Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XV. THE SQUATTER RETURNS

SEVERAL days had passed since the night when the bearded Dalwar had abducted Dorothy Brent. An early autumn chill had settled over the great marsh. It was late afternoon and Wildemar Brent was discussing the cool snap with Professor Darwin Shelby.

“If this cold increases,” asserted Brent, “there will be a frost. The slough will freeze all through the marsh. There will be no use in continuing our search for the ignis fatuus.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Professor Shelby. “However, the weather may turn warm again. I think, Wildemar, that I shall venture forth as usual at dusk.”

“So shall I,” decided Brent. “It is almost dusk at present.”

“So it is!” exclaimed Shelby. “My word! I believe I shall set out at once.”

The professor went out through the big door. Alone, Brent rose to his feet. He glared savagely at the portrait of Thaddeus Culeth. The long face with its aristocratic air seemed to annoy him. Brent gripped the portrait and brought it down from the wall. He studied the space that it had covered. The wall was solid.

Brent looked about. He began a prowl, stopping here and there. He entered the room with the paneled tapestries. He thumped the woodwork; then shook his head. The ring of the door bell brought him out into the hall. Dusk had settled. Brent could discern that as he glanced toward the thickly-grilled window by the entrance to the tapestried room. But he did not see the peering eyes that moved from beyond the panes. Those were the eyes of The Shadow.

Brent went to the door and opened it. Nicholas Rokesbury stepped into the house, followed by a quiet-faced fellow whom Brent recognized as Garry Logan, the new county detective. As they walked toward the fire place, footsteps sounded on the stairway. Dorothy Brent appeared. The girl had been taking an afternoon nap.

“No news, Mr. Brent,” declared Logan, in a friendly tone. This new detective had been more tactful than Merle Cray. “We still have two men on constant duty up in the old cabin; but we haven’t traced the squatter anywhere among the other hill-folk. None of them seem to know anything about him.”

The door opened while Logan was speaking. It was Professor Shelby, coming back. Though bundled in a heavy coat, the scientist seemed to have disliked the chill of the marsh.

“I shall go out later,” he declared, as he walked toward the stairway. “The dampness is more troublesome than the cold. It seems to be lessening.”

“I won’t stay here much longer,” declared Brent, “if this cold increases. There is no use persisting in my search for the ignis fatuus if the chilly weather forces me to stay indoors.”

“What is that portrait doing on the floor?” questioned Dorothy, suddenly. “Did you remove it from the wall, uncle?”

“Yes,” snapped Brent. “I wanted to see what was — well, I just didn’t like it glaring at me. Old Thaddeus Culeth! Bah! I wish he had lived to keep this beastly place.”

BRENT stooped and picked up the portrait. He hung it back in place, just as Professor Shelby appeared at the foot of the stairway.

“Ah!” exclaimed the professor. “Did you discover something odd behind that portrait, Wildemar?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” snapped Brent.

“I thought you might have been,” returned Shelby, in a mild tone. “I recall that you were tapping about a bit the other day.”

“That was to see about repairs,” barked Brent. “The place was to be gone over during my absence. However, I think the work will be unnecessary. The Culeth estate is welcome to keep this house. I shall want it no longer. Since this codger is dead” — Brent pointed to the portrait — “it is too bad that his son Austin is not alive. Halthorpe said he looked like his father. A man with a face like that is the sort of person to live in an old ruin such as this house.”

“The face is not unhandsome,” declared Dorothy, looking at the portrait. “It seems to be soured by age; that is all. It would be nice if Austin Culeth were still alive. I imagine that he would be a most agreeable young man.”

“I’m going to dress for a trip to the marsh,” decided Brent, moving toward the stairs. “I suppose you intend to wait a while, eh, professor?”

“I shall prepare to go out now,” said Shelby. He arose and bowed to Dorothy and the others; then followed Brent upstairs.

“Do you think this fellow Brent was actually looking for some hiding place behind the picture?” inquired Logan, speaking to Rokesbury in an undertone.

“No,” whispered the engineer. “He’s eccentric, that is all.”

“I shall report the matter to Mr. Halthorpe,” said the detective, in a decisive tone. “He shall know about it, since he controls the house.”

“Do you think your uncle really intends to give up the mansion?” inquired Rokesbury, speaking to Dorothy.

“Quite possibly,” replied the girl. “I hope that he does decide to do so.”

“I know it,” said Rokesbury, soberly. “I can’t help but think of Twindell, every time I come here.”

“Forget it, Rokesbury,” said Logan, gruffly. “You had every right to kill that man. He was the accomplice of a murderer.”

“I know it,” said the engineer, “but I’m sorry I was forced to slay him. To change the subject, the reason I spoke about the house was because I have a use for it.”

“What could that be?” inquired the girl, in surprise.

“As a headquarters for the causeway workers,” explained the engineer. “If your uncle leaves with cold weather; if Halthorpe is willing to postpone the repair work, this would be an excellent place for my men to live and have their meals. The causeway work will carry us into the winter. The men cannot stand the continued rigor of the cold weather.”

“You can talk about that to-night, Rokesbury,” suggested Logan, just as Professor Shelby appeared from the stairs.

“With whom?” inquired the engineer. “Brent or Halthorpe?”

“Both. The lawyer told me he was coming out here some time this evening. I believe his visit has something to do with the estate. Why don’t you drop over?”

“I shall,” responded Rokesbury. “Here comes Brent now; but I won’t bother him. Well, it’s time to head for the causeway.”

“I’m driving back to town,” put in Logan.

“Wait a minute.” Rokesbury turned to Dorothy. “You’ll be alone here. That won’t do. I’ll send a pair of men over to watch the place.”

“Thank you, Nicholas,” smiled Dorothy.”

Brent and Shelby were leaving for the door. Rokesbury and Logan followed. Dorothy sat for a few moments by the fire; then went upstairs. She did not mind being alone in the old house since the men from the causeway would soon be on guard.

OUTSIDE, Brent and Shelby had separated, each with his electric lantern. Rokesbury chuckled as he saw the gleams move off through the darkness. He watched the lights go out; then turned to Logan.

“Chasing the marsh lights,” laughed the engineer. “That’s science for you. I’m glad I began my education with surveying. Both of those chaps are a bit balmy.”

“Telling me?” snorted Logan, as he stepped to his car. “Say — why did they douse the glims? How can they find their way through that mush?”

“They know the paths,” explained Rokesbury, “and they don’t want the glare of their lanterns to spoil their chances of spotting the marsh lights. Say, Logan, wait here in your car until my men show up, will you? I’m anxious about Miss Brent. She’s alone in the house.”

“Certainly,” agreed the detective, settling down in back of the wheel of his coupe.

Minutes passed; Logan kept turning his head as he followed the sweeping beams of the airway beacon on the mountain. Then the detective gained a sudden impression that some one was close by. He turned about, expecting to see either Brent or Shelby. He discovered no one. Yet the sleuth fancied that he had seen the door of the mansion close.

“Imagination,” grumbled Logan. Then he turned as he heard actual sounds. Two workmen were coming with flashlights. Logan jammed his car into low gear and pulled away. But as he drove across the narrow strip of road that led to high ground, he could not shake away the thought that some one had entered through the unbolted door of the big mansion.

NOT long after Logan had left, the form of The Shadow emerged from a spot between the mansion and the causeway. Unseen, the tall figure moved off into the marsh. Blended with blackness, The Shadow’s course was untraceable.

Half an hour after that, Clyde Burke returned to his room at the Hotel Rensdale, to find an envelope upon his table. He put in a prompt call to Harry Vincent, over the short-wave radio.

“Ten o’clock,” was Clyde’s simple statement.

EVENING lapsed. Again, the strange shape of The Shadow was prowling through the paths amid the marsh. This time, the master of the night came from the boggy land to the solid ground at the base of the sloping hillside. His course was upward. He neared the little cabin where two deputies, appointed by Garry Logan, were keeping guard.

Then came a brief interval. After that, the events that happened were of much concern to the men within the cabin. These fellows were husky chaps. They were armed with rifles; and they were vigilant. But at times it happened that they both laid their weapons aside.

As the deputies stood warming themselves before the log fire, the door sprang open. Into the room strode a tall, black-bearded man. His right hand held a gleaming revolver. The deputies stood flat-footed.

The missing squatter had returned!

Eyes glared. A snarl came from the black beard. Deliberately, pocketing his gun, the wanted man seized the rifles that were standing by the wall. He thrust one weapon in the corner behind him. He swung the other rifle and brought its barrel against the corner of the fire place. Stone cracked. The rifle barrel bent like a toy of tin.

Throwing the useless gun to the floor, the squatter seized the second rifle. As new evidence of his strength, he pressed its barrel against his knee. He bent with savage force. The barrel twisted. The second gun was ruined.

With a raucous laugh, the Dalwar turned and strode from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. The startled deputies could hear his insane laugh from the darkness. It was repeated, from below the cottage.

Then it came trailing from farther down the hillside.

“That was him!” gasped one deputy. “The murderer — with the beard!”

“One of the hill-folk, right enough!” exclaimed the other. “With the wide flat hat—”

“What’ll we do about it? We can’t use them rifles—”

“He was heading down to the marsh. Maybe he’s going back to the old house.”

“Say — we’d better act quick. Let’s hop down to the causeway. We can cut over to the right so we won’t run into the fellow with the beard. He’s armed. We ain’t.”

The disarmed deputies dashed from the cottage. They ran wildly along the hillside, until they encountered a road. Puffing in their haste, they gained the far end of the causeway. They pounded across rough, broken stone, stumbling, tripping, but keeping on toward their goal.

Nicholas Rokesbury had not yet started over to the house. He had decided that Philo Halthorpe would be arriving late. Standing by a crew of workers, Rokesbury was the first to hear the approach of the deputies. He strode forward to meet the panting men.

“The murderer,” gasped a deputy. “The Dalwar — from the cabin. We were watching for him—”

“And he smashed our guns,” chimed in the other. “He beat it — heading for the swamp. He’s armed—”

Rokesbury turned on his heel. Grimly he waved to his men. Tools dropped as workers responded to the beckon of the boss. Rokesbury snapped a short, decisive order.

“Get your revolvers, men,” barked the engineer. “We’re going to the old house. Looking for the bearded murderer. If you see him to-night, shoot to kill!”