Bells of Doom

CHAPTER VII FROM THE TOWER

THE next evening found a group of three assembled in the library of the old Claverly home. Milton Claverly and Phyllis Lingle were present. The third person was a visitor: Harry Vincent.

Harry had met Milton late that afternoon. He had accepted an invitation to dine at the Claverly house. Dinner had been set late; the meal had passed without event. Now the three were gathered in front of the fireplace in the library.

To Harry Vincent, this had been a most amazing visit. Amazing because it had been without incident. Usually, when Harry set forth at The Shadow’s bidding, he encountered strange conditions in short order. But this expedition had brought nothing.

Harry had come to Torburg to make the acquaintance of Milton Claverly and to watch events that might concern the man from Australia. Harry knew that Milton had been present at the affray in Messler’s apartment, but he knew nothing of any part that the young man might have played there.

Often, The Shadow dispatched his agents without giving them too much information. This left them free to draw conclusions from what they might actually encounter — not from what they might expect to happen. Hence Harry knew only that he was to watch Milton Claverly; and he had reduced his task to two simple probabilities.

The first was that Milton was faced by some unseen menace — a trap into which he had placed himself by coming to Torburg. The second was that Milton had come here for purposes of crime. The man might be a crook for all that Harry knew.

To Harry, Milton seemed a likable chap. Yet The Shadow’s agent was suspicious of the fellow’s suavity. Milton had a steady eye, one that could meet any glance. At the same time, his talk was smooth and he had the ability of diverting the conversation from any subject that was not to his liking.

Evidence of this came shortly after they had gone into the library. Phyllis made a chance remark that brought a quick look from Milton. The girl’s statement concerned a telephone call.

“LONG distance was trying to get you today, Milton,” said Phyllis. “It was shortly after you had left for Mr. Vandrow’s office. I meant to tell you at lunch time; but I was out.”

“Lester told me of the call,” responded Milton. “When I came in from Vandrow’s, I called the operator. It was a mistake. She had the wrong number. Vandrow is my lawyer” — this was to Harry Vincent — “and he’s the man you will have to see regarding any real estate transactions.”

“You mentioned his name during dinner,” stated Harry, pretending not to note how Milton had changed the subject. “Did he tell you much about your property holdings when you saw him this morning?”

“He talked considerably,” said Milton. “But very little of the property is really worthwhile. My father lost most of his valuable real estate. He was swindled before his death.”

“By whom?”

“Three men here in town. Big shots who tried to ruin his contracting business. They managed it and they grabbed a lot of property as well. Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp — birds of a feather, those three.”

Milton paused speculatively. As in Vandrow’s office, he was beginning to boil. He was not satisfied with his denunciation of the combine. He added another name to theirs.

“Abner Zangwald is a phony, too,” he stated. “Pretended to be a friend of my father’s. But he grabbed his share of land. He’s holding it for a big clean-up, the skinflint! I’d like to wring his neck!”

“That’s not fair, Milton.” The protest came from Phyllis. “You may be right about the three men whom you first mentioned; but Abner Zangwald was a real friend of your father’s.”

“So you thought,” gibed Milton, “but I’m not so easily fooled. After what Vandrow told me—”

“Why, Vandrow is Mr. Zangwald’s lawyer. He would not say a word against him!”

“He didn’t. That’s the funny part of it. Vandrow stood up for Zangwald. The old geezer is fooling him just as much as anyone else. Listen, Phyllis. My father bought a lot of property for a good investment. Three men grabbed their share and got rid of it at a profit.

“But Zangwald is holding on to what he got; and that proved him to be a fox. Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp did their dirty work when they smashed my father’s contracts. Seizing the property was just an added touch.

“Meanwhile, Zangwald lay back. He was a friend. But he stands ready to clean up a million dollars on that land he took from my father.”

“A million!” exclaimed Phyllis. “That’s impossible, Milton. The other men made no such profit as that when they sold their land. They had as much of the real estate as Mr. Zangwald.”

MILTON reached for a cigarette. He realized suddenly that Phyllis Lingle knew nothing of the power project. He had forgotten that the matter was still a secret, so far as the public was concerned. As he lighted his cigarette, he made up for his blunder.

“Guess I was exaggerating,” he grumbled. “I just figured that old Zangwald wouldn’t be hanging on to the land unless it meant plenty of profit. There’s an idea for you, Vincent. Why don’t you look up this fellow Zangwald? See why he won’t sell his real estate?”

“He has a lot of land?” questioned Harry.

“Plenty,” replied Milton. “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ask Vandrow about the exact property that Zangwald acquired from my father. Then you stop around to see the old egg and try to buy some of it. Tell me how you make out, afterward.”

“All right,” agreed Harry. Then, seeing that Milton was about to dismiss the subject, he took that task upon himself. “Speaking about property,” he added, “Who owns that old tower up on the hill?”

A pallor showed on the face of Phyllis Lingle. Milton Claverly sobered as he puffed his cigarette. He was the one who answered, in a slow, monotonous tone.

“My father built that bell-tower,” he informed. “He gave it to the town of Torburg. The bells were placed there to peal forth certain tidings. One purpose was that of sounding death knells for the departed—”

“Don’t!” Phyllis was pleading as she rose from her chair. “Don’t talk of that, Milton! I can’t bear it!”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Milton. “I had forgotten how you felt about those bells, Phyllis—”

His plea ended as the girl went from the room. Unable to control her emotions, she was sobbing as she left. Milton turned to Harry.

“The bells sounded my father’s death,” the heir said, in a sober tone. “Lester — the old servant — spread some absurd rumor that my father had revived while the bells were tolling; that he called them ‘bells of doom.’

“No one was present to verify the story. It may have been the product of Lester’s imagination. However, the bells have remained silent ever since. The tower door is padlocked.”

“Did Miss Lingle hear the bells?” inquired Harry.

“No,” replied Milton, “but she learned the story. It was usual to toll the bells during important funerals in Torburg; but that custom was omitted when my father was buried. Perhaps the fact that the bells were silent impressed Phyllis more than their ringing would have done.”

Harry nodded. He could see that Milton was perturbed. Harry attributed that fact to the young man’s concern for Phyllis.

Lester entered while Milton was standing silent; the arrival of the suspicious-eyed servant increased the gloom.

Harry glanced at his watch. He noted that it was close to eleven o’clock. He decided that it would be wise to return to the hotel; and he mentioned his intention.

Milton Claverly made no effort to stay his guest’s departure. Lester produced Harry’s hat and coat. The Shadow’s agent left.

WHEN he reached the hotel, Harry sat down in the lobby and lighted a cigar. There had been something ominous in the incident at Claverly’s. It foreboded strange events in Torburg. Harry wished that he could learn more concerning the bell-tower. He wondered who could give him the complete story.

It was nearly midnight when Harry had finished his cigar. Meanwhile, a lanky, stoop-shouldered man had entered the small lobby of the old hotel. This fellow was talking with the proprietor when Harry arose and approached the desk. Harry addressed the proprietor.

“I left my coupe on the street last night,” informed Harry. “You said it would be all right. What about tonight? Should I put it in a garage?”

“It’s too late,” returned the proprietor. “The only garage in town closes at ten o’clock. Did you lock your car?”

“Yes.”

“Then leave it on the street. It’s safe there.”

“But what about the police? Won’t they object?”

The proprietor chuckled. He pointed to the lanky man who was slouched on the desk.

“Mr. Vincent,” introduced the proprietor, “shake hands with Sheriff Locke. He represents the law in this town. Ask him about your car.”

“Leave it where it is,” said the sheriff, as he shook hands with Harry. “If old Conkling wants to shut his garage at ten o’clock, it’s his own hard luck. I’m not going to drive visitors away from Torburg by putting tickets on their cars.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, “I appreciate it, sheriff. I expect to be in town for several days—”

He stopped. A telephone had rung behind the desk; the proprietor, answering the call, was beckoning to the sheriff. The official took the instrument and growled a hello. His conversation was a brief one. He banged the receiver on the hook and swung to Harry.

“I want to use your car,” exclaimed the sheriff. “You drive it — take me up to Maurice Dunwell’s. I’ll show you the way. There’s trouble up there. That was his niece calling.”

“What’ s the matter, sheriff?” put in the proprietor.

“I’ll tell you later,” returned Locke, grimly. “Hurry, Vincent. We’ve got to get up there quick!”

They hastened from the hotel and clambered into Harry’s car. The sheriff pointed the way. Harry shot the car forward. It was then that the sheriff began to talk.

“Dunwell’s been shot,” he stated. “That’s what his niece said. He’s a big fellow in this town, Dunwell is. A manufacturer. There — take the street to the left. Last house on the right — where the lights are—”

HARRY pulled up in front of an old mansion. He and the sheriff leaped from the car. The front door opened as they approached. A young girl pointed toward the entrance to a living room.

Locke strode in that direction. He paused when he had crossed the threshold. Harry Vincent stopped beside him.

Slouched in an easy chair was the figure of a wizened man attired in a dressing gown. This was Maurice Dunwell. His head was bent forward upon his chest. His hands, with clawlike fingers, were clutching the arms of the chair.

Just below the level of the man’s bent-down chin was a jagged, bloodstained mark upon the dressing gown. Blackened burns showed with the crimson stain. Maurice Dunwell had been shot through the heart, at close range.

“I–I heard the shot,” gasped Dunwell’s niece, speaking from the door. “Then — then the front door closed. Someone killed my uncle — someone who ran away—”

The girl paused. The sheriff was nodding solemnly as he studied Dunwell’s body. A whirring sound came from the mantelpiece. A clock struck the hour of twelve with quick, short strokes.

The sheriff did not notice the sound of the strokes. He approached the body and placed his hand on the slumped shoulder.

“Dead,” he said, turning to Harry. “It’s murder. No question about it. I’ll call the county coroner, to tell him about—”

The sheriff broke off. He swung about in sudden amazement as a new sound came to his ears. Harry Vincent stood transfixed; so did the girl by the door of the living room.

Dong!

From far off came the sound of a solemn bell, a stroke that rifled through the outside air. It was a note that commanded complete attention.

Dong!

Again the melancholy stroke. Ghoulishly, it floated to the ears of these listeners, bringing involuntary shivers as they heard the muffled tone.

Dong!

Harry Vincent knew the source of that sound. The knell was coming from the old bell-tower! These were the tones that had tolled the death of David Claverly. High in the deserted belfry, the brazen clappers were beating forth the news that another life had passed!

Bells of doom! Their monotone continued. Rusted throats were clanging the death of Maurice Dunwell. A murderer’s triumph was gaining its announcement. Throughout the neighborhood of Torburg, sleepers were awakening to learn that horror had come to the little town.

MINUTES passed. They seemed endless. Yet the three living people stood as rigid as the corpse of Maurice Dunwell. The throbs of those brazen bells were hypnotic. They held the listeners motionless. Then, with the suddenness that had marked their beginning, the peals ended.

Echoes persisted. Cold night air, sweeping in through the opened front door, carried a chilling quiver. The clangor had left a menace in its wake. Silenced, the bells were as terrible as before.

Long seconds elapsed before the sheriff could find his voice. When he spoke, his words were gasps that came from dry, parched lips.

“The bells — the bells in the tower!” Locke was stammering as he turned to Harry Vincent. “They pealed the death of David Claverly. He — he said they would ring again. We have heard them! I heard them — yes, I heard them — and you heard them. They—”

The sheriff shuddered as he paused. His hard-faced countenance had paled. Mechanically, he raised a hand and pointed a trembling finger to the slumped corpse in the chair.

“They were ringing for this man,” he blurted. “The bells were ringing the death of Maurice Dunwell!”