Murder Marsh

CHAPTER IX. MIDNIGHT MURDER

DYING embers from the grate cast a faint, wavering glow through the great hall. Silence reigned within the house on the marsh. All the occupants of the mansion had retired at eleven o’clock. It was now nearly midnight.

Stealthy footsteps broke the quiet. Creaking boards told that some one was descending the stairs from the second floor. A creeping form reached the hall and moved toward the corner, ground-floor room where Merle Cray was sleeping. The detective’s snores were audible from the opened door of his room.

The prowler returned to the hall.

His creeping figure came within the firelight’s glow. The man was Twindell. The old servant was attired as he had been on the preceding night. Slowly and with much care, Twindell crept to the front door and drew back the bolts. Opening the barrier, he stepped out into the night.

Twindell was sheltered by the outside alcove. The projection of the house hid him from the view of any who might be watching from the causeway. Twindell knew that the night shift had gone on duty. That fact did not trouble him.

The servant produced a flashlight. Holding the lens toward the distant hill, he blinked the light. His signals came in quick repetition. A pause; then they flashed again. Pocketing the light, Twindell stole back into the house. He closed the big door but did not lock it. Sneaking to the door at the top of the cellar steps, he stood in the darkness, listening intently.

Outside the old mansion, stillness was complete. Yet there was movement there. After Twindell had closed the door, a figure emerged from the blackness beside the stone walls of the ghostly house. Faint moonlight, streaking through the clouds, revealed a momentary glimpse of The Shadow.

The cloaked form began a circuit of the mansion. Passing the alcove, The Shadow reached the side toward the causeway. Lights were gleaming through the mist. Distant blows of sledge-hammers were audible through the night.

The fog had cleared from the marsh; but it seemed to cling to the scrubby, thick-bushed sector that lay between the house and the causeway. Even the broken-down dog kennels were lost from view. Sound could penetrate the clustered remnants of the fog. So could the powerful lights on the causeway. But even the keen eyes of The Shadow could discern no objects through that white swirling blanket.

Any one approaching the house from the side toward the hill could not possibly be observed from the causeway, even should the workmen turn a powerful searchlight on the mansion. The Shadow sensed that Twindell had recognized this fact. This had been a good night for his signals toward the hillside. A secret visitor would soon be due at the old house.

For The Shadow knew — from observation — that Twindell had delivered the blinks on the preceding night. He had learned that Twindell was in contact with the mysterious bearded prowler from the hillside.

There was still time before the man would arrive in response to Twindell’s flash. The Shadow kept on around the house.

SOFTLY, the cloaked investigator passed the massive, tiny-paned windows of the ground floor. At last he came to the far corner of the mansion. He stood beneath the windows of the room where Merle Cray was sleeping. These were ordinary windows. Cray had opened one of them. Listening, The Shadow made sure that the detective was still asleep. Continuing on, he reached the side of the house toward the hill.

This trip had required some time; yet The Shadow knew that the bearded prowler could not yet have arrived. The cloaked form merged with the darkness of the house. The Shadow’s keen eyes watched toward the bushes that fringed the marsh.

Inside the old house, Twindell had moved from his place beside the cellar door. Softly, the servant stole up the steps to the second floor. He crept through the hallway, listening outside the doors of rooms where people were sleeping. He wanted to make sure that no one was awake.

Both Twindell and The Shadow had satisfied themselves that Merle Cray was sound asleep. They had surmised correctly. Yet chance was to play its part. During this short interval while The Shadow was on the far side of the house and Twindell was sneaking along the second floor, the detective happened to awake.

Perhaps some trivial noise had disturbed Cray’s slumber. Possibly the discomfort of his clothing — for Cray was fully clad except for coat and vest — was the cause of the detective’s awakening. Whatever the reason, Cray sat up and blinked. It took him half a minute to realize where he was.

Awake, the detective decided upon action. Plucking a revolver from the pocket of his coat, he held the weapon in readiness as he crept from the little corner room. He found a passage to the end of the great hall. Keeping away from the glow of the firelight, he decided to investigate the nearest room — the one with the paneled tapestries.

Cray opened the door with utmost stealth. He blinked a flashlight. The room was quite empty. Leaving the door open, the detective stole back into the hall. He chose a blackened passage beside the stairway.

His hand encountered a door. Cray felt a bolt. It had been drawn back.

This was the entrance to the cellar steps. That door had been tightly bolted when Cray had retired. The detective knew at once that some one in the house had opened it. He decided that the person must be in the cellar.

Cray softly opened the door, closed it behind him without noise, and began a cautious descent. He did not use his flashlight, but he held it in readiness; also his revolver.

Soft creaks on the stairway from the second floor. Twindell was coming down. The servant stole toward Cray’s room. Hearing no sound, he moved back into the hall and lingered just out of the small sphere of light cast by the embers in the grate.

OUTSIDE the old house, The Shadow stood silent by the wall. His keen ears caught a faint sound from the marsh. His burning eyes saw a movement near the closest bush. Then dull moonlight revealed the figure that stepped into view.

Coarse clothes hung from a tall form; a flat hat covered the arrival’s head. The Shadow glimpsed a thick black beard. It was the squatter from the hillside.

The man was cautious as he approached the house. He opened the door and stepped inside. The barrier closed behind him. The Shadow followed. Like a specter, he came momentarily in view, then blackened with the front of the heavy, dark door. His hand tried the knob.

The door did not budge. To-night, the intruder had evidently sprung a bolt, in fear of the very condition that had arisen: namely, a person who might try to enter after him. The Shadow’s laugh was a soft whisper, lost in the gloom. Swinging to the wall, the cloaked investigator gripped the rough stones and began a swift upward ascent toward an opened window.

Like a human fly, he made the ascent without the aid of his rubber suction cups. The Shadow entered through the opened window. A bed stood in the corner of the room; but no sleeper could have heard the sound of The Shadow’s passage. Softly opening the door of the room, The Shadow glided into the hall.

He reached the stairs and paused there. Twindell was coming out into the hall below. The servant was creeping to the front door. Evidently he had decided that the bolt was a dangerous precaution. There was no sign of the bearded man; but the direction from which Twindell had come indicated that the intruder had gone down into the cellar.

The Shadow lingered while Twindell was returning. He was ready to follow as soon as the servant went to join the man whom he had summoned from the hill. Then, with total unexpectedness came the muffled reports of a revolver. The shots were from the cellar.

A door thumped the wall as it shot open from the darkness of a passage on the ground floor. As The Shadow, springing downward, reached the hallway, the bearded man, gun in hand, came dashing from the passage. An automatic showed in The Shadow’s gloved fist as the cloaked investigator swung into the sphere of the dying firelight.

As the bearded man shot a gleaming glance toward the sinister form that had swept into view, another figure came leaping from the darkness of the passage. With savage fury, Twindell hurled himself upon The Shadow. The bearded man dashed for the outer door. He yanked it open while The Shadow was grappling with the servant. A shot roared from the automatic. It went wide, for Twindell was gripping The Shadow’s arm.

A SCREAM came from the second floor. Dorothy Brent had reached the top of the stairway. The girl snapped a light switch. On came the brackets of the lower hallway. For one brief instant, Dorothy saw Twindell struggling with a blackened form. Then the two went twisting from her view.

Bravely, the girl started down the stairs. Her pace was hesitating. Hence she did not see the finish of the struggle in which Twindell was engaged. At the far end of the great hall, The Shadow overcame the servant’s frenzied strength. With a quick twist, he sent Twindell sprawling to the floor. The servant’s head jolted against a chair. Twindell lay half-groggy, while The Shadow swept off through the passage that led to Merle Cray’s corner room.

Dorothy Brent reached the lower hall. The girl was excited and bewildered. She saw Twindell rising weakly from the floor. Forgetting all danger, Dorothy hastened to aid the old servant. She helped Twindell to a chair. It was a full minute before the man recovered from the effects of the struggle and the jolt.

Shuffling footsteps. Dorothy turned. Her uncle had arrived, clad in slippers and dressing gown. He was holding a .32 revolver. Either excitement or his chill caused his hand to shake. In quavering voice, Brent demanded to know what had happened.

“I don’t know,” declared Dorothy. “Twindell can tell us. Who fired those shots, Twindell?”

The servant was lapsing into new grogginess. Dorothy looked about. She saw the outer door, still opened. She pointed as she exclaimed to her uncle:

“Some man was struggling with Twindell! He must have fled through the outside door!”

Brent shuffled along the hall. As he reached the door, he heard a hail through the night. He turned on the light above the entrance. Then figures came dashing into view. Nicholas Rokesbury, a trio of workmen at his heels, had come over from the causeway. Dorothy, staring from beside Twindell, gave a sigh of relief as she saw the newcomers enter with her uncle.

As Rokesbury and his men stamped into the hall, another person appeared. It was Professor Darwin Shelby. Half dressed, the tall man had come downstairs. He was standing at the foot of the steps, blinking through his large-lensed spectacles.

“What has happened, Dorothy?” demanded Rokesbury. “Has any one been hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” replied the girl. “I think that Twindell is all right.”

The servant was rising as the girl spoke. Yet his stare remained blank. Rokesbury ordered his men to search the ground floor. A result came promptly.

“Open door here, boss,” called a worker who was flicking a flashlight. “Leads down into the cellar.”

Wildemar Brent was closer than Rokesbury. The naturalist moved toward the cellar steps, clutching his .32. Rokesbury followed close behind. Dorothy boldly joined him. Brent pressed a light switch. They descended into the illuminated cellar, followed by Professor Shelby and Rokesbury’s men.

A sharp exclamation came from Brent as the owner of the mansion reached the bottom of the steps. The others stopped and looked in the direction of Brent’s pointing finger. They saw a body, arms outstretched, lying face upward on the floor.

No one spoke. All recognized that pudgy form and the fat, double-chinned face. The dead man was Merle Cray. A useless revolver glistened from his fat hand. Cray had found no chance to use it. Here, in the depths of the stone-walled cellar, the detective had been murdered at midnight!