Bells of Doom

CHAPTER XIII AT ZANGWALD’S

TWO men were standing in Abner Zangwald’s living room. Both were officials of the county. One was Sheriff Locke; the other was Coroner Thomas. The two were eying the clock upon the mantel. It was nearing the hour of twelve.

The doorbell rang. A servant answered it. He returned, conducting Louis Vandrow into the room. The lawyer looked about, expecting to see Zangwald. The sheriff pointed his thumb toward the ceiling.

“Mr. Zangwald went upstairs to his study,” informed Locke. “just after you called up from Claverly’s. He told the servant to let him know when you arrived. I guess the man’s gone to get him.”

“Sorry I was late,” replied Vandrow. “I thought it important, however, to talk to young Claverly. That was in accord with Mr. Zangwald’s wishes.”

The sheriff nodded.

“While we are waiting for Zangwald,” suggested Vandrow, “tell me about Beauchamp. Why did he decide to go to New York?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the sheriff. “He called Zangwald, because he couldn’t get me. Said something about a long distance call, but it sounded like a stall. Zangwald got hold of me and I gave the O.K. If Beauchamp wanted to leave town, that was his business.”

“I came by his house on my way here,” said Vandrow, “but I didn’t notice anything unusual. Has he gone yet?”

“Yes. Here was his idea. You know where his garage is — off from the house, about fifty yards in back.”

“Close by the hedge.”

“That’s right. Well, Beauchamp sneaked out there through the back door at eleven-thirty. Got into his limousine. Then the chauffeur went out about five minutes later. Only, that time, they turned on the lights at the back of the house.

“Get the idea? So if anybody was watching, they’d think the chauffeur was going alone. He was instructed to bring out the car just as if it was empty. Then he started over to Lewisport, like he was going to meet somebody.”

“And Beauchamp was in the car?”

“Yes, lying low. He explained to Zangwald that he intended to make a get-away; he told me the details when I called him after I got here.”

“I see. Well, it sounds like a good plan. Did the limousine go out all right?”

“Like clockwork. The chauffeur was sitting, up in front like a tin soldier. A couple of the boys called me from Beauchamp’s. The rest were in a car out front. They followed along, after the limousine, but not too close. That was Beauchamp’s idea, too.”

As the sheriff completed his statement, Abner Zangwald appeared. The bushy-browed man nodded to Louis Vandrow. He rumbled a question to Locke:

“Beauchamp left, did he?”

“Yes,” replied the sheriff.

“Good,” said Zangwald. “Well, Vandrow, how did you make out at Claverly’s?”

“I talked to young Milton,” replied the lawyer. “I questioned him a bit regarding the last two nights. He said that he had been at home.”

“That’s what he would have said. How was his attitude? Did he appear shifty?”

“He was jocular. He was not at all inclined to be serious.”

“What’s this about?” put in the sheriff. “Are you figuring young Claverly in these murders?”

“Not exactly,” returned Zangwald. “At the meeting the other night, I happened to talk with Vandrow. I mentioned that it was quite a coincidence that Maurice Dunwell should have been murdered just after Milton Claverly had returned.

“I made no accusation. I simply said that Dunwell was one of three men who had been unfriendly to David Claverly. Therefore, Milton, as David’s son, could hardly be saddened by Dunwell’s death.

“After the murder of Stuart Hosker, I studied the subject more deeply. I was really worried. As chairman of the selectmen, I hold a responsible position in this town. Today, when I learned that Willis Beauchamp was in terror of his life, I felt that it would be wise to keep an eye on Milton Claverly.”

“What do you think of it, coroner?” questioned Locke, turning to the man beside him.

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. It was a full minute before he made his comment.

“Maurice Dunwell,” he said, “was slain by persons unknown. So was Stuart Hosker. I see no evidence that points to Milton Claverly. Until we have a definite connection, it would be unwise to regard him with actual suspicion.”

“Looks that way to me,” added Locke, in a grumbling tone. “I want evidence to work on before I begin accusing people. We’ve got none. Not yet. That is, nothing that can lead us to the guilty party.”

“Understand me,” put in Zangwald. “David Claverly was my closest friend. I have a feeling of good will toward his son. I thought that Louis Vandrow was the proper man — as Milton’s lawyer — to look into what Milton had been doing.

“We can not deny the fact that Milton might have been antagonistic toward both Dunwell and Hosker. That means that later on his name may be drawn into these cases. Therefore, whether he is right or wrong, it is advisable to know more about his activities.”

“I guess you’re right, Mr. Zangwald,” expressed the sheriff. “I’ll tell you why. If young Claverly had it in for Dunwell and Hosker, he’d probably be sore at Beauchamp, too. I guess that’s why Beauchamp thought he needed protection.”

“Beauchamp was associated with Dunwell and Hosker,” stated Vandrow. “That was sufficient reason for his worry. Why go out of our way to draw Milton Claverly into the situation?”

“Right,” agreed the coroner.

“Well,” said Locke, “one thing’s sure. If Torburg is the danger zone, Beauchamp’s out of it. Nobody knows that he beat it — that is, nobody but us four and my men.”

LOUIS VANDROW chewed his lips as he heard the remark. Abner Zangwald noted the action. He glared at the lawyer; then put a sudden question.

“How about that, Vandrow?” he inquired. “You were over at Claverly’s when you called up here, weren’t you? Around quarter past eleven?”

“Yes,” admitted the lawyer.

“Did young Claverly hear what you had to say?” asked Zangwald. “Did he get wind of the fact that Beauchamp was leaving town?”

“I mentioned it,” replied Vandrow. “Milton was in the room when I was talking. He asked me about Beauchamp. I told him that Beauchamp was going to New York.”

“Who else was there? The girl?”

“No — Lester, the old servant. And a friend of Milton’s. A real estate man from New York, Harry Vincent.”

“I know the fellow. He came in to see me about real estate. He was the one who went with you up to Dunwell’s, wasn’t he, Locke?”

“Yes,” returned the sheriff. “Vincent is all right. Don’t worry about him.”

“I’m not,” declared Zangwald, dryly. “I’m thinking about young Claverly. It’s too bad that he learned about Beauchamp’s departure. If anything should happen—”

“Let us refrain from apprehensions,” put in Vandrow. “As the sheriff has said, Beauchamp is outside the danger zone.”

There was a pause. A huge grandfather’s clock delivered its musical chimes. Midnight had arrived. Twelve strokes came from the clock. Then Zangwald spoke.

“You spoke of the danger zone,” he declared. “This, gentlemen, is the danger hour. If harm has come to Willis Beauchamp, the bells of doom will peal. Let us hope that they will not ring tonight.”

An ominous silence followed the words. Then came a chuckle from the sheriff.

“Those bells can’t ring,” he asserted.

“Why not?” demanded Zangwald.

“I’ve been waiting to tell you this,” chortled the sheriff. “Just a little idea I had this afternoon. You know that key you gave to Yokes? The one he handed over to me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I went up to the tower this evening. Thought I might put a couple of men on duty; but I didn’t want to call them away from Beauchamp’s. So I used the key. I went up in the tower.”

Locke paused to lift a heavy traveling bag from the floor. He placed it on the table and undid the clasps. He spoke as he opened the bag.

“I brought back some souvenirs,” he chuckled. “Here they are, look at them.”

He revealed the contents of the bag. Within lay three brazen clappers. The sheriff removed them, one by one, and placed them on the table.

“Unhooked them,” he said. “That fixed the bells. I don’t care who gets in there and yanks the ropes. Those bells won’t ring.”

Again, Locke chuckled as he stared at the surprised expressions on the faces of his three companions. Still laughing, he placed his hands on the heavy clappers. Then, in an instant, his lips became rigid. A commanding sound had come above the sheriff’s chortle.

Clang!

A muffled throb from far away. A note that all had heard before. It was the opening stroke of a deep-throated gong. A second peal resounded. Then a third.

Dong! — Dong!—

Once again, the tower bells were tolling forth their mournful dirge. New notes of doom were reaching the ears of astounded listeners. Here, beneath the sheriff’s hand, were the clappers of the tower bells. Yet the strokes of doom were resounding through the night.

Tone for tone, perfect in the spacing of their chiming, the bells in the tower were pealing forth their irresistible message.

The bells of doom were sounding another knell!