Murder Marsh

CHAPTER V. WORD TO THE SHADOW

PHILO HALTHORPE was seated in his office. This was on the second story above a grocery store on the main street of Rensdale. With the gaunt, hard-faced lawyer was a pudgy, middle-aged man whose face wore a grouchy look. This was Merle Cray, the county detective.

“So you told your theories to the county prosecutor,” Halthorpe was remarking. “Well, Cray, what did he have to say about them?”

“Told me to come back here and talk to you,” growled Cray. “He says to me: ‘Philo Halthorpe is on the ground. He’s a good man. I want to hear his opinion.’ So that’s why I’m here this afternoon.”

“I know Jack Forrest pretty well,” chuckled Halthorpe. “We’ve been good friends ever since I came to this county, six years ago. I knew him before he was elected prosecutor. Well, Cray, what—”

Halthorpe broke off. The door of the office had opened. A wiry young man was standing there, hat over one eye, cigarette between his lips. He was a stranger to Philo Halthorpe.

“What do you want?” quizzed the lawyer.

“You’re Philo Halthorpe?” came the easy reply.

“Yes,” returned the lawyer, testily. “Who are you?”

“Burke’s my name,” responded the young man. “Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic.”

“Long way from home, aren’t you?” snorted Halthorpe. “I suppose you’ve come up here on account of the Lundig murder?”

“You guessed it right,” returned the reporter.

“Well,” decided Halthorpe, “you’ve come rather late. The news of Hector Lundig’s death was given out by wire. The murder is being investigated. I can see no reason why we should be annoyed by representatives of the press.”

“It’s no fun for me,” acknowledged Clyde. “All the other sheets passed up the case. But the Classic wanted details and I’ve come here to get them. I’d rather get your opinions, Mr. Halthorpe, than go around collecting ideas from other folks.”

“That’s fair enough,” agreed the lawyer, in a mollified tone. “Well, Burke, you picked a good time to walk in. This gentleman is Merle Cray, county detective. He is investigating the murder. Perhaps between us we can set you right.”

Clyde Burke nodded. He calmly hung his hat on a hook in the corner. He took a chair close beside the desk and waited for what might follow.

“Go ahead, Cray,” suggested Halthorpe.

“WELL,” began the pudgy detective, shifting in his chair, “there ain’t much to say under the circumstances. This young chap, Hector Lundig, came to Rensdale because he was the only heir to the estate of his uncle, Thaddeus Culeth.”

“Wrong,” put in Halthorpe, promptly. “Lundig was the only heir who appeared here. There were others whom we could not trace. One was Austin Culeth, the son of Thaddeus. He was reported to have died in Africa a few years ago. I did not have extensive evidence of his death; but his failure to appear eliminated him.

“Moreover, Hector Lundig was not the nephew of Thaddeus Culeth. His mother was a second cousin to Thaddeus. The will provided a division of the estate among all relatives who established their claim within a certain time limit. Lundig alone appeared.”

“All right,” grunted Cray. “That’s technical stuff. Let’s get to bedrock. Lundig got his claim through, but he hadn’t collected. He was hanging around town waiting for his money.”

“Wrong again,” interposed Halthorpe. “I offered Lundig the available funds. He intended to take them the day after the old house was sold. Then he decided to stay in Rensdale. He didn’t want his money until he was ready to leave. So I held it for him.”

“Anyway,” resumed Cray, in a disgruntled tone, “Lundig was living at the Hotel Rensdale. Night before last, a suspicious character registered there under the name of Simon Glosting. This fellow had his face wrapped in a muffler. He was wearing dark goggles. Dave Prell, the proprietor, took him to a room two doors from Lundig’s.

“At eight o’clock, a shot was heard. It was from Lundig’s room. Prell ran up there. So did the bell hop. They were joined by a guest named Nicholas Rokesbury, who was shaving in his room at the end of the hall. They found Hector Lundig dying. He was hanging onto the gun that had been used to shoot him. He talked to Rokesbury. Said something about the old house. That was all. Then they found a rope made out of sheets, hanging from the window of Simon Glosting’s room.”

Cray paused to look at Halthorpe. The lawyer appeared satisfied with the account. Cray resumed his story.

“Glosting’s bag was on the floor,” said the detective. “In it was an old towel, a pair of shoes with square toes, and a couple of bricks to give it weight. Prell and Rokesbury gave the alarm. Then the search began.”

“Prell called my home,” put in Halthorpe. “Unfortunately, I was out. So Rokesbury, who is the construction engineer in charge of our new causeway, called out his men. They scoured the entire district. I encountered the searchers while they were at work. I was coming home from a walk through the countryside.”

“Getting back to the search,” declared Cray, “these fellows found footprints in a muddy road near the hotel. They followed them.”

“Why?” questioned Clyde.

“Because they were big ones,” answered Cray, “and square. One of Rokesbury’s men found them and called his boss. Rokesbury thought they looked like the shoes up in Glosting’s room.”

“How far did they trace the footprints?”

“Well, they found them off and on, wherever there was mud. Finally, they spotted them in the soft ground on the edge of the big marsh. They took to the causeway, the footprints did. Then they cut off along the solid ground below the old house. After that they went back through the bog and on to the causeway.”

“Odd,” commented Clyde.

“Not at all,” asserted Cray. “There’s a tool house right where the causeway touches the edge of the high ground. There was a watchman on duty. The murderer didn’t want to be seen. The marsh was foggy — most always is on a dull evening — so it was easy to slip the watchman by making that sort of detour.”

CRAY began to draw a diagram. It showed the marsh on the outskirts of the town. A long oval indicated the isle of solid ground on which Thaddeus Culeth’s old mansion was located. The detective drew a line in from the right, to show the old filled road that came to the house. Then he streaked a straight line across the marsh to the left of the house. That stood for the causeway.

“Cray has given the precise details,” put in Halthorpe. “Now comes the point on which he and I disagree. State your theory, Cray.”

“The footsteps ended back on the causeway,” declared the detective. “All through that marsh are paths of solid ground. They’re tricky and hard to find, unless you’ve gone through the swamp in daytime. But a fellow that knows them — well, he could pick spots where the footprints wouldn’t show.

“So I reckon that this murderer picked some place farther on and cut off through the swamp. He could have come back toward town. He could have hit over by the ground around the house. He could have reached the hillside where the squatters live.”

“I affirm,” said Halthorpe, “that the murderer kept on across the causeway. There is a road beyond. He could have stepped into an automobile there and made a complete escape from this vicinity.

“My theory is simple and obvious. If the murderer had chosen to take to the bog, he would have stayed clear of the causeway. His footprints in the marsh show that he was unfamiliar with the terrain. The fact that he took the risk of passing the watchman at the tool house is proof that the causeway was his sole route of escape.”

“That’s where he fooled you, Mr. Halthorpe!” exclaimed Cray, with a wise wag of his forefinger. “He wanted to make it look like he went over the causeway. So he blundered around to begin with. He took the chance of passing the watchman.”

“Ridiculous,” snorted Halthorpe. “The murderer is gone, Cray. You merely want to create the idea that he is still about so that you can splurge with your investigations.”

“I’ll admit,” stated Cray, ruefully, “that I have found no further traces. There are no suspicious characters here in town — the first place where the murderer might have come in from the swamp. The people in the old mansion saw no prowlers — that was the second place where the murderer might have hidden. When I made a search up through the squatter cabins — the third place — I found no strangers there.”

“What about the squatters themselves?” questioned Clyde Burke. “Aren’t they doubtful characters?”

“No,” asserted Cray. “They live by themselves. Funny people, who mind their own business. Men with beards and flat hats.”

“Survivors of a sect called the Dalwars,” explained Halthorpe. “They do not even associate among themselves. They are almost like hermits.”

“I found that out when I questioned them,” declared Cray. “Some of those old cottages were empty; others had people living in them. All had the same answer. They had seen no one. There was one other place I looked, too.”

“Where was that?” questioned Halthorpe.

“In the old cabin, up by the airplane beacon,” responded Cray. “It’s been deserted ever since they put in the automatic light. I had a tough time getting up there. The place is empty.”

“Only a fool would have taken refuge there,” sneered Halthorpe. “Let me ask you something, Cray. What was the motive for this murder?”

“Robbery,” snapped the detective. “The killer thought that Lundig had cash in his possession.”

“GOOD,” chuckled Halthorpe. “We agree on one point. Very well. Every one in town knew Lundig’s business. They knew that I still held the funds of the estate. So no one here would have been fool enough to kill him.

“The people who bought the mansion have money of their own. With Lundig dead, they will have to pay the purchase price to the estate, which I represent. Twindell, the old servant who is still at the house, is faithful and pleased with his new employer. That makes another elimination.

“The hill-folk — the squatters who call themselves Dalwars — know nothing about what has gone on here in town. Moreover, they have no need for money. They ignore it. So all your points are shattered.

“Now consider my theory. Hector Lundig had a hectic past. He was a wastrel — a ne’er-do-well — who spent all he could lay his hands on. His past associations were doubtful. He came here with the avowed intention of getting money.

“I believe that some outside enemy came to Rensdale. This person, who used the name of Simon Glosting, could readily have thought that Lundig had already gained his money. That type of person, after murdering Lundig, would have cleared out of this region. The causeway offered sure escape, for it is not completed to the point where automobiles can use it. An accomplice was waiting with a car at the other end. He and Glosting fled together.”

Halthorpe pounded his fist on the desk as a token of finality. Cray looked dejected. Clyde Burke, taking advantage of the silence that followed, put a question that had perplexed him. “Are you sure,” asked the reporter, “that you trailed the footsteps of the actual murderer?”

“Yes,” responded Cray. “We tried the boots that he left behind him. They fitted perfectly. The fellow must have had two pair of shoes exactly alike.”

Silence followed. Clyde discreetly arose and strolled from the office. He had heard all that Cray and Halthorpe had to say. He knew that he could talk with the lawyer later. Reaching the street, Clyde went to the Hotel Rensdale.

Clyde had made the acquaintance of David Prell; in fact, the proprietor had advised him to see Philo Halthorpe. When he entered the hotel lobby, Clyde found Prell talking to an admiring group. Clyde listened while the man recited details.

“LUNDIG came in half drunk,” recounted Prell. “Talked with me and Rokesbury. Told us how he’d been snooping around the swamp by the old house. How he’d seen Brent wandering in the marsh; how he’d met Halthorpe, late at night; how he’d run into the watchman on the causeway.”

“What did Rokesbury say to that?” some one asked.

“It made him sore,” continued Prell. “He had to run out to the causeway to tell the watchman he wouldn’t need a helper — that it was only Lundig who had been sneaking around. Well, Lundig went upstairs and Rokesbury left. I went into dinner. Then the bell rang here on the desk. It was this Simon Glosting. I showed him to a room; then I went back to dinner.

“After I came out, Rokesbury arrived back from the causeway. One of his men was here, to get a box of dynamite that they had left by the desk.”

“Dynamite!” exclaimed two listeners.

“Sample stuff,” said Prell, with an air of superiority. “No kick in it. Just fake junk. Rokesbury went upstairs and began to shave. Louie came in for bell duty. Then we heard the shot.”

“I’ll bet you were scared.”

“Not with this hoss-pistol,” bragged Prell, bringing the weapon up from beneath the desk and cocking it.

“Rokesbury had nerve, too. He grabbed one of those big candle-sticks from his bedroom. He was right with me when we found the body.”

The doors were opening for dinner. The throng broke up. Some patrons went into the dining room; others departed. Prell nodded to Clyde Burke.

“Did you see Philo Halthorpe?” he questioned.

Clyde nodded.

“Well,” mused Prell, “you just heard my story—”

He paused at the sound of footsteps from the stairs. Nicholas Rokesbury appeared. Prell beckoned; the engineer approached and the proprietor introduced him to the reporter. Clyde felt Rokesbury’s warm, healthy clasp. His eyes met the engineer’s frank gaze.

“I’d like to hear your story, Mr. Rokesbury,” said Clyde. “Would you mind?”

“I haven’t much to tell,” replied Rokesbury, in a sober tone. “I liked young Lundig, despite his faults. He had been here quite a while. When he died, he spoke to me — well, as some one would speak to a friend.

“Suppose you come into dinner with me, Mr. Burke. We can chat at the table; but let’s be brief on the subject of Hector Lundig’s death.”

Clyde agreed. He went with Rokesbury into the dining room. While they were eating, Rokesbury gave details that were similar to the statements made by Prell. When he had finished, Clyde dropped in a remark.

“This old mansion,” said the reporter. “Would it be possible to stop out there — to meet this man Brent and his niece? I should like to learn their opinions of Hector Lundig.”

“They only saw him once,” remarked Rokesbury, “and that was when Lundig was barely sober. But I should be glad to take you out there to-night — for a personal reason.”

A smile showed on Rokesbury’s steady lips. The man was prompt to explain it.

“The visit,” said Rokesbury, “would give me another opportunity to meet Miss Brent. She is a very charming young lady.”

“How soon can we go?” questioned Clyde.

“Say half past eight,” responded Rokesbury.

IT was nearly seven when Clyde strolled out into the gloomy lobby. Another dulled sun was setting; Prell had failed to turn on the lights. Clyde caught a statement that Prell was making to a man by the desk.

“That room of Lundig’s is closed,” the proprietor was saying. “Nobody’s going in there. Not for a month, anyway. Perhaps I’m superstitious—”

Clyde had a room on the third floor. He went to it. At a table, he began to write an account of all that he had heard in Rensdale. The reporter used a pen that delivered ink of vivid blue. He wrote in a strange code that looked like shorthand. He folded each sheet the moment that its ink had dried.

Clyde was an expert reporter. He did not omit a single detail that he had heard. Finished, he tucked the folded sheets in an envelope. He sealed the packet and left it on the table. At the door of the room, Clyde turned the light off, then on; then off again. Locking the door, he strolled down to the lobby.

A FEW minutes after the reporter’s departure, a soft sound came from the window. A weird, hazy outline showed in the gloom of dusk. A figure came stealthily into the room. It was The Shadow. Here, in Rensdale, the mysterious master had come to gain the report of Clyde Burke. The reporter was one of his secret agents.

Deft fingers opened the envelope. A flashlight directed a tiny beam upon the first written page. Steadily, The Shadow read the report that his agent had made. Every detail remained within his keen brain. As he finished the page, The Shadow watched the coded writing disappear. Clyde Burke had used the special vanishing ink that The Shadow required in all communications of this sort.

Page after page, The Shadow completed his perusal. Blank sheets and envelope dropped into a waste basket. The Shadow’s cloaked form swished toward the door. With a blackened, keylike instrument, gloved fingers opened the lock.

Like a specter from darkness, The Shadow moved through the dimly lighted corridor. He descended stairs to the second floor. He followed another passage to the door of the room where Hector Lundig had been slain.

The lock yielded to The Shadow’s craft. The tall form merged with the darkness of a room where blinds were drawn. The door closed; its lock clicked. A soft laugh came in whispered tones within the room of death.

The Shadow had noted the final lines in Clyde Burke’s report — a reference to Prell’s statement that this room would not be opened. The Shadow had made use of that circumstance. For the present, this shunned room would be his abode. Here he could remain, unseen, unknown, within the town of Rensdale.

Such was the way of The Shadow. While his agent, Clyde Burke, conducted investigations in the capacity of a newspaper reporter, he, the master, would seek findings of his own. Yet there was something in The Shadow’s laugh that seemed to go beyond the murder of Hector Lundig.

That was Clyde Burke’s plan to visit the old mansion. The mention of the house in the marsh — culled from a newspaper clipping that had reached The Shadow’s hands — was the motive behind The Shadow’s presence here.

For The Shadow knew that the home of Thaddeus Culeth — now the residence of Wildemar Brent — was the mystery mansion that he sought. The Shadow was following the clue to crime that he had gained despite the sealed lips of Squeezer Dyson and Luke Zoman.