Bells of Doom

CHAPTER XXII THE FINAL DEATH

To those others who stared in the direction of Louis Vandrow’s gaze, the sudden arrival of The Shadow was also an unexplainable manifestation. This crypt was like a tomb. The manifestation of so ominous a presence seemed incredible within the confines of the dimly lighted vault.

None knew that The Shadow had previously probed the locks of the crypt’s door; that, on this occasion, his entry had been accomplished minutes ago; that his lurking figure had been waiting upon the steps from the outer door.

The Shadow had permitted Louis Vandrow to speak. He had wanted witnesses to learn the fiend’s story from Vandrow’s own lips. The lawyer’s gloating words had become a confession. That was why The Shadow laughed.

The mockery was significant as it crept through the crypt. Those who heard it realized that The Shadow, as capably as Vandrow, could have recited these facts. For the mirth bespoke understanding. Now, The Shadow, dominant, took up the statement where the lawyer had ceased.

“You spoke of bells in the tower,” hissed The Shadow. “But you have not told their secret. The secret that you learned” — his hiss was a sinister sneer in Vandrow’s ears — “and the secret which I discovered. Bells in the cupola; hidden bells, identical in tone to those in the belfry. Bells that could be heard through openings that formed when the switch was pressed within this crypt. Bells that would ring automatically, with the pressure of the switch.”

A pause. The Shadow was stepping inward. His flashing eyes caught the dull light and returned it with a magnified sparkle. Lester found his voice.

“The spirit from the tower!” croaked the servant. “The one that was here last night. He knows of the bells! The bells of doom!”

“I divined that secret on the second night,” hissed The Shadow. “I knew it then, in part. Another task — on the road to Lewisport — prevented me from coming here last night. But tonight, I arrived.

“I could see that three dead men had feared to speak. I knew that Milton Claverly was innocent. I have watched him; I witnessed his first conference with your henchman, Rosling.”

Milton stared. The Shadow had been aboard the Laurentic. Through the young man’s brain flashed that recollection of a wardrobe door that had not swung shut with the lurching of the liner!

“Someone in Torburg was responsible for crime,” resumed The Shadow. “The murderer knew his ground too well. I knew that he had accomplices, that murderer. I was searching for Rosling as his tool.

“You or Zangwald. Both had the opportunity. You, Vandrow, were the one I chose. Your closeness to Milton Claverly. The insinuations that you drilled into his mind. Your visits here. Your opportunity for gain.

“Tonight” — The Shadow’s tone was solemn — “I named you as the murderer. I marked Rosling as your accomplice. I looked for no crime from him. I knew where you would be. I was there, to prevent the death of your last intended victim.”

ALL knew that The Shadow had reference to Abner Zangwald as the man marked for doom tonight. The echo of the whispered words brought new thoughts of death.

Louis Vandrow stood helpless; yet no one made a move. All were trusting in this one rescuer.

Vandrow snarled as he quailed. Oaths were on his lips. His face was whitened in the gloom. The lawyer saw death in the eyes before him. He expected a flash from an automatic. His curses ended. Still holding his useless revolver; pointed downward, he felt the paralysis of fear creep through his arms.

Cringing, the lawyer turned to escape The Shadow’s burning gaze. He looked toward the door from the cellar; the one through which he had entered here. Then a mad cry escaped the lawyer’s leap.

With a frantic endeavor, he sprang from the path of The Shadow’s guns, off toward the corner where all the rest were standing.

A counterthrust had come. Through that doorway bounded the form of Hatch Rosling; behind him, three gangsters. One was the fellow who had escaped from Zangwald’s; two were gorillas who had been waiting in the car that had fled.

Had The Shadow sought to cover Vandrow, the act would have made him a temporary target for those entering crooks. Rosling, as he leaped furiously forward, came unarmed. He had given his revolver to Vandrow.

The Shadow ignored Rosling. He aimed for the other three.

Shots roared through the crypt. Bursts of flame from automatics came with the flashes of the gangster revolvers. The Shadow whirled as he fired, away from the corner where helpless persons stood. It was a desperate fight at close quarters.

A bullet clipped The Shadow’s hat brim. Another winged the folds of the cloak. A singing slug skimmed The Shadow’s shoulder; a hit, though a slight one, for the crook who had fired it. But all the while, The Shadow’s automatics thundered.

The last barks from revolvers came from sinking hands. While they fired, the gorillas were sagging. Useless shots ricocheted as they chipped the tiled floor. Then Rosling fell upon The Shadow. Madly, he managed to grasp the gun that was in the gloved left hand. He wrenched the weapon free and aimed.

Already The Shadow’s right was swinging. Malletlike, the automatic was descending for Rosling’s wrist. Swifter than the crook could find the trigger, The Shadow was ending Rosling’s fight. Yet amid this duel came another stroke, more timely than The Shadow’s.

A gun barked. The shot came from the steps to the cellar landing. A whining bullet found its mark in Hatch Rosling’s brain. The crook slumped as The Shadow’s gun thudded upon his wrist.

Harry Vincent bounded into view.

HARRY had finally managed to loose his bonds. He had scudded for the crypt, reaching there just as the fray broke loose. Clambering in as crooks were falling, Harry had done his part to aid The Shadow. His stub-nosed automatic was in his fist; a wreath of smoke was curling from its muzzle.

The Shadow and his agent turned toward the corner. Through the smoke they saw a grim unequal struggle. It was one that The Shadow had anticipated; one upon which he had counted when he had dealt with the crooks at the door.

Five men had launched themselves en masse upon Louis Vandrow. Those five were Milton Claverly, Abner Zangwald and the three officers of the law. The lawyer was fighting fiendishly. Hands were forcing his arms upward, so that he could not use his guns.

Yet, as The Shadow turned, Vandrow wrested free. He lost one revolver; he swung the other and dealt the coroner a glancing blow. He delivered a vicious punch that sent the prosecutor staggering. Leaping from the sheriff’s grasp, he rolled against the wall and turned to aim his revolver at Abner Zangwald.

Harry Vincent could not fire; for Milton Claverly was in his path. Moreover, Phyllis Lingle was crouching in the corner beyond Vandrow; and a wild shot might have struck the girl.

But The Shadow, his left arm hanging limp, held Louis Vandrow covered. Despite the fact, The Shadow withheld his fire.

As Harry stood bewildered, a revolver spat its flame. Louis Vandrow slumped. It was then that Harry understood. The shot had come from the gun that Vandrow had lost. Lester, watching catlike for his chance, had bounded from the wall to seize it.

The Shadow had spied the old servant’s action. Though ready with his own weapon, the cloaked warrior had waited. The last death had been in the making; to Lester belonged the privilege of its delivery.

Fiercely, the servant had gained vengeance. He had killed the man who had murdered his old master. The Shadow’s shot had not been needed. Already, Louis Vandrow was sprawled upon the floor, coughing out his evil life.

Turning, The Shadow swept toward the outer door. His form blended with blackness as Harry Vincent came forward to join the others. Harry realized now that Lester had eliminated him purely because he had caught him spying on Milton Claverly. Harry’s timely aid in the battle had squared matters. His part was to remain here, as Milton Claverly’s friend.

Lester stood in the middle of the room. While others were half bewildered by the sudden end of the struggle, the servant still found a duty to perform. Dropping to the tiled floor, Lester fixed his gaze on the dying face of Louis Vandrow. Then, with a grim croak, the servant pressed the switch that was set deep in the floor.

Clang!

Muffled, far away, came the message of the bells. Louis Vandrow heard the distant sound. Those bells were meant for him!

Dong! — Dong!—

The dirge continued. Bells of doom were tolling the death of Louis Vandrow as they had marked a knell for the ears of David Claverly. With a final cough, the lawyer gave a writhe and then lay still. His career of evil was ended.

Yet the bells kept on as Lester held the switch. Triumph showed upon the servant’s withered visage as his bright, sparkling eyes still stared toward the rugged face of Louis Vandrow, that countenance that death had frozen forever.

OUTSIDE the mansion, the moonlight showed a tall, spectral figure striding toward the road that led past the hill. Burning eyes reflected the sky’s glow as they turned upward. The Shadow saw the cupola of the tower — that spot from which bells of doom were toning their final peals, a paean of triumph that marked the death of a superfiend.

The clamor ended. Echoes faded from the summit of the bell-tower. Then a new sound rose clear upon the night. More strident than the brazen clangor of the bells; more terrible than the monotone that had preceded it, the laugh of The Shadow burst clear through moonlit air.

Sardonic tones rose to a weird crescendo. The laughter burst with shuddering mockery. The laugh ended eerily. The wooded heights above sent back their echoes in uncanny mirth. Seemingly, a final throb formed a ghoulish whisper from the tower itself.

Right had triumphed. Truth had gained its claim. A maker of evil had perished, hard on the heels of his evil henchmen. Crime had ended with the battle in the crypt. Bells of doom had rung forth their last message.

And The Shadow, victorious, had laughed in triumph!