An overturned bag lay on the floor. Prell recognized it as the grip that he bad carried upstairs for Glosting. The murderer, after losing his gun in Lundig’s grasp, had evidently decided to abandon this piece of luggage, in order to make a get-away. The sheet-rope, obviously, had been prepared beforehand.
A grimy towel, a pair of new, square-toed shoes and two rough, red bricks were the only objects that showed within the bag. David Prell stared stupidly. So did the bell hop. It was Nicholas Rokesbury who supplied the spark that was needed.
“Get on the trail!” ordered Rokesbury. “Call Halthorpe. Rouse the town. I’ll have my road crew track down this murderer!”
With one accord, the three men hastened from the room and dashed for the stairs, Prell leading with his cocked horse-pistol; Rokesbury second, with drying lather sticking to his half-shaved face. Their one desire was to begin the hunt for the killer who had delivered death at dusk.
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.