Читать книгу The Lonesome Swamp Mystery - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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They stared hard at it for a moment, fascinated, yet perplexed. The rain had almost ceased and the thunder was but a distant rumble for the storm had veered eastward, headed for the Jersey coast, leaving the dripping Ramapo region in a silence that was breathless.

Water dripped from a rusted, broken gutter that hung askew from the veranda roof. Occasionally Hal felt the moisture of it on his arm as it splattered on its long journey from the roof to the sodden ground below. But he seemed not to even feel it, so intent was he upon the still flickering light within the house. The silence, too, had intensified with the complete passing of the wind and so still was the eerie world about them, that they could hear the water dripping from the trees out on the road.

In the wake of this awesome hush they heard from within the house the moaning sound so freighted with despair and loneliness. Then there followed the clang-clanging noise which was accompanied by the tramping sound which Denis Keen had spoken of. Hal likened it to an army of spectral prisoners rushing about and constantly seeking some means of escape from that dusty, tragedy-ridden house.

Through all these weird manifestations the reflection of the light still remained upon the dusty pane. Hal made a small gurgling noise in his throat and put both feet upon the veranda floor.

“These ghosts didn’t include a light in their phenomena twenty years back, did they, Unk?” he asked seriously.

Denis Keen shook his head and rammed both hands deep in his trousers pockets.

“Not a light did we ever see while we kept vigil,” he said softly. “The sounds are as ghostly as ever, though. It’s queer, Hal—devilishly queer! I mean that light.”

“The whole blamed business is queer—gives me such creeps that I’m shivery all over. What do you make of it? Think somebody’s got in there—what would be there to rob anyway?” Hal moved swiftly toward the shuttered windows, breathless, expectant.

“The house and its furnishings are there just the same as when Old Eli was murdered. Dorkas never touched them and as the estate hasn’t been settled, the trustees have left them untouched also. Everything’s been under lock and key. The windows on this lower floor, besides being shuttered, are barred and bolted from the inside. The upper floors are likewise protected with barred windows.” Denis moved forward with Hal.

“What about the doors, Unk?”

“Both front and back entrances are protected with grilles, which were opened by a special lock which Old Eli himself devised. The keys to fit them are no doubt held by the trustees. Dorkas took his to his death.”

Hal was trying the library shutters then, shaking them forcibly. They yielded no more than an inch or so, however, and he turned his attention to the main doorway. But that too, was securely locked and after the remaining veranda windows had been tried and the back entrance examined without result, they walked back again on tiptoe, mystified.

“No cellar entrance?” Hal whispered.

Denis Keen shook his head.

“Only from inside. Its stairway comes up into the back hall—I remember that clearly, because I almost fell down that whole stony flight in the dark the first night we stayed here. I was trying to locate that devilish, moaning sound—anyway, Hal, I am certain no one’s gained an entrance on this main floor. Too, it would be impossible unless it was forced with explosives. And we’ve seen with our own eyes that nothing’s been touched. Everything’s locked and barred as tight as a drum, eh? And as for the upper floors, one would have to have a ladder. And there’s not a ladder in sight!”

They had stopped before the library windows again and Hal was running his long fingers through his curling red hair.

“Then unless one of the trustees happens to be inside on a tour of inspection....” he began.

“Trustees don’t go on tours of inspection at night—particularly on such a night,” Denis interposed softly. “And if they did, they would certainly have heard us rattling the shutters and banging at the grilles. Someone would have put in an appearance by this time. Besides, Hal, the trustees are two real old men now and spend their summers up at their camps in Maine, so your mother told me the last time I was visiting Ramapo.”

“That’s that, then. You’ve swept away the hobo-robber theory and the trustees suggestion is a wash-out. There’s nothing left to think but that the intruder is an illuminated ghost. Don’t laugh, Unk—times do change you know, even in this ghosting business. Maybe they’ve taken to carrying flashlights around with them in defiance against the old order of things. A number of medieval ghosts I’ve read about, carried candles dripping with blood....”

“Hal, don’t!” Denis protested. “Such talk at such a time. Use common sense about this business.” Suddenly he stopped and stared at the opening in the library shutter. “Look, Hal—look!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the bit of dusty windowpane.

The reflection of the light was no longer there.