Bells of Doom

“Quite all right,” declared Harry.

“I’ll be ready when you give the word. By the way, Milton, I’ve got to phone the hotel. All right if I do it now?”

“Certainly,” said Milton.

Harry went from the library. He crossed the hall, entered the parlor and closed the door behind him. Instead of calling the hotel, however, he gave another number. It was one that he had memorized from the instructions left by The Shadow.

A quiet voice responded. Harry announced his identity. A responding whisper assured him that The Shadow was at the other end of the wire. Quickly, Harry told of Vandrow’s visit. Then he added an account of his brief conversation with Phyllis Lingle.

The call ended, Harry went from the parlor. From the hallway, he saw Phyllis ascending the stairs. He called a cheery goodnight, then continued into the library to find Milton pacing back and forth across the floor.

Brief silence followed in the hallway that Harry had just passed. Then, from a niche outside the parlor door, Lester stepped forth. The servant’s eyes glittered in suspicion. His lips formed a fierce leer.

Lester had been eavesdropping. Outside the door, he had caught brief snatches of Harry’s conversation. He had stepped from view when Phyllis had appeared. He had remained out of sight until Harry had crossed the hallway.

Catlike, the old servant moved into the darkness of the dining room. His lips were twitching. Whispered epithets came incoherently. They told that some plan was forming in the stooped man’s mind.

Bells of doom had tolled the deaths of three. Terror, presumably, had ended its reign in Torburg. Yet this night was already as ominous as the three that had preceded it. A menace lay above the town; the danger seemed thickest here at Claverly’s.

Milton was steeling himself for an ordeal. Harry was ready for whatever might come. Now, Lester, by his actions was giving proof that he, too, would figure in the events that were drawing nigh.

CHAPTER XVII THROUGH THE CRYPT

A SHADED lamp was glowing. Hands moved beneath it. Quartered in the neighborhood of Torburg, The Shadow had made a silent room his temporary sanctum. White paper was drawn beneath the light. A hand began to write with a pen that delivered ink of vivid blue.

The Shadow was making his deductions, piecing shreds of evidence, building upon the facts that he had learned. His soft laugh came in a sinister whisper. The Shadow had much upon which to draw.

His findings paralleled those of the county prosecutor. But where Jornal’s facts had dwindled to speculations, The Shadow’s statements were direct. Where the prosecutor had ceased to speculate, The Shadow went beyond.

Three deaths delivered by a single hand. Such was The Shadow’s decision. Pen poised above paper and inscribed a name. It remained there, glaring, that name. Then it faded.

The Shadow had inscribed the name of the murderer!

Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp. Each had been slain by a bold venturer who had timed his strokes to perfect precision. He had entered the homes of two; he had gone into the garage of the third. Murder delivered, this killer had traveled on his way.

Like the sections of a jigsaw puzzle, The Shadow had put together the facts that he had gleaned from various sources. His own investigations; conversations that Harry Vincent had reported; keen bits of deduction — all had enabled him to form a clear picture of circumstances in Torburg.

To The Shadow, the real beginning of crime went back to the time of David Claverly’s death. The elder Claverly had made investments in real estate. His life had ended at a time when he stood ready to clean up millions.

Had David Claverly been murdered? The probabilities said yes. At any rate, his death had meant opportunity for three men who had gained the property which David Claverly owned. Why had they loaned money on that real estate? Why had all three gained the same hold upon David Claverly’s possessions?

The facts pointed to a plot. Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had weakened David Claverly’s status in Torburg. They had finally squeezed his most cherished possessions. But there, all semblance of a scheme had ended.

It was common news that those three men had sold Claverly’s property to a holding company. They had not gained a great profit on the sale. That cleared them of complicity in the death of David Claverly, so far as known facts were concerned.

But in strange contrast was the behavior of Abner Zangwald. He had claimed to be David Claverly’s friend. He had never represented himself as a man of deep craft. Yet he had refused to sell to the company that had bought out Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp.

Why had Beauchamp become so apprehensive after the deaths of Dunwell and Hosker? The Shadow’s laugh told why. It was plain that some secret of the past had worried the last of the three schemers. Beauchamp had known that he was marked for death.

It was plain that he — with Dunwell and Hosker — had conspired to gain David Claverly’s wealth. They must have dealt in death, for death had been dealt to them. Yet Beauchamp, despite his fears, had made no statements to the sheriff.

The Shadow laughed again. He saw the answer. Those three had not yet completed their chain of scheming. Their sales to the holding company had not marked the final chapter in their book of evil deeds. The Shadow saw that the holding company was a blind. He knew the truth.

Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had made sales to a company which they actually controlled. But that fact was a secret. When the power corporation came to Torburg, the holding company would sell it the property and reap the profits. But the big share of the gain was intended for the pockets of the three schemers.

SUCH was The Shadow’s verdict. He knew why those three had died. They had covered up all traces of their schemes. They had done it well. Too well. Now that they were dead, their efforts had gone for naught. The three had lost their opportunity. Their heirs would not reap the profits, for the whole scheme had been a guarded secret.

Certain living men possessed facts. That much had been revealed. Louis Vandrow, to begin with, knew that a conspiracy had existed against David Claverly. The lawyer had proof that Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp had broken down the contractor’s business and had finally gained valuable property that belonged to Claverly — only to sell out in a hurry.

Abner Zangwald probably knew the same. But he had also gained a slice of David Claverly’s real estate. He had refused to sell it. Was that merely good business judgment; or did it indicate a suspicion of the scheme that Dunwell and Hosker had hatched with Beauchamp?

Next, Milton Claverly knew facts. On the surface, he had gained but few — those that he had learned by hearsay. But the young man had communicated with his father at times; moreover, he had been the recipient of a box of documents left by David Claverly.

What had Milton found within that box? Papers of importance? Other objects? Milton had casually told Harry Vincent that the box held nothing of consequence. But no one, other than Milton himself, had seen the actual contents.

Lester — the old servant — claimed that his master had been murdered. He talked of bells of doom. Lester had been close to David Claverly. The old servant was cunning, despite the outbursts in which he indulged. Lester was a factor; for he had knowledge of his own.

The Shadow knew that if living men told all, the riddle of the bells would be explained. The tower on the hill contained some secret. Had David Claverly built it merely for an idle whim?

The Shadow laughed. He knew that there must have been some other purpose for the tower.