Oliver October

by George Barr McCutcheon

DETECTIVE MALONE

It was the fourth week in September when the detectives arrived in Rumley; Oliver’s dredgers had completed their contract; the swamp was clear of men, machines and horses.

The city editor of the Despatch interviewed Detective Malone, the chief operative in charge of what the newspaper man and others, including Oliver October, were jocosely inclined to classify as the “expedition.”

“Where do you intend to begin excavating, Mr. Malone?” inquired the editor, notebook in hand. They were in the lobby of the Hubbard House. “And when?” he added.

Mr. Malone was very frank about it. “In China,” said he. “We’re going to work from the bottom up. If you’ll go out to the swamp to-morrow or next day and put your ear to the ground—and hold it there long enough—you’ll hear men’s voices but you won’t understand a word they say. They’ll be speakin’ Chinese. We’ve got thirty-five thousand coolies digging their way up from Shanghai, and according to schedule they ought to be here by to-morrow morning unless they’ve had a cave-in or stopped off in hell for breakfast.”

The editor eyed him in a cold, inimical manner. “Umph!” he grunted, flopping his notebook shut. “It’s a good thing you’ve got your Chinese army, because you won’t be able to get anybody to work for you in this town. That’s how we feel about this business, Mr. Malone—rich and poor, high and low. There isn’t a dago here who will lift a spade to help you.”

“I guess that’s up to the authorities,” said the detective coolly. “I’m here to boss the job, that’s all.”

“You won’t find anything.”

Mr. Malone grinned. “Exactly what those two old codgers out there on the sidewalk said to me not ten minutes ago.”

That afternoon the sheriff and the prosecuting attorney stopped electioneering long enough to pay a hasty visit to Rumley. They found Oliver waiting for them at his home.

“Of course, Mr. Baxter,” said the prosecutor, “you have a right to refuse to answer every question I put to you. So far as I am concerned, I merely intend to examine you as I would examine any disinterested witness. As I say, you may decline to answer.”

“I will answer any question you may choose to put to me, Mr. Johnson.”

The sheriff interposed. “Better have your lawyer here, Baxter. I am obliged to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in case—er—in case—”

“I understand. In case I am charged with crime.”

“Exactly,” said the sheriff.

“You can refuse to answer on the ground that it may tend to incriminate you,” explained the prosecutor.

“I have consulted a lawyer,” said Oliver. “He advises me to help you in every way possible, Mr. Johnson. He wanted to be here this afternoon, but I told him I knew of no surer way to incriminate myself than to hire a lawyer to see that I didn’t. Go ahead; ask all the questions you like. No one wants to see this mystery cleared up more than I do.”

Half an hour later, the sheriff looked at his watch and reminded his companion that they would be late for the meeting at Monrovia if they didn’t start at once—and off they sped in haste. Detective Malone and his partner, who had joined the county officials at the Baxter house, remained behind. They were smoking Oliver’s cigars.

“How long do you figure it will take you, Mr. Malone, to finish up the job?” inquired the young man.

Malone squinted at the tree-tops. “Our instructions are to work slowly and surely. We are not to leave a stone unturned. It may take six or eight weeks.”

“In other words, you are not expected to be through before election day.”

“Unless we find what we are after before that time, Mr. Baxter,” said the other. He had been out at the back of the house, surveying with his eye the stretch of swamp land. “It is a big job, as you can see for yourself. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, eh, Charlie?”

His partner nodded his head in silent assent.

“We’ll go out and take a walk around the swamp to-morrow,” said Malone. “If you’ve got the time to spare, Mr. Baxter, you might stroll out with us now to the place where you last saw your father. That will have to be our starting point. Then I’ll want to question your servants. It seems that he is supposed to have come home to change his clothes after he said good-by to you.”

“He did not say good-by to me,” corrected Oliver. “He didn’t even say good night. Please get that straight, Mr. Malone. He was angry with me—and I do not deny that I was angry myself. We parted in anger.”

“Do you know a man named Peter Hines, Mr. Baxter?” asked Malone abruptly.

“Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a tenant of my father’s. Lives in a shack up at the other end of the swamp. He has done odd jobs for us ever since I can remember. Wood-chopping, rail-splitting and all that. He also does most of the drinking for the estate,” he concluded dryly.

“A souse, eh?”

“I’ve never known him to be completely sober—and I’ve never heard of him being completely drunk. He’s that kind.”

“Do you remember seeing him the night your father disappeared?”

“No. I did not see him.”

“By the way, have you ever seen me before to-day?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well,” said Malone, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve been hanging around this burg since last Monday—five days, in all. I’ve done quite a bit of sleuthing, as they say in the dime novels. I’m the fellow that sold your housekeeper, Mrs. Grimes, the beautifully illustrated set of Jane Austen’s works day before yesterday. I also sold an unexpurgated set of the Arabian Nights to Mr. Samuel Parr, the insurance agent. He tells me your father carried a fifteen thousand dollar life policy. I tried to sell a set of Dickens to the Reverend Mr. Sage, and succeeded in having a long talk with his daughter about the book entitled ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood.’ That led up, quite naturally, to the mystery of Oliver Baxter. I’ve had dealings with Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, Banker Lansing, John Phillips and a number of other citizens, male and female.” He laughed quietly. “Of course, the books will never be delivered, Mr. Baxter—but as it is understood that no payments are to be made until the first two volumes are delivered, I can’t be charged with swindling. I can face my victims with perfect equanimity—but I don’t believe they’ll recognize me. I was in your store last Tuesday, but you were off on political business. Shall we stroll down to the swamp, Mr. Baxter, or would you rather wait a day or two? Suit your own convenience. We’re in no hurry, you see.”

“That is obvious,” said Oliver curtly. “I must notify you, Mr. Malone, that if you or any of your workmen slip into one of those pits of mire out there and never come up again, I am not to be held accountable. If you venture out beyond the safety zone you do so at your own risk.”

“Right-o!” said Malone cheerily. They were well around the corner of the house on their way to the swamp road before he spoke again. “How many people have lost their lives out there?” he inquired.

“None, so far as I know.”

“But there must have been any number of men who have ventured out there.”

“What makes you think so? I don’t know of a single soul who has had the courage—or the folly—to go anywhere near those sink-holes.”

“Then, how do you know that those so-called bottomless holes exist?”

“I suppose it’s tradition,” said Oliver. “I have heard of animals—such as horses and cattle—sinking out of sight. My father has often told me of such things.”

“Maybe he was just scaring you, so’s you’d keep out of the swamp.”

“Well, he scared me all right.”

“You are a trained civil engineer, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve never gone out there to satisfy yourself whether those pits are real or just something people like to talk about?”

“I’ve never been out beyond that row of posts you see over there,” said Oliver, pointing. “I had a wire fence stretched along those posts last spring, Mr. Malone. You are at liberty to go as far out as you please, however.”

“I shall,” said Malone crisply. “I am an old hand at this business. I don’t believe such a thing exists as a bottomless pit. Before I get through with this job, you will find, Mr. Baxter, that there isn’t a spot in that slough out there that is more than six or eight feet deep. Of course, that is deep enough to bury a man, or a horse or a cow. So, you needn’t expect me to step into every mud puddle I come across out there, just to see if it’s over my shoe tops. Now, just where was it that you and your father parted company that night? As I understand it, you and he sat for some time on that log over there. It was a clear night and the road was very dusty. There had been no rain in over three weeks. Am I right?”

Oliver stared at him in amazement. The other detective had turned down the slope and was striding off toward the nearest ditch.

“You seem to be pretty well posted,” said he, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, I am an inquisitive sort of cuss,” drawled Malone. “And I’m not what you’d call an idle person.”

“Who told you we were sitting on that log? I don’t remember ever having mentioned it. As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten it completely. We did sit there for ten or fifteen minutes. That was before we began to quarrel. Then we got up and walked on a little farther down the road. To the bend on ahead about fifty yards. We stood there arguing for nearly half an hour. I left him standing there. I went on to Mr. Sage’s. But who told you we sat on that log?”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll not answer that question,” said Malone.

“You asked me a while ago if I had seen Pete Hines that night. Was it Pete Hines?”

Malone hesitated. “Well, it was Pete Hines who is supposed to have seen you, Mr. Baxter, but it was not he who told me about it. I went out to see him yesterday, but his shack was boarded up and there was no sign of him anywhere. Now this may interest you. There was—and still is, as far as I know—a piece of pasteboard tacked on his front door, with these words printed on it in lead pencil: ‘Beware. This house is full of snakes.’ That bears out your statement that he is never completely sober, Mr. Baxter. Now, you say this is the place where you parted that night—here at the turn. You left him standing here, you say. In the middle of the road?”

“Yes.”

“And you walked off in this direction. Did you look back?”

“I did not.”

“Just kept right on—in the middle of the road, eh?”

“That’s right.”

Malone changed the subject abruptly. “That’s a great fish story they tell about the gypsy prophesying you’d be hung before you were thirty. Of all the bunk I ever heard, that’s the worst. Mr. Gooch says he was present when she told your fortune that night.”

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Malone, I must be getting back to the house. It’s nearly seven o’clock and I am expecting people to dine with me,” said Oliver a little coldly.

“I’m sorry I’ve detained you,” said the detective apologetically. “I wish you had mentioned it, Mr. Baxter. This could have waited till another day. I’ll stroll back with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Where is your partner?” inquired Oliver, looking out over the swamp.

“Charlie? Oh, he’ll be along directly. There he is, over near the wire fence. He is seeing about how long it would take a man to walk out to the edge of the mire and back,” said Malone coolly.

Oliver looked at him sharply. “So that’s the idea, eh?” he remarked, after a moment.

“We intend to conduct this investigation in an open and above-board manner, Mr. Baxter. Cards on the table, sir, all the way through. We’re looking for a dead man, not a live one, if you see what I mean.”

“And I shall be open and above-board with you, Mr. Malone,” said Oliver, a trace of irony in his voice. “I hope, therefore, that you won’t take it amiss if I suggest that the sensible thing for your man to do would be to make his calculations at night, when progress would naturally be a great deal slower and infinitely more hazardous. Besides, you ought to take into account the fact that this part of the swamp was not drained at the time my father disappeared. There were a lot of chuck-holes and mud flats between here and that wire fence.”

“I’ve taken that into account—mud and everything,” announced the detective, looking straight ahead. “I was about to say that it’s going to take a good deal of tight squeezing, Mr. Baxter, to get you indicted, tried and executed inside of the next thirty days. The time is pretty short, eh?” He laughed jovially.

Oliver turned on him. “I’ll knock your damned head off, Malone, if you make any more cracks like that. Remember that, will you?” he cried hotly.

Malone was genuinely surprised. He went very red in the face.

“Yes,” he said thickly, “I’ll be sure to remember it.”

Oliver apologized to Malone as they were on the point of separating in front of the house. They had traversed the hundred yards or more in silence.

“I am sorry I spoke to you as I did, Mr. Malone. I hope you will overlook it.”

Malone held out his hand. “I’ve been spoken to a good bit rougher than that in my time, Mr. Baxter, and never turned a hair,” he said good-naturedly. “I don’t blame you for calling me down. I guess I was fresh. But I assure you I didn’t mean to be.”

“It’s my infernal temper,” explained Oliver, taking the man’s hand. “You would think that after twenty years’ training of the most drastic character I might be able to control it, wouldn’t you? But every once in a while it slips.”

“Well, there’s no hard feelings on my part. Still I hope you don’t mind my saying that a lot of men have tried to knock my block off without success.”

“All the more reason why I should apologize,” said Oliver, with his old, disarming smile.

“Forget it,” said Mr. Malone magnanimously.

A little later on Oliver sat on his front porch waiting for his guests to arrive. Mrs. Grimes, in her snug-fitting black silk dress, rocked impatiently in a chair nearby. The guests were late.

“It’s Josephine Sage,” she observed crossly, breaking a long silence. Oliver was startled out of his reflections. “She’s the one that’s making ’em late. Mr. Sage was telling me the other day that actresses are always late to a party. He’s just got onto it, he says. He says it’s what they call an entrance, though what that means I don’t know.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s only half-past seven, Aunt Serepta. They’re only fifteen minutes late. I’ve been losing my temper again,” he said gloomily. “Probably made an enemy of that detective, Malone.”

“What difference does that make? He’s not a voter in this county,” said the old lady composedly.

“Did you know that Pete Hines has gone away?”

“I didn’t even know he’d come back,” said she.

“Come back? What do you mean?”

“He was away all last week. They say he’s making corn whisky somewhere up in the hills back of Crow Center. At any rate, he’s been peddling it around town for a couple of months.”

“I thought it was gasolene he’s been selling.”

“Maybe that’s why Abel Conroy calls it fire-water. Here they come. Goodness! The way that Parr boy drives! He ought to be locked up for—”

But Oliver was at the bottom of the steps waiting for the automobile. It swung around the curve in the drive and came to an unbelievably gentle stop—almost what might be called a tender stop—in precisely the right spot. Oliver reached out his hand and opened the front door of the car without changing his position so much as an inch.

“Perfect!” said Mrs. Sage, who sat beside the driver.

“The best trained automobile in America,” said Sammy, with his customary modesty. “Kindness is what does it.”

“So sorry to be late,” said she, as Oliver ceremoniously handed her out of the car. “Good evening, Mrs. Grimes. Is the soup cold?”

“It was all Sammy’s fault,” cried Sammy’s wife. “He poked along at only forty miles an hour.”

“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Sage, drawing his first full, free breath; “we were exactly three minutes coming from my house to—”

“Had to slow down a bit on Clay Street,” explained Sammy. “Evening, Mrs. Grimes. Step lively, Muriel! You’re holding up the procession.” He gave two short, imperative honks. “That means full speed ahead.”

“What is this I hear, Oliver?” said the minister as he stepped out of the car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had preceded him. “Is it true the detectives are here and expect to start this ridiculous search to-morrow?”

“They’re here all right,” replied Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you a set of Dickens the other day.”

“What!” cried Jane, gripping Oliver’s arm. “Was that man a detective?” She was startled.

“No less a person than Mr. Sherlock Hawkshaw Malone, the renowned sleuth,” said Oliver, smiling.

“The—the beast!” she cried hotly. “Good heavens! That accounts for the interest he took in your father’s disappearance. Oh, dear me, I—I wonder what I said to him! He was so pleasant and so interested.”

“You’re not the only one he fooled, Jane. He got Sammy for a set of books and Aunt Serepta and Mr. Lansing—and I daresay he talked about the case with every one of them. I haven’t had the nerve to spring it on Aunt Serepta. She’s so happy over the prospect of getting Jane Austen with illustrations, that she’ll die when she hears she’s been tricked.”

“At any rate,” said Mr. Sage, complacently, “he did not succeed in selling us a set of Dickens.”

Jane started to say something, but, instead, abruptly turned away and joined the other women on the porch. A queer little chill as of misgiving stole over her.

“Hey, Oliver!” called out Sammy from down the drive where he was parking the car. “Come here a minute, will you? Say,” he went on, lowering his voice as Oliver came up, “I’ve just picked up something rich. Fellow came in day before yesterday and showed me a volume of the Arabian Nights, absolutely unexpurgated, with some of the gosh-darnedest illustrations you ever—”

“I know. And you fell for it, didn’t you?”

“Sh! Not so loud. My wife doesn’t know a thing about it. I’ll have to keep ’em at the office. In the safe. But say, who told you about it?”

“It’s all over town,” said Oliver mendaciously.

“Gee whiz!” gulped Sammy. “Impossible! It’s a dead secret. He said he could be arrested for selling ’em—”

“Aha!” broke in Oliver. “That explains everything. The man who told me is a detective.”

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake!” whispered Sammy in great agitation. Then in a tone of relief: “Oh, but I’m all right. All I’ve got to do is to cancel the order. I wasn’t to pay anything until—What’s the joke?”

Then Oliver told him. Sammy leaned against the mudguard and swore softly.

“Say, I wish I could remember what I said to that guy about—about your father. Lord, he had me talking a blue streak. Darn my fool eyes! You’d think I’d have sense enough to—Oh, well, go ahead and kick me, Ollie. Right here. Just as hard as you like.”

“Come on. They’re waiting for us. You needn’t worry about the books, old boy. You’ll never get them. I say, have you ever seen anything as gorgeous as Mrs. Sage is to-night?”

“Knocked me cold when she came down the parsonage steps,” said Sammy. “The Queen of Sheba never had anything on her, Ollie. I was standing at the bottom of the steps with Jane. Mr. Sage was out on the sidewalk chinning with Muriel. Jane and I joshed along for ten or twelve minutes, waiting for Mrs. Sage—I mean, Miss Judge. Suddenly the servant popped out and held the screen door open. She was carrying that blue opera wrap you saw on Mrs. Sage just now. Half a minute later, out strolled Mrs. Sage, walking as slowly as if she were following a coffin filled with royalty. I lost consciousness—honest to God I did. Wait till you see her! She’s dressed in pure silver from head to foot. When I came to she was standing right under the porch light, holding out her arms for the girl to slip on the opera coat, and she was bowing to Jane and me all over the place besides. ‘Good evening, Samuel,’ she said in a voice such as I’ve never heard before—it was so deep and musical. And say, boy! She’s got a figure! I don’t know how old she is, but all the same she’s got Venus backed off the boards. I’ll bet my last dollar if you was to put a dress on Venus she’d look like a cripple alongside of Mrs. S. Wait a second. There’s no rush, and I want to prepare you. Well, sir, she starts down the steps—me standing there with my mouth open and batting my eyes. She reaches down and lifts her skirt up to her knees and wraps it around them, and, by gosh, Ollie, she’s got on silver slippers and light blue stockings with diamond garters—”

“Sammy!” piped a shrill, commanding voice from the doorway above. “Hustle along! Don’t be all night. You can talk politics with Oliver after dinner.”

“Politics!” muttered Sammy, rolling his eyes. “And to see her in her street clothes you’d swear she hadn’t as much shape or style as—all right, Muriel! Coming!”