Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story

by Charles Ross Jackson

  _CHAPTER XXIII_

  _The Test_

  As Oakes ceased speaking there came a silence. Although we were manythere, there was not a motion for a space of seconds--not a sound savethe deep breathing of Hallen and of some of the others upon whom theduty of the hour was to fall. Men trained for such scenes--always aliveto the possibilities, always alert for trickery or treachery--are yetbut human, and subject to the tension that is felt even by the mostcourageous.

  Then, in obedience to a signal from Oakes, Martin appeared, escortingO'Brien, who was limping, into the room, and to the chair facing Oakes.

  It soon became evident to us that Oakes's real identity was unknown toO'Brien. Even if the latter were the detective Larkin, he had failed torealize that Mr. Clark was anything but the agent for the property.

  "You are wounded, my man! They tell me it happened in the Highway theother day, and that afterwards, at night, you chased Maloney on theplains of Mona, after he had fired upon us. Tell us about it, O'Brien."

  Oakes's voice was calm and strong, but in it I fancied I detected a noteof pity.

  O'Brien hesitated, stammered. "How did you know when I was shot?" heexclaimed. "I told no one." Oakes smiled slightly. "Out with your story,O'Brien. Did you chase Maloney for revenge, or for revenge andbusiness?"

  O'Brien straightened in the chair. "Who is this man Clark? How peculiarthese questions are!" his look plainly said.

  "Why, for revenge, of course," he answered.

  "Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.

  O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was stillenough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust histrousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead,throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.

  We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view atthe line of the heavy hair. The man before us _was_ Larkin thedetective.

  Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," andsaid: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."

  "I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding theissue.

  "I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkinthe detective you know more than it suits you to tell."

  O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate--who daressay I am a detective, sir?"

  "Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us--whyshould Maloney hate you?"

  O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. Hehates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the manresponsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.

  "Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.

  "I believe he may be the murderer of Mr. Mark."

  "What proofs have you?" asked Oakes, as we all leaned forward intently.

  "No proof as yet."

  "Exactly! But, Mr. Larkin, you deserve much credit," said Oakes, as heled O'Brien to a chair by Hallen's side. "Sit here," he continued. "I amgoing to have Maloney brought in now. He has always been a goodgardener--a decent sort of fellow. I must hear his story before I givehim up to the Chief. It has been suggested that Maloney may be mentallyunbalanced; you will excuse me, Mr. Larkin, if I use you as a foil todraw him out while Dr. Moore assists me."

  Then, by way of explanation, Oakes, whose identity was still unknown toLarkin, went on:

  "You see, Chief Hallen wishes to be sure of some little points, and sodo I. Perhaps Maloney will not resent my questioning; he should have nofeelings against the agent of this property, whereas he might object toHallen as an interlocutor."

  Oakes was now a trifle pale, I thought. There were furrows on hisforehead; his manner was suave and deliberately slow. But little did Idream the true depth of the man, the masterly manner in which he wasabout to test the mental balance of Maloney.

  To one who was ignorant of the terrible events this story tells of, andthe dire necessity of discovering once for all who was responsible forthem, the efforts of these keen, scientific men to entrap a weakenedbrain would have seemed unfair and cruel.

  But for those who knew the story and knew of the murderous deeds done inMona by some unfortunate with a cunning, diabolic, although probablyunbalanced mind, there remained only one alternative--to uncover andcatch the criminal at all hazards.

  Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who wasdressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. Hisface was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet andreserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facinghim, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark."

  The detective met him cheerily.

  "Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here andidentify the man who shot at you the other day; O'Brien has reached theend of his rope now."

  As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he facedO'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man!Yes, he shot me," he cried.

  Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposelydeceiving Maloney, playing with him--waiting for the moment when hewould make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail todifferentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to himwould hopelessly entangle him.

  "The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We havewell-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across theplain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Had _you_ not beenso close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here."

  Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting thefacts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected--thathe was a hero.

  "Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, oldman. I thank you."

  A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Thenhis brow darkened. There was some error here--he was no hero. But whatwas it? Somehow things were wrong, but where?

  Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; buthis eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were movingsilently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The manwas suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm,although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation offacts.

  Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, andcleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "youneed not thank me."

  The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddledthe poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking.

  "Maloney," said Oakes again--there was gentleness in the detective'svoice; he knew the man before him was going down--"Maloney, when wewere fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer--this manO'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning--O'Brien droppedthe weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a greatarmy revolver, a 45-calibre weapon."

  Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiarsubject. He remembered _that_, even though his mind failed to rememberthe details of the assault.

  But Maloney knew there was some mistake; it was his weapon, notO'Brien's, that they were talking about. Suddenly, like a flash, camefull remembrance--momentarily, only--and he unguardedly blurted out:"There is only one in the county like it"; then cunningly ceasedspeaking as though he feared his tongue, but could not exactly reasonwhy.

  There was a scarcely audible sigh of anxiety around the room--Oakes had_proved_ Maloney's knowledge of the old revolver. Dr. Moore was gazingintently at the gardener's neck. The carotid arteries were pumping fulland strong, down deep beneath the tissues, moving the ridges of his neckin rhythmic but very rapid undulations--the man was showing greatexcitement.

  "Maloney," said Oakes again, quickly returning to the attack, "before wewere fired upon we fancied we heard a cry over the plain, a curious onelike someone yelling an oath or an imperious command. Did you hear it?"

  "Yes,"
interpolated Moore. "We thought the words were 'Fire!' or 'Kill!kill!'"

  We all realized what the clever men were doing--telling imaginarythings, trying to draw from Maloney an acknowledgment of a delusion.They were sounding his mind, playing for its weak spot.

  The suspect looked surprised, bewildered, then suddenly fell into thetrap. His weakened mind had been reached at its point of leastresistance.

  As in nearly all insane individuals, it took but a proper mention of thepredominant delusion to reveal that which might otherwise have goneundetected for a long period.

  "Yes," whispered Maloney. "I heard the command. It was 'Kill!' 'Murder!'I have heard it before. I am glad you heard it then--that proves that Iam right. I knew I was right. I can prove it. Surely it is not uncommon.Gentlemen, I have heard it before. I know--I believe--it was meantfor--ha! ha!--O'Brien--ha! ha!--no! no!--for _me_!"

  Moore stepped toward the man, whose speech now came thick and fast andunintelligible. Hallen closed nearer. Maloney was shaking. His face wasturning dark, his jugulars were bulging like whip-cords down his neck,his eyes sparkling with the unmistakable light of insanity. He stooped."There it is again! 'Kill! kill!'" he cried in thick, mumbling tones,and bending low. Then he straightened up suddenly and flung himselfaround, felling Hallen and Martin as though they were wooden men.

  He seized a chair and hurled it across the table at Elliott, who dodgedsuccessfully, allowing it to crash through the opposite window. Quick tosee this means of escape, Maloney followed through the smashed panes--araving, delirious maniac.

  * * * * *

  The test, carried out with such consummate skill, had not only provedMaloney's knowledge of the revolver and that he was subject todelusions, but it had also precipitated an unexpected attack of insaneexcitement--an acute mania.

  And now Maloney was gone--escaped.

  As Hallen and Martin staggered to their feet, the Chief bellowed forthan order in a voice of deepest chagrin and alarm: "Catch him!" he cried."If he escapes, the people will rise in fury."

  We all heard a sickening, wild yell of defiance from Maloney as hereached the ground--a deep, guttural, maniac cry that struck terror tomy weakened nerves and which froze our men for an instant in theirtracks, like marble statues.

  Someone broke the awful spell--it was Oakes, crying out: "He is goingfor the pond and the bridge." And next instant he and Hallen were out ofthe front door, the men following in a rushing, compact body.