was watching Mike as a cat watches a mouse. He had dropped a match at the moment, and, with his eye still on the gardener, stooped to pick it up. His hand made a swift, double movement, he had the match and something else besides; but Mike had not observed, and I, of course, said nothing.
The room was low and without windows, but the air was remarkably clean and fresh. "Plenty of ventilation in here," said I.
"Yes, and blood too," said the gardener.
Sure enough, the floor was spattered with it.
"Mine, I guess," said Oakes. "Moore, kindly fetch a lamp from upstairs. Ask Annie for one."
Moore went, and soon brought down a small lantern. We could hear Cook's voice at the head of the stairs; also his wife's and Annie's. It was the long-expected hunt that no one had ever before made, and which might clear up the mystery at any time.
By the better light we saw evidences of thestruggle that had taken place—a strip of Oakes's coat, and a piece of glazed red paper an inch or so long, and perhaps half as broad—white on one side, red on the other.
"Piece of a mask," said I; and Oakes placed it in his pocket.
Dr. Moore walked to the east side of the room, where he and I saw a door in the wall, and some plastering on the floor under it. Mike was busy examining a heap of rubbish at the other end. His conduct had been most exemplary. Moore turned the light on the door, and we three observed it for a moment. Mike had not seen it distinctly, if at all.
"Moore, come here," said the detective, retreating; and the Doctor followed with the light.
"Come on, Stone." I left the room with them.
"Curious!" he heard Mike say behind us.
"What is curious?" asked Oakes.
The smart hired man answered. "Mr. Clark, the air is good in here. Where does it come from?"
"I guess we have learned all we need this time, Mike," was the reply, and the gardener came out reluctantly.
Oakes had seen the door in the wall: it was all he wanted to know. He closed the outer entrance of the room, and called to Cook for hammer and nails. The man brought them quickly; then the leader took a board that was standing against the wall, and Mike and Cook nailed it across the door from frame to frame.
"Mr. Clark, ye willhavethe devil now, sorr," said Mike.
Oakes took a pencil out of his pocket and wrote "Clark" on one end of the board; then with a single movement continued his hand over its edge carefully, and on to the frame, where the line terminated in a second signature—"Clark."
"Anyone removing that board has got to put it back to match that line," said Oakes, "and that with a board is practically impossible where nailing has been done. Now for the exit that opens near the well."
We went back through the cellar hall and found at the east end a door ajar. It did not lock, and was hung on rusty hinges. Beyond was a dark passage.
"Where does this lead, Mike?"
"To the opening by the well, sorr."
"How do you know?"
"I don't know, myself, but Maloney said the outside opening by the well led into the cellar; Cook says so, too. 'Tis a passage they used in wet weather, sorr."
"Mike, you and Cook go round and guard that outer door by the well. Open it. I'm going through."
"Mr. Clark, don't go in there alone!"
"I'll attend to that," said Oakes. "You go with Cook."
The two went to the well and lifted the hatch door. As they did so, Oakes held a lighted match inside one end of the tunnel. It blew strongly toward us; the air was rushing in, and we knew the passage led to the opening. We heard their voices calling to us. Dr. Moore spoke.
"Oakes, you shallnotgo in there; you have done enough to-day; you are a wounded man." I caught up the lantern and my revolver, and Moore followed.