Bells of Doom

CHAPTER VI LESTER SPEAKS

IT was later that evening. Milton Claverly was standing in front of an open fireplace, warming his hands above the glowing hearth. He was in a room that had brought back childhood memories — the library of his father’s home.

Seated close by was an attractive girl of twenty. This was Phyllis Lingle. Her father had been an old friend of David Claverly. After her father’s death, the contractor had become her guardian. Phyllis had lived here ever since.

Milton Claverly had remembered Phyllis as a child of five. He had been surprised upon meeting her tonight, for the little girl of his recollections had grown to womanhood. Phyllis seemed older than her years. She was attractive and quiet of manner.

His meeting with her had caused Milton to subdue the rage that he had felt after his conversation with Louis Vandrow. For the first time since his discussion in the lawyer’s office, Milton felt ready to resume talk concerning his father.

“You were here when my father died?” questioned the young man, turning to Phyllis.

“No,” replied the girl, in a tone that bore a touch of sadness. “I was away — at school — and I had not been informed of his illness. I did not know that it was serious.”

“Lester was here?”

“Yes. But he had very little to say when I returned. I learned simply that your father died very suddenly. It — it seemed almost incredible to me.”

“You were here for the funeral?”

“Yes — that is, not for the first one. But the second — the real funeral—”

“What do you mean, Phyllis?”

The girl’s voice had choked. Milton spoke soothingly, wondering what had caused her sudden hesitation. Phyllis recovered her composure, but her voice was strained as she explained.

“I forgot that you did not know about the crypt,” said Phyllis. “Your father — when he was growing older — developed one very strange phobia. It seemed — well, it seemed that he gained a fear of being buried alive.”

“What was the reason?”

“I don’t know. I believe that once, when he was ill, he fell into a trance condition. However, he dreaded the thought of a burial immediately after death.”

“But how were there two funerals?”

“The first was when they placed his body in the crypt. His will called for that, Milton. The crypt was a special addition that he built to the house. There is one entrance in the cellar; another outside.”

“His body was placed in the crypt?”

“Yes, to remain there for a week. After that, it was removed and taken to the cemetery.”

“And the crypt?”

“The doors were locked. To stay so. The will provided for that also.”

“Are there no keys?”

“They were destroyed.”

MILTON pondered over the girl’s words. This was a new angle that concerned his father’s death. After a brief interval, Milton put another question.

“When was the crypt built?” he asked. “About the same time as the bell-tower?”

“Yes.” The girl’s voice quavered. “But don’t talk about the bell-tower, Milton. Those bells — I can remember them yet. I never want to hear them again!”

“You heard them at the time of my father’s death?”

“No!” Phyllis gasped as she made the statement. “No! If I had heard them then — I–I think I would have gone mad! Don’t talk about them, Milton!”

The girl’s face had whitened. Milton could see her trembling. He approached and spoke in a quiet, encouraging tone. Phyllis tried to smile.

“I’ll forget it, Milton,” she said. “But don’t talk about the bells. Ask Lester about them. He can tell you—”

At that moment, Lester entered. A stoop-shouldered, cadaverous fellow, the servant possessed eyes that were both keen and suspicious. He directed his gaze toward Milton and acted as though about to ask some question. But when he spoke, it was to deliver a message.

“Someone wishes to speak to you on the telephone,” said Lester. “A gentleman from New York, sir.”

“His name?” inquired Milton.

“He said it was Vincent, sir,” replied Lester. “Mr. Harry Vincent.”

“I never heard of him,” declared Milton, abruptly.

“So he said, sir,” stated Lester. “He told me that he knew a friend of yours — a Mr. Lamont Cranston—”

“A friend of Cranston’s, eh?” broke in Milton, quickly. “I’ll talk to him, Lester. Where is the telephone?”

“Across the hall, sir. In the old parlor.”

Milton left the library. When he returned five minutes later, he found Phyllis alone in the room. The girl had completely recovered her composure.

“A chap selling real estate,” remarked Milton. “Buying it, too, for that matter. His name is Harry Vincent and he comes from New York. A friend of Lamont Cranston’s.”

“Who is Lamont Cranston?” asked Phyllis.

“I met him on the boat,” replied Milton. “An interesting chap. A millionaire globe-trotter. He was returning from a trip through Africa.”

The young man paused to light a cigarette. This was a give-away habit with Milton Claverly. His natural suavity was sometimes lost when he came to a stopping point in conversation. On those occasions, he invariably produced a cigarette as reason for the pause.

This time, Milton was wondering whether he should mention more concerning Lamont Cranston. He decided to do so, now that Vincent — a friend of Cranston’s — happened to be in town.

“Cranston and I went up to see a wealthy fellow named Messler,” resumed Milton. “There was trouble up at the place. Some gunmen tried to steal a batch of Messler’s jewels. He had detectives there; Cranston and I aided them in stopping the robbery. Rather a nasty affair. Exciting, though.

“I remember telling Cranston that I had property here in Torburg. I suppose he told this chap Vincent to stop here and see me. Well, I’ll talk to Vincent tomorrow. He’s staying down at the hotel. I might invite him up here to dinner, since he’s a friend of Cranston’s.”

MILTON went back to the fireplace. Phyllis picked up a book that she had been reading. She announced that she was retiring for the night.

After the girl had gone from the library, Lester passed through the room. Milton hailed him.

“I want to talk to you, Lester,” said the heir. “First, about that key to the box that Vandrow gave me. Did you get the key from your room?”

“Yes, sir.” The servant produced the key. “Here it is.”

“Something else, Lester.” Milton’s tone was nonchalant. “Regarding my father’s death. What was unusual about it?”

A strange look appeared upon the servant’s cadaverous countenance. Lester’s eyes stared through narrowed lids.

Milton met the focused gaze; he could see a glitter that the servant was unable to suppress.

“Come on, Lester,” urged Milton. “I was talking with Mr. Vandrow. He said that you could tell me—”

“I can!” Lester spat the words. “I can tell you that your father was killed! I can speak to you, for you are his son.”

“Killed?” echoed Milton. “How?”

“I do not know,” returned Lester. “But he died by someone’s hand. His enemies wanted him to die.”

“Someone came here to kill him?”

“No. If they had, I would have slain them instead. I do not know how my master was killed. I had been watching him. I had given him his medicine, as Doctor Humbrell told me to do. Nothing had been touched. No one was here. Yet the master died.”

“Small ground for suspicion, Lester.”

“It is not suspicion, sir. I know that someone brought about the master’s death.”

Milton shrugged his shoulders. He had expected intelligent answers from Lester. These statements were disappointing. The servant seemed to realize that fact. He approached and wagged a finger.

“Doctor Humbrell could have told, sir—”

“What? You mean he played a part in it? Was the medicine poisoned, Lester?”

“No, sir. But some change was made in the directions. There were new prescriptions — new hours at which to give them — and your father died immediately afterward.”

“What did Humbrell have to say?”

“Nothing, sir.” Lester’s tone was solemn. “There was nothing he could say, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because” — Lester’s voice had become a croak — “Doctor Humbrell died the same night as your father. He never reached his home after he left this house.”

“He was murdered?” questioned Milton.

“They called it an accident, sir,” responded Lester. “Some miscreant had opened the drawbridge over the old canal. Doctor Humbrell’s car toppled from the road. He was drowned before he could be rescued.”

MILTON paced back and forth. This was an incident that Vandrow had not mentioned. Probably the lawyer, like everyone else, believed that the physician’s death had been an accident. Then a thought struck Milton.

“Lester,” said the heir, “tell me about the bells. Why does Miss Phyllis fear them?”

“Because they tolled the master’s death,” croaked the servant. “And never since have they been rung. They tolled his death — before he was dead!”

“What!”

“I mean it, sir. They called it an accident; but I know the truth. They did not believe me when I told them that the master was still alive.”

“Give me the details. Here, sit down, Lester. I want your story.”

Milton took a chair while Lester perched himself on the edge of a bench. In his same croaking tone, the servant resumed the story. His voice pictured the events of which he spoke. Milton Claverly could almost see the scene in his father’s bedroom.

“The master had a spasm after Doctor Humbrell had gone,” explained the servant. “He dropped back on the pillows. I knew that Doctor Humbrell could not have reached his home. I called up the young doctor who lives close by.

“He came here and pronounced your father dead. He went downstairs to telephone to different persons, while I remained here. The master was lying before me” — Lester spread his hands — “like a corpse. I, too, thought that he was dead.

“Time went by, sir. The young doctor had not returned. He was making many calls. Then I heard the bells” — Lester cupped his hand to his ear, as if hearing an echo from some distant space of time — “the bells in the tower. Those were the bells that your father had placed there. Those bells were to ring the death of people who meant much to Torburg.

“The bells were ringing for the master. Slowly, sir, as though they knew who it was that had died. The bells were filled with sorrow. Tears came to my eyes as I listened. Then I heard breathing. I looked toward the master” — Lester’s eyes opened and stared toward an imaginary bed — “and I saw him — saw him, sir — rising from his death couch!”

“My father was alive!”

“Yes. Alive and speaking!”

“What did he say?”

LESTER was on his feet. The old servant’s eyes were glowing wildly. He was playing the part of his dying master, repeating words, gasped words, that had been indelibly impressed upon his memory.

“He said: ‘The bells! Bells of doom! They are ringing for me! They will be silent, those bells that ring for me. But when they ring again, they will tell new doom! Doom for those who — ’”

Lester’s quaver ended. The servant sank back upon the bench. It was Milton who was on his feet. Eagerly, the heir spoke. He wanted to hear all.

“Go on, Lester. Go on. What else did my father say?”

“That was all, sir. No more. He sank back upon the pillows. He was dead. He had heard the bells. They kept on ringing, with that clang that I can still hear.”

Milton paced across the room. The story had impressed him. Just as he had pictured the sight of his dying father, so could he imagine the ringing of the bells in the tall tower. Tracing back from effect to cause, the young man turned to the servant.

“Who rang the bells?” he quizzed.

“Old Yokes, the bell ringer,” replied Lester.

“Who told him to ring them?” demanded Milton.

“He did not know,” responded Lester. “He said that someone called his home and told him to ring the bells. A death knell for David Claverly.”

“And the bells have been silent since?”

“Yes, sir. The tower has been closed and locked. But some time” — Lester’s eyes glared venomously — “those bells will ring again. Again — again — again! They will be bells of doom!”

“To whom have you told this story, Lester?”

“I told it to the young doctor. To Mr. Vandrow. To Mr. Zangwald. To others, sir — such as Miss Phyllis — and many have heard the tale.”

“My father was buried in the crypt below the house?”

“Yes, sir. But his body was removed one week later. It was buried in the cemetery.”

“What about the crypt? Is it locked?”

“Yes, sir. The keys have been destroyed.”

Milton nodded. This matched the statement that Phyllis had made. Milton strolled across the room and picked up the tin box that he had received from Vandrow. Lester eyed the object curiously.

“Documents of my father’s,” remarked Milton. “Other objects, perhaps. This little key that you gave me will open the box. I shall examine its contents tonight.”

WITH that, Milton walked from the library and ascended the steps to the second floor. He was going to the room that Lester had prepared for him.

The servant heard his new master’s footsteps dwindle. Then Lester shambled from the library and went to the rear of the main hall. He opened a door that led to a driveway behind the house.

There, Lester stood staring through the moonlight. To his left was the low roof of the sealed crypt that extended from the house. But the servant’s eyes did not turn in that direction. They were gazing toward the right, toward the slope upon which the old bell-tower stood ghostlike in the moonlight.

A fierce expression came upon Lester’s face. Crossing the drive, the servant turned his view toward the town below. He raised a clenched fist as his lips spat curses. His venom was directed upon the town of Torburg.

Imprecations ended, Lester went back into the house. The bolts of the door clicked shut. The mansion, like the bell-tower, rested silent beneath the moonlight that shone upon the little town of Torburg.