Murder Marsh

CHAPTER III. HEIR TO THE MANOR

WHILE The Shadow, in his sanctum, was studying the photograph that served as clue to coming crime, people in the town of Rensdale were discussing the very house that the picture had portrayed.

Though unknown outside of the district where it was located, the old house in the marsh was a familiar object to those who dwelt in the secluded region near Rensdale. The building had been a landmark for many years. Hence, eager listeners were gathered by the desk in the Hotel Rensdale while a pasty-faced young man chatted loudly with the proprietor.

This young man was Hector Lundig, sole heir to the estate of Thaddeus Culeth. He was gleefully telling David Prell, the hotel proprietor, about the stroke of luck that had come his way.

“I’m selling the old mansion,” boasted Lundig. “The deal is settled. Twenty-thousand berries in four installments. Added to the few thousand I got in cash, that fixes me for a trip abroad. Boy! Wait’ll I show those pikers in Monte Carlo. I’ve always wanted to see that place.”

David Prell nodded. He was a solemn-faced man who took the hotel business seriously. He was not interested in Hector Lundig’s future. As a resident of Rensdale, Prell wanted to know more details regarding the old Culeth mansion.

“Who’s buying the house?” he questioned.

“A fellow named Wildemar Brent,” announced Lundig. “Going to move in right away. He’s welcome to the place.”

“He’s crazy,” commented a bystander.

“Don’t I know it?” snorted Lundig. “Say — that old dump gave me the creeps the moment I saw it. I’ve stayed away from the place. Got to go out there, though, to-night. Philo Halthorpe is coming here with Wildemar Brent. Whoo!” The young man made a grimace. “Think I’ll go up and take a couple of swigs. Got to brace my self for a trip out to that spooky place.”

Lundig strolled toward the stairs. Prell spoke in a low tone to the bystanders, as he nudged his thumb toward the departing figure.

“A couple of swigs,” repeated the proprietor. “That means he’s going to get soused.”

WHILE the bystanders nodded and chuckled, a keen-faced, broad-shouldered man entered the lobby.

The newcomer was wearing riding breeches and leather puttees; his khaki shirt gave him a military appearance. He was smoking a pipe, which he removed from his mouth as he spoke to Prell.

“Hello, Dave,” was his greeting. “Why the confab?”

“Sort of a post mortem, Mr. Rokesbury,” responded the proprietor. “We’ve just been listening to a lot of empty-headed talk from Hector Lundig.”

“Sorry I missed it,” declared Rokesbury. “Don’t be too harsh with Lundig, though. He’ll show more sense when he grows up. What was he talking about — Monte Carlo?”

“Yes. He’s going there at last.”

“On that few thousand he gained as Thaddeus Culeth’s heir?”

“That — and more. The old house is being sold.”

“You don’t mean it! For how much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars. Quarterly installments. I reckon. Fellow named Wildemar Brent is buying it.”

“Who is Wildemar Brent?”

“Didn’t recall him when Lundig mentioned the name,” declared Prell. “But it’s kind of come back to me. Wildemar Brent has stopped at this hotel off and on; what’s more, he’s taken cottages during the past few summers. Sort of a bug on nature study.”

“I think I know the fellow you mean,” nodded Rokesbury. “I saw him a bit last summer, when we were building the new bridge over the Tallahannock Creek. Stoop-shouldered man, about forty years old. Walks with arms swinging; always looks like he was talking to himself.”

“That’s the fellow!” exclaimed Prell. “Well, it would take a queer duck like him to buy that old Culeth house. Queer duck” — Prell chuckled — “well, ducks like water. He’s a duck all right, Brent is, and the swamp ought to suit him.”

“Lundig is fortunate.” Rokesbury paused to puff at his pipe. “That mansion is a white elephant. I don’t blame Lundig for being elated at its sale; I don’t blame him for wanting to go abroad. But he ought to stay away from Monte Carlo.”

“He ought to stay away from the bottle,” declared Prell. “He’s celebrating the sale right now — up in his room — and when a man drinks alone, it’s bad.”

Rokesbury nodded his agreement.

“A fellow like Lundig ought to appreciate his luck,” grumbled Prell, “but he doesn’t. First of all, he oughtn’t to have come into that money.”

“Why not?” inquired Rokesbury.

“On account of Austin Culeth,” responded Prell. “He was a likable young chap. Different from old Thaddeus. An only son, Austin was, and a good son. But he had a bad father. That’s why he went away.”

“He died, didn’t he?”

“That’s what we heard, a couple of years ago. The fever got him, in Africa. Then, a month or so ago, when old Thaddeus Culeth was stricken with paralysis, Philo Halthorpe sent out a call for all relatives.”

“Halthorpe being Thaddeus Culeth’s lawyer.”

“That’s right. But you know the story, Mr. Rokesbury. Austin Culeth was dead. No one else could be located except this young upstart, Hector Lundig. When he arrived, he lived here in my hotel, waiting like a vulture for old Thaddeus Culeth to die. Easy money for him; but he was plenty disappointed when he found the estate only amounted to a few thousand dollars.”

“Except for the house.”

“Which Lundig didn’t want. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been inside the place since he got here. Well — it’s sold and he’s lucky.”

Rokesbury nodded. He yawned sleepily and glanced at the clock above the desk.

“Call me at eleven,” he said to Prell. “I’m going to take a nap until then.”

“Going back to the causeway?”

“Only long enough to check up on the night watchman. I want to make sure he’s on the job. There is a lot of valuable equipment in that tool house.”

TIME slipped by after Rokesbury had departed. David Prell, reading a book as he sat behind the desk, was surprised when he looked up at the clock to see that it was a few minutes after eleven. He despatched the lone, slouchy bell hop to awaken Rokesbury. Two minutes later, the man appeared from the stairway, still clad in riding breeches and khaki shirt.

As Rokesbury neared the desk, the front door opened. A tall, rangy, harsh-faced man appeared. He was followed by two others: one, a sober-faced individual who answered to the description of Wildemar Brent; the other, a young and attractive girl.

The harsh-faced man was Philo Halthorpe, the local attorney who had handled the estate of Thaddeus Culeth. He nodded to Prell and Rokesbury; then turned to introduce the people who were with him.

“This is Mr. Brent,” announced Halthorpe, in a drawly tone. “Wildemar Brent, who is buying the old mansion that belonged to Thaddeus Culeth. This young lady is Miss Dorothy Brent.”

“My niece,” put in Wildemar Brent, in a solemn tone. “This is her first visit to Rensdale.”

Prell smiled and nodded. Rokesbury bowed.

“This gentleman is David Prell,” said Halthorpe, indicating the proprietor, then turning to the Brents. “And I should also like to introduce Nicholas Rokesbury. He is building the new causeway across the swamp” — Halthorpe made a quick correction — “across the lowlands by the old mansion.”

Introductions completed, Halthorpe spoke to Prell. He was inquiring if Hector Lundig were upstairs. Prell nodded and replied in a confidential whisper. Halthorpe’s face soured. Prell despatched the bell hop while Halthorpe turned back to talk to the Brents.

“Mr. Lundig is in his room,” explained the attorney. “He should be with us in a few minutes. Then we can drive out to the mansion.”

The bell hop returned. Prell beckoned. The fellow approached the desk and spoke in a low tone that only Rokesbury, puffing his pipe as he leaned on the counter, was close enough to hear.

“Crocked,” was the bell hop’s statement. “Wanted to bust a pitcher over my head because I disturbed him.”

“Mr. Halthorpe,” called Prell, “could I speak to you a minute?”

The lawyer approached the desk. Wildemar Brent and his niece could see Halthorpe’s expression sour.

They heard low, buzzing conversation between Prell and Halthorpe. Then Rokesbury quietly entered the discussion. Halthorpe’s glower ended. The lawyer stepped away from the desk.

“Mr. Lundig had gone to bed,” explained Halthorpe. “Evidently he forgot that we were coming here to-night. We can start out to the mansion. Mr. Rokesbury is making a trip to the causeway; he will bring Mr. Lundig in his car.”

This was agreeable. Halthorpe glanced at Rokesbury, who nodded. Then the lawyer left with the Brents.

AS soon as the trio had departed, Rokesbury headed for the stairs. He reached the second floor and went to a room at the end of the hall. He banged at the door.

“Who’s there?” The snarl came in Lundig’s tone. “Keep away, I tell you.”

“It’s Rokesbury,” was the firm reply from the man in the hall. “Open the door.”

“All right, Nick,” responded Lundig. “You’re a good scout, Nick. Welcome here any time. Sure” — Lundig’s voice was thick — “sure thing. Let you in, Nick, right away.”

A key turned clumsily in the lock. Rokesbury entered to find Lundig standing tipsily in the darkness.

Shoving the young man on his bed, Rokesbury opened the window. Then he swung back to Lundig, who was muttering indignantly.

“Sober up, you fool!” snapped Rokesbury. “I’m taking you out to the old mansion.”

“Don’t want to go out there,” argued Lundig. “Spooky place. Whoo! Keep me away from there.”

“Come along.” Rokesbury dragged Lundig to his feet and forced the weakling to put on coat and vest.

“Wildemar Brent is out there. Do you want to lose out on twenty thousand dollars?”

“Shay” — Lundig’s voice had a quaver — “do you mean that, Nick? Twenty thousand that belongs to me?”

“It won’t belong to you,” asserted Rokesbury, “if you don’t lose this jag. Come along — steady—”

Rokesbury’s firmness had effect. Muttering, Lundig allowed his companion to drag him through the hall and down the stairs. Plopped into the seat of Rokesbury’s coupe, the pasty-faced heir seemed to come to his senses.

“Whoosh!” he exclaimed. “Shay, Nick — I’ve got to get sober, don’t I?”

“Keep your head in the open air,” returned Rokesbury. “You’ll be all right when we reach the old house.”

Lundig closed his eyes. He rolled from side to side as the coupe sped along, but he kept his grip on the edge of the window. He was half sober when the car came to a stop. Blinking, Lundig stared out into the moonlight. They were in the shadow of the old house in the swamp. Walls of darkened stone loomed in ghostly fashion. Off beyond, Lundig could see the cleared spaces of the open hills; then wooded forest of the mountain ridge.

“What’s that?” he questioned excitedly as a flashing light blinked its long shaft from the summit of a mountain.

“The automatic beacon,” responded Rokesbury. “Marks the airway. You’ve seen it before.”

“So I have,” mumbled Lundig. “But those dark things on the hill. They aren’t rocks — they’re square—”

“Cottages where the squatters live,” broke in Rokesbury. “Come on— get yourself together. We’re going in.”

He helped Lundig from the coupe. The pasty-faced man had steadied. He stared curiously as they entered a dark-paneled hallway. A cheery fire was burning in a huge fire place. Above the mantel a portrait showed between two electric wall brackets.

“Who’s that?” whispered Lundig, hoarsely, as he stared at the handsome, but stony, face that seemed to glare from the frame. “Never been out here before. Place belongs to me but I don’t like it. Who’s that?”

“Thaddeus Culeth, I suppose!” returned Rokesbury. “Forget the picture. Here comes Philo Halthorpe.”

Lundig steadied. The old lawyer approached and studied him. Satisfied that Lundig would pass inspection, he nodded to Rokesbury. Together they piloted the tipsy heir into a room that was fitted with large oak panels. Lundig stared at the wainscoting.

These panels were like frames, set in the wall. Each separate section was fitted with expensive tapestry.

Mellow lights added to the effect; the scenes woven in the tapestries produced the semblance of a picture gallery.

HECTOR LUNDIG nodded as he was introduced to Wildemar Brent. He bowed in maudlin fashion and displayed a sickly smile when he met Dorothy Brent. He slumped into a chair at a large table in the center of the room; then began to stare at the tapestries. While Lundig blinked at figures of French lords and ladies, Halthorpe began to speak.

“The papers require only your signature, Hector,” announced the lawyer. “You will receive twenty thousand dollars for this mansion, with its furnishings. Four quarterly payments of five thousand dollars each. Do you follow me?”

“Sure.” Hector turned to the lawyer and nodded. “I’m going abroad with the money I’ve got now. You’ll send me five thousand bucks every three months. Is that it?”

“That can be arranged.”

“Suits me, then. I’m pulling out of this one-horse town to-morrow. Where’s the papers?”

Halthorpe produced them with a pen. Lundig scrawled his signature. He grinned.

“The first payment will be in ninety days,” explained Halthorpe. “Mr. Brent is posting a bond. You have sufficient money at present to leave Rensdale to-morrow, Hector. Come to my office in the morning.”

Lundig arose. Rokesbury was signing papers as a witness. Another man had appeared; he was a tall, pale-faced fellow who wore a frayed and faded livery. He, too, was signing as a witness. Lundig blinked at the newcomer; then strolled out toward the hall. Philo Halthorpe overtook him, just as Lundig began to stagger.

“Sober yourself!” hissed the lawyer. “Get some fresh air. Get out to the car.”

Lundig nodded and shuffled toward the door. Philo Halthorpe returned to the paneled room. Lundig stared back; then blinked again. The lawyer had gone into the room; the man in frayed livery was coming out. Halfway across the hall, the fellow paused. Spying Lundig by the outer door, he beckoned.

Mechanically, Lundig came back into the hall. The man in livery was motioning him to an alcove; Lundig went in that direction and stopped unsteadily in the little space beside a stairway.

“Who are you?” demanded the heir.

“Sh-h!” The warning came from cadaverous lips. “I am Twindell. I served your relation, Thaddeus Culeth.”

“Twindell, eh?” chuckled Lundig. “Good old Twindell.”

“Sh-h!”

Lundig became silent as Philo Halthorpe walked by with Nicholas Rokesbury. As soon as the pair had gone through the outer door, Twindell hissed into Lundig’s ear.

“You said you were leaving to-morrow, sir,” were the servant’s words. “Did you mean that?”

“Sure, I did,” responded Lundig, in a low growl. “But you can’t tell what I’m going to do. Might stay on a few days longer. Wouldn’t mind dropping out here again, after seeing the girl that’s going to live here.”

“Leave to-morrow.” Twindell’s voice was hollow. “Remember my advice, sir. Go far away. Never return to Rensdale; above all, do not come to this house before you leave.”

“Why not?” challenged Lundig.

“It may mean death,” responded Twindell, in a hoarse whisper. “There is danger here to any heir of Thaddeus Culeth. There is danger, even in the town of Rensdale.”

With these words, the servant opened the door by the stairs and glided through the opening. As he closed the barrier, his hand made a gesture toward the outer door. He wanted Hector Lundig to leave.

The young man paused; then slouched into the hallway. Had he obeyed Twindell’s order for a quick departure, his appearance from the alcove would not have been observed. His delay, however, had enabled eyes to see his action.

Wildemar Brent was stepping from the paneled room. He stopped as he observed Hector Lundig; then approached and extended his hand.

“Good night, Mr. Lundig,” said the purchaser of the mansion.

“Good night,” mumbled the heir.

As Hector turned toward the outer door, Brent’s eyes keenly noted the door through which Twindell had passed. The sudden glow that showed in Brent’s gaze was proof that he knew to whom Lundig had been speaking. Brent turned and walked back to join his niece in the paneled room.

A HAND gripped Lundig’s arm. The young man turned to face Philo Halthorpe, who had come in from the outer door. The lawyer’s voice was harsh.

“I thought you were outside,” spoke Halthorpe. “Rokesbury is waiting for you in the car. Why were you loitering here? This house is yours no longer.”

“No reason,” grumbled Lundig. “I was just—”

He broke off and shambled toward the door. Philo Halthorpe gazed toward the stairs. He, too, observed the door through which Twindell had gone. At the same moment, the old servant appeared, crossing the hall. He was coming from a room which he could have reached by passing through that doorway. A gleam showed in Halthorpe’s eyes. The lawyer swung about and went through the outer door.

Hector Lundig had joined Nicholas Rokesbury in the coupe. The motor was thrumming. Philo Halthorpe’s tall, gaunt figure appeared in the glare of the headlights as the lawyer started to stalk along the side road that led from the house in the marsh. The coupe started forward.

“Riding to the town with us?” hailed Rokesbury.

“No,” returned Halthorpe, his voice sour in the darkness. “I rode out with Mr. Brent. That was enough. I prefer to walk.”

The coupe rolled ahead. Rokesbury piloted it steadily along the soft-shouldered roadway. As he guided the car, he spoke quietly to Lundig, who was slouched in the seat beside him.

“When you leave to-morrow,” remarked Rokesbury, “I suppose you won’t stop until you get to Europe. I don’t blame you. I’d like to make the trip myself. But take my advice, Hector. Stay away from Monte Carlo.”

“Don’t worry,” responded Lundig, with a short laugh. “Save your advice until later. It’s going to be some time before I move out of Rensdale.”

“After the way you’ve knocked the town?” queried Rokesbury, in surprise.

“I’ve changed my mind about this burg,” responded Lundig. “What I like is excitement. Maybe I can find it here.”

With that statement, the pasty-faced fellow slouched farther down in the seat. He closed his eyes and slumped into a groggy reverie while Nicholas Rokesbury, driving steadily ahead, pondered on what might have caused Hector Lundig’s sudden change in plans.