Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS

THIS had been a night of surprises. One startling development had followed another. The unexpected statement of Professor Darwin Shelby added to the series. Every one — Philo Halthorpe included — was at a total loss.

“My story is a short one,” declared Shelby, holding the floor without interruption. “I must confess that I behaved in an eccentric manner, but” — he paused to smile as he surveyed the group — “I do not think that my behavior is more erratic than searching a bogland for the ignis fatuus, or taking long, lonely tramps across the country after sunset.”

Philo Halthorpe and Wildemar Brent caught the inference. They sat silent while the professor continued.

“I am a bit of a criminologist,” he declared. “I keep that fact quite to myself, as a rule. However, the strange crimes that occurred within this mansion interested me deeply; particularly because I had observed them at close range.

“To-night, while tramping through the bogland, the chill troubled me even though its intensity had lessened. I chanced to find myself at the border of the hillside. I resolved to stroll to higher ground, to escape the cold dampness.

“That led me to think of the squatter’s cabin. I presumed that these guards would have a fire there. So I ascended the hill, intending to enter the cabin. As I neared the building, however, I realized that I might be mistaken for an intruder instead of a friend who had come for temporary warmth.

“I paused near the rear of the cabin. I turned my electric lantern on the ground. There I spied a slight depression in the ground; it went beneath the cabin. Though it was too small for a person to enter, I decided to learn if it had a use. I approached with my torch. I spied black cloth beneath the frame house. Searching closer, I uncovered these.”

The professor paused to indicate the disguise that had once been worn by Austin Culeth. He picked up the beard, held it before his face and dropped it.

“I realized,” said the bespectacled scientist, “that the supposed Dalwar had been an impostor. I wondered if he were still in the vicinity. Perhaps he might be spying in some other character. I wondered what the psychological effect would be upon him should definite evidence be established that he had returned to his cabin.

“Brent and I go armed through the marsh. I had a revolver with me. Seized by a mad-cap mood, I donned the disguise. I wanted to witness the effect that it would produce. I thought of the men in the cabin; I entered by the door. The result was startling; so much so, that I feared the immediate consequences.

“The guards were ready to leap for their rifles. I was forced to seize the weapons. Realizing that I was playing a false character, I utilized all my strength to give a display of the power that the squatter was reputed to possess. I demolished the weapons.”

A PAUSE. One of the deputies growled in recollection of the scene in the cabin.

“And how he did it!” muttered the officer. “Boy! He must have been a circus strong man when he was a kid.”

“Then I hastened from the cabin,” resumed the professor. “I seized my lantern, which I had left outside. I sped down the hill to the marsh. I picked my way through the quagmire. I was a bit excited; more so than I had supposed. For I was on the point of stalking into this house, beard and all.

“Realizing that such a course would create consternation, I paused on the brink of the morass and doffed the disguise. I placed the garments and the beard beneath a convenient bush. Then I came to the door and rang the bell. Miss Brent admitted me. That concludes the story.”

The professor had risen while speaking. He had strolled past Nicholas Rokesbury. Approaching Austin Culeth, he extended his hand. The young man received it warmly.

“I, for one,” declared the professor, “believe in your sincerity. I hope that my explanation of to-night’s occurrence will solve this trifling dilemma that has been thrust upon you.”

“It has!” cried Austin. “That settles matters, Mr. Halthorpe. You cannot doubt me now. But there is still a question that must be answered. Hector Lundig was slain; so was Merle Cray. I believe the murderer is still near Rensdale. In fact” — the heir’s eyes were flashing — “he has every reason to be among us. Who could he be?”

Halthorpe looked warily about. Apparently, he was impressed by Austin’s statement. In his usual decisive fashion, the lawyer felt that he must deliver some striking theory. His sharp eyes turned upon Wildemar Brent.

“You came frequently to Rensdale, Brent,” challenged Halthorpe. “As I recall it, you were remarkably prompt in your desire to purchase this house.”

“As headquarters for my search for the ignis fatuus,” broke in Brent. “Take note of that, Halthorpe.”

“A fine pretext!” snorted the lawyer. “One that enabled you to roam at large whenever you chose. Out on the marsh — always the same story. You were here, Brent” — Halthorpe’s tone was accusing — “before Hector Lundig died. You were in this house the night that Merle Cray was slain. Can you explain your actions on both those evenings — can you give your exact whereabouts on both occasions?”

“I was in the bogland, when Lundig met death,” declared Brent. “I was in my room upstairs when Cray was killed in the cellar.”

“The footprints led to the marsh,” sneered Halthorpe. “I mean the ones that were found after Lundig’s murder. As for the death of Cray, I understand that you might have been anywhere before you appeared in the hallway. Down in the cellar, possibly, instead of in your room.”

“You are accusing Uncle Wildemar of murder!” cried Dorothy.

“I am stating,” declared Halthorpe, sternly, “that he could have played the part of Simon Glosting, the killer of Hector Lundig. Also, that he could have laid a trap for Merle Cray. I may add, after hearing what Austin Culeth has said, that Wildemar Brent might well have been searching for something in this house as much as for the will-o’-the-wisp in the marsh.

“He admits that he was tapping through the mansion. This very afternoon, so Garry Logan told me, he had taken down the portrait of Thaddeus Culeth and was searching behind it. To-night, he was planning to stay longer in this house.”

WILDEMAR BRENT was on his feet. His face, usually pallid, had taken on a purplish tinge. The naturalist seemed enraged by Halthorpe’s inferences; yet words failed him. He stood quivering, clenching his fists in an excited manner.

“A clever scheme,” sneered Halthorpe. “You, Brent, as Thaddeus Culeth’s hidden enemy—”

“Stop!” The exclamation came from Dorothy. “Say nothing further, Mr. Halthorpe.”

The lawyer paused, glowering. Dorothy turned to Rokesbury who was standing stolid as a statue, with arms akimbo. It was to the engineer that Dorothy made her plea.

“Can’t you help us?” queried the girl. “Can’t you refute these accusations, Nicholas? Don’t you believe that my uncle is innocent?”

“I do,” declared Rokesbury, suddenly. “Leave this to me, Dorothy. Look here, Halthorpe” — the engineer faced the lawyer, who had turned in his direction — “you are a great hand at creating hypothetical cases against people. I wonder what lies behind your odd procedure.”

“What do you mean?” snorted the lawyer.

“Just this.” Rokesbury spoke steadily. “You were Thaddeus Culeth’s attorney. You knew more about him than Wildemar Brent did. You lived in the town of Rensdale. Your position was an ideal one to keep track of Thaddeus Culeth.”

“You are accusing me—”

“Of being the hidden crook? Yes. Those evening hikes of yours are more suspicious than Brent’s search for the marsh lights. Where were you the night that Hector Lundig was murdered? Somewhere out on the countryside, so you say.

“But you could have played the part of Simon Glosting. You could have fled to the causeway. You didn’t show up until long after the murder. The same thing happened the night that Merle Cray was killed. You were out on a hike. Perhaps you were here, in this house. Perhaps you slew Cray; then fled, to show up afterward.”

Philo Halthorpe chewed his lips. He glared with venom as he met Rokesbury’s steady gaze. Then, with a sneer, he came back with a question.

“How could I have been in this house?” asked the lawyer. “How could I have left here? Your ideas are absurdities, Rokesbury. You made a fool of yourself when you accused me of being the disguised squatter. You are making a fool of yourself right now.”

“I am piecing circumstances,” retorted Rokesbury, hotly. “I see your game, Philo Halthorpe. Working in as Thaddeus Culeth’s lawyer, you could bide your time. You were pleased when Wildemar Brent bought this house. You saw your chance to remodel it after he left for the winter. Then you would have your opportunity to search the place for Thaddeus Culeth’s wealth at your leisure.

“Hector Lundig was suspicious. You had to get rid of him. The same with Merle Cray. When I put my men to search in the cellar, looking for evidence after Cray had died, you tried to hinder their search. You did not want people to look through this old mansion.”

Halthorpe was filled with rage. He steadied, however, as Rokesbury paused. Again, he shot his question.

“How could I have come in here to kill Cray?”

“How?” Rokesbury stepped forward. “I can tell you. Through that secret entrance of which Austin Culeth has spoken. Its inner end is probably in the cellar. That is how you entered. That is how you escaped. That is why you objected to our search.”

“I simply saw no use in the search,” responded Halthorpe, savagely. “This attempt to make a circumstantial case against me—”

“Is like your accusation of me!” The hoarse challenge came from Wildemar Brent. “Rokesbury is right. The shoe is on the other foot, Halthorpe. You accused me to cover your own actions. Rokesbury has unmasked you.”

HALTHORPE was on his feet. He turned as though to make for the door. Rokesbury reached for his gun. The lawyer paused. Clenching his big fists, he looked about. He met Brent’s glare; then Rokesbury’s; finally the accusing stare of Austin Culeth. Then a sudden light showed on the lawyer’s hard face.

“Where is Professor Shelby?” he demanded. “Look! He has left the room. He admitted a part in this game. He could have been Simon Glosting. He never showed up here until after the death of Hector Lundig.”

“Trying to stall us, Halthorpe?” demanded Rokesbury.

“I want to question the professor,” asserted Halthorpe. “He was in this house the night of Merle Cray’s murder. I demand that he be made to declare himself.”

“Halthorpe is right,” put in Brent, in an excited tone. “We must hear more from Professor Shelby.”

“Yes,” agreed Rokesbury. “If we don’t, Halthorpe will keep on passing the buck. Hurry, you fellows” — he turned to his two workmen — “and pass the word outside. Have them stop the professor if he tries to leave. Then get up to the second floor. See if Shelby is in his room.”

The men moved out. Silence persisted in the tapestried room. The listeners heard the workmen going to the outer door; they heard the order called to those outside; then came the sound of Rokesbury’s men pounding up the stairs to the second floor.

“We’ll hear the professor’s statement,” asserted the engineer. “We will find out what he knows; and we will weigh his statement. Before another person leaves this room, the name of the murderer will be disclosed.”

A momentary pause; then came a sound that made all swing toward the door. Rokesbury’s hand went to his gun. It stopped there, petrified. Fixed expressions appeared on every face within the room; countenances were frozen by the sinister whisper of a weird, chilling laugh.

There, in the door, stood a figure garbed in black. The upturned collar of a flowing cloak; the projecting brim of a slouch hat — both concealed the arrival’s countenance. Only eyes were visible; eyes that burned like spots of fire. Gloved hands, projecting from the cloak, held looming automatics. The sight of those guns had stayed Nicholas Rokesbury’s instinctive motion to draw his revolver.

“You seek a murderer.” The tones of The Shadow’s sinister voice came from his hidden lips. “So you shall find him. He is here, within this room. Hearken while I name him.”

A pause of momentary silence, so tense that it seemed never-ending. Then came the pronunciation of the name which listeners expected. It was hissed from The Shadow’s unseen lips:

“Nicholas Rokesbury!”