Morgan Scott - The Great Oakdale Mystery

Piper shook his head. With his hands locked behind his back, he slowly paced the floor.

“You are like the usual order of persons who lack the analytical mind,” he retorted. “You fail to see the true significance of apparently commonplace events. I am different. At this moment I feel assured that we are face to face with one of the most perplexing mysteries on record. I’ve interviewed Hooker this evening, and from him I obtained a certain amount of information concerning the mysterious man he encountered in the woods beyond Culver’s Bridge. According to his statement, that man was about twenty-six years of age, and apparently something like five feet and ten inches in height. Hooker judged that this person should weigh in the neighborhood of one hundred and sixty pounds. His complexion was medium, and he had hair slightly curly. His eyes were blue, his teeth white and even, and his smile pleasant. His voice was agreeable, but he showed traces of nervousness and anxiety. He spoke with some bitterness of people who had wealth and employed laborers. Roy states that, as far as he could see, the man bore no peculiarly distinguishing mark, like a scar or deformity.”

“Well,” said Fred, lounging on the Morris chair, “why should the appearance of such a stranger interest you so deeply?”

“Wait,” said Piper, halting in front of Sage’s chair. “This man made inquiries concerning your family. He must have known you.”

“We’ve lived in Oakdale only three years. There are people outside of this place who know us.”

“Quite true; but when he learned that you were near at hand, and when he heard you approaching, the man disappeared in a most astounding, inexplicable and unaccountable manner. He didn’t wait until you should come forth to meet him face to face.”

“That was rather odd,” admitted Sage.

“And, furthermore, you have stated that you have no idea who the person can be.”

“Not the slightest.”

“Is there anything connected with your past or that of your parents which, for good and sufficient reasons, you wish to conceal?”

Fred sat up suddenly. “Why should you imagine anything of that sort?” he retorted sharply. “Of course it’s nonsense.”

“H’m!” said Sleuth. “It’s a rare family closet that doesn’t contain a skeleton.”

“Well, Piper, if you’ve come here to pry into private family affairs, you may as well chase yourself at once.”

“Restrain your annoyance, Sage; check your angry resentment. If you choose to unbosom yourself to me in my professional capacity, you may do so with the assurance of my honorable intention to hold inviolate any secret with which I may be entrusted.”

Fred’s face was flushed and he betrayed annoyance, which, however, he endeavored to restrain.

“Cut out that fol-de-rol, Piper. There’s no reason why I should tell you any family secrets, if we happen to have them. As you’ve just said, doubtless there are few families who do not have some minor secrets they choose to keep hidden; but, as a rule, such things concern no others than those personally interested. Again, let me repeat that you are trying to make something out of nothing, and it’s extremely ridiculous.”

“Perhaps so,” retorted Sleuth. “But tell me, did you ever hear of a man by the name of James Wilson?”

“Never. What has he to do with the matter?”

The visitor drew a folded newspaper from an inner pocket of his coat. “It’s my custom,” he said, “to take special note of the records of crime and criminals as contained in the press of the day. I never overlook anything of the sort. Here in this paper is the description of one James Wilson, alias ‘William Hunt,’ alias ‘Philip Hastings,’ but known among his pals as ‘Gentleman Jim.’ This man is described as twenty-six years of age, five feet, ten inches in height, and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds. While there are no distinguishing marks upon his person, he has blue eyes; a medium complexion; hair slightly curly; white, even teeth; a pleasant smile; an agreeable voice; and white, shapely hands, which show evidence of recent arduous labor. This labor was performed in prison, from which Jim Wilson has but lately been released. He is a confidence man and safe-breaker, and it seems that his prison experience has done little to cure him of his criminal proclivities, for it is suspected that since his release he has been concerned in certain unlawful operations. One week ago he was arrested in Harpersville, which is just over the state line, and placed in jail to await the arrival of officers who wanted him. But Mr. Wilson, alias ‘William Hunt,’ alias ‘Philip Hastings,’ alias ‘Gentleman Jim,’ is a slippery customer, and he didn’t remain in that insecure jail. Instead of doing so, he broke out of his cell, cracked the guard’s skull, and made good his escape. The guard is not expected to live, and the authorities have offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of the murderous scoundrel.”

“Well!” breathed Sage, who had listened with swiftly increasing interest. “Do you think this James Wilson and the stranger Hooker talked with this forenoon are one and the same?”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” declared Sleuth.

“But that,” said Fred, “is practically a matter of supposition with you; you have no real proof.”

“Proof?” returned Piper reprovingly. “Why not? The circumstances are significant, and it’s only the bigoted person who denies the value of circumstantial evidence in criminal cases. The description of James Wilson applies perfectly to the mysterious stranger with whom Hooker conversed.”

“If you’ll think it over a bit, that description might apply to a great many persons. Wilson seems fortunate in having practically no personal characteristics by which he might readily be identified. It seems to me, Piper, that, casting aside your professed caution and acuteness, you have jumped at a conclusion. Simply because you happen to read about an ex-convict who has recently broken jail in a neighboring state, and the description of this convict, although in a way indefinite and unsatisfactory, apparently applies to a stranger in these parts, you immediately decide that the convict and the stranger are one and the same. I’m surprised at you, Sleuth.”

“Wait a moment,” said Piper, holding up his finger. “Let me ask you a question. Since you came to Oakdale, how often have you seen strangers in these parts who looked like tramps, talked like educated men, and deported themselves in a manner which, without the least stretch of fancy, could be called mysterious?”

“Seldom,” admitted Sage.

“Never before,” asserted Piper.

“And, because this happens to be the first instance of the sort, you feel confident in your hasty conclusion. I’m afraid you’ll never make a great detective, Sleuth, for in stories, at least, they never jump at conclusions, and they always make sure they’re right before forming a definite opinion.”

Piper was not pleased by these words. He frowned heavily and shook his head.

“You can’t deny,” he retorted, “that it was most strange that the man should inquire for your family and then take flight when he learned that you were about to appear before him.”

“That, I admit, was odd indeed. Nevertheless, I do not think it justifies you in seeking to connect us with the ex-convict, James Wilson. It’s scarcely necessary for me to tell you that we have never known such a man.”

“It gives me no small amount of satisfaction,” said Sleuth, “to hear that statement from your lips, even though it may, in a measure, make my work more difficult.”