Bells of Doom

CHAPTER XVII THROUGH THE CRYPT

A SHADED lamp was glowing. Hands moved beneath it. Quartered in the neighborhood of Torburg, The Shadow had made a silent room his temporary sanctum. White paper was drawn beneath the light. A hand began to write with a pen that delivered ink of vivid blue.

The Shadow was making his deductions, piecing shreds of evidence, building upon the facts that he had learned. His soft laugh came in a sinister whisper. The Shadow had much upon which to draw.

His findings paralleled those of the county prosecutor. But where Jornal’s facts had dwindled to speculations, The Shadow’s statements were direct. Where the prosecutor had ceased to speculate, The Shadow went beyond.

Three deaths delivered by a single hand. Such was The Shadow’s decision. Pen poised above paper and inscribed a name. It remained there, glaring, that name. Then it faded.

The Shadow had inscribed the name of the murderer!

Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp. Each had been slain by a bold venturer who had timed his strokes to perfect precision. He had entered the homes of two; he had gone into the garage of the third. Murder delivered, this killer had traveled on his way.

Like the sections of a jigsaw puzzle, The Shadow had put together the facts that he had gleaned from various sources. His own investigations; conversations that Harry Vincent had reported; keen bits of deduction — all had enabled him to form a clear picture of circumstances in Torburg.

To The Shadow, the real beginning of crime went back to the time of David Claverly’s death. The elder Claverly had made investments in real estate. His life had ended at a time when he stood ready to clean up millions.

Had David Claverly been murdered? The probabilities said yes. At any rate, his death had meant opportunity for three men who had gained the property which David Claverly owned. Why had they loaned money on that real estate? Why had all three gained the same hold upon David Claverly’s possessions?

The facts pointed to a plot. Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had weakened David Claverly’s status in Torburg. They had finally squeezed his most cherished possessions. But there, all semblance of a scheme had ended.

It was common news that those three men had sold Claverly’s property to a holding company. They had not gained a great profit on the sale. That cleared them of complicity in the death of David Claverly, so far as known facts were concerned.

But in strange contrast was the behavior of Abner Zangwald. He had claimed to be David Claverly’s friend. He had never represented himself as a man of deep craft. Yet he had refused to sell to the company that had bought out Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp.

Why had Beauchamp become so apprehensive after the deaths of Dunwell and Hosker? The Shadow’s laugh told why. It was plain that some secret of the past had worried the last of the three schemers. Beauchamp had known that he was marked for death.

It was plain that he — with Dunwell and Hosker — had conspired to gain David Claverly’s wealth. They must have dealt in death, for death had been dealt to them. Yet Beauchamp, despite his fears, had made no statements to the sheriff.

The Shadow laughed again. He saw the answer. Those three had not yet completed their chain of scheming. Their sales to the holding company had not marked the final chapter in their book of evil deeds. The Shadow saw that the holding company was a blind. He knew the truth.

Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had made sales to a company which they actually controlled. But that fact was a secret. When the power corporation came to Torburg, the holding company would sell it the property and reap the profits. But the big share of the gain was intended for the pockets of the three schemers.

SUCH was The Shadow’s verdict. He knew why those three had died. They had covered up all traces of their schemes. They had done it well. Too well. Now that they were dead, their efforts had gone for naught. The three had lost their opportunity. Their heirs would not reap the profits, for the whole scheme had been a guarded secret.

Certain living men possessed facts. That much had been revealed. Louis Vandrow, to begin with, knew that a conspiracy had existed against David Claverly. The lawyer had proof that Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had broken down the contractor’s business and had finally gained valuable property that belonged to Claverly — only to sell out in a hurry.

Abner Zangwald probably knew the same. But he had also gained a slice of David Claverly’s real estate. He had refused to sell it. Was that merely good business judgment; or did it indicate a suspicion of the scheme that Dunwell and Hosker had hatched with Beauchamp?

Next, Milton Claverly knew facts. On the surface, he had gained but few — those that he had learned by hearsay. But the young man had communicated with his father at times; moreover, he had been the recipient of a box of documents left by David Claverly.

What had Milton found within that box? Papers of importance? Other objects? Milton had casually told Harry Vincent that the box held nothing of consequence. But no one, other than Milton himself, had seen the actual contents.

Lester — the old servant — claimed that his master had been murdered. He talked of bells of doom. Lester had been close to David Claverly. The old servant was cunning, despite the outbursts in which he indulged. Lester was a factor; for he had knowledge of his own.

The Shadow knew that if living men told all, the riddle of the bells would be explained. The tower on the hill contained some secret. Had David Claverly built it merely for an idle whim?

The Shadow laughed. He knew that there must have been some other purpose for the tower.

Like the crypt in which Claverly’s body had been placed. David Claverly had evidently possessed a genuine fear of trance condition. That was why he had specified, in his will, that his corpse must be in the crypt for one week prior to burial.

Also in his will, he had stated that the bells which tolled his death should remain silent from thenceforth. Provisions had been fulfilled. David Claverly’s body had been placed temporarily in the crypt; the door of the tower had been sheathed with metal and padlocked.

Yet bells of doom had rung! They had fulfilled the wild, dying words of David Claverly — those words that Lester had reported hearing. A laugh told that The Shadow had found a definite link. He could see an answer to the ringing of the bells.

The Shadow had been in the tower close upon the ringing. That had been on the second night of doom. He had found no one there. He had even scaled the high, ornamental cupola. He had gained no trace of a bell ringer.

Last night the bells had rung again despite the fact that their clappers had been removed. Sheriff Locke had tried to explain the fact; but his theory of duplicate clappers was puerile. There was a simpler answer to the ringing of the bells. One that The Shadow had divined.

AGAIN the hand wrote on the paper. The Shadow was considering a final element. Two nights ago, someone had driven from the neighborhood of Torburg, off to an old house in the woods. Last night, mobsmen had assembled in that house. The Shadow had dealt with them on the Lewisport road.

Those crooks had been summoned to aid in murder. Their presence proved an outside connection. The killer, lurking here in town, had gained the services of some aide who could obtain New York thugs when they were needed.

The murders. The bells.

They were connected. But The Shadow could see in them the workmanship of two men, not one. Death had been delivered in different parts of town. The killer, by all rights, should have gone his way immediately after each death.

Who then, had rung the bells?

The Shadow laughed as his hand inscribed a name that faded a few moments later. This was a deduction; but one which fitted well with, circumstances that The Shadow knew. For The Shadow had come from New York. There, he had witnessed the beginning of crime. Even previously, he had heard schemes discussed aboard the steamship Laurentic.

The light went out. A swish from The Shadow’s cloak. The master sleuth had work to do tonight. Though his deductions had been keen, The Shadow had been looking for new clues to fit into the picture. One had come — by telephone.

Harry Vincent had talked to Phyllis Lingle. From the girl, The Shadow’s agent had learned that someone had been outside the crypt on three successive nights. Harry himself knew that a person had been there on the third occasion; but Phyllis had given him proof that this had been the rule and not a mere exception.

Phyllis Lingle was another factor in the situation. The girl had lived in Torburg. She had been David Claverly’s ward. She had been away when her guardian had died. Nevertheless, she had heard Lester’s story.

Did Phyllis know more than she had stated? Was her mention of a prowler by the crypt an effort to tell part, but not the whole? Gliding through the darkness of the spread-out town, The Shadow laughed softly as he considered this final factor.

Whatever the girl’s motive, she had emphasized the crypt. Like the tower, the crypt had been built by David Claverly. Crypt, like tower, could have played its part in crime. Its possibility as a secret entrance to the mansion was something that The Shadow had intended to test tonight.

LATER, the figure of The Shadow appeared at the end of the low-built extension. Moonlight was present tonight; but the figure by the door of the crypt remained unseen. In the shade cast by the end of the wing, The Shadow was totally obscured.

A flashlight glimmered cautiously. Its rays were focused on the lock alone. The Shadow began his work. It was a formidable task. Even to his probing pick, that lock seemed adamant. No other cracksman could have opened it without a key. But The Shadow’s task at last drew success. The lock yielded.

The Shadow entered the crypt. He closed the door behind him. It locked automatically.

Descending a short flight of darkened stairs, The Shadow used his flashlight to pierce the intense gloom of a musty room. The rays showed the solid stone walls of the crypt. The Shadow’s footsteps moved softly over a tiled floor.

The Shadow reached an inner door. Its lock was a duplicate of the first. This door, too, was at the head of a short flight. Experienced with the first lock, The Shadow made swifter progress with the second. He came out upon a little landing of the cellar stairs.

The flashlight ceased its glimmer. The Shadow paused. Then he cautiously ascended wooden steps and opened a door to the hallway of the ground floor. He lingered there as footsteps passed. Someone was going to the second floor. The Shadow heard the paces on the stairway; he listened as they reached the top. Then he could hear traces of the same person going up another flight. The Shadow knew that Lester had retired for the night.

The Shadow stepped into the hallway. He could hear voices from the library. Harry Vincent talking with Milton Claverly.

Then, just as The Shadow was about to advance, the doorbell rang. Quickly, the phantom visitor moved into the darkness of the parlor on the other side of the hallway. He closed the door behind him.

The bell rang again. Milton and Harry appeared in the hallway. Milton motioned for Harry to go upstairs. Harry understood. This ring of the doorbell probably meant that the visitors had arrived from Zangwald’s.

As Harry reached the landing, the bell sounded for the third time. Its rings were short and impatient. Harry continued upward. Milton went to answer the door in person.

From his hiding place, The Shadow could hear the closing of the front door.

He caught the sound of footsteps in the hall. They were going toward the library.

A few minutes passed; then The Shadow opened the door of the parlor and stepped into the hall. Silent as a ghost, he crossed to the library.

The door was closed. The Shadow slowly turned the knob. Imperceptibly, he opened the barrier to the thinness of an inch. The sound of voices came from within. Two men were talking. Milton Claverly’s words showed worry; those of the other were gruff.

Peering through the narrow opening, The Shadow saw the men within. He caught the profile of the visitor. He listened until he caught the trend of growled conversation; then, silently, he reclosed the door to the living room.

The Shadow moved away. He did not go back through the locked crypt. That was unnecessary. The Shadow left by the front door. He moved stealthily through the night until he passed an open space.

From here, The Shadow could see the old tower, chimneylike in the moonlight. But his eyes did not gaze up the slope of the hill, nor did his footsteps turn in that direction. The Shadow was still picturing the scene in the library.

For Milton Claverly’s lone visitor was not one who had come from Zangwald’s. He was a man whom The Shadow had not previously spied in Torburg, yet one whom The Shadow — through his deductions — had expected in this vicinity.

The man who had been talking to Milton was Hatch Rosling. The two who had talked together upon the Laurentic, and who had plotted to steal the rajah’s jewels from Messler, were holding a new meeting. To The Shadow, this situation symbolized the approach of another crime.

Where? The Shadow knew. Death, if it struck again in Torburg, would find a victim whose identity was clearly in The Shadow’s mind. There was still time to meet the coming threat. That would be The Shadow’s task.