“Well, three nights ago, I didn’t see him, but I thought I heard somebody sneaking around this house. Then I heard those bells ring. I wondered what was up. When I learned the next day that there’d been murder here, I decided to watch this house again.
“I did. I caught Claverly sneaking in toward the house, but he slipped away from me. Where he got to, I couldn’t guess. Then the bells started in again. I figured I’d have to do better than before.
“Last night, I was here again. When the bells started to ring, I was outside this crypt. I’d seen the locked door. I’d figured it was the only way Claverly could get in once he was out. I couldn’t watch everywhere; but I stuck here along at midnight.
“I heard somebody — made a grab for him — thought it was Claverly. That was right after the bells. But it turned out to be another guy. Some fellow stopping here in the house. I had to beat it. So tonight, I called myself a dummy. I tried something different.”
Rosling paused triumphantly. He looked about the circle of listeners; then shot a contemptuous glance toward Milton.
“I came in through the front door,” declared Rosling. “I spotted young Claverly heading out from his library. I followed him down here. I caught him, working on this switch. I figured the game. Somebody else doing his dirty work tonight.
“I could hear the bells begin to ring, muffled like. So I pulled out my gat and I covered Claverly. I kept him at the switch, hoping somebody would turn up. They did. There’s my story. Here’s your man.”
THE prosecutor turned toward Milton. Jornal’s gaze was withering. Yet Milton faced it. He was tense, fighting against fury. He hurled a denunciation.
“This is a lie!” he cried. “My past is clear. I tell you, it’s a lie! I didn’t arrange that job at Messler’s. Rosling was the fellow who started it — on the boat. He forced me into it!”
“Hear him?” queried Rosling. “He admits he was in the job. That backs up those affidavits, prosecutor. I’ll tell you something else. Those mugs that were bumped off last night on the Lewisport road — I’ll bet you’ll find out they were old pals of Mike Tocson, the guy that worked for Claverly.”
“Let me speak,” urged Louis Vandrow. “I must state something that I previously concealed. Milton Claverly has had an unfortunate past. He admitted it in letters to his father. I have those letters. I intended to destroy them. I told Milton that I had done so. Fortunately, I can produce them now that they are necessary.
“What is more, I gave Milton a box from his father. It is probable that the box contained the secret of this crypt; also the key that Milton needed to make entry here. Now that the truth is out, I must agree that Milton Claverly had cause to murder the three men who have died here in Torburg.”
“You are wrong!” exclaimed Milton. “Rosling has duped you, Mr. Vandrow. He didn’t find me in the crypt tonight. He forced me to come here at the point of a gun. He had the key to the place.”
“Listen to him,” sneered Rosling. “He was down here when I walked into the house. He can’t prove otherwise.”
“I can,” blurted Milton, “if you will listen to me—”
“Silence!” broke in Jornal. “Sheriff, arrest this man. Rosling’s testimony goes. Claverly can’t prove that it is wrong.”
“I can!”
The words came in a woman’s voice. The prosecutor turned. Phyllis Lingle had entered the crypt. The girl was followed by Lester. Phyllis pointed accusingly at Rosling.
“This man has lied!” she declared. “Milton is right. The man came in here at half past eleven. I saw him and Milton come out of the library. I could only see their heads and shoulders as I gazed from the stairs.
“I wondered why Milton looked pale. I know the answer now. This man was close behind him. He must have been covering Milton with a revolver.”
“That’s right,” blurted Milton. “Thanks, Phyllis. Maybe you’ll listen to me now, prosecutor… You will? Thanks. Just hold that fellow Rosling until I’ve finished with him.”
ROSLING had pocketed his gun. Locke was covering him. The hatchet-faced man shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to think that Milton’s statements would collapse.
“Rosling had the key,” declared Milton. “He made me come here. He forced me to raise the tile in the floor. I had never even been in this crypt. I was amazed when I saw the switch. Rosling made me operate it.”
“What a story!” jeered Rosling. “I suppose next you’ll be trying to deny that you were in on that job at Messler’s.”
“That’s just what I’m going to do,” declared Milton. “Listen, prosecutor. I did see Rosling on the boat. I did promise to aid with the jewel robbery — as inside man. But I double-crossed Rosling. I spilled the word to Augustus Messler. He brought detectives to his house. The robbery was foiled.
“I can prove it by Messler himself. I’ve talked with him by long distance. He’ll come from New York any time I say; and he’ll bring Detective Joe Cardona with him! I did meet Mike Tocson, because Rosling here insisted on it. But that was all part of the game. The law will square me; and the law is looking for Hatch Rosling! His affidavits are worthless.”
Hatch Rosling stood stupefied. He had never expected this finish. All his sang-froid was gone. Wilted, the exposed crook stood muttering. He realized what his arrest would mean. Sent back to New York, he would go up the river for attempted burglary. But Rosling had a greater fear — the death chair.
“I–I didn’t do no killing!” he pleaded. “Honest! I only rang these bells. I–I was wise to this layout down here. I sneaked in and worked the switch. But — but—”
Looking about the group, Rosling caught a sudden glare of eyes. He realized that he was getting into deep water. He tried to back out of it.
“It was just sort of a joke,” he explained, weakly. “Trying to put something over on young Claverly, here.”
“You were,” challenged Milton. “Yes Rosling, I think we can believe you when you say that you were merely an accomplice. Someone else did those murders; and there’s only one man mean enough. He’s the one that pretended to be my father’s friend. He stands there — Abner Zangwald!”
The bushy-browed man was glaring as others turned toward him. At first rage showed on Zangwald’s face. In a moment, the anger died. Zangwald’s bass rumble filled the crypt as he answered the accusing words.
“THIS is absurd!” he declared. “Totally absurd! This young man is entirely mistaken. I was his father’s friend; as I can prove when the time demands. For the present, however, I shall limit my statements.
“Tonight” — Zangwald’s brows knitted as he paused — “five of us were trapped by masked gunmen. We were told that one man was due to die. Three persons present were officials of the law. None of them had gained a clue to these amazing murders.
“That left two of us, Louis Vandrow and myself. The thought flashed through my mind. Which of us was to die? Vandrow or myself? I cannot see in light of what has happened here why crooks should have sought Vandrow’s death. Apparently, Vandrow was ready to support this fellow Rosling, who appears to be the chief crook of the lot.
“Those who support crooks are sometimes crooks themselves. Moreover, I could gain nothing by Vandrow’s death; but he could gain much by mine. Vandrow is the lawyer who controls my estate. He would manage it should I die. I have entrusted an important matter to Louis Vandrow. He could gain a million dollars — more perhaps — by my death—”
Zangwald wheeled toward Vandrow as he paused. Fierce accusation showed beneath bushy brows. Others turned; a cry came from the prosecutor. The accusation had come too late from Zangwald’s lips. Stepping back, Vandrow had yanked a gun!