Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story — 06 The Murder
_The Murder_ The rising sun was invisible from the little station hidden in the gloom of the hill, but away out on the river its rays reached the water and marked out sharply the shadow of the high ground.
Further down the stream the rugged outlines of the Mansion were cut in silhouette on the surface of the river, which was, as yet, smooth as a mill-pond, but which soon would be moved by those thousands of ripples advancing from the opposite shore.
As the sun shot his beams clearer and sharper, the mist of the distance unfolded and the rays struck the ragged granite cliffs of the shore, and revealed them yellow and gray in the bluish haze of the morn.
Away up, miles beyond, the river broadened and the mountains of both sides 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 life and activity.
A schooner, becalmed until now, began to move with the breeze that greeted the waking of day.
The train had but just left the little station, and again had two strangers alighted.
One, the older, trudged up the hill covered with a great-coat, and with hands in his pockets.
He walked rather rapidly, looking sharply around once or twice.
As he neared the top, where the country rolls off into the plain, he turned to admire the spectacle of the breaking day.
His glance followed the road, and he saw below the second figure walking along in a hurry, as though to make up for lost time.
He smiled and said to himself: "That fellow Martin is a persistent youngster, anyway."
A few yards more brought him to the crest of the hill; then he suddenly stopped, for before him was unfolded a stretch of rolling ground, well filled with trees in autumnal foliage, and beyond, the spires and the sky-line of a sleeping town.
To his right he beheld a large wooded tract extending for at least a mile down the river, and in the dim distance the shaded outlines of an old mansion.
Over all was the glorious yellow sun.
The new fresh rays caught the leaves on the trees and on the ground, and kissed away the frost of the October morning.
The traveller drew a long breath.
"I have been over the world, almost, but never did I know such splendor was so near my office," said he, half aloud.
He had discovered what some few had already known, that here at our doors, if one is not too indifferent, can be found the scenery one seeks in a month's journey.
While walking along, Moore, for he was the man, was overtaken by a milk-wagon which rattled by with its two horses; the driver, lashing his whip, seemed to mark the actual awakening to life of this rural community.
"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 faint crack 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 'most any time.
Didn't sound like much of a gun, though."
They were now at the hotel, and Moore registered in the old dilapidated book, and went to his room before his breakfast.
As he lay down for a moment to rest, all of the vivid experiences of the last twenty-four hours coursed through his brain.
He followed the events of the evening before, 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, 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 very well, 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 was mopping 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 came abreast 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 is _not_ Martin."
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 a wagon.
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_
