Murder Marsh

CHAPTER VI. AT THE MANSION

PROMPTLY at half past eight, Nicholas Rokesbury appeared in the lobby of the Hotel Rensdale. Clyde Burke was awaiting him. Together, they went out to the front driveway and entered Rokesbury’s coupe.

“I’m going to make a double trip of it. Burke,” stated the engineer. “I want to go out to the causeway and look things over before we visit the mansion.”

“The causeway runs close by, doesn’t it?” inquired Clyde.

“Yes,” responded Rokesbury, “but there’s only rough ground between. I don’t care to come prowling up to Culeth’s — I mean Brent’s house.”

They rolled through the silent lanes of Rensdale. The sky had been clearing since dusk; bright moonlight showed itself through the thick-leaved trees. Then the coupe came suddenly to an open patch. Before him, Clyde Burke caught his first view of the marsh.

The swampy ground spread out like a broad, fog-laden lake. Rising mist hung close to the boggy ground, forming a white blanket in the moonlight. Staring toward the swampy lowlands, Clyde caught sight of the old mansion, as it loomed with graystone turrets from the isle of solid ground. An involuntary exclamation came from the reporter’s lips.

“What is it, Burke?” questioned Rokesbury, as he stared along the road ahead.

“Nothing,” responded Clyde. “Just a surprise — that was all. The marsh looks like a sea of steam; and that flashing beacon on the mountain was rather startling.”

“The place impressed me when I first came to Rensdale,” returned Rokesbury. “That was before I worked on this job. After we started the causeway, the marsh lost all its glamour. Soggy, dismal ground — that’s all it is when you come in contact with it.”

Clyde had avoided all mention of the old mansion. There was reason for his omission. Deep in his inside pocket, Clyde held a reproduced photograph of that very house. It was one that he had received from The Shadow — a copy of the picture which the master fighter had found on Squeezer Dyson’s table.

Clyde knew now what The Shadow had already divined — that this was the mystery mansion that marked the end of a quest.

“Here’s the causeway,” remarked Rokesbury, turning the car along a rough patch of road. “We can drive out a few hundred yards. After that it’s only rough fill.”

“How did you place the rock base?” questioned Clyde, as the coupe thumped along the first portion of the unfinished causeway.

“Had to use caterpillar treads,” returned Rokesbury. “We wanted to give the cracked rock a long while to settle. That’s why we laid the base clear across the swamp. Well — this is as far as we go.”

Rokesbury stopped the car at a spot where only crushed rock showed ahead. No surface had as yet been applied. Clyde could see spots where the fill had sunk unevenly. While Clyde studied the rough causeway, Rokesbury turned off the motor and delivered a low, shrill whistle.

THE call was answered. Soon a lantern swung through the clinging mist. The stubby face of the watchman appeared at the window on Rokesbury’s side of the car. The boss talked with the worker.

Satisfied that his man was ready for the night’s vigil, Rokesbury managed to swing the car about. They started back toward solid ground.

This time, Rokesbury chose a road that ran along the edge of the swamp. Clyde watched the swirling mist as it rose steaming from the bog. The vapor was gradually clearing. Patches of quagmire showed mucky by the fringe of the road.

Skirting the swamp, Rokesbury neared a point almost directly opposite the center of the causeway. Here he slowed the car, picked an opening among the trees and drove carefully along a rough road. Clyde could see ahead to the narrow strip of old highway that led out to the mansion. The car jounced into a slight skid; Rokesbury yanked it straight and gave it gas. As the coupe responded, Clyde caught sight of a long, stooped figure leaping to the bank to avoid the car. Then they had passed the man and Rokesbury, grunting from his sudden effort, was driving out over the marsh.

“Did you see that fellow who jumped for the trees?” questioned Rokesbury, as he shifted the car into second.

“Yes,” returned Clyde. “He thought we were going to hit him.”

“Recognize him?”

“No. Who was he?”

“Philo Halthorpe.”

“What was he doing here?”

“He’s a great walker,” stated Rokesbury. “Has no car; won’t get into one except on special occasions. Claims that brisk hikes in the night air account for his strong constitution.”

“Sounds like bunk to me,” declared Clyde. “Most hikers go out in the daytime. I can’t see any benefit from swamp air, either.”

“I imagine that Halthorpe prefers the high ground,” said Rokesbury. “He may have been going toward the hills over yonder. He would have to skirt the swamp to get there.”

“Are those cabins?” questioned Clyde, indicating black squares on the hillside.

“Cottages — or shacks,” replied Rokesbury. “Where the hill-folk live.”

“Dalwars,” recalled Clyde. “I heard Halthorpe mention them.”

“Squatters,” defined Rokesbury. “Harmless people who keep to themselves. An odd bunch of fanatics. Ran into some of them a few years ago, when we were repairing the old aqueduct. Well, Burke. Here’s the old haunted house.”

The coupe had reached the side of the manor in the marsh. The house did look ghostly, close at hand.

The clearing fog all about; the sweeping flashes of the airway beacon; the stillness of the damp atmosphere — all produced a creepy effect.

AS Clyde and Rokesbury clambered from the car, a light turned on above the side door. This was on the side of the house toward the hill. The light shone from an alcove and it made a brilliant gleam. As the two men approached, the door opened and Dorothy Brent stepped into view.

“I thought I recognized your car, Mr. Rokesbury,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile. “You are the first visitor we have had — except, of course, Mr. Halthorpe.”

“Was he here to-night?” asked Rokesbury.

“No,” responded Dorothy. “Last night. He walked out here to tell us about the unfortunate death of poor Mr. Lundig.”

“That reminds me,” said Rokesbury, “that I should have introduced my friend. Miss Brent, I would like to have you meet Mr. Clyde Burke, of the New York Classic. He is in town investigating the death of Hector Lundig.”

The girl smiled; but her face looked troubled. Clyde, peering toward the opened doorway, saw a cadaverous face staring from the hall within. He knew that this must be Twindell, the old servant. The man’s pallid countenance showed a frown. Clyde wondered if it was because Twindell had overheard the introduction.

“I hope,” said Dorothy, in a low tone, “that you will not try to interview my uncle, Mr. Burke. He detests notoriety. He seemed very much upset when he heard of Hector Lundig’s death. He predicted that reporters might be here.”

“He did?” questioned Rokesbury.

“Yes.” Dorothy hesitated; then decided to go on. “He said that he was sorry that the dogs had been sold; that the other servants — beside Twindell — had been discharged when Thaddeus Culeth died. He thought that he might have to use force to drive newspaper men away.”

“We won’t tell him of Mr. Burke’s profession,” laughed Rokesbury. “By the way, where is your uncle?”

“Out in the marsh,” replied Dorothy.

“In all this fog?” inquired Rokesbury.

“He prefers the mist,” explained the girl. “He began to investigate the swamp the first night we came here. He picked paths in the daylight; he has been following them at night—”

Dorothy paused. A powerful electric lantern was coming through the mist. It was followed by a human figure. Swinging his light, Wildemar Brent came stamping along the solid ground. He extinguished the lantern as he came within range of the glow above the door. Blinking, he craned his long neck forward to survey the visitors.

“Who are these men?” he demanded in a querulous voice.

“You remember Mr. Rokesbury, uncle,” replied Dorothy. “This is a friend of his. Mr. Burke.”

“Yes, I remember Rokesbury,” said Brent, harshly. “What brings you here to-night, sir?”

“I was out on the causeway,” replied Rokesbury, calmly. “I wondered how you folks were enjoying your new home. I thought that I would stop by.”

“A long drive around from the causeway,” commented Brent. “I do not care for intrusion. I chose this house because it was isolated.”

“And because of the swamp,” added Dorothy.

Brent glared at his niece as though he thought the added statement unnecessary. Dorothy, however, showed no fear of her uncle’s wrath. She seemed to think that a further explanation was desirable.

“Uncle Wildemar is very much concerned with subjects that interest him,” stated the girl. “He does not realize that people may think it queer because he follows such pursuits as tramping through swampy ground. Don’t you think, uncle” — Dorothy smiled wistfully as she turned toward Brent — “that you should tell Mr. Rokesbury of your scientific studies?”

“Totally unnecessary,” quibbled Brent. “But since you appear prepared to divulge the subject yourself, it is as well that I should speak. I have long desired to own this house, Mr. Rokesbury; for I have envied its location. After Thaddeus Culeth died, I lost no time in buying the mansion. This bogland” — Brent indicated the surrounding terrain with a broad sweep of his arm — “is ideal for one who is in search of the ignis fatuus.”

“The ignis fatuus?” questioned Rokesbury.

“Commonly known as the will-o’-the-wisp,” replied Brent. “The ignis fatuus is a luminous appearance — a pale, bluish-colored flame — that varies in size and shape. It is frequently seen in swampy places, or over grave yards—”

“The marsh lights!” exclaimed Rokesbury: “I have heard of the phenomenon. They have been seen hereabouts, Mr. Brent.”

“So I understand,” remarked the stoop-shouldered man. “That is why I wanted to live here. The ignis fatuus is one natural marvel that science has never explained to satisfaction. I am determined to learn its cause.”

“Does it appear at night?”

“Generally a short while after sunset. Sometimes later. It hovers a few feet above the ground; sometimes it is fixed; sometimes it travels. It has been known to glow until dawn. Sometimes it vanishes and reappears at definite intervals.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Rokesbury.

“This solid ground is not suited to the ignis fatuus,” declared Brent. “Hence I intend to search through the marsh itself, night by night. I have already discovered paths; Twindell has told me of those with which he was familiar.”

“Your boots show that you have escaped the bog itself,” remarked Rokesbury.

“Quite so,” agreed Brent, in a rather testy tone. “Yes, I am making progress. Concerning the ignis fatuus itself, some hold that it is due to phosphureted hydrogen gas — a tenable theory. Others say it is caused by the combustion of methane, or marsh gas. I disagree with that supposition, for the simple reason that methane is not spontaneously combustible. Marsh gas could produce a weird flame; but it would first have to be ignited. Hence the ignis fatuus cannot—”

BRENT broke off. He stared steadily at Clyde Burke. The reporter was listening intently; something in his manner made Brent suspect him as a newspaper man.

“Are you here to interview me?” demanded the stoop-shouldered naturalist. “Is this a pretext — this visit here? Are you trying to pry into my scientific researches? To lampoon me in the press?”

“Mr. Burke is a friend of mine,” put in Rokesbury promptly. “I brought him out to inspect the causeway.”

Wildemar Brent shrugged his shoulders. He seemed only half convinced. He turned abruptly toward the door of the old mansion.

“Come, Dorothy,” he ordered. “Too much of this swamp air is unhealthy. I have inhaled it long enough for to-night.”

The girl followed her uncle into the house. Twindell closed the door. Bolts clattered. The light went out in the alcove. Nicholas Rokesbury laughed softly.

“That means good-bye to us, Burke,” remarked the engineer. “Let’s take the hint and drive back to the hotel. Keep this out of your newspaper story, as a favor to me. I don’t want to get in wrong with Miss Brent. Forget about the — what was that name Brent called the marsh light?”

“The ignis fatuus,” responded Clyde, as they stepped into the coupe. “Commonly called the will-o’-the-wisp.”

“That’s it,” affirmed Rokesbury. “Well — try to keep it in small print.”

“I’ll stick to the murder story,” promised Clyde. “I’m here to dig up harrowing details — not scientific data.”

The coupe rolled slowly toward the narrow road. All was silent outside the gray-walled mansion. But as the tail light of Rokesbury’s car dwindled in the thinning mist, motion occurred from beside the old house.

A soft swish sounded in the darkness.

AN invisible figure slowly circled the mansion. The long, sweeping beam of the airway beacon gave one fleeting glimpse of its shape as the form moved toward the fringe of the marsh. A being clad in black-draped cloak — slouch hat — the guise of The Shadow.

The tiny beam of a miniature flashlight glimmered at intervals along the boggy ground. With uncanny skill, The Shadow picked a solid path off through the mushiness of the lonely swamp. The tiny glimmer faded.

Unseen, The Shadow had been a witness of the meeting between Wildemar Brent and his unwelcome visitors.

Late that same evening, Clyde Burke, returning to his hotel room, found an envelope upon the table. He opened it and read a brief cryptic message in blue ink that faded when his perusal was completed.

The night telegraph operator was on duty in the little Rensdale station when Clyde Burke walked in at midnight. The reporter handed him a wire to the New York Classic, to be sent at press rates. He also gave the man a night letter to a New York investment broker named Rutledge Mann. This was a personal message that referred to sales of small securities in which Clyde Burke, apparently was interested.

Actually, that night letter was a coded message from The Shadow. For Rutledge Mann, the investment broker, was the contact man through whom The Shadow could summon new agents to perform his bidding.