Bells of Doom

CHAPTER VIII THE SHADOW ENTERS

THE town hall of Torburg was a remodeled structure that stood on the slope of one of the hills about the village. This building was the meeting place for all town committees. It housed the offices of various officials.

Usually, the town hall was closed at night. But on this evening, nearly twenty-four hours after the death of Maurice Dunwell, the lights of the old building were aglow. Cars were parked outside the town hall.

A group of men were in conference. They were gathered about a long table in a fair-sized room. At the head sat a big, bushy-browed fellow whose thick lips and glaring eyes marked him as a dominating personage. This was Abner Zangwald, at present the chairman of Torburg’s board of selectmen.

Other members of the board were present. With them were certain persons who had been summoned to the meeting. Sheriff Wheaton Locke was present, accompanied by Harry Vincent. Louis Vandrow, attorney for the board, was near the lower end of the table. The county coroner was also present; and the final member of the group was a roughly dressed fellow — Absalom Yokes, formerly the bell ringer in the old tower.

This group had joined in solemn conclave to discuss the episode of the preceding night. Under ordinary circumstances, a meeting of this sort might have been amusing to Harry Vincent. But the present occasion was one that commanded solemnity.

Abner Zangwald was speaking in a rumbling voice. Harry, staring across the room, fixed his eyes upon a doorway that led to a little anteroom. As Harry watched, he saw the door move inward. The motion was almost imperceptible; yet it impressed Harry.

In the morning, Harry had managed to send a wire to New York. His telegram had been a simple message, pertaining to real estate transactions. It had been dispatched to Rutledge Mann, an investment broker whose headquarters was in Manhattan.

That telegram, however, had constituted word to The Shadow. Mann, like Harry, was an agent of the mysterious chief. The simple dispatch had meant that trouble had broken out in Torburg.

Afterward, Harry had written a coded report, which he had left in an envelope on a table in his hotel room.

Tonight, Sheriff Locke had called to take Harry to the meeting of selectmen. The envelope had still been in its place when Harry had left. But the agent felt sure that The Shadow must have arrived to find his report. Harry believed that the motion of the anteroom door was a sign of The Shadow’s arrival.

IN this surmise, Harry was correct. The meeting of selectmen had gained an unseen visitor. A blackened shape stood in the space beyond the barrier. The Shadow had pressed the door so that he might see and hear. Only his agent, expecting his arrival, had been keen enough to detect the slight token of The Shadow’s presence.

Zangwald’s voice was rumbling a summary of the situation that existed in Torburg. The words came to Harry’s ears. Harry knew that The Shadow — like himself — was hearing Zangwald’s statement.

“The murder of Maurice Dunwell,” declared Zangwald, “is a matter for the county authorities. What concerns us, as selectmen in the town of Torburg, is the ringing of the bells in the old tower. That building comes under our immediate jurisdiction.

“Who rang those bells? — we do not know. Absalom Yokes was formerly the bell ringer. He states absolutely that he did not ring them. The door of the tower is sheathed with iron. It is padlocked. We, as board of selectmen, have the only key.

“Apparently, some miscreant must have possessed a duplicate. That person entered, rang the bells and departed. What was his purpose? We can suppose it to be a mere prank. If so, it was an ill-timed jest. One, my friends, that should bring punishment to the perpetrator.”

Zangwald glared about the group. His eyes seemed accusing as he spoke of the unknown miscreant. The other selectmen seemed cowed by Zangwald’s glower. Peaceable, mild-mannered men, they were completely under the dominance of this bushy-browed chairman.

“As board of selectmen,” resumed Zangwald, “we have listened to the statements of the county authorities. Sheriff Locke and Coroner Thomas have discussed the murder of Maurice Dunwell. We know that the law is making its utmost endeavor. Therefore, our only concern is in the matter of the bell-tower. We shall extend our meeting to take up that subject.”

A wave of Zangwald’s hand. The sheriff and the coroner arose. Harry Vincent followed suit. The three left the meeting room.

Yokes, the bell ringer, was about to follow, but Zangwald motioned him to remain.

Passing through the unlighted anteroom, Harry Vincent noted blackness in a corner beyond a rack where coats and hats were hanging. He and his two companions — sheriff and coroner — obtained their hats and coats. They passed from the anteroom.

After their departure, a form moved from the darkened spot in the corner.

The figure of The Shadow swished toward the inner door. Again, the unseen investigator was listening to the discussion.

“WHY not tear down the old tower?” one of the selectmen was inquiring in a high-pitched, rustic voice. “Hain’t no use having it up there on the hill.”

“The tower has been deeded to the town,” objected Zangwald. “The terms of the gift, I believe, prevent us from demolishing it unless it becomes unsafe.”

“I call it unsafe now,” wheezed another selectman. “People ringing those bells, waking us up in the middle of the night. I call that an outrage against the community.”

“That is a far-fetched argument,” decided Zangwald. “No, the tower must remain as it stands. The question is, should we place watchers about it to see that the ringing of the bells is not repeated?”

“Why don’t you open it up again?” put in Yokes. “I’ll take the old job that I used to have.”

“As bell ringer?” Zangwald chuckled. “Not a good suggestion, Yokes. We do not need a bell ringer to keep the bells from ringing. No, gentlemen” — this was to the selectmen — “if we decide to guard the tower, we must place competent watchers in charge at all times. That will mean considerable expense.”

Mumbles came from the selectmen. They were tight-fisted fellows, accustomed to economy. This plan did not appeal to them. At the same time, they appeared annoyed by the thought that the bells might ring again.

“Let me make a suggestion,” put in Louis Vandrow. “If someone rang those bells merely as a prank, the best plan is to ignore it. Therefore, this board should forget the matter. No one can steal anything from the tower. The bells, themselves, are quite safe.

“On the contrary, let us assume the tolling which occurred last night had a connection with the murder of Maurice Dunwell. In that case, the matter might prove important to the county authorities. We can consider the bell-tower as evidence. Therefore, I suggest that this board turn over the key to Sheriff Locke. Make him the temporary custodian of the tower.”

Zangwald began to rumble an objection. It was not heard. The selectmen were voicing their approval of Vandrow’s suggestion. It offered them a prompt solution of the problem. Zangwald apparently saw that he would be outvoted. Reluctantly, he gave his agreement.

THAT ended the meeting. While the selectmen chattered, Zangwald arose and beckoned to Vandrow. He led the way to the anteroom, found his overcoat and produced the key to the tower. He handed it to the lawyer.

“Here’s the key,” stated Zangwald. “You can give it to the sheriff.”

Vandrow shook his head as he received the key. He wanted to give it back to Zangwald. The chairman laughed and refused it.

“It was your idea, Louis,” he growled.

“Perhaps,” returned the lawyer, “but I am neither a member of the board nor a messenger. I don’t intend to spend my time looking up the sheriff.”

“Give me the key,” put in another man who had come into the anteroom. It was Yokes, the ex-bell ringer, “I’m going down to town. I’ll find Wheaton Locke.”

Vandrow nodded and handed the key to Yokes. The man went out while the other two were putting on their hats and coats. Neither noted the sharp eyes that were watching them from the blackness in the corner.

“By the way, Louis,” remarked Zangwald, in a gruff whisper, “do you remember the last time that the bells rang? When David Claverly died?”

“Yes. Absalom Yokes rang them. He said he received a mysterious telephone call. He was ordered to ring them.”

“I know the story. Also what Lester, the old servant, said. About David Claverly coming out of his coma, in time to hear the bells before he died.”

“Lester might have imagined that.”

“Perhaps.” Zangwald paused to glower toward the lawyer. “By the way, you have talked with young Claverly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mention the names of the three men who robbed his father?”

“Yes.”

“And my name?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Well” — Vandrow seemed reluctant in his admission — “he did not seem pleased to learn that you had gained some of his father’s property.”

“You informed him that I had been his father’s friend?”

“Yes; but he seemed rather doubtful of the fact.”

A frown had furrowed Zangwald’s bushy brows. The man scowled as he laughed gruffly. His tone was not at all pleasant.

“You are my attorney, Louis,” he stated, dryly. “Therefore, I can speak in confidence to you. The fact that I have entrusted my affairs to your management is sufficient proof that I can rely upon your silence.

“Therefore, I am making this statement. I intended to visit young Milton Claverly. I wanted to talk to him, to tell him personally of my friendship for his father. I desired to gain young Claverly’s regard. But I have postponed that visit.”

“Why?” inquired Vandrow, in surprise.

“Because of what happened last night,” responded Zangwald, in a low growl. “Because of the death of Maurice Dunwell.”

With that statement, the wealthy landowner turned and left the anteroom. Louis Vandrow remained, his right hand cupped about his chin. A frown showed on the lawyer’s rugged face, as Vandrow pondered over Zangwald’s cryptic statement.

EYES from the dark watched Vandrow’s meditation. Then came voices from the meeting room. The selectmen had finished their chatter. Vandrow aroused himself and followed the course that Zangwald had taken.

The selectmen entered the anteroom, gathered their hats and coats and departed. Enveloped in his cloak, The Shadow waited motionless in the corner until the throng had departed. Then he moved swiftly from the room and gained the steps to the ground floor.

A janitor was locking the front door. The Shadow made his exit by a side portal that the man had not yet closed.

Instead of turning toward the town, The Shadow took a side road that skirted the hill. He was familiar with the terrain, for Harry Vincent’s report had included a rough map of Torburg. The course that The Shadow had chosen was leading him toward the home of Milton Claverly.

A steeple clock chimed the hour of twelve. The Shadow had approached the stretch of road that lay below the old tower. Another turn, he would be in sight of the Claverly house, which stood beyond the curve of the hill.

Suddenly, The Shadow paused. Sequestered in the darkness at the side of the road, he stared toward the top of the slope. Outlined against the dull moonlight that filtered through clouds was the old bell-tower, somber and gray.

There was no explanation for The Shadow’s stop. It might have been prompted by a chance, coincidental thought. Still, it could have been induced by an uncanny, psychic knowledge of something that was about to happen.

Whatever the reason, the action became the forerunner of a strange event. Brief seconds passed while The Shadow lingered. Then, as if in answer to a question that hovered in his mind, an ominous token came from the tower on the hill.

Clang!

The stroke came from the belfry. It rang out through the night air. Caught by the straying breeze, it tolled its message to the town below.

Dong!

The second stroke. No longer did The Shadow pause. That melancholy clangor could root ordinary beings to the spots where they were standing, but it held no power over The Shadow.

Tonight, precisely twenty-four hours after their previous toll, the bells in the tower were ringing out another dirge. Stroke by stroke, in solemn precision, the massive brazen cups were repeating the knell that Harry Vincent had reported.

While the bells clanged, bringing new terror to the town of Torburg, The Shadow, creature from the night, was sweeping up the slope toward the tower on the hill!