Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story

by Charles Ross Jackson

Larkin and I could scarcely believe our eyes. The man was apparently gifted with great powers, for he cut through the water steadily, surely, with a rapidity that was amazing. Over opposite, the fight was furious, always nearing the edge of the pond.

Help for Oakes was no nearer than Hallen, who, we could see, was dashing around the northern end of the pond in a desperate race to save him. On the other end, moving like the wind, but farther away from the fighting men, I distinguished young Martin leading several others in the race for life. And down beneath us, quarter way across the pond was the solitary swimmer, lifting his shoulders well out of the water each time his stroke reached its limit—each moment advancing steadily, surely. I saw at a glance that Oakes was doomed—Elliott could not reach him, neither could Hallen. Larkin by my side supported me, for my head was reeling with weakness. Suddenly he shouted across the pond—"Fight him!—fight him! Oakes, strangle him."

I could see now that, somehow, Oakes's arm was around the maniac's neck, and that they were on their feet again. Neither had a weapon—they had long since been lost in the hand-to-hand fight.

"Oakes can't do it. Why, in the devil's name, did he try to capture him alive? Why did he not shoot to kill instead of to wound simply?" cried my companion.

Now Maloney was surging, dragging Oakes close to the water's edge—closer, ever closer.

Suddenly Oakes weakened and half stepped, half retreated, to the water's edge; then as suddenly the two figures swayed up the hill a few feet again, and with a quick, cat-like movement Oakes was free. It was his one supreme effort, a masterly, wonderfully executed, vigorous shove and side-step. It was evident Maloney was dazed. Oakes's strangle-hold had told at last.

We heard a mighty shout from Hallen, and another from the swimmer now rapidly approaching the bank.

Maloney faced Oakes a moment; his chest heaved once or twice as his breath returned; he crouched, then sidled into position for a spring and launched himself toward Oakes, who, pale as death, stood swaying, his arms by his side, apparently all but done for.

Then we all witnessed that which thrilled us to the heart—the sudden, wonderful mastery of science, aided by strength, over sheer brute force. Maloney came toward Oakes in a fearful rush that was to take both together out into the pond to death.

Instantly Oakes's swaying body tightened and steadied. I knew then, as did Larkin, that Oakes had been deceiving Maloney—that the detective was still master of himself. As the heavy body closed upon him, Oakes stepped suddenly forward. His left arm shot upward with a vicious, swinging motion, and as his fist reached the jaw, his body lurched forward and sideways, in a terrible muscular effort, carrying fearful impetus to the blow.