Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story — 19 A Faulty Story

_A Faulty Story_ After breakfast, while Oakes gave the doctor a brief résumé of our night's adventure, the two rival newspapers came out with "extras" on the recent doings.

Skinner's comments were sarcastic and bitter, and, while not actually inciting to lawlessness, played upon the roused feelings of the towns-people by scathing allusions to Hallen's inefficiency, and by reiterating the story of the false Quintus Oakes.

Our friend Dowd, on the other hand, came forward with a moderate, well-worded article that swayed the minds of the more thoughtful.

The reading of his words won us more friends.

Who does not like to hear two sides of an argument, or to read cool words of wisdom from one whose career entitles him to respect?

We had learned at breakfast that Hallen had taken hold with a grip of iron during the night.

Many arrests had followed his activity, and the quietude of the forenoon was largely due to his efforts of the night before.

As we stood outside the hotel remarking upon the changed appearance of the streets, our attention was attracted to a small crowd approaching the Square from the direction of the Corners.

There were men running ahead and shouting; then a close, compact body swaying around a central attraction.

We thought we detected a man being helped along as though he were severely injured, and we clearly distinguished the words "Shot at!"

"The murderer!"

and many expressions of anger and terror.

Oakes looked into the mass of men and scanned the pale face of the injured one.

"It's Maloney," he said, seizing the doctor and myself by the arm.

He pushed his way forward as the crowd recognized and opened for Mr. Clark.

"Well, Maloney, what is it?"

asked Oakes.

"I was shot at, sir," he exclaimed, "shot at, in the very spot where Mr. Mark was killed; and then, sir, someone hit me a blow on the head, and I fell."

I saw Oakes run his hand over Maloney's scalp.

"I was dazed, sir, when these men found me," finished the gardener.

"Yes," said two laborers, "we found him on the ground just waking up, and acting queer-like.

And here's the revolver; it was lying behind the rock, sir."

"How did it happen?"

asked Oakes.

"I heard a shot near me," Maloney answered, "a heavy revolver shot.

I

turned, and was then hit with something like a sand-bag, I guess, for everything got dim."

Hallen walked him into the headquarters building, to avoid the rapidly increasing crowd.

"Shut the doors," he ordered.

The command was quickly obeyed, and we who had worked together were all within the building now, away from the crowd.

"Who was it?"

asked Hallen of Maloney.

The man hesitated a while, but upon being pressed for an answer finally replied: "I have not dared to mention my suspicions, sir, but the fellow looked like Mike O'Brien.

At any rate, he was wounded; he was walking with a limp, sir, and I saw blood on his trousers leg.

He must have been in a scrap or an accident."

"When I was coming to," he continued, "I saw him hiding a revolver behind a rock.

I pointed out the place to the men when they came a few moments after, and they found it."

"Why did you not cry out for help?"

asked Oakes suddenly, even viciously, I thought.

Maloney answered quickly: "Because he thought I was dead, and I let him think so.

If I had made any noise, sir, he would have finished me.

I did not move until I knew help was near."

"Good!"

said Oakes; "you had presence of mind.

Let us see the revolver;

the men left it here, did they not?"

Hallen stepped forward with the weapon.

Oakes examined it; but his look informed us that it was not the _old_ one taken from the wall in the Mansion.

Further questioning failed to reveal anything of importance, but it seemed clear from what Maloney said that the assaulter escaped on horseback after he was seen by his intended victim, for Maloney insisted that he had heard a galloping horse afterwards.

"He was wounded, you said?"

queried the detective.

"Yes, sir, quite badly, I thought."

Moore examined Maloney's injury and took careful note of his condition;

then the gardener was told to go, and he was soon joined outside by the two laborers--his new found friends.

Together they went for the hotel bar across the street.

As they disappeared, Oakes exchanged glances with the doctor, and I knew that something was wrong.

There came a long silence, which Hallen finally broke.

"This is a queer story, Oakes; I don't understand it.

Is it the murderer at work again--and O'Brien accused?

You say the Mansion mysteries are the work of the same hand that shot Mr. Mark, and possibly Mr. Smith.

But those mysteries are old, and O'Brien is a recent arrival here and knows very little of the Mansion.

I cannot see his guilt.

How do you explain it, Oakes?"

The keen man addressed faced the Chief, and we all knew the words that were coming were valuable.

"Chief, I have just told you of Mr. Stone's adventures with me this morning--of my proof that Maloney lied to us.

Well, he has lied again."

"Yes," chimed in Dr. Moore, "the man's a fake.

He was not seriously injured, if at all."

"I saw through Maloney's story instantly," continued Oakes.

"He said he was assaulted by O'Brien, who was, according to his own story, a badly wounded man.

He said O'Brien hid the revolver afterwards, while he, Maloney, was shamming death, and that O'Brien sought to escape.

It is nonsense."

"Why?

I fail to see!"

I asked excitedly.

Oakes turned to me: "Why, Stone, don't you see the flaws?

Would a seriously injured man attempt deliberate murder?

What show would he have to escape?

Then, again, if able to get away himself, would he hide the revolver near the scene of the crime, behind a rock?

No, he would take it with him as a defensive weapon, or else hide it where it never could be found; in the Hudson, for instance, or the brook--both near at hand."

"True enough," cried Hallen, his face showing his admiration; "but what's your idea, then, Oakes?"

"Just this, gentlemen.

Maloney _himself_ shot O'Brien, and seeing the latter escape knew that his game was up, for he had been identified by O'Brien.

So he hid the revolver that he himself used, and then pretended to have been sand-bagged and shot at.

He relied on the weight of his word against O'Brien's, not knowing anything of the evidence collected against him or that we were anything but agents and workmen about the Mansion?"

The Chief looked long and half sceptically at Oakes, then asked: "Does Maloney meet your requirements?

Does he fill the bill?"

"Well, he has a strong wrist and long arms," answered Oakes--"that places him among the _possibles_; he also has a comparatively narrow chest, such as the man had who wore the robe--you remember we reasoned that out.

Those three things cover much ground.

Then, again, he is an old resident, knows all about the Mansion, was here when Smith was murdered."

Elliott now spoke up: "Oakes, you said the murderer was a good shot.

Is Maloney a good shot with a revolver?"

"Yes, he was; he used to belong to the National Guard years ago.

He was a splendid shot then, according to evidence procured by my men."

"But the revolver to-day was not the old one?"

queried the Chief.

"No," answered Oakes; "but he can easily have two."

"I had better arrest him now as a suspicious person," exclaimed Hallen excitedly.

"Not yet.

Let us be _sure_ first--remember Skinner has a motive for crossing us; he has tried to defeat the aims of justice right through.

He was dealing money this morning to someone; suppose it was to Maloney--what is his reason?"

Hallen thumped the table furiously as though a new thought had come to him.

"Skinner answers the physical requirements also, Mr. Oakes--he was also a guardsman--a good shot."

"Yes," answered Oakes, "but scarcely strong enough to overpower me at the Mansion."

"Unless he was acting while in mania, as we presume this criminal acts," said Moore.

I sat spellbound as these men discussed the intricacies of the affair, realizing the truth of their reasonings and marvelling at the clues, conceptions and brilliant memories revealed, especially by the masterly Oakes.

"Too bad you cannot find Skinner, and see what he is up to," I remarked.

"We must let Hallen keep watch on him until we are ready for our final move.

It would be easy to arrest him on suspicion, but that might defeat our object, and, again, I do not believe in making arrests until my case is clear," said Oakes.

"Do you not think Skinner might be the murderer?"

I asked.

"Not as I see things now.

It seems more probable that he is interested in someone whom he wants to get out of harm's way.

His motive throughout this affair has been to hide the guilty, I think."

"And what do you make of that man O'Brien?"

queried Dowd; "he seems to be a mysterious fellow."

Oakes and Hallen exchanged knowing glances.

"He's another possibility;

he's a little Tartar," said the detective.

"But won't Maloney get away now?"

asked Elliott.

"Nit," was the answer from Hallen.

"Those two 'laborers' with him are my 'specials.'

" I was getting entirely tied up now, but, desiring to appear erudite and worthy of such company, I blurted forth: "Who is Mike O'Brien, anyway?"

Oakes looked at us all coolly and exasperatingly.

"He seems to be a little extra thrown in.

I'll tell you all about it when you tell me if the 'S' on the handkerchief has anything to do with Mr. Skinner."

An exclamation of surprise went up.

We had all forgotten _that_.

But before we could resume, a message arrived for Oakes.

It was brought by one of the men whom we knew so well by sight around the Mansion.

He told of the finding of a burned tree, hidden in the forest, near the scene of the murder of Mr. Mark.

Those who were searching had discovered that the tree was recently struck by lightning and that within its burned interior was ash.

The man had brought some with him, and also a small, crumpled piece of newspaper.

Oakes looked carefully at them as we glanced over his shoulder.

"At last!"

cried he.

"Here is wood ash--wet, as was that on the robe;

and here is paper like that of the 'Daily News,' which we found in the robe; is it not?"

"Yes," cried Moore.

"It is indeed--can it be?"

"Yes," came the answer from Oakes; "my orders to search for the origin of the ash have been crowned with success.

The robe was in that tree."

"But," I cried, "of what value is that?"

"Just this--the robe was not worn at the time of the murder.

Remember, Joe did not see it--it had been hidden, probably.

The murderer used it to go and to come in, but for some unknown reason discarded it at the shooting."

"Excuse me," said the messenger, "excuse me, Mr. Oakes--but that's about right.

The tree was beyond the stone where he crossed and lost the handkerchief.

He was running for the robe, sir; the murderer was after his disguise."

Oakes looked at his subordinate calmly and smiled ever so slightly.

The man bowed and retreated, abashed at his own impetuosity.

Hallen turned to our friend Oakes and said: "I never in my life saw anything like this--like you."

Oakes, always ready to side-step praise in any form, answered, with one of his chilling glances: "Oh, bother!

You're young yet, Hallen; you need age."

Hallen half resentfully yanked his cap on his head and strode to the door.

"Well," he remarked, "here's where I take a look at Maloney's arms--I am dead tired of theorizing."

"Stop!"

commanded Oakes; "you'll spoil it all."

"I won't spoil the cross on the arm--the cross of indigo--if it's there;

and if it ain't there, it ain't. Hang it all, anyway."

And forthwith Hallen strode out the door, down the steps toward the hotel bar-room, with Oakes and the rest of us following in a vain endeavor to head him off.

When we reached the bar-room, Hallen was already in the side room.

We rushed toward the little room door, expecting to see Maloney in the grasp of Hallen; but instead, we beheld the Chief gazing in stupefaction at his two men dead drunk, heads between their hands on the little round table.

"------------,----!"

cried the Chief in a voice that shook the glasses on the shelves in the bar-room and brought the white-coated attendant with one bound to the door.

"Hell--en--Maloney's escaped."

"Escaped!"

cried the bar-keeper.

"Escaped!

--nit.

Why, he paid for the drinks and walked out half an hour ago--said he had a job at the Mansion.

These fellows--gosh!"

cried the man as he shook them--"drunk!

What's up--what does it mean, Chief?"

Then Quintus Oakes spoke in tones of dulcet and ineffable sweetness, cooingly, charmingly.

"It means that Chief Hallen pays for a round of the best you've got.

In order to see a cross on a man's arm it becomes necessary first to catch the man--something like the bird's tail and the salt proposition."

"Mix 'em up quick!"

shouted Hallen, advancing to the bar.

"Hell--en--be damned!

Get the two samples of Mona's police out into the air!

Hell--en----!"