Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story

  _CHAPTER VI_

  _The Murder_

  The rising sun was invisible from the little station hidden in the gloomof the hill, but away out on the river its rays reached the water andmarked out sharply the shadow of the high ground.

  Further down the stream the rugged outlines of the Mansion were cut insilhouette on the surface of the river, which was, as yet, smooth as amill-pond, but which soon would be moved by those thousands of ripplesadvancing from the opposite shore.

  As the sun shot his beams clearer and sharper, the mist of the distanceunfolded and the rays struck the ragged granite cliffs of the shore, andrevealed them yellow and gray in the bluish haze of the morn.

  Away up, miles beyond, the river broadened and the mountains of bothsides rose abruptly and ruggedly, apparently from the water's edge,causing the effect of a wide, placid lake.

  All was quiet, lonely and dark on this side of the shore under the hill,but beyond, where the rays of the sun had reached, was beginning lifeand activity.

  A schooner, becalmed until now, began to move with the breeze thatgreeted the waking of day.

  The train had but just left the little station, and again had twostrangers alighted. One, the older, trudged up the hill covered with agreat-coat, and with hands in his pockets. He walked rather rapidly,looking sharply around once or twice. As he neared the top, where thecountry rolls off into the plain, he turned to admire the spectacle ofthe breaking day. His glance followed the road, and he saw below thesecond figure walking along in a hurry, as though to make up for losttime.

  He smiled and said to himself: "That fellow Martin is a persistentyoungster, anyway."

  A few yards more brought him to the crest of the hill; then he suddenlystopped, for before him was unfolded a stretch of rolling ground, wellfilled with trees in autumnal foliage, and beyond, the spires and thesky-line of a sleeping town. To his right he beheld a large wooded tractextending for at least a mile down the river, and in the dim distancethe shaded outlines of an old mansion. Over all was the glorious yellowsun. The new fresh rays caught the leaves on the trees and on theground, and kissed away the frost of the October morning. The travellerdrew a long breath.

  "I have been over the world, almost, but never did I know such splendorwas so near my office," said he, half aloud. He had discovered what somefew had already known, that here at our doors, if one is not tooindifferent, can be found the scenery one seeks in a month's journey.

  While walking along, Moore, for he was the man, was overtaken by amilk-wagon which rattled by with its two horses; the driver, lashing hiswhip, seemed to mark the actual awakening to life of this ruralcommunity.

  "Say, how far to the hotel and which way?" asked Moore.

  "Down the road a piece. Come, get in. I'll drive ye."

  Moore jumped up alongside, and was thankful for the lift.

  As they sped along, he started at a sound in the distance like the faintcrack of a whip, but duller.

  "What was that--a shot?" he said.

  "Yes; rather early, but poachers like to get on to the Mark place 'mostany time. Didn't sound like much of a gun, though."

  They were now at the hotel, and Moore registered in the old dilapidatedbook, and went to his room before his breakfast. As he lay down for amoment to rest, all of the vivid experiences of the last twenty-fourhours coursed through his brain. He followed the events of the eveningbefore, and congratulated himself on being now relieved from anxiety,for a time at least.

  He had seen my name and that of "Clark," whom he knew to be Oakes, onthe register, and had located our rooms as right opposite his own.Perhaps he had better communicate with Oakes and myself, now it was sixo'clock, he thought. He looked into the corridor and saw no one about,for no attendant watches in these little hotels in the country. Helocked his door, and knocked at Oakes's. In a moment he heard the keyclick, 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 minecommunicated; he had thought it best that we should have access to eachother at all times, if possible.

  We two hastily dressed, and Dr. Moore presented the cause of his visitas briefly as possible.

  "Let me see the letter," said Oakes.

  He read it carefully. "One thing is certain--it is written by a personof some education. That proves nothing, however. It may have beendictated originally by a very illiterate person."

  "It was sent from New York."

  "Oh, yes," said Oakes wearily, "but it may simply have been writtenthere. It may have gone under cover in different language--from anyplace 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 waswritten 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 slightlyabstracted 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 memany times at close range. This is an unintentional clue. The style ofthe writing, the paper and the perfume point to a woman, but the wordingis 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 ofsome 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 beenhere in Mona. As I said, the originator is a man, probably, who knows meby sight, and knows Mona and its affairs very well, but who also knowsNew York and your city address, Moore; for the letter went there. By hisknowledge of late events in Mona I should imagine that he perhaps liveshere, but has recently been to New York, or else has an accomplicethere--a woman--who rewrote and remailed the letter for him."

  At breakfast we contrived to keep the waitress busy filling orders, forwe wished to discuss our affairs and had no mind to be overheard. Oakeshad prepared the proprietor for Moore's arrival, saying he expected himat any time; so his coming excited no particular attention. While thegirl was out, the doctor narrated his morning's experience as far as thewalk up the hill. We addressed Oakes as Clark, as had been previouslyagreed.

  "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 himselfvisible 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 thecorridor, where the porter was mopping the floor, and the cigar-standopening for business.

  I went over and bought something to smoke. Moore took one, but Oakesrefused. That meant he was worried, and not at his ease. Presently thedoctor 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 waspoachers on the Mark property."

  Oakes wheeled and regarded Moore austerely.

  "You heard shooting on the Mark grounds? Why did you not say so? Youtell 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 thestation was a milk-wagon, rushing along at a terrific rate. The horseswere 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 arelow. Those animals are not scared."

  We all looked, and beheld what Oakes had already noticed.

&
nbsp; "Look at the driver," said a by-stander.

  He was standing up on the dashboard plying his whip without mercy. Byhis 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 werefalling 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. Theintelligent animals were straining to their limit in dumb, intense brutedesire to get there, or die. A murmur of applause arose from the crowd,and the country apathy gave way to subdued excitement. Never did Romancharioteer drive better! Never did artillery horses pull harder!

  In a minute or so the team came abreast of us, and the driver, by awonderful control of his animals, pulled up abruptly. He dropped hiswhip 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'sbeen shot!"

  Oakes turned to Moore. His arm made that quick, silent movement sopeculiarly 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!" heblurted out.

  "Yes, and Martin got it instead," said Oakes. "Come!" and in an instanthe was off down the road.

  We followed, and the crowd of about thirty closed in. It was a quickdash down that turnpike. Never had early-riser in Mona had such anexperience before. The terrific flight of the milk-wagon and itsdramatic ending had inspired life in the crowd. Hotel porters, barmenand milkman, gentlemen and loafers, all went down that road with oneobject in view--the succoring of a fellow being. As we ran, thestrongest forged ahead. Moore and myself came abreast in the rear ofthe 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 nearus.

  We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain'the 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. Itwas a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of ourfriend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, evenstride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner incollege--a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went thefeet of those around us--and always that tall figure in the lead, takingthe ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distancebetween us.

  As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down, the milk-wagons werebeginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd ofvehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slopeand beheld Oakes--in the lead--halt, and bend over a figure. He seemedto be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood andheard the sighing breathing.

  "Dying!" said Moore, by my side.

  We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he andOakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew whathad 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 is _not_ Martin."

  The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see theface.

  Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don'ttouch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner."

  They obeyed. The first official now arrived on a wagon. He hesitated ashe saw the bloody back; and then turned the face so that all could seeit.

  Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "_It'sWinthrop Mark!_"