As Milton Claverly continued on his way, the epithets that he growled were those of ill wishes for the men who had despoiled his father. Dunwell, Hosker and Beauchamp were the men whom Vandrow had named. To those three, Milton had added another of his own accord. That was the name of Abner Zangwald.
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.”