Maxwell Grant
Bells of Doom
CHAPTER I
THE FOUR PLAYERS
“ANOTHER deal, gentlemen?”
The question came in a suave tone. It was uttered by a shrewd-faced young man who was one of a party of four. The men were seated at a card table; the tuxedo-clad speaker was riffling a pack of cards as he spoke.
“Let’s call it quits, Claverly,” responded a second player. This man, middle-aged and portly, was pleasant in tone. “We dock in New York early tomorrow. Some sleep wouldn’t do us any harm.”
“All right, Messler,” agreed Claverly. “You’re the heavy loser. You’re the one to choose.”
Messler hesitated. Claverly’s statement made him think of the other players. Messler looked across the table toward a hatchet-faced individual who was clicking a depleted stack of chips.
“You have lost also, Rosling,” observed Messler. “If you would like to extend the game, I am willing.”
“Not for me,” growled Rosling. “I’ve been hooked for enough dough already. You’re the banker, Claverly. Here’re my chips. Cash ‘em.”
As Claverly complied, Messler turned to the fourth player. He was facing an impassive, hawk-visaged personage who had made no comment. Messler put a formal question to the fourth player.
“How about it, Cranston?” he queried. “Do you agree that it is time to end the game?”
“Yes,” came the quiet response.
Chips were clattering. Rosling was turning in his small stack. Messler had an even smaller pile. Cranston’s chips, however, were many and of varied colors. Claverly, eying them as he prepared to pay, realized instantly that Cranston, like himself, was a heavy winner.
Dull, muffled throbs were audible all the while. These four were aboard the steamship Laurentic, in passage from Liverpool to New York. The pounding of the engines accounted for the throbs, for the ship was wallowing through a heavy sea.
These four men were alone in the smoking room of the liner. It was past midnight; other passengers — stragglers who had ventured from their cabins — had retired. Yet these four, untroubled by the roughness of the weather, had continued the game that they had begun earlier in the evening.
It was not surprising that the rough passage had not troubled them. During their acquaintanceship aboard the Laurentic, each had learned that the others were accustomed to ocean travel. Augustus Messler, the portly gentleman, was a wealthy New Yorker who was completing a voyage around the world. Milton Claverly, the suave young chap, was ending a trip from Australia. Charles Rosling, the man with the hatchet face, had declared himself to be a frequent transatlantic traveler.
The fourth member of the party — Lamont Cranston — had proven to be the most experienced voyager of all. He had sailed every ocean and was familiar with lands which, to the others, were no more than names.
Cranston had arrived in London just in time to board the Laurentic. He had reached the English capital after a journey through the heart of Africa, from Capetown to Cairo.
Accounts settled, Augustus Messler began to comment on these facts. Settling back in his chair, the portly man puffed at a huge cigar and chuckled as he surveyed his companions. He seemed undisturbed by the money that he had lost. The opportunity for a last chat was more important.
“Travelers, all of us,” commented Messler. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. It is odd, the way that people meet. Each man with his own story of the world.
“Myself, for instance. My trip around the world began as a pleasure journey. I had no expectation of adventure until I decided to visit the north of India. My trip to Delhi changed everything. It was there that I acquired the jewels of the Rajah Salgore.
“From then on, my trip required caution. I hired guards for my journey from Delhi to Calcutta and it was well that I did so. Twice, attempts were made to rob me. I did not feel safe until I was out of India.”
Messler paused to chuckle. Claverly was eying him shrewdly. Rosling was interested, although he tried to feign indifference. Cranston, impassive, was watching the speaker with steady gaze.
“I worked a clever trick in Calcutta,” resumed Messler. “I engaged passage on a P & O liner; then took a boat that left two days earlier. That was a wise course. They arrested five men aboard the P & O ship before it reached England. Those fellows were held as suspicious characters. It is believed that they came aboard to rob me.
“In London, I conferred with the authorities at Scotland Yard. They arranged for my passage aboard the Laurentic. My jewels are safe on this ship. The New York police will see that I am protected when I arrive tomorrow.”
Messler paused with a beaming smile. He looked toward Cranston, as though expecting his companion to give a story that would equal his own. Cranston spoke, quietly.
“My experience differs from yours,” he stated. “I went to South Africa, prepared for adventure. I trekked the veldt; then set forth through the jungle. I was the only white man in the expedition, until we had passed Lake Victoria.
“Yet in my search for adventure, I found none. The entire trip lacked excitement. Danger existed; but it never came close enough to be a menace. We bagged big game; but always in easy, methodical fashion.”
MILTON CLAVERLY smiled suavely. The contrast between the two stories amused him. He felt that it was his turn to speak; so he presented a tale that differed completely from the others.
“I’ve been to a lot of places,” stated Claverly, “and I’ve had my share of adventures. I wound up in Adelaide, Australia, and I had pretty well decided to remain there, until a month ago.
“Then I received a cable. It announced the death of my father. The cable was from his lawyer. I was needed back in the States. So here I am — on my way to collect a legacy. There’s something of a mystery about it, as near as I can make out.”
“How so?” inquired Messler.
“My father was reputed to be very wealthy,” replied Claverly. “At one time he just about owned the little town of Torburg, where he lived. But his lawyer informs me that the affairs of the estate were quite involved at the time of my father’s death.
“I’ll collect a worthwhile inheritance, I suppose. But it won’t be as large as I might have expected. I guess my father slipped plenty when he grew old. Lost his hold on business. Poor investments, probably. But I’ll make out all right. Torburg will be my home instead of Adelaide. Twelve thousand miles apart — that’s all — and it doesn’t make much difference to a man who’s traveled as often as I have.”
Charles Rosling had risen from his chair. Steadying himself as the boat rolled, the hatchet-faced man growled a few brief remarks.
“I’ve traveled plenty, too,” asserted Rosling. “But it hasn’t been for pleasure or adventure. Business — that’s all. I’ve got no jewels, no big game, no legacy. I don’t want ‘em. I’m tired of crossing this big pond on a lot of tubs that jump around in bad weather. But I’ve got to do it, on account of business.
“That’s my story. My idea of pleasure and adventure is holding some good hands in a card game. I didn’t get any tonight. All I did was get hooked for a bunch of dough. So I’m turning in to see if I can get six hours’ sleep out of the bum bunk I’ve paid too much for. Good night.”
Rosling strolled from the smoking room, lurching with the roll of the ship. The others watched his departure. Messler shook his head.
“Some people get very little from life,” observed the portly man. “That fellow Rosling is one of them. He’s not even a good loser in a card game. Well — we meet a lot of his type.
“I like to keep up acquaintanceships that are worthwhile. Now that Rosling has left us, let me extend an invitation to you two gentlemen. You have heard me speak about the jewels that I acquired in India. Probably you would like to see them.”