_CHAPTER XVI_
_The Negro's Story_
Saturday came and went without event. So far, at least, Hallen'sarrangements for the preservation of order had been effective. Or was itthat the eyes and hopes of the people were centred upon the new arrivalin town, the great detective--as they were led to believe--who had grownfamous through his skill in ferreting out just such mysteries. In anycase, the Chief's forebodings of a lawless outbreak were unfulfilled.
The real Oakes spent most of his time in the Mansion while we remainedin town; but our little party came and went as it pleased. Our movementshad 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 onthe _false_ Oakes--the wrong hand; we ourselves--the hand doing thetrick--were over-looked. And the more absorbed they became in themovements of the decoy, the more oblivious were they of the fact thatkeen eyes were studying them deeply. The criminal, unless very educatedand clever, would be fooled with the multitude and caught off his guard.
A rather curious fact was that, while Dowd's newspaper published anarticle in its personal column about the great detective's arrival andall that he was expected to accomplish, Skinner's journal remainedabsolutely silent. Dowd said he could not understand it, unless the rusehad failed to deceive Skinner, in which case we might hear from himsoon. We knew that our friend Quintus Oakes held the same idea. As hesaid, if the cheat were discovered it would lead to trouble, which mustbe 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 desireto succeed. The newspapers far and near were following the casecarefully, and we knew that his reputation and financial successdepended largely on the outcome of this case.
A few evenings later Moore and I were standing in the square, discussingthe very apparent change in the temper of the crowd since theirattention had been directed by the arrival of the man they believed tobe Quintus Oakes.
"Yes," said Moore, in answer to a remark of mine, "it is a clever schemeand makes the people think that Hallen is doing something; but how willthey take it if they discover the trick?"
"Well, perhaps by that time the real Oakes, our friend, will be inposition to reveal his identity--that would calm any bad feeling--theywould realize that work had been done quietly all the while."
Moore shook his head doubtfully. "I don't like Skinner's attitude," hesaid, "he knows something."
Reilly approached us at this moment to say that Clark wanted us at theMansion immediately, and that a conveyance was waiting for us at thehotel. We went at once and found it, a four-seated affair, with Hallenand Dowd on the back seat. We two sat in front with the driver--one ofOakes's men; and after we had left the town I turned to the Chief andasked 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 thingwe learned was that Oakes had recognized the negro "Joe" as a formerboot-black on Broadway. Joe's identification of _him_ during the courtscene had placed the negro in a state of less fear than would otherwisehave been the case.
"He came readily enough," said Martin; "he was threatened with arrest ifhe did not; but he is acting peculiarly. Seems more worried than aninnocent man should be."
"He naturally dreads the ordeal; innocent men frequently appear guiltyto the onlooker. The really guilty ones are prepared and go through morecoolly," said Oakes.
"Yes, sir, I know that; but this one is different. I should hardly sayhe 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 anxiousto describe what he saw, and seems to think that you are his friend andwill 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 dearto him."
Oakes's correction was without malice, polite and patient. He was theclear reasoner, the leader, instructing a trusty subordinate--the kindlyChief and his young, but able lieutenant.
We ranged ourselves round the centre-table--we four who had come in thecarriage, besides Elliott and Martin, who had brought Joe from New York.Oakes stood near a chair, away from the table and the group. After amoment the negro entered, ushered to the door by one of the men. We musthave looked a formidable conclave to the poor fellow, for he halted justinside the door at sight of us all. He was a negro of that type seen inthe North--strong, lithe, with a clear-cut face whose features showedthe 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 carriageand manner. Bravery was necessary. A lone negro boy facing such agathering, and--worst of all to him--that mysterious, awe-inspiringperson, Quintus Oakes!
With consummate tact Quintus won the boy's confidence. Elliott spoke tohim, kindly and reassuringly; and Hallen walked over and shook his handwith a protecting air. Joe brightened visibly. It was plain that the menwho hunted crime were going to try kindness and sympathy first. It hasalways seemed to me a pity that such tactics are not more in vogue,especially toward witnesses. The master detective can throw a sympathyinto his every act which will win secrets actually barred from othermethods of attack.
Reassured, Joe presently began his story. In a clear, remarkably ableway (for he had been to school), and with the peculiar, dramatic powerpossessed by some negroes, he brought vividly before us the scenes hehad witnessed. As he warmed to his subject, Oakes and Hallen watched himcarefully, but without emotion, occasionally questioning him adroitly todevelop points which seemed to them valuable. Dowd took notes, atOakes's suggestion, for future use.
When Joe's mother died in Troy, he went up to attend the funeral. On hisreturn he stayed a few days in Lorona--a little place already mentioned.It was without railway connections and lay to the east of Mona, alongthe Highway. He had passed through the latter place afoot, late atnight, and had walked the ten miles to Lorona. His sister lived there inservice, 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 cutacross country from the Highway on the east of Mona, coming around bythe hill and the pond, in front of the Mansion, to River Road. He hadarrived at the Corners in time to see a milkman pick up a gentleman onthe road and drive with him into the town. Joe wanted to get back toNew York early and begin work, for he had been absent a week. He was tocatch the seven o'clock train, so he had abundance of time, as he couldtell by the sun.
He started down the hill slowly, but took the woods along the north sideof the Highway; he was fond of the woods and he knew the way--he hadtravelled it on previous visits. Just after he entered among the treeshe heard a shot, followed by a groan--on the road, he thought--a littleway above him. He trembled and stood still, then his courage manifesteditself, and he crept cautiously to the roadside, which was hiddenbelow by a few feet of embankment. What he saw paralyzed him! A man waslying in the road, and a little lower down on this side, not a hundredfeet from himself, stood another in full view, with a smoking revolverin his hand. Instantly the negro understood. A murder--and _he_ was a_witness_! He did nothing--waited. To have shouted would have been toinvite death. But he kept his eyes open.
"I'se the only witness. I must look at him good," he thought. The man'sback was partly turned, but Joe took in all that he could at thatdistance, and saw him retreat after a moment into the woods. Then hegrew 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 andfollowed. He thought the man on the road was dead; and he saw the otherone 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 afterme, I can run a long way before he can climb that hill."
The assassin was picking his way--carefully--until he came to the rockybottom. He wanted to cross the stream where a large flat rock gave aninvitation 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 wasnear the scene of the crime alone, and if found, he would be suspectedof having done it. So he looked about for a moment, and then decided torun back to Lorona and his people. He was growing scared. Who couldblame him? He saw the murderer stoop down right below him, deep in thegully; and the negro, obeying a sudden impulse, swung one arm and hurleda stone straight at him. It struck the fugitive on the shoulder, turninghim half around; and he broke into a run, full tilt, for the brook andthe stepping-stone. Joe had not seen the murderer's face, but he told usthat the man's chest was protected only by an undershirt. It was achilly morning, and the fact had impressed him afterward as curious. Hewatched, 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 hestepped on the rock in the middle of the stream, the boy saw somethingfall 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 anddashed 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 fieldsbeyond. On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a littlepatch of wood and thought.
He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too faraway to know he was a negro. He was innocent, and perhaps he had betterwait and see the police. Had he done so then and there, all would havebeen solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advisehim and he was alone with a terrible secret. He had done well; he couldidentify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility.
He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning. Inthe 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 tellwhat he knew.
He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fastand 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 thattall fellow--Clark, they were calling him,--was the great detectiveOakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadwaybefore 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 knowhim because he does not want them to." Joe did not understand all thathad been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakeswas playing a game.
Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tensionbecame too great. He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy thathe was, for Lorona.
There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train. His friendsgave him food--the murder story was yet vague in the little village--andthen 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 faraway 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 partiallyrecovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation hadthrown him. His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had thatpeculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of greatexcitement.
Dr. Moore arose and walked to the boy, and, placing his hands on hiswrist, said reassuringly: "Good boy, Joe! you are a brave fellow."
Oakes handed him a drink of brandy--he needed it--and then we all joinedin praising him. He soon recovered himself, and then Oakes took up hisposition beside him again.
"Now, Joe, what did the murderer drop when he jumped over the streamfrom 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 deniggers 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--sohelp me Gawd!"
"Good!" said Oakes. "It contained something heavy, then. Now, Joe," hecontinued, slowly and clearly, "tell me, when you heard the evidencethat 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 atleast.
The negro hesitated, stammered, and lurched forward in his chair. Greatbeads of perspiration stood out on his brow and on the back of hishands. Oakes was behind him, and in a caressing way slid his left armacross the boy's chest. We divined instantly that that arm was ready toshoot 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 andfast, 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 onyour 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 neckand 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 ascared, unfortunate negro, and I will prove it."
The meaning of the words came to the boy gradually, and he became limpin the chair. Oakes relaxed his hold.
"Now, boy, if you try to run, we will bore you," and Chief Hallen drewhis 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 hisshirt. There, on his left arm, was a large irregular birthmark, blue andvicious-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 hasscared 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 isit. I never done any murder. No! no! _no!_" and he burst into rackingsobs. The strain was terrible. Dowd opened a window.
Hallen spoke. "How are you to prove his innocence, Mr. Oakes, as yousaid?"
There was a slight element of doubt in the question.
"Get up, boy," said Oakes; "get up." And turning to us, the cool manlooked long at us all, then said: "The evidence showed conclusively thatthe weapon used was a heavy one, of 45-calibre probably--a revolver inall likelihood, and fired from a distance of about one hundred and fiftyfeet. That means a good shot. Now, this boy is right-handed, as you havenoticed, but he could not use his right hand to shoot with, for thefirst two fi
ngers have been amputated near the ends. Plenty of loss topreclude 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 shootlike that, he would not be boot-blacking for a living.
"Again, he has not noticeably strong arms, nor a wrist powerful enoughto 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. Poordevil!"
And Oakes patted the boy on the back.
With a pathetic, dog-like expression, sobbing with joy, the befriendednegro seized the man's right hand and, kneeling, showered kisses uponit.
Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story Page 16
