“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.”