The Bradys Beyond Their Depth: or, The Great Swamp Mystery
TextCHAPTER IX.
FLIGHT OF THE GUILTY MAN
When Ronald Mason saw that the supposed minister was his enemy, Old King Brady, a tigerish expression leaped to his eyes.
He recoiled a few steps and gasped, hoarsely:
"What! You here?"
"You can see for yourself!" replied the detective.
"What is the meaning of this trickery?"
"I denounce this will as a forgery!" thundered Old King Brady.
For an instant there was a deep, oppressive silence in the room.
The detective's words startled every one and the lawyer finally asked:
"Upon what ground do you make that remarkable statement, Mr. Brady?"
The old detective held up the will.
"In the first place," said he, forcibly, "the provisions of this instrument are entirely unnatural. Who ever heard of a kind, indulgent father disinheriting his only child for not marrying a man whom we all know he formerly refused to accept as a son-in-law? Who would believe Oliver Dalton criminal enough to leave his tenderly-nurtured daughter an absolute beggar, dependent upon the cold charity of the world? What has this girl done to forfeit her birthright? What has this man done that Dalton should leave his daughter penniless, for his sake?"
"It does look rather queer," assented the lawyer.
"Queer? Why, it's utterly ridiculous!" cried Old King Brady, in tones of supreme contempt. "It's beyond reason. Only an insane father would be guilty of such a deed. Moreover, I have my doubts about the signature attached to this paper. It looks similar to Mr. Dalton's signature which I have appended to a letter now in my pocket. But there are certain formations in the letters that lead me to suppose this signature on the will is a rank forgery. I'm going to prove that idea by giving the will and some of Mr. Dalton's signatures to a handwriting expert. He will magnify them and throw the image of the enlarged signatures on a screen by means of a magic-lantern. Any one can then tell at a glance if this signature is a forgery or not."
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" yelled Mason, furiously.
"Won't I? You'll see, sir. I shall."
"That will shall be filed for probate with the surrogate."
"So it shall," grimly answered Old King Brady. "So it shall. And this lawyer will contest it on behalf of Miss Dalton, and baffle your design to rob her. And if it is proven that the will is a forgery, you can rest assured that I'll arrest you for the crooked work the moment I get my hands on you!"
Mason gave a hollow, mocking laugh.
"Fool!" he hissed. "I don't fear you."
"But you shall – "
"Bah! Shut up! You make me sick!"
And snapping his fingers at the old detective, Mason rushed from the room, put on his hat and left the house.
When he was gone, Harry hastened after him.
Left alone with the girl and the lawyer, Old King Brady held a conference with them and settled upon a plan of legal action.
In the meantime Mason had gone downtown, with Young King Brady carefully shadowing him at a safe distance.
He entered Mr. Dalton's office and remained there until long after all the clerks had gone home.
Harry remained outside the building on the watch for him, and at about seven o'clock saw him emerge.
He dropped a letter in a lamp-post letter-box and rapidly strode across town and entered a liquor saloon.
Young King Brady divested himself of his disguise in a hallway.
While waiting for his man to emerge from the saloon, the boy made a bundle of the disguise and wrapped it in a newspaper.
Half an hour passed by.
Getting uneasy over the prolonged absence of the man, Harry strode into the saloon, glanced around and failed to see Mason.
"He must have given me the slip!" thought the boy, ruefully.
"Looking for any one, sir?" queried a bartender who was watching him.
"Yes. What became of a fellow of this description who came in here half an hour ago?" said Harry, and he minutely described Mason.
"Why, he went out the side door after getting a drink of whisky," said the bartender. "He seemed to be in a hurry to catch a train."
"How do you know?"
"Well, he asked me what time the train for Savannah left, and as I told him he only had a few moments to catch it, he hurried out."
Harry thanked the man and left.
"The villain is heading for the South again!" flashed across the boy's mind. "I'll see if I can verify this idea."
He went over to the railroad ticket office and closely questioned the agent, who admitted that a man such as the detective described had bought a ticket for Swamp Angel and gone.
Young King Brady was puzzled over Mason's actions.
He could not understand why the man was running away from New York so soon after the incident at Dalton's house.
"It looks as if he had a guilty conscience and feared exposure," muttered the boy, as he made his way home.
Old King Brady was there ahead of him and Harry told him about Mason's flight to the South.
It made the old detective laugh.
"Guess we've frightened him," he remarked.
The Bradys remained up late that night discussing their plans.
On the following morning a letter reached them from Mason, worded in the following manner:
"Messrs. Brady: By the time this reaches you I shall be so far from New York that you'll never catch me. I know very well that you are going to find out that Dalton's will is a forgery. If I remain you'll put the screws on me. So I'll baffle you by going in good season. Moreover, you will find out later in the day that all the funds in Dalton's business are missing. I've got the stuff, as I need it to get away. If the time ever comes for me to get even with you for all the trouble you've caused me, I'll make you pay dearly for your accursed interference.
"Ronald Mason."
"So he's gone," said Harry.
"In good season."
"And he left a black record behind him."
"We probably haven't heard the worst yet, Harry."
"Let's go to the office and see how much he stole."
Old King Brady was eager for the facts, and they passed out together.
In half an hour they reached Dalton's office and found a policeman in charge, all the clerks frantic with alarm, and the safe open.
"There's been a robbery here," said the policeman to the detectives.
"How much was taken?" asked Harry.
"Thirty thousand dollars in cash and bonds."
"Well, we know who did the job. The clerks must go, and we must close and lock the doors after I secure a few papers."
They had a talk with the chief clerk, got all the details, and the place was then vacated and locked up.
Returning to the street the detectives strode down Broad street toward the Battery, and the old sleuth remarked:
"He made quite a rich haul."
"As we know about where to find him," answered Harry, "we may be able to recover the booty when we go after him."
Just then a little old man with a gray beard came waddling out of Bridge street, clad in a blue jumper and an old felt hat.
The moment Harry saw him he sprang forward, clutched him by the arm, swung him around, and said:
"Martin Kelly, the junk man!"
"Gosh!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Ther detectives."
"Yes, and we are going to arrest you, Martin, for your connection with the case of the drowned man you brought to the morgue."
"What fer?" tremulously asked the old man, beginning to get frightened.
"Oh, we saw you, Ronald Mason and the coon fooling with that corpse in your boat on the river before you brought it to the morgue, and we want to know what you were up to."
"I'll tell, if yer don't jail me, Mr. Brady."
"That's a bargain. Out with it, then."
"Well, that there nigger was aboardin' with me. The other night him an' me was on ther river carryin' some scrap iron from a boat where I bought it an' we found that dead body. As soon as ther coon saw it, he tied it to ther boat an' said he an' his boss would palm it off for somebody else. So he went ashore an' telegraphed to Mason to fetch down a suit of Dalton's clothes an' things to make it look as if the body was Dalton's. When Mason come, we rowed out on the river, stripped the corpse, put on him the things Mason brought, chucked him overboard and I set them ashore down the river an' towed the body to the morgue where I left it. They paid me ten dollars to keep my mouth shut about what they done."
The Bradys were amazed.
His story cleared up a great deal of mystery and left the real fate of Oliver Dalton a matter of doubt again.
CHAPTER X.
WHAT THE HANDWRITING EXPERT SHOWED
Realizing the importance of Martin Kelly's confession, Harry now turned to his partner and said, significantly:
"We'd better get what he says in the form of an affidavit."
"By all means," assented the old detective, eagerly.
"Say, yer ain't a-goin' ter do nuthin' to me, are yer?" demanded Kelly.
"Oh, no; merely going to make you swear to the facts you gave us."
"I'll do that willin' enough, sir."
They brought him before a notary public, and having written out his statement and secured his signature and oath, they let him go, after learning that Johnson did not return to his house since the body was found.
The Bradys were delighted.
When they reached the street, Harry cried:
"That Mason was a clever schemer. But we've foiled his plan to palm off a stranger's body for that of the missing broker. We must let Lizzie Dalton know how she was duped. There's every possibility yet that her father is still alive. With this doubt pending, the will need not be probated yet."
"Steps have already been begun to test the signature," said Old King Brady. "By this afternoon we shall know positively whether that signature to the will is a forgery or not."
"And if it is?"
"We'll have to run down Mason and make him pay the penalty of his crime," replied the veteran detective, decisively.
They then went up to the Dalton house.
Lizzie was at home and heard what Kelly confessed.
Her joy and astonishment knew no bounds, and she cried:
"Then there is some probability that my poor father yet lives!"
"Yes, indeed," replied Harry, "and it is our belief that he is still concealed down South in the big swamp on his estate. We are going back there to investigate the matter."
"And I sincerely hope you will be successful in finding him," fervently replied the girl. "In fact, I am so anxious about the matter that I shall go down to Swamp Angel myself as soon as I can get my affairs so regulated here that I can go away."
"Then we shall meet there."
"I hope so. And if your work is going to keep you in the vicinity of our place, I want you to make your headquarters there."
They thanked her for the invitation and after some further talk they left the house and headed for the writing-expert's office.
The professor was located on Broadway near Chambers street.
He was in when they called.
They had furnished him with several check-vouchers, and other specimens of Mr. Dalton's handwriting procured at his office.
He greeted them warmly and asked, with a smile:
"I suppose you are curious to learn the result of my labors?"
"We are," assented Old King Brady, taking a chew of tobacco.
"I've finished my investigations."
"And what is the result?"
"That signature is a rank forgery."
"A poor one?"
"Very."
"Let us see."
"I'll magnify the writing."
He had a projecting machine, and, lighting it, he placed the signature on the will and several more signatures of Mr. Dalton in the machine.
The names were reflected on a sheet, in enormous proportions.
Three were exactly alike, but the fourth was entirely unlike them.
Magnified, the finest lines of the writing were now as coarse as a broom handle, so that every little mark was plainly visible.
"Explanations are useless here," said the expert, smilingly. "You can easily see for yourself all I could tell you. The three signatures which are alike are taken from a check, a letter and a bill. You will notice there isn't the slightest deviation in any of the lines from the fixed method Mr. Dalton had of signing his name. The odd-looking signature is the one affixed to the will. Here you will see that the loops, straight lines, curves and angles are all entirely unlike the original; the width of the lines and shading are different, and the angle at which the letters are set is not the same as that in the others."
The Bradys saw all this and more, too.
In fact, they had every evidence before them that the will was a base forgery and they were well satisfied.
With this fact established, they went to the Central office.
Here they encountered their chief.
Old King Brady detailed to him all that transpired, and he listened very attentively until the detective finished.
Then he pondered a moment, and said:
"The whole thing is a big plot on Mason's part to get his uncle's money and daughter at one swoop."
"We've clearly established Mason's guilt, sir."
"Very true. He's a bad egg. Capture him and you may find out what he has done with Oliver Dalton."
"I've become convinced of another fact since finding out what a villain that fellow is," said Old King Brady.
"To what do you allude?"
"Well, you recollect that when we began this case it was for the purpose of finding out who was stealing money from the broker's mail," said the detective.
"I'm aware of that."
"In view of all that happened, it begins to look as if Mason was the guilty party the Federal Government is after."
"It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you brought home that crime to his door," said the chief. "If, as you say, he had such extensive control of the business, he must have handled all the mail. It would then have been an easy matter for him to purloin the contents of many of the envelopes without being detected."
"The misfortune now is that he's gone so we cannot set a trap to catch him in the act," said Old King Brady. "If anything now is found out about the matter, it will only be learned from Mason himself making a clean breast of the crooked work."
"Convict him of his other misdeeds," said the chief, lighting a cigar, "and you'll have evidence enough to send the villain to jail for a long time. If Mr. Dalton is dead, you can lay the crime at his door, for he was the only person in the world who hoped to be benefited by the demise of his benefactor."
It was late when the Bradys took leave of the chief.
On the following afternoon they were ready to depart from New York, and they each wore a clever disguise.
While Old King Brady in boots and whiskers might have passed for a respectable old farmer, Harry had every appearance of being a typical Texan cowboy.
They proceeded downtown by separate routes.
Harry crossed over to the west side of the city and boarding a Belt Line horse-car, he paid his fare and glanced around.
The boy's picturesque costume and fierce big mustache attracted the attention of all the passengers.
He returned their curious stares with interest, and looking from one to the other, his gaze finally rested upon a negro sitting in a corner of the car with a big black-enamel valise on his lap.
Young King Brady could hardly repress a start.
The negro was Sim Johnson!
"Great Scott!" he muttered. "It's Mason's friend, the valet. Where is the black rascal going with that big valise? Shall I put the nippers on him? What is he doing over here on West street?"
He thought it over.
Harry's first impulse was to arrest the man.
Cool second-thought restrained him, however, and he muttered softly:
"No. I'll shadow him and find out where he is going. It will be time enough to arrest him when I find he's trying to get away."
He kept a wary eye on the coon after that.
Johnson rode down to the foot of Liberty street and alighted.
To Harry's astonishment he saw the darky buy a ticket for Swamp Angel, and then the truth flashed across the boy's mind.
"He's going to the very place I'm heading for," thought the boy, "and he must be doing that at the request of Ronald Mason. In that case he's sure to meet the man. What a good decoy duck he will make! By Jove, I've only got to shadow him and he will lead me right to the very place where his employer is concealed. Then we'll be enabled to arrest Mason right away."
The coon crossed the river, with Harry on the same boat.
Old King Brady met Harry on the Jersey side and Young King Brady told his partner about Sim.
A smile of intense satisfaction crossed the old detective's bewhiskered face, and he strode along behind the valet and saw him board the train.
The Bradys followed.
Shortly afterward the cars started.
On the following night they all alighted at Swamp Angel and the negro took to the railroad track and started to tramp in the direction of the swamp where Mr. Dalton's body had disappeared.
There was plenty shelter from the negro's gaze for the detectives, and they silently and stealthily sped along in pursuit of their decoy.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE QUICKSAND
"Halt, or you're a dead man!"
It was a stern command, in a rough voice.
The Bradys paused near some rocks and saw two rifle barrels aimed over the top of them, in the hands of two masked men.
Hearing the voice, Johnson had come to a sudden stop and glanced around.
Just as the detectives were about to reach for the revolvers they carried, the same rough voice sang out, quickly:
"Hands up!"
The sharp click of the rifle hammers followed.
It would have been sheer folly to disobey that command, for the masked men had a bead drawn on the officers.
In that lonely place no one would know they got killed.
They felt chagrined over the careless way in which they walked right into the ambuscade, and raised their hands.
"Goldurn yer!" cried Old King Brady. "What on airth dew yer mean by holdin' up a feller citizen this way?"
One of the masked men emerged from behind the rocks.
He was nicely clad, wore a big felt hat, had long hair hanging down on his shoulders and a brown mustache on his upper lip.
This man looked like a southern planter.
A hideous half mask of black hid the upper half of his face and the Winchester he carried was aimed at the officers.
He intently studied Old King Brady's face a few moments, then asked:
"What were you skulking along after that negro for?"
The moment the officers heard his voice they recognized him, despite his disguise, as Ronald Mason.
Affecting an indignant air, Old King Brady growled:
"Goldurn it, who wuz afollerin' that nigger?"
"You were."
"No, we wuzn't!"
"I'll find out about that! Hey, Sim!"
"Am dat yo', Massa Ronald?" cried the coon, running back.
"Yes, and here are two fellows sneaking along on your trail."
"Wha' fo'?" demanded the darky.
"Hanged if I know. Look at them."
"Fo' de Lawd sakes, dey was on de train wif me, sah."
"They were, hey? That's suspicious."
"Oh, go 'long!" said Old King Brady. "Can't a man walk along here without bein' held up like a burglar by you chaps? Gosh durn it, if it's robbery yer up ter, it's mighty little money you'll find on me."
"We ain't thieves."
"Wall, I'm blamed if yer don't look like it."
"Sim, take a good look at those gents and if you happen to find any guns about their clothes just relieve them of them."
"Yassah," said the coon.
He got so close to Old King Brady that he suddenly detected the fact that the detective was wearing a wig and false beard.
The cunning negro did not let on what he had seen.
But he suddenly grabbed them and pulled them off the old detective.
It effected a startling change in Old King Brady's appearance, and Mason recognized him at once, and roared furiously:
"I'll be blest if it ain't those cussed detectives again!"
"Lawd amassy!" groaned Sim, all his courage departing, and he made a sudden dash for the swamp and rushed away, spattering up showers of mud and water.
The Bradys swiftly drew their pistols.
It was clear that a fight was imminent.
The man with the rifle pulled the trigger, intending to shoot the old detective, but his weapon missed fire.
"Run!" yelled his companion behind the rocks, and he shot at Harry just as Mason made a dash for shelter.
A bullet whistled by dangerously close to Young King Brady's cheek, and he discharged a shot at the running man.
It carried off his hat.
The next moment the three rascals vanished.
Harry and his partner made an effort to find them, but failed.
All hands had gone plunging among the weeds and shrubbery, and in an instant were swallowed up by the verdure.
"A warm welcome, Harry," said Old King Brady, when they met on the railroad track five minutes later.
"I'm sorry Mason caught us shadowing the valet."
"It gave our presence here away, and will put them on their guard."
"Can't be helped. We know Mason is really here, however. He's desperate now, and won't hesitate to murder us if he can, to avoid arrest."
"Who was the other masked man, I wonder?"
"Must be the party who helped him to get the box off the train, and carry the body of Mr. Dalton to the house in the swamp."
"Oh, Mason hadn't a hand in stealing the box from the baggage car. He got off before the cars reached this point of the swamp, I'm sure."
"Then that fellow must have had other helpers, as he could not very well have done the job unaided," said Harry.
"Let us get around to the board walk, and try to reach the hut. If they are heading for that building, we can meet them there."
"Here's a quicker way," said the boy, pointing at a boat.
It was a crude affair, half hidden in the reeds.
They embarked, and rowed out through the lagoons.
The water was mostly quite shallow, but there were places where the detectives could not see bottom.
In a short time they reached the island in the swamp, and, leaping ashore, they ran over to the hut.
One glance inside was enough for them.
"The place is deserted," was Harry's comment.
"Wait for them. We may have headed off the rascals."
"If they saw us coming here, they will shun the place."
"There was no way to conceal our movements."
An hour went by quietly enough.
Not a soul ventured near the place, and Harry grew restless.
He made a circuit of the island, scanning every section of the swamp, and finally returned to his partner, and said:
"We've had our labor for our pains."
"No sign of them, eh?"
"No. Could they have gone to the Dalton residence?"
"More than likely. As Mason is skulking about this neighborhood, he, of course, must be living in the big house."
"Come on over there then."
"Get in the boat. It will save us making a detour of the swamp."
They saw numerous channels by following which they could reach the mainland quite close to the big house.
Gliding slowly over the water, the boat finally touched the shore, and the two detectives debarked and pulled the punt up on the bank.
There were rocks, trees and bushes all around.
As they stood looking for a path, a voice reached their ears, saying:
"Sim, where are you?"
Then the negro answered:
"Near de sho', Massa Ronald."
Old King Brady held up his finger warningly.
"There they are!" he whispered.
Just then Mason's voice was heard again:
"Keep on shouting, Sim, so I can locate you."
"Dis way! Dis way!" cried the darky.
The detectives glided in the direction of the voice, and, passing through the shrubbery, they parted the bushes, and entered a clearing.
A little brook was gushing from the midst of the verdure, and emptied its waters into a shallow pool, the bottom of which was composed of pure white sand.
Pausing on the brink of this pool, the detectives glanced searchingly around, and heard the negro laughing amid the shrubbery.
"He's over there!" said Harry, pointing across the pool.
"Watch a moment, and we may locate him," Old King Brady whispered.
Standing stock still, they listened intently.
In fact, they were so absorbed in looking for the negro that they did not see two men crouching in the bushes close behind them.
They were the two masked fellows who first assailed them.
As stealthily as tigers, they crept from their covert.
When but a few feet separated them from the Bradys, they made a combined rush, with their hands outstretched.
The alert detectives heard them coming, and glanced around.
Before they could defend themselves, however, the on-comers struck them heavily, and knocked the detectives into the pool.
Too late the Bradys realized that the negro had been decoying them purposely to that dangerous place.
For, the moment they fell into the pool, they sank in the sand.
Trying to scramble to their feet, the Bradys found their legs going down in the treacherous sand rapidly.
Then the truth flashed across their minds, and Harry cried:
"By Heavens, they've thrown us into a bed of quick-sand!"
"Try to reach the shore – quick!" panted Old King Brady.
They made the most desperate efforts, but only floundered around helplessly, and each moment got caught more firmly in the deadly sand.