“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!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE SHADOW ENTERS
THE town hall of Torburg was a remodeled structure that stood on the slope of one of the hills about the village. This building was the meeting place for all town committees. It housed the offices of various officials.
Usually, the town hall was closed at night. But on this evening, nearly twenty-four hours after the death of Maurice Dunwell, the lights of the old building were aglow. Cars were parked outside the town hall.
A group of men were in conference. They were gathered about a long table in a fair-sized room. At the head sat a big, bushy-browed fellow whose thick lips and glaring eyes marked him as a dominating personage. This was Abner Zangwald, at present the chairman of Torburg’s board of selectmen.
Other members of the board were present. With them were certain persons who had been summoned to the meeting. Sheriff Wheaton Locke was present, accompanied by Harry Vincent. Louis Vandrow, attorney for the board, was near the lower end of the table. The county coroner was also present; and the final member of the group was a roughly dressed fellow — Absalom Yokes, formerly the bell ringer in the old tower.
This group had joined in solemn conclave to discuss the episode of the preceding night. Under ordinary circumstances, a meeting of this sort might have been amusing to Harry Vincent. But the present occasion was one that commanded solemnity.
Abner Zangwald was speaking in a rumbling voice. Harry, staring across the room, fixed his eyes upon a doorway that led to a little anteroom. As Harry watched, he saw the door move inward. The motion was almost imperceptible; yet it impressed Harry.
In the morning, Harry had managed to send a wire to New York. His telegram had been a simple message, pertaining to real estate transactions. It had been dispatched to Rutledge Mann, an investment broker whose headquarters was in Manhattan.
That telegram, however, had constituted word to The Shadow. Mann, like Harry, was an agent of the mysterious chief. The simple dispatch had meant that trouble had broken out in Torburg.
Afterward, Harry had written a coded report, which he had left in an envelope on a table in his hotel room.
Tonight, Sheriff Locke had called to take Harry to the meeting of selectmen. The envelope had still been in its place when Harry had left. But the agent felt sure that The Shadow must have arrived to find his report. Harry believed that the motion of the anteroom door was a sign of The Shadow’s arrival.
IN this surmise, Harry was correct. The meeting of selectmen had gained an unseen visitor. A blackened shape stood in the space beyond the barrier. The Shadow had pressed the door so that he might see and hear. Only his agent, expecting his arrival, had been keen enough to detect the slight token of The Shadow’s presence.