Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF CRIME

No one stirred as The Shadow’s hissed pronouncement echoed in whispers from the tapestried walls.

Steady, burning eyes; massive, menacing automatics still held the throng motionless.

Nicholas Rokesbury was rigid, his face had turned ashen while his fingers were stilled upon the handle of his revolver. Philo Halthorpe was stooped forward with hands upon the table. The lawyer’s mouth was agape.

Wildemar Brent had slumped hack in his chair. Dorothy was standing by the wall, amazement in her expression. Austin Culeth was staring at The Shadow. He had recognized the mysterious warrior who had conquered him in the conflict in the cabin.

Clyde Burke and the deputies formed a group of three men who made no move. The reporter did not have to pretend astonishment. Even though he knew The Shadow as his master, Clyde was dumfounded at the sudden entry of his spectral chief.

All seemed to sense that further words were coming. They were correct in this conjecture. Tersely, in steady, inflexible tones, The Shadow drove home the truth of his accusations.

“You are the crook who sought Thaddeus Culeth’s life.” The Shadow’s burning gaze was fixed on Nicholas Rokesbury. “You established yourself in Rensdale. You gained the contract to construct the causeway. Surrounded by hired ruffians — your workers — you bided your time until Thaddeus Culeth died.

“Hector Lundig became an obstacle. You decided to remove him. You planted footprints leading to the causeway. You entered the hotel as Simon Glosting. Removing your disguising garments, you placed them in the box that a workman took to the causeway.

“Returning to your own character, you went to your room. Half shaven you entered Lundig’s room and slew him. You dashed back to your own room and arrived as a rescuer. You had already prepared the rope of torn sheets to indicate the pretended flight of Simon Glosting.”

A pause. The Shadow’s laugh sounded as a weird whisper. The fire-eyed master had moved forward into the tapestried room. His gaze still glowed on Nicholas Rokesbury.

“Those extra shoes were obviously left behind,” sneered The Shadow. “They were proof that the killer wanted his tracks discovered. All the evidence showed me that the murderer wanted to lead pursuers away from the hotel. That made me suspect you as the killer. Yet, at the time, there was still a possibility that another might be the murderer.”

THE eyes burned toward Halthorpe then at Brent. This showed that The Shadow had once suspected that either of them might be guilty. Then the burning optics again centered upon Rokesbury.

“I came here as Professor Darwin Shelby,” hissed the merciless accuser. “The real Professor Shelby died recently in London. I observed Austin Culeth — as the bearded Dalwar — when he came to confer with Twindell. When Merle Cray was murdered — through his own folly — I knew the truth; Austin Culeth could not be the killer. The real murderer must have entered and left by a secret exit in the cellar.

“I found that opening. It had been blocked but reopened. It led to the old well between this house and the causeway. I knew that the search of your men, Rokesbury, was a pretence. You had used that passage to enter the cellar and lie in wait for Austin Culeth. You were forced to kill Merle Cray in his stead. You left and followed your men here to the house.”

Rokesbury’s face was white. The engineer’s expression showed that The Shadow had divined the absolute truth. But the grim accuser had not finished.

“I sought to prevent Austin Culeth’s next visit,” declared The Shadow, in his shivering whisper. “Chance was against me. Austin Culeth entered a trap. Twindell saved him from you, Rokesbury, but Twindell died because of his faithfulness. You slew him in cold blood.

“Good fortune enabled Austin Culeth to escape your men outside. When you testified to your actions, when you expressed feigned regret at the death of Twindell, you gave yourself entirely away. To cover the fact that you had entered by the secret tunnel, you stated that you had come in by a window in the passage by the hall. That window — like all others except those in the locked corner room — is solid. No one could have entered through its metal structure.”

This was the statement that brought instinctive exclamations from Philo Halthorpe and Wildemar Brent.

Both remembered Nicholas Rokesbury’s explanation of his entry on the night of Twindell’s death. They realized that the man’s own testimony — held in the prosecutor’s files — was evidence of his guilt.

“I used your passage,” concluded The Shadow. “It is open, for all to see. To-night, I played the part of the bearded squatter. I brought the climax that was needed. I wanted all here to listen to Austin Culeth; then to learn the truth of your guilt, Nicholas Rokesbury.

“You sought Thaddeus Culeth’s hidden wealth. It was in your grasp; but you did not know it. When you removed those tapestried panels—”

The Shadow’s statement ended. With amazing swiftness, the black-cloaked accuser wheeled to the door.

His keen ears had detected approaching footsteps. Rokesbury’s men, not finding Professor Darwin Shelby, had returned. They had caught The Shadow’s sinister tones; they had sensed that their chief was in trouble.

THE SHADOW’S sudden twist forestalled their surprise attack. As the two workmen sprang forward, leveling their guns, The Shadow whirled through the doorway to meet them. His automatics delivered tongues of flame. One thug crumpled; the other wavered. His gun arm dropped; then, with a dying effort, he sprang upon The Shadow. He clutched the black-garbed fighter with a frenzied death grip.

Nicholas Rokesbury’s game was up. Knowing it, the crook acted with sudden promptness. He yanked his revolver from his hip. Wildly, he sprang toward the door. Of all the startled witnesses, one alone was quick enough to act. That was Austin Culeth.

The man who had trekked the South African veldt had given previous displays of his mighty strength. He pounced upon Rokesbury as the fellow neared the door. Catching the man about the body, Austin sent him spinning across the floor to the wall. Following the swift strike, Austin again pounced forward toward the crook.

Rokesbury responded. His head had struck a thick tapestry. He was not stunned by the thump. Up came his revolver. A vicious snarl hissed from his leering lips. Then came a roaring shot. It was not from Rokesbury’s gun, however. That report was delivered from the door.

The Shadow had hurled the dying workman aside. Swinging, he had fired with quick aim. His hot bullet had speeded straight to its appointed mark — the heart of Nicholas Rokesbury. As Austin Culeth completed his lunge toward the man on the floor, Rokesbury rolled sidewise, dead.

REVOLVERS barked from the great hall. The rest of Rokesbury’s crew was piling into the mansion.

They had spied their fellows dead upon the floor. The first of the intruders fired wildly at the form of The Shadow, framed in the doorway to the tapestried room.

The Shadow turned. His automatics boomed. Weaving forward, he delivered burning slugs into the ranks of these vicious enemies. Pretended workmen— actually ex-convicts hired by Rokesbury — went tumbling to the floor. Yet others came surging in behind them. The Shadow was ready for all.

Crooks fired wild shots at the vague figure that was weaving its way toward the passage to the cellar steps. But The Shadow, swaying elusively, was perfect in his aim. While bullets whistled past his shrouded form, his automatics kept up their stinging fire. Newcomers sprawled upon the floor. Others went screaming, staggering from the house.

One lull enabled The Shadow to swing his emptied automatics beneath his cloak. A second brace of weapons delivered the final shots. The doorway was cleared, with wounded crooks Iying in the hall and on the ground outside. But The Shadow did not choose that exit. Instead, he opened the door to the cellar. He descended and reached an opening in a bin. He entered a low, blackened tunnel — the secret way to the old well that lay between the mansion and the causeway.

THE crowd was surging out from the tapestried room. The deputies seized revolvers dropped by the first crooks whom The Shadow had encountered. Austin Culeth had drawn a revolver of his own; Philo Halthorpe had seized Nicholas Rokesbury’s weapon.

While Wildemar Brent and Clyde Burke were slowly following with Dorothy, Austin and Halthorpe came back. They tossed revolvers on the table. These were the guns of Rokesbury’s entire crew. The deputies were bringing the wounded men into the hall. Halthorpe was taking charge.

Clyde Burke set out for town to summon physicians. Austin Culeth, strained by his long ordeal, slumped into a chair beside the table. He looked up suddenly to face Wildemar Brent and Dorothy. He spoke, in a mechanical tone.

“You heard what our strange rescuer said,” declared Austin. “Just before the final fight — to Rokesbury — about my father’s wealth. How Rokesbury” — Austin paused thoughtfully — “had the spoils in his grasp. When he was in this room—”

As Austin paused again, Brent and Dorothy looked toward the tapestried panels. The girl remembered that Rokesbury had removed them. She turned to Austin.

“Those panels,” she began, “with the thick tapestries—”

Austin was nodding as he arose. He drew a knife from his pocket. He thrust the blade into the edge of a thick-clothed panel. He ran the knife sidewise, upward, sidewise. The tapestry peeled back like the cover of a paperbound book.

Fitted between the cloth of the tapestry and the muslin that served as backing were flat sheets of paper that gleamed with gold-inked printing. One came loose in Austin’s hands. Shaking, the heir carried it to the table.

“A utility bond!” exclaimed Austin. “Ten thousand dollars of United Power right—”

“Worth far above par!” exclaimed Brent. “We know what your father did with the stolen wealth he held!”

“Every panel holds them,” asserted Austin. “Those tapestries are backed with more than a million in gilt-edged securities. Look here!”

He was plucking new bonds from the panel that he had opened. His knife blade ripped the edges of a second tapestry. More bonds came into view. Austin was trembling as he brought them into the light.

“Consolidated Electric!” exclaimed Brent. “Also worth more than your father invested in it. Austin, you can restore every cent that was stolen and still have many thousands of your own!”

“We must tell Philo Halthorpe!” declared Austin, suddenly. “Come! He is outside.”

The trio hurried from the room. They passed through the hall where the deputies were watching the wounded crooks who had served Nicholas Rokesbury in his vile schemes. The outer door was open.

They found Philo Halthorpe pacing the drive beneath the alcove light, waiting for Clyde Burke to return with the physicians.

“We’ve found the hidden wealth!” exclaimed Austin, hoarsely. “Found it where our mysterious rescuer indicated. In back of the tapestries of the panels.”

PHILO HALTHORPE stood dumfounded. He began to stutter his surprise. Then came a cry from Wildemar Brent. The naturalist sprang out into the drive. He stood there, pointing toward the blackness of the swamp, beneath the sweeping beam of the distant airway beacon.

“Look!” cried Brent. “Look! At last — at last — at last! The ignis fatuus.”

“The marsh lights,” expressed Austin, in an awed tone. “I remember seeing them here when I was a boy.”

A luminous nebula of bluish light was creeping, wavering across the surface of the marsh, less than a hundred yards from where the watchers stood. It was the eerie will-o’-the-wisp, that strange phenomenon that some have termed the “Jack o’ Lantern.”

Like a ghostly figure, the blue light flickered just above the boggy muck. It was traveling mysteriously between the mansion and the hill. Sometimes it seemed to take the shape of a gigantic human; at other moments it formed an elongated cloud. But always it glowed with that mysterious luminosity which science has sought unsuccessfully to explain.

In his hushed enthusiasm, Wildemar Brent forgot all but the ignis fatuus. The startling events within the house passed momentarily from his mind. He forgot the revelations that The Shadow had made.

“If Professor Shelby were only here,” said Brent. “He would understand my enthusiasm—”

The naturalist paused. He realized that there was no Professor Darwin Shelby. He stared again toward the mystic marsh lights. The wavering glow had reached a fixed position — a usual occurrence with the ignis fatuus. The other watchers stared as tense as Brent. All seemed to sense that something strange was about to happen.

Into the aura of bluish light stepped a shrouded figure. Spectral in the cold glow, The Shadow moved forward. The lights was wavering as it formed a luminous setting for that weird shape cloaked in black.

Then came a creepy sound, as strange as the phenomenon of the marsh light. From the spot where the ignis fatuus still shone came a weird, triumphant laugh. It rose to a startling crescendo. It shivered into nothingness. The house caught the quivering echoes. Ghoulish tongues seemed to answer from gray walls, responding to the call of a mysterious master.

The watchers gasped as they stared at the avenging figure that had become motionless against the flickering blue background of the weird light. Then came a sudden fading of the ignis fatuus. Complete darkness reigned on the morass; with it was the hush of absolute silence.

Weird as the elusive will-o’-the-wisp, The Shadow, triumphant, had vanished into the blackness of the marsh.