Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story — 16 The Negro’s Story

_The Negro's Story_ Saturday came and went without event.

So far, at least, Hallen's arrangements for the preservation of order had been effective.

Or was it that the eyes and hopes of the people were centred upon the new arrival in town, the great detective--as they were led to believe--who had grown famous through his skill in ferreting out just such mysteries.

In any case, the Chief's forebodings of a lawless outbreak were unfulfilled.

The real Oakes spent most of his time in the Mansion while we remained in town; but our little party came and went as it pleased.

Our movements had ceased to attract that attention which Oakes found so undesirable.

As he said, in the well-known phrase of the sleight-of-hand operators: "the more you look, the less you see."

The eyes of Mona were focused on the _false_ Oakes--the wrong hand; we ourselves--the hand doing the trick--were over-looked.

And the more absorbed they became in the movements of the decoy, the more oblivious were they of the fact that keen eyes were studying them deeply.

The criminal, unless very educated and clever, would be fooled with the multitude and caught off his guard.

A rather curious fact was that, while Dowd's newspaper published an article in its personal column about the great detective's arrival and all that he was expected to accomplish, Skinner's journal remained absolutely silent.

Dowd said he could not understand it, unless the ruse had failed to deceive Skinner, in which case we might hear from him soon.

We knew that our friend Quintus Oakes held the same idea.

As he said, if the cheat were discovered it would lead to trouble, which must be met as it arose.

Moore and I became daily more imbued with the spirit of the adventure;

besides which, we were keenly alive to Oakes's feelings and his desire to succeed.

The newspapers far and near were following the case carefully, and we knew that his reputation and financial success depended largely on the outcome of this case.

A few evenings later Moore and I were standing in the square, discussing the very apparent change in the temper of the crowd since their attention had been directed by the arrival of the man they believed to be Quintus Oakes.

"Yes," said Moore, in answer to a remark of mine, "it is a clever scheme and makes the people think that Hallen is doing something; but how will they take it if they discover the trick?"

"Well, perhaps by that time the real Oakes, our friend, will be in position to reveal his identity--that would calm any bad feeling--they would realize that work had been done quietly all the while."

Moore shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't like Skinner's attitude," he said, "he knows something."

Reilly approached us at this moment to say that Clark wanted us at the Mansion immediately, and that a conveyance was waiting for us at the hotel.

We went at once and found it, a four-seated affair, with Hallen and Dowd on the back seat.

We two sat in front with the driver--one of Oakes's men; and after we had left the town I turned to the Chief and asked him if he knew what Oakes wanted of us.

"Yes," said he; "the _negro_ is here."

Oakes was awaiting us upstairs, with Martin and Elliott.

The first thing we learned was that Oakes had recognized the negro "Joe" as a former boot-black on Broadway.

Joe's identification of _him_ during the court scene had placed the negro in a state of less fear than would otherwise have been the case.

"He came readily enough," said Martin; "he was threatened with arrest if he did not; but he is acting peculiarly.

Seems more worried than an innocent man should be."

"He naturally dreads the ordeal; innocent men frequently appear guilty to the onlooker.

The really guilty ones are prepared and go through more coolly," said Oakes.

"Yes, sir, I know that; but this one is different.

I should hardly say he is guilty; still, his actions are peculiar--I cannot explain _how_."

"Think a little, Martin," said Oakes.

It was the tone of the superior, firm but kindly.

Martin thought a few seconds, then he said: "Well, sir, he seems anxious to describe what he saw, and seems to think that you are his friend and will believe him; but he appears to be actually fearful of punishment."

"Rather ambiguous," said Oakes.

"Perhaps he is hiding some vital point, Martin.

Is he not?"

"Yes, sir; and that point is against himself."

"Of course it is, or he would not hide it; against himself, or one dear to him."

Oakes's correction was without malice, polite and patient.

He was the clear reasoner, the leader, instructing a trusty subordinate--the kindly Chief and his young, but able lieutenant.

We ranged ourselves round the centre-table--we four who had come in the carriage, besides Elliott and Martin, who had brought Joe from New York.

Oakes stood near a chair, away from the table and the group.

After a moment the negro entered, ushered to the door by one of the men.

We must have looked a formidable conclave to the poor fellow, for he halted just inside the door at sight of us all.

He was a negro of that type seen in the North--strong, lithe, with a clear-cut face whose features showed the admixture of white blood.

He advanced to the chair besides Oakes, and sat down at a sign from the latter.

He was nervous, but a pitiful effort at bravery showed in his carriage and manner.

Bravery was necessary.

A lone negro boy facing such a gathering, and--worst of all to him--that mysterious, awe-inspiring person, Quintus Oakes!

With consummate tact Quintus won the boy's confidence.

Elliott spoke to him, kindly and reassuringly; and Hallen walked over and shook his hand with a protecting air.

Joe brightened visibly.

It was plain that the men who hunted crime were going to try kindness and sympathy first.

It has always seemed to me a pity that such tactics are not more in vogue, especially toward witnesses.

The master detective can throw a sympathy into his every act which will win secrets actually barred from other methods of attack.

Reassured, Joe presently began his story.

In a clear, remarkably able way (for he had been to school), and with the peculiar, dramatic power possessed by some negroes, he brought vividly before us the scenes he had witnessed.

As he warmed to his subject, Oakes and Hallen watched him carefully, but without emotion, occasionally questioning him adroitly to develop points which seemed to them valuable.

Dowd took notes, at Oakes's suggestion, for future use.

When Joe's mother died in Troy, he went up to attend the funeral.

On his return he stayed a few days in Lorona--a little place already mentioned.

It was without railway connections and lay to the east of Mona, along the Highway.

He had passed through the latter place afoot, late at night, and had walked the ten miles to Lorona.

His sister lived there in service, also his sweetheart Jennie.

Naturally, he did not pass it by.

He had left very early one morning to go back to New York and had cut across country from the Highway on the east of Mona, coming around by the hill and the pond, in front of the Mansion, to River Road.

He had arrived at the Corners in time to see a milkman pick up a gentleman on the road and drive with him into the town.

Joe wanted to get back to New York early and begin work, for he had been absent a week.

He was to catch the seven o'clock train, so he had abundance of time, as he could tell by the sun.

He started down the hill slowly, but took the woods along the north side of the Highway; he was fond of the woods and he knew the way--he had travelled it on previous visits.

Just after he entered among the trees he heard a shot, followed by a groan--on the road, he thought--a little way above him.

He trembled and stood still, then his courage manifested itself, and he crept cautiously to the roadside, which was hidden below by a few feet of embankment.

What he saw paralyzed him!

A man was lying in the road, and a little lower down on this side, not a hundred feet from himself, stood another in full view, with a smoking revolver in his hand.

Instantly the negro understood.

A murder--and _he_ was a _witness_!

He did nothing--waited.

To have shouted would have been to invite death.

But he kept his eyes open.

"I'se the only witness.

I must look at him good," he thought.

The man's back was partly turned, but Joe took in all that he could at that distance, and saw him retreat after a moment into the woods.

Then he grew frightened.

The assassin was not far from him, but, fortunately, going deeper into the woods, and down toward the stony glade below.

Did the negro run?

No. He gathered a couple of good-sized stones and followed.

He thought the man on the road was dead; and he saw the other one going down into the gully to cross the small stream at the bottom.

"Good!"

he thought; "I'll follow him.

If he sees me now, and comes after me, I can run a long way before he can climb that hill."

The assassin was picking his way--carefully--until he came to the rocky bottom.

He wanted to cross the stream where a large flat rock gave an invitation for stepping.

He had followed the stony formation carefully, avoiding the earth; he did not wish to leave marks to be traced.

Now, at this moment the negro became conscious of a new danger; he was near the scene of the crime alone, and if found, he would be suspected of having done it.

So he looked about for a moment, and then decided to run back to Lorona and his people.

He was growing scared.

Who could blame him?

He saw the murderer stoop down right below him, deep in the gully; and the negro, obeying a sudden impulse, swung one arm and hurled a stone straight at him.

It struck the fugitive on the shoulder, turning him half around; and he broke into a run, full tilt, for the brook and the stepping-stone.

Joe had not seen the murderer's face, but he told us that the man's chest was protected only by an undershirt.

It was a chilly morning, and the fact had impressed him afterward as curious.

He watched, and saw the assassin take the brook like a frightened stag, landing first on the rock in the centre, then on the other side.

As he stepped on the rock in the middle of the stream, the boy saw something fall from his waist--something red.

It fell into the water.

"I'd like to know what that is," he thought; "but I'd better _skip_."

Then horror took possession of him; he crossed the road quickly and dashed into the Mark property.

Then he ran to River Road and the bridge, up the incline on the other side of the pond, and into the fields beyond.

On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a little patch of wood and thought.

He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too far away to know he was a negro.

He was innocent, and perhaps he had better wait and see the police.

Had he done so then and there, all would have been solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advise him and he was alone with a terrible secret.

He had done well; he could identify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility.

He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning.

In the afternoon he sneaked into town, hungry and worn and terribly cold.

When he saw the people gathering in the court-room, curiosity conquered.

He listened with all his soul, and made up his mind to go in and tell what he knew.

He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fast and furious.

He felt ill--the cold sweat poured from him as he heard;

but he remained, entranced.

He was going to tell all, for surely that tall fellow--Clark, they were calling him,--was the great detective Oakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadway before he went up-town.

How peculiar that they didn't seem to know him!

Then intelligence came, and he said to himself: "These people don't know him because he does not want them to."

Joe did not understand all that had been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakes was playing a game.

Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tension became too great.

He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy that he was, for Lorona.

There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train.

His friends gave him food--the murder story was yet vague in the little village--and then he dashed on for New York.

He shook the dust from his clothes and, catching a train miles down the line, arrived safely in town.

He was far away from Mona at last, but he must see Mr. Elliott, his good friend, and tell him all that he could.

As the negro finished his story he looked around, and partially recovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation had thrown him.

His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had that peculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of great excitement.

Dr. Moore arose and walked to the boy, and, placing his hands on his wrist, said reassuringly: "Good boy, Joe!

you are a brave fellow."

Oakes handed him a drink of brandy--he needed it--and then we all joined in praising him.

He soon recovered himself, and then Oakes took up his position beside him again.

"Now, Joe, what did the murderer drop when he jumped over the stream from the rock?"

"I dunno, Master Oakes--but it was a banana, I think."

"What!"

said Hallen; "a banana?"

The negro looked worried.

"Yes, it did look like one of dose red, white, spotted cloths wat de niggers down South wear on their heads."

We all laughed.

"Oh, a bandana handkerchief, Joe."

And Joe laughed also, in relief.

"And now," continued Oakes, "what did it do?

Did it float away?"

The boy thought a moment, then his quick brain came to his aid.

"No, no, Master Oakes; it splashed, sure enough it did.

It went down--so help me Gawd!"

"Good!"

said Oakes.

"It contained something heavy, then.

Now, Joe," he continued, slowly and clearly, "tell me, when you heard the evidence that the murderer was the man with a mark on his arm, why did you say, 'Oh, Gawd!'

and run away?"

We all felt uneasy--the question was so unexpected, to some of us at least.

The negro hesitated, stammered, and lurched forward in his chair.

Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow and on the back of his hands.

Oakes was behind him, and in a caressing way slid his left arm across the boy's chest.

We divined instantly that that arm was ready to shoot up around the boy's neck for a strangle hold.

Joe tried to speak, but could not.

I saw Hallen prepare for a spring, and Martin edge toward the door.

Dr. Moore's breathing came deep and fast, and I began to feel like shouting aloud.

What did it mean?

"Come!

Speak, boy, speak!"

said Oakes.

No answer.

Then Oakes stooped forward and said loudly enough for us all to hear, but right in the negro's ear: "Boy, you ran because _you_ have a scar on your left arm!"

We were on our feet in an instant.

"The murderer," we cried.

The negro made a frantic effort to rise, but the arm closed on his neck and Oakes's right hand came down on his right wrist.

Joe's left hand went to the arm at his neck, but he was powerless.

In a voice as firm as a rock, clear and emotionless, Oakes cried out: "Don't move, boy!

Don't try to run."

And then he said to us: "This boy is _not_ the murderer; he is only a scared, unfortunate negro, and I will prove it."

The meaning of the words came to the boy gradually, and he became limp in the chair.

Oakes relaxed his hold.

"Now, boy, if you try to run, we will bore you," and Chief Hallen drew his revolver and put it before him on the table.

"Now, Joe, show us your arm!"

commanded Oakes.

The negro arose staggering, and took off his outer garment and his shirt.

There, on his left arm, was a large irregular birthmark, blue and vicious-looking.

Oakes looked at it.

"Gentlemen, this boy is a victim of circumstances.

This is no cross, but the coincidence of a mark on the left arm has scared him nearly to death.

That, in my opinion, is why he was afraid, and why he acted so peculiarly."

This was said deliberately, and with emphasis.

The negro fell on his knees.

"Oh, Gawd!

Oh, Mr. Oakes!

Dat is it.

Dat is it.

I never done any murder.

No!

no!

_no!

_" and he burst into racking sobs.

The strain was terrible.

Dowd opened a window.

Hallen spoke.

"How are you to prove his innocence, Mr. Oakes, as you said?"

There was a slight element of doubt in the question.

"Get up, boy," said Oakes; "get up."

And turning to us, the cool man looked long at us all, then said: "The evidence showed conclusively that the weapon used was a heavy one, of 45-calibre probably--a revolver in all likelihood, and fired from a distance of about one hundred and fifty feet.

That means a good shot.

Now, this boy is right-handed, as you have noticed, but he could not use his right hand to shoot with, for the first two fingers have been amputated near the ends.

Plenty of loss to preclude good pistol shooting!

"To have used such a weapon with the left hand, and with such accuracy, is out of the question save for a fancy shot.

If this boy could shoot like that, he would not be boot-blacking for a living.

"Again, he has not noticeably strong arms, nor a wrist powerful enough to handle a heavy weapon properly.

The boy is innocent--in my opinion."

"Oakes, you are a demon," said Hallen.

"Oh, no, I hope not; only I hate to see mistakes made too often.

Poor devil!"

And Oakes patted the boy on the back.

With a pathetic, dog-like expression, sobbing with joy, the befriended negro seized the man's right hand and, kneeling, showered kisses upon it.

_CHAPTER XVII_