Bells of Doom

CHAPTER XVIII IN THE MANSION

THOUGH Harry Vincent had obeyed the injunction to depart when visitors arrived, he had used keen thinking in his action. In the hallway on the second floor, Harry had paused to listen. Footsteps had told him that one man — not several — had come to see Milton Claverly.

It was after eleven o’clock. Harry had naturally supposed that the conference was ended at Zangwald’s. If so, why had only one man come to this house? Harry could see but one plausible answer. Abner Zangwald must have failed to bring up Milton’s name.

Who had come in alone? Louis Vandrow, probably. With the menace to Milton forestalled, the lawyer would naturally have returned to talk to his young client. Picturing Milton and Vandrow in the library, Harry could imagine them discussing the details of whatever had passed at Zangwald’s.

It dawned on Harry that an opportunity lay below. Since his conversation with Phyllis, Harry had gained a deep mistrust of circumstances. He knew that he could not rely upon Milton Claverly for a report of whatever news Louis Vandrow might have brought back from the conference.

The only course was to listen in. It would be in accord with the designs of The Shadow, for Harry’s chief had ordered him to be alert. Discretion was part of the duty which belonged to Harry, yet he could see no danger in venturing a trip downstairs. No one was on the floor below, except those two in the library.

Harry stole to the stairway and descended. His footsteps creaked at intervals; but with each pause, Harry made sure that he had not been heard. There was no trace of voices. He knew that the library door must be closed.

Reaching the hallway, Harry tiptoed in cautious fashion. He reached the door and laid his ear against it. He could hear a growled voice from within; after that, the faint semblance of Milton Claverly’s tone.

Harry realized suddenly that the visitor could not be Vandrow. If not, who was he? Milton had said nothing about another visitor. Had Milton deceived Harry; or had Milton, himself, been deceived?

Harry recalled that Milton had gone into the parlor after Vandrow had departed. Harry’s phone call had reminded Milton to make one of his own. Ostensibly, Milton had business in New York that required calls to that city. Affairs that dealt with the settlement of the estate. Milton had not been specific on that point.

Had Milton called someone after Vandrow’s departure? Had he summoned the unknown visitor who was at present in the library? Perhaps.

Picturing the events of the past hour, Harry realized that Lester, too, had had opportunity to enter the parlor. Harry had acquired a profound mistrust for the old servant. Wild one moment, somber the next, Lester seemed like a man who was playing a well-feigned part.

Could Lester have entered the picture? Harry wondered. He thought of Lester upstairs on the third floor. He wondered if by any chance the old fellow had decided to creep downstairs.

Harry turned from the library door; as he did so, he fancied that he heard something creak from the stairs to the second floor.

The stairway was obscure from this point. Harry went back across the hall and looked upward. No one was on the steps; yet it was possible that Lester had reached the bottom before Harry had turned. Impelled by his imagination, Harry swung about. At that instant, bony hands shot for his throat.

Lester had come down the steps. The servant had turned into a darkened passage that formed a route to the cellar steps. He had spied Harry eavesdropping. That, apparently, had made him believe an attack was justified.

THE force of Lester’s spring sent Harry backward. The young man’s head thumped against the newel post at the bottom of the banister. That jar; the clutch of Lester’s claws — the combined factors were sufficient. Harry slumped gasping upon the steps.

Before Harry could recover, Lester had pinioned his arms. Half dragging, half carrying the victim, Lester hauled Harry along the passage to the cellar. With surprising strength, the servant drew his victim down the wooden steps, past the entrance to the crypt, off toward a coal bin in the corner.

As Harry half regained his senses, choking claws again pressed his throat. Harry subsided. Lester twisted his arms in back of him and rolled Harry on his face. Whisking a rope from the corner of the bin, the servant bound Harry’s wrists. Then he tied the young man’s legs.

Rolled on his back, lying upon a heap of coal, Harry felt his consciousness return. It was too late. Already, Lester was pressing a thick handkerchief between Harry’s teeth. The servant was snarling venomously as he tightened the improvised gag.

Harry decided that it was best to make no struggle. He settled back and closed his eyes, pretending another lapse into oblivion.

Lester departed. Harry heard his footsteps pound across the stone floor. He listened while the servant’s creaking tread ascended the steps. Then Harry began to struggle with the cords. They were tight; but he knew that he could loosen them eventually.

While he struggled, resting at brief intervals, Harry tried to figure out the servant’s purpose. Had Lester merely decided to mete out this punishment because he had caught Harry snooping? Or did the servant plan evil and want Harry out of the way?

Both questions were elusive. In either event, Lester had been convinced that the bonds would remain secure. For he had made no search of Harry’s pockets. Hence he had failed to find the stub-nosed automatic that Harry had been carrying ever since his arrival in Torburg.

UPSTAIRS, Lester had reached the gloomy ground-floor hall. A silent chuckle quivered on his leering lips as he looked toward the closed door of the library. Milton Claverly and his visitor had not heard the sounds of the brief struggle on the stairway. That was to Lester’s liking.

The servant approached the closed door, waited there a moment, then turned back toward the stairway. Crouched forward, he began a slow ascent, cautiously contriving to keep his footsteps unheard. He reached the second floor; then continued to the third.

When his footfalls ceased, a door opened and another person crept into the darkened second story hall.

It was Phyllis Lingle. The girl had heard Lester come down from the third floor. She had opened her door after the servant had passed. She had heard the scuffle from the floor below. But Phyllis, when she had first peered down the stairway, had observed no one below. She had advanced too late to see Lester dragging Harry Vincent to the cellar.

The girl had heard Lester’s return. She had stepped back in her room to let the servant pass. Sure that Lester was on the third floor, the girl was anxious to learn what had happened below. She crept to the stairway and began a slow descent. Halfway down, Phyllis halted. She could hear the door of the study as it opened.

Low voices. Milton’s tone — then a growled interruption. Guarded footsteps. Milton and someone else were coming through the hall.

Phyllis waited; but they did not pass the foot of the stairway. Instead, they turned through the portion of the hall that ran alongside the stairs.

Crouched on a step, Phyllis peered between the uprights of the banisters. She could see the heads and shoulders of the two men as they went by. Though the hall was gloomy, she caught a clear glimpse of Milton’s face. It was strained and tense. Then the girl saw the features of the visitor.

The sharp profile of Hatch Rosling was easily discernible. The girl had never observed that face before; but the hatchet features were ones that she knew she would not forget: Rosling’s countenance was a vicious one.

The two men passed from view. Shoulder to shoulder, Rosling had followed only a pace behind Milton. The girl heard their footsteps turn. She thought that she heard a door open. She was sure that the two had taken a passage behind the stairs; one that led to the cellar.

Boldly, Phyllis arose from the step and hurried to the ground floor. The girl was wearing slippers; her footsteps were light, almost noiseless. She reached the passage that the men had taken. The door to the cellar was ajar. Opening it, the girl stared toward the little landing. Her gaze froze.

By the light that came from behind her — a dim trickle from the gloomy hall — Phyllis could see the entrance to the crypt. The door, a massive barrier of steel, was closed no longer. It stood half opened; beyond it blackness yawned.

As the girl remained staring, that blackness was replaced by a dull, yet mellow glow. Something had illuminated the cavernous depths of the crypt!

GASPING, Phyllis turned and hastened back to the hall. She knew where Milton and his unknown companion had gone — into the crypt.

If the inner door could be opened, so could the outer. The girl remembered the box that Milton had gained from his father’s lawyer; the box that he had opened with the key that Vandrow had left with Lester.

Phyllis realized that the key to the crypt could have been in that box. A duplicate key, other than the one that had been destroyed. Her fear was realized. The crypt actually formed a passageway in and out of the mansion.

The girl reached the second floor. Impetuously, she turned into her own room. She stared toward the end of the extension which housed the crypt, trembling as she gazed from the window. She saw no one; but she realized that either Milton or his companion — perhaps both — could already have continued through and out into the night.

It was still possible that they were yet in the crypt; preparing to proceed upon their way. But the girl did not wait to see. Phyllis was terrified. She wanted aid. She dared not appeal to Lester. Already, the servant’s actions had aroused her complete suspicion. There was only one person upon whom she could rely: Harry Vincent.

Phyllis pattered into the hall. She hurried along and tapped softly at Harry’s door. There was no response. Phyllis tapped again. Then, fearing to increase the loudness of the raps, she opened the door and entered.

The room was bathed in moonlight. The bed was in plain view. It was made up. Harry Vincent had not gone to bed tonight.

Wildly, the girl looked about. She saw that the room was empty. With a sob, Phyllis sank in a chair beside the window. She was horribly afraid.

Fearful minutes ticked by. Phyllis dared not leave the room. Menace seemed to exist throughout the old mansion. The girl could only wait for Harry’s return. She looked from the window. It opened on the side away from the crypt; it was toward the contour of the hill.

The whitened moonlight restored the girl’s courage; but only for the moment. As she glanced appealingly toward the sky, the girl’s eyes spied a bulky shape projecting above the trees along the slope. It was the top of the old bell-tower.

The slitted belfry; the topheavy cupola above it. The sight brought shivers to Phyllis Lingle. She remembered Lester’s croak of ghouls within that tower. Then came the dull realization that midnight would soon arrive.

Staring in horrified fascination, listening with a tenseness that she could not loosen, the girl waited. Silent and motionless, she watched the top of the bell-tower.

The overwhelming dread that gripped her was inspired by one thought. Phyllis Lingle was awaiting a new knell from the bells of doom!