Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING MURDERER

WHEN Nicholas Rokesbury dashed across the solid ground between the causeway and the old house, the workmen and the deputies were close at his heels. Despite their tiring run down the hill, the former guardians of the squatter’s cabin managed to keep pace with the armed band that was making for the gloomy mansion.

As they passed the battered dog-kennels, Rokesbury veered to the left. Scrambling through scrubby bushes, he called a low warning to the men behind him.

“Look out for that old well,” he urged. “The boards are loose and weak. Keep over this way — to the left.”

Rokesbury skirted the edge of the swamp above the house. Coming in from an angle, he and his followers suddenly arrived in a sphere of brilliance. The light was burning in the alcove above the big door. The entrance to the house was well illuminated. Rokesbury stopped.

“Surround the house,” he ordered, in a steady tone. “Spread out by the borders of the swamp. Form a big circle. Then close inward.”

The workmen responded. More than a dozen in number, they moved off in different directions. The two deputies remained with Rokesbury. Unarmed, they were in a quandary. The engineer recognized their plight. He beckoned them to approach the mansion with him.

Rokesbury rang the door bell. He waited impatiently. Finally he heard the sound of bolts being drawn from within. The door opened. Rokesbury was face to face with Dorothy Brent. The girl stepped back as she saw the excited look upon the engineer’s face. Rokesbury sprang into the great hall. He saw that the place was empty.

“Are you alone here?” he demanded.

“No,” responded Dorothy. “You must remember, Nicholas, that I sent your men back to the causeway after my uncle came in.”

“That’s right,” recalled Rokesbury. “About fifteen minutes ago. Was that immediately after your uncle came in from the marsh?”

“Yes.” The girl seemed perplexed. “What is the trouble, Nicholas?”

“I’ll come to that later, Dorothy. Tell me — did you have the door bolted all evening?”

“Yes. I opened it to let Uncle Wildemar in; I bolted it again, immediately after he entered.”

“Then you two are alone in the house?”

“No. About ten minutes ago, the door bell rang. I answered it; I found Professor Shelby. He had arrived back from the marsh. I bolted the door again; a few minutes afterward, there was another ring. It was Mr. Halthorpe. I bolted the door after he entered.”

“Where are they now?” quizzed Rokesbury.

“In the room with the paneled tapestries,” informed Dorothy. “They are discussing the matter of this house — whether or not uncle wants to keep it.”

“I’ll talk to them,” declared Rokesbury.

THE engineer beckoned to the deputies. They followed him as he strode to the room with the tapestries.

Dorothy came along, wondering what the trouble could be. The door was open. Brent and the others looked up from the big table as Rokesbury entered.

“Where is Detective Logan?” demanded the engineer, speaking to Philo Halthorpe.

“He has gone to the county seat,” responded the attorney. “What is the trouble, Rokesbury? If it concerns the law, I can manage it.”

“Tell him,” ordered Rokesbury, turning abruptly to the deputies.

“The murderer,” said one of the men, speaking to Halthorpe. “He came back to his cabin. Broke in on us and smashed our rifles. Laughed like he was loony; then he ran out and headed down the hill toward the swamp.”

“Why didn’t you pursue him?” quizzed Halthorpe, testily.

“He had a revolver,” put in the second deputy. “Our rifles were no good. We headed for the causeway to give the alarm.”

“I brought over a squad of men,” stated Rokesbury. “They have surrounded this house. They are ready to trap the fellow before he can escape.”

“What makes you think he is hereabouts?” demanded Halthorpe, dryly.

“Where else would he have gone?” asked Rokesbury, in return. “He had plenty of time to get through the marsh. This was his previous objective. He would certainly come here again.”

“I disagree,” snapped Halthorpe. “You have come on a fool’s errand, Rokesbury. The county is paying you to build a causeway, not to head a tribe of vigilantes. Send your men back to work.”

“Not until they have searched the grounds about the house,” retorted Rokesbury. “I’m running my crew, Halthorpe. I’ll give them whatever orders I choose.”

“Suit yourself,” snorted the lawyer. “Let them search for nothing if you choose to occupy them with that task. Mr. Brent was out on the marsh to-night. So was Professor Shelby. I walked in by the old road. We would have seen the prowler if he had come here.

“However, Rokesbury, since you are here, I can talk to you on another matter. Detective Logan tells me you want to rent this house as a sleeping place for your road gang. If I have charge of the mansion, I shall refuse to lease it for that purpose. The repair bill will be too high as it is. Those clumsy louts who work for you would tear the place to pieces.”

“So the estate has taken back the house, eh?”

“I did not say that. I used the word ‘if’ in my statement. Mr. Brent has not yet made his decision regarding the final purchase of the mansion. Come, Brent” — Halthorpe turned to the naturalist — “tell me what you intend to do?”

“One moment, Mr. Halthorpe.” Brent waved his hand, then resumed a discussion with Shelby. “What were you saying, professor, about the ignis fatuus?”

“I had agreed with you,” replied Shelby, “that methane, CH4, is not spontaneously combustible. I was turning to your statement that phosphureted hydrogen, PH3, might be the cause of the ignis fatuus. On that point, Wildemar, I disagree.”

“Phosphureted hydrogen is combustible—”

“Of course; but no gas can burn without giving out heat. Moreover, phosphureted hydrogen has a penetrating smell that is very characteristic. In all my observations of the ignis fatuus, that odor has been absent.”

“Perhaps you were not close enough to the phenomenon.”

“I am not depending upon my own investigations, alone. I have read the statements of List, a German observer. He actually passed his hand through the luminous appearance and felt no warmth.”

“Ah! Then the phenomenon may be akin to the luminosity of the Lampyridae—”

“Commonly called the firefly? Possibly that is the case, Wildemar. It is a tenable theory—”

“Come, gentlemen!” interrupted Halthorpe, rising impatiently. “Let us return to business. What about this mansion, Brent? Do you intend to keep it?”

“Be patient, Mr. Halthorpe,” responded Brent, in a querulous tone. “I have not finished my discussion with Professor Shelby.”

“What has that drivel to do with our business?” challenged Halthorpe. “The evening is waning. I am anxious to begin my usual walk. Tell me what is your decision?”

“My discussion with Professor Shelby,” returned Brent, “has much to do with my future plans. He is reviving my eagerness to search for the ignis fatuus. I must weigh his statements before I decide whether or not I intend to remain here longer.”

“And in the meantime,” snorted Halthorpe, “a matter of real consequence is forced to go into the discard. You are exhibiting a childish nature, Brent.”

“How about yourself, Halthorpe?” questioned Rokesbury, in a stern tone.

“What do you mean?” barked the lawyer, swinging angrily toward the engineer.

“You are bothering about the sale of the house,” responded Rokesbury, quietly. “About a matter that can wait. All the while, you are neglecting the menace of which I have informed you. A murderer is at large. He is close by. Yet the fact means nothing to you.”

“That bearded squatter?” sneered Halthorpe. “The man is a crazed fanatic. Perhaps he is tramping through the morass; or running back up the hillside. Certainly he is not close at hand.”

“How can you tell?”

“Your men have not reported him. Yet you say they are searching outside. If the fellow came here, he has gone away. That light over the door would turn him back.”

“Then you refuse to act in the matter?”

“To be guided by idle speculation? To start commotion over an absurd idea? Bah! Give these deputies revolvers. Send them back to the cabin. That is where the Dalwar might be found.”

BEFORE Rokesbury could reply, there was a sound from the great hall. The outer door was opening.

Then came voices and tramping footsteps. The engineer sprang through the door. He stepped back as he recognized two of his workmen. He beckoned to them. One came forward and followed Rokesbury into the paneled room.

“I found these, boss,” informed the worker. “Alongside of a bush — by the swamp — on the door side of the house.”

As Rokesbury stretched out his hand, Philo Halthorpe stared. Wildemar Brent and Darwin Shelby looked up from their new discussion. Dorothy stifled an exclamation.

The workman was passing Rokesbury three objects. The engineer laid them one by one upon the table.

The first was an oddly shaped coat; the second a wide, flat hat; the third a false beard of jet-black hue.

“A disguise,” announced Rokesbury, in a solemn tone. “That Dalwar was a fake. He wore that stuff to deceive us. He has come here, as I thought.”

“He’s not outside,” affirmed the workman. “The gang has looked everywhere for him.”

“He’s gone back into the marsh,” sneered Halthorpe. “He is somewhere in the morass, making his way back to the hill. He left those garments here to mock us. That is all.”

“You are wrong, Halthorpe,” pronounced Rokesbury, in a firm, challenging tone. “Wrong — as usual — with your false conclusions. I can tell you why this outfit was dropped at the edge of the bog.”

“Why?” quizzed Halthorpe, testily.

“Because the murderer could not wear them further,” retorted the engineer. “He was forced to lay aside his mask so that he could enter this house, not as the hunted Dalwar, but in his real character.”

Rokesbury paused. He looked about from man to man. Halthorpe was sneering. Brent appeared annoyed. Shelby was blinking through his spectacles.

“I can tell you what has become of the murderer who wore this garb,” declared Rokesbury, tapping the coat, the hat, the beard. “A crafty killer, he has sought to dupe new victims. Playing a double part, he has stepped into the role which he thinks cannot be discovered. He has become himself. What is more, he is here among us!”

A solemn silence followed Rokesbury’s accusation. Hand on the gun that showed its handle from his hip, the engineer stood ready for any outburst that might follow his startling statement.