The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
Then I fell to worrying about Dorothy. Poor child! If this vigil was
terrible to me, waiting, shotgun in hand, for an attack, what must it be
to her? She waited there in that grim, ghost-haunted pile, beneath whose
very windows a man had died horribly, only yesterday; with no company
save that stupid nurse, asleep long ago, no doubt, and Aunt Mary
McGregor, who could think of nothing but her own troubles. She could not
know what was happening here; had no way of learning until we should
come home. In her imagination, no doubt, Lewis was dying a hundred
deaths, and she with him. For it is terrible, worse than death, I think,
to wait helplessly while a loved one is in peril.
I groaned aloud. Would they never come? Suddenly I was impatient for the
test; I would have welcomed a physical attack, anything to get it over
and be at rest; anything but this dreadful tension of waiting! I
strained my ears anew, but I heard only the faint scratching of Somers’
tireless pen.
Suddenly it came. A distant oath, an abrupt outbreak of raucous, obscene
song, as abruptly cut off, the sound of a blow! The confused tramp of
many feet thudded in the muffling sand and approached inexorably, with a
strange, broken rhythm.
Somers lifted his head alertly; the uncertain light fell across it, and
his deep-set eyes and thin, hooked nose seemed oddly fierce.
“Quiet, now, you men!” he ordered. “Keep back; don’t show yourselves
unless I call.”
He went on writing with a steady hand.
Craning my neck around the corner of the jail, I made out a clump of
moving shadows. Some one stumbled and swore aloud, drunkenly. Then, with
startling abruptness, the crowd debouched into the arc lamp’s circle of
light.
They moved with ominous deliberation in a sort of rude marching order,
four abreast. Handkerchiefs, blue, red, and black, were tied across each
face below the eyes, making the marchers unrecognizable. These were my
own neighbors; unmasked, I could have recognized almost every face, no
doubt. But seen thus they were fearsome shapes, uncanny, inhuman, and I
shivered and quailed before them. One burly fellow in the first rank
carried a coil of rope. Fascinated, I saw how it swung carelessly at his
side, and I noted its fresh, yellow color. My nephew was honored, I
thought hysterically; they had bought a new rope for his hanging!
The straggling column advanced; its head wheeled straight toward the
jail. Then the marchers caught sight of Doctor Somers’ quiet figure,
crouched there on the steps, still writing busily. They halted suddenly,
confused, and suspicious of this strange guard. They scented a trap, as
mobs will; surely this fellow would not be sitting there so calmly
unless he knew that the jail was well protected!
There was some jostling, and the column broke its formation. Men pushed
forward from the rear until they formed a rough semicircle at a
respectful distance. The tall man who bore that sinister rope stepped
forward a little.
And then, and not till then, Floyd Somers laid his writing precisely by
and rose upon those slender, stiltlike legs, looking rather like a steel
windmill tower, I reflected absurdly.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” His voice was perfectly unruffled and casual.
“A fine, cool night for a walk!”
A little, incredulous gasp ran through the silent crowd, followed by an
ominous mutter. Was this fellow making game of them?
“Evenin’,” replied the rope bearer gruffly. “What yuh doin’ here?”
Somers yawned and smiled that sudden, disarming smile, that could so
change his saturnine features. “Why, writing a letter to my best girl,
as you can see.” He gestured toward the heap of notes.
“Huh?” asked the crowd’s spokesman. He seemed bewildered, yet confident.
“What’s the feller doin’ here?” I could fancy him thinking. “Somethin’
funny! Well, we’ll find out--got lots of time!”
“Huh?” Above his red bandanna his eyes glinted at the heap of envelopes.
“Writin’ a whole lot o’ letters, seems t’ me!”
“Why,” replied Somers blithely, “that’s because I’ve got a whole lot of
best girls!”
The jest was feeble enough, but it caught the fancy of the crowd. A gust
of laughter ran about the semicircle, and its tension relaxed visibly.
The humor of the mob seemed less silently savage than before. “No
wonder!” exclaimed some one. “Fine, fat feller like you oughta have
plenty o’ girls!”
“I _have_.” Somers’ burlesque of satisfied vanity was irresistibly
comic. “Anything I can do for you, gentlemen? I’ve got six or eight more
to write, you see.”
“Sure is!” The spokesman stepped forward again, swinging his rope
menacingly. This skinny stranger needn’t think he could play horse with
them, his gesture said grimly. “Run along, sonny, an’ write yore letters
some’rs else. We-all got bus’ness in that there jail, see?”
“So? Well, there’s no hurry, is there? You’ve got all night before you.
Suppose we talk about that a while?”
The other scratched a perplexed head, tilting his wide-brimmed hat
forward. Plainly he did not know what to make of this imperturbable
stranger. After an instant’s hesitation he decided to humor him.
“We-ell, we got plenty time, sure enough!” he declared. “Ain’t nobody
goin’ t’ stop us. We’re after that skunk inside, stranger--that feller
Lewis Parker, what murdered Doc Gaskell yestiddy mornin’.”
The mob took a step forward, growling assent. The words seemed to have
rekindled its fury.
“Murdered Doctor Gaskell?” asked Somers coolly. “How come?”
The crowd’s spokesman snorted. “Nev’ you mind how come! He done it, an’
’at’s enough. Git outa th’ way now, sonny, an’ let us in!”
Somers held his place. “The door’s locked.”
Again the crowd laughed; this time raucously, hatefully.
“Oh,” jeeringly exclaimed one, swaying on wide-set feet, “Rufe Wakefield
ain’t such a big fool as some fellers. He didn’t make no trouble about
th’ key w’en we-all come after it--ner you won’t make no trouble,
neither, w’en we-all gits ready t’ use it!”
A chorus of drunken agreement broke out. “’At’s right, Charlie! Give it
to ’im. C’m’ on, fellers, smash ’im!” It was plain that many in the
crowd had found means of circumventing the Eighteenth Amendment.
“Shut up! Who’s runnin’ this, huh?” It was the leader, jealous of his
authority, and the noise subsided.
“Didn’t mean nothing, R-rappy, ol’ boy,” replied the disturber.
“Shut up! Ain’t yuh got no sense atall, slingin’ names around that a
way?” He faced Somers again. “We-all got th’ key, all right,” he
continued, “an’ we aim t’ use it, see? Right way now--d’rectly! Yuh
better git outa th’ way, afore th’ fireworks begins!”
“One moment! Listen, you men,” Somers’ voice was really eloquent.
“You’re going to do a great injustice. Parker is innocent! He didn’t
shoot Doctor Gaskell--the man was dead before he got out there at
all--dead and cold! Let the law take its course, boys. Parker’s here in
jail; he can’t get away. He’ll be tried, and, if he’s guilty he’ll be
convicted and punished. You don’t want to hang an innocent man, do you?
I tell you Gaskell was dead and cold before Parker came out at all!”
An outburst of jeers and hisses cut him short. The crowd would not
listen to any further interference with its proposed pleasures. But the
tall spokesman commanded silence. He seemed shaken.
“Shut up! Shut up!” With paralyzing suddenness he produced a huge
revolver, and the angry cries of the mob died away. “That’s better! I
ask you-all ag’in, who’s runnin’ this here lynchin’? Any more cracks,
an’ somebody’s gointa git hurted bad. Now, stranger, what’s that yuh
say, Gaskell was daid afore Parker come out?”
“Dead and cold!” repeated Somers. “Mr. Uhlman touched his chest two
minutes after Parker shot, and he was cold then.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Uhlman--George Uhlman.”
There was a chorus of jeers and howls. “Uhlman, ol’ Uncle Gawge, huh?
His own uncle! Likely he’d claim Parker shot ’im! Why didn’t he tell all
this to th’ inquest, huh? Big, fishy yarn--fake--fake!”
Despite their leader’s gesture, the mob surged forward; they would no
longer be balked of their quarry. Above the clamor, the man who had
boasted of taking the jail keys from Rufe Wakefield, howled shrilly:
“C’m’ on, fellers! Let’s git ’im out. Skinny’s jus’ tryin’ t’ hold us
an’ argue till ol’ Redden gits here. C’m’ on! Git ’im afore th’ sheriff
comes!”
Emitting wild yells to work its courage up, after the manner of mobs,
the throng pressed on. It was touch and go; they were almost upon the
defenseless Somers. Without awaiting Somers’ call, Peter McGregor and I
turned the jail corners almost together and ran forward to take up our
stations on either side of the steps.
Somers scowled at us. “Why didn’t you keep back?” he demanded. “I don’t
need you.”
None the less, our sudden eruption checked the mob. They hung back from
Peter’s menacing pistol and eyed dubiously the shotgun, which I held at
the ready.
“Say when, doc!” invited Peter grimly. He leveled his automatic at the
mob’s tall leader and slipped its safety catch.
“Keep quiet!” Somers was rather ungracious, I thought, seeing that we
had infallibly saved him, all unarmed as he was, from a severe beating
at least. But now, without more words, he stooped, extending an arm
incredibly long and bony, and lifted his grape basket of eggplant from
the dark corner where it had sat.
He laid it very carefully down on the step beside him, selected one of
the dark-purple vegetables and held it up.
“Did any of you boys get overseas?” he inquired conversationally.
The wondering mob gaped inquiringly.
“Good boy! Oh, good boy!” declared Peter from his side of the steps, as
he chuckled triumphantly.
I was less acute, but some of the men facing us must have understood
Somers’ meaning, for I noted that hats moved uneasily, as their wearers
shrank back into the crowd.
“I gather that some of you got to France,” went on Somers, quite
unperturbed. “You see what I’m holding, don’t you? Suppose you tell
these other chaps what will happen, five seconds after I pull the pin?”
The crowd had frozen into a sudden, awed silence. “Keep back, you fool!”
came an agonized whisper. “Quit shovin’! Want us all blowed to blazes?”
“Just got into your beautiful city this evening,” remarked Doctor Somers
affably. “Stopped off at Camp Sheridan on the way.” This was the
cantonment nearest to Pinelands. “I’ve a friend there in the ordnance
department; he lent me these little tricks, just in case of--of anything
like this. Now don’t crowd, boys, please don’t! I promised I’d bring ’em
all back safely, and I’d just hate to spoil one.”
“Aw, quit it!” came the same hoarse whisper. “Rush ’im, huh? Nix! If it
was a machine gun, mebbe; but I don’t aim t’ go to glory in pieces.
Nos_sir_! Huh? ’At’s a hand grenade, feller--a Mills bomb! G’wan, start
somethin’, ’f you want, an’ git all messed up. Me, I’m goin’ home!”
And straightway one masked figure detached itself and marched briskly
away, untieing his handkerchief and stuffing it into a pocket as he
went. There was a general movement to follow. The tall leader dropped
his coiled rope and pushed his hat far back. “What’s th’ use! I give up,
stranger; you got us buffaloed. Ain’t a-goin’ to be no lynchin’
to-night. But, if it hadn’t of been f’r them bombs----”
In token of amity, he untied the red bandanna, which masked him, and
bared the lean, stubbly face and piratical mustache of Ralph
Satterfield. “Uncover, boys,” he said. “Them masks is uncomf’table, an’
we ain’t a-goin’ t’ break no laws, so they ain’t needed no more.”
Most of the crowd followed his example, but some effaced themselves,
evidently ashamed of being identified in such company and upon such an
errand. Those who remained crowded forward, so that Peter and I raised
our weapons, fearing an attack; but Satterfield waved them aside.