 In this cave, by the restless sea, we are met to call from out the past stories, strange and weird. Bellkeeper, hold the bell, so all may know we are gathered again in the weird circle. Here is the ruin of the famous bell tower built by the great Bonadona four centuries ago. It doesn't look like much, does it? A heap of rubble shapeless covered with earth and black moss. If I hadn't told you it was once a bell tower, the pride of all Italy, you would think it was only an ugly rubbish pile, mercifully grown over by the jungle of time. But dreams lie buried here and memories and the ghosts of a man and his genius are said to haunt the spot. Some even say the spirit of Bonadona's bell still tolls high up in the silent night sky. Other scoff, a bell cannot have a ghost even if there were such things. But what is that ghostly sound? Surely no earthly bell ever sounded like that? Can it be that Bonadona's bell actually does toll for its long dead maker, though this tower that supported it is now no more? Or does the shade of Bonadona himself still linger here, thinking back to the day he was called in by the chief magistrate of the town? I'm flattered, Your Honor, that the chief magistrate of so prosperous a town should have heard of the humble architect called Bonadona. Your pretended modesty is not very convincing, Signor Bonadona. But if I were responsible for the wonderful monuments you have built, I suppose I wouldn't be very modest either. Naturally, naturally. But there is only one Bonadona. Perhaps you should start by imagining yourself Michelangelo and work up to imagining yourself the incomparable Bonadona. Michelangelo was a very great artist. A beginner. He would have sat at my feet. Your views are interesting, Signor Bonadona, but it was not to discuss art that I summoned you here. Swear the oratory, Your Honor, my time is valuable. To be sure. Briefly, Signor, our town has grown rich through trade with the Near East. And now at last we can afford the finest monument in all of Italy. The elders have voted to have you build the most imposing bell tower that your genius can conceive. Your town must be very rich indeed to afford my services. Never fair, the money is there more than you have ever been paid for. And if you build a bell tower that will bring admirers from all over the civilized world, you will get a bonus of twice the fee agreed upon. That is an incentive. Can you fulfill it? I will erect a bell tower that will endure forever. Its fame will be known wherever men dwell, be it in palaces or caves. That, Signor Bonadona, is precisely what we want. And I am just the man to do it. The town suddenly realized what real activity was when Bonadona brought his crew of masons and artisans. The chief magistrate and the elders came day by day to marvel as stone by stone and month after month the tower strained toward the sky. But there were some who grumbled at this amazing creation of Bonadona's genius. I tell you, Bonadona's man, no matter how great an architect he is, he can't build a tower as high as this without a wider base. He wants to build it so slim and tall that people will wonder how it stands against even the gentlest breeze. Against the breeze, yes. But when the winter gales roar down from the mountain, it'll tupper like a pencil stood on end. Take it easy. Careful. Careful how you dump those bricks, Paolo. You want the whole insane tower to come tumbling down? Oh, you two are always grumbling. One would think you were better architects than Bonadona himself. Better than he used to be? No. But Signor Bonadona is not as sane and cautious as he once was. All right. Are you hinting that he is... Crazy? Yes, sir. You think he is not a maniac, eh, Paolo? That's right. We will prove it then. We are on the top of the tower, huh? How high above the ground are we? 200 feet. And Bonadona proposes to build it another 100 feet, 300 and all. Yet the base is wide enough for a tower only half that height. Already you can feel its sway when the wind is strong. What will happen when the winter comes and the gales roar down from the mountain? Always, you are asking that question, Enrico. And you never phrase it differently. This is no time for literary effect. Answer what I ask. Well, I... I don't know. I am no Bonadona. He must have made allowances for the wind and Earthquakes. With a huge bell and clock on top of the tower. The weight alone will be enough to pull the whole thing down. And when the gales roar down from the mountain... I know, I know. Well, I will admit that my wife worries when I leave for work in the morning. Then why, Paolo? Well, it's silly. You know how women talk. She says if the tower stands when it is 300 feet tall, it will prove that Bonadona is in league with... with Satan. Ah. That is a possibility. Of course, Enrico. I had not thought of it. That would explain why he thinks it can stand on so small a base. And the gales that will roar down from the mountains... will not tumble it to the ground. Bonadona... in league with Satan. Hey! Hey, you up there! What are you doing? Chattering and loafing. Get to work! That's the way you drive. Tool of the devil. The Lord will have vengeance for this blasphemous bell tower. He will smash it to the ground... and you along with it. Molden. Swing it over to the mold. Into the mold. There. Everything is finished. Now all we have to do is wait for the bell to cool in its mold. And then haul it up to the top of the tower. Senor Bonadona... What is it, Paolo? The men and I, we have been talking. My wife too. Of course you know what women are, it's a different with the men. I mean, we're all experienced. We've worked with you a long time. What in the name of heaven are you gabbling about? You dare to use that sacred name, you. The name of the saint who has a better right than the great Bonadona. Will you come to the point? This is the bell tower, senor. There is only one way that a tower so high can be supported by so slimmer base. Yes. Which way is that? By a pact with the devil. You fools. You're so prestigious apes. I am hundreds of years ahead of my time. I worked out mathematically every stress and strain before the first shovel dug into the soil. I don't need Satan. My science is enough. But, senor, look at the size of the bell we are casting. When we pull it up to the top of the tower, its weight will make the horsey... Senor Bonadona, what are you going to do? You won't stop me. You hear? This tower is towering my dream. I'll kill you. You won't interfere with my plans. Teach you to meddle. Does anyone else want a taste of the same medicine? I thought not. All right. Remove the body of this poor, dead fool. Then get back to work. And I'll stand for no more nonsense. Or Paolo will have company in the graveyard. Murderer, you will hang for this. The great Bonadona? Hang for the killing of a stupid pig? Well, now, there is no court that would convict the great sarcotheque in all Italy. Poor Paolo. How are we going to break the news to his wife? Look, with one blow of that murderous ladle that devil's accomplice smashed in his skull. See how the blood is spattered everywhere. And we go. What is it, Cesare? Look at the bell we are casting. Dear Mille, a drop of Paolo's blood has splashed into the molten metal. It is an evil omen. Your attention, please, worshipful elders of our fair town. We are gathered here to sit in judgment upon one Bonadona architect who has been accused of slaying one Paolo artisan. You have heard the testimony of the eyewitnesses. Now I will call the defendant to state his case. Mr. Bonadona, what have you to say in your defense? If it pleased your honor, would you clear the court of all spectators and witnesses for the deceased? Very well. Clear the court. Thank you, your honor. Now, Mr. Bonadona, is it or is it not true that you killed Paolo the artisan with a blow of a heavy utensil known as a ladle which is used for pouring molten metal? Yes, yes, I did, your honor. Then you plead guilty. Oh, no, no, no, your honor, I would not do anything like that to harm your interests. How would you pleasing guilty harm my interests? The bell tower I'm building is a very costly monument. Is it not? Naturally, naturally, our town is rich and we want nothing but the best. But a half-completed tower would be the laughing stock of all Italy. Isn't that so? Not to mention a waste of the money that has already been spent on it. You have a pointer. I can imagine the scene a hundred years from now. Visitors from some distant land are gazing at the topless monstrosity. Oh, how sad one of them exclaims. This could have been the most beautiful bell tower in the whole wide world. Why was it never finished? Do you not know, asks another? The architect, the maestro, Barnadonna, slew a medal some fool who got just what he deserved. But Barnadonna, Barnadonna was hanged. The tower was never completed because nobody could duplicate the great architect's plans and the art of designing monuments were set back for many centuries. Oh, what a pity the first one laments. It's enough to wrench even a tyrant's heart. Of course, justice must be done, sir Barnadonna. Justice has been done. Paolo would have worked his fellow idiots into a superstitious rage and all the money, all the money you have invested in the tower would have gone for naught. Yes, senor Barnadonna. Yes, we, the elders, and I have the sacred duty of handling our neighbor's money. Therefore it is my opinion that you acted wisely and in the best interest of the town by quelling the threatened revolt. Do you agree, venerable colleagues? Oh, yes, I agree. Then, senor Barnadonna, we absolve you of all guilt in the death of one Paolo artisan. Thank you, gentlemen. I knew you would not allow justice to be undone. Now I shall return to my work on the bell tower, which I will force to completion as speedily as possible. Adios. Well, well, my faithful friends. The great Barnadonna is free. Why is it that some of you do not look properly joyful? You are free now, you tool of Satan! But Paolo will have his revenge from the brave! And soon! That drop of blood that splashed into the molten casting of the bell when Barnadonna killed Paolo, everyone said was an omen from beyond. An omen that poured dead Paolo would take vengeance on Barnadonna for his murder. Yet, nothing seemed to happen. But the day finally arrived when the bell was to be swung up to the top of the tower. And then, at last, the workman felt that Barnadonna's time on earth was drawing to an end. Beauty! The biggest and most exquisite bell that ever was made. But wait! What is this? A floor at the nape of my beautiful bell. Oh, I will soon have this fold fixed. Just chip out the weak metal, scrape away the rough edges, and fill it in with this secret formula of mine. There. There is good as new. All right, everybody, we're ready to swing the bell into position. Grab the rope. Ready now. Pull! Easy now. Easy. That's it. That's it. Down, down a bit. All right. All right. There you are. There. The bell is in place. Now what have you to say, you ignorant jackalips? You thought you could teach Barnadonna something about architecture, huh? Well, this bell tower will outlast you and your entire line of descendants. Perhaps it will outlast time itself. And now, now I start on the mechanism to strike the bell on the ours. If my tower is the wonder of Italy, my mechanical ringer will be the wonder of the world. I'm coming. The idea of waking up a man of my position at this time of night. Well, well, well, what is it? You're pardoned, Your Honor. Forgive us for waking you so late at night. Yes, but it was necessary, Your Honor. It's urgent. Hey! Oh, oh, you're two of the men who worked on the bell tower, aren't you? Yes, Your Honor. What's wrong? Has an accident befallen in your Barnadonna? No, Your Honor, not yet. That mechanism, he is perfecting to strike the ours. He's working secretly on it at the top of the tower. Everything he needs is brought to the bottom carefully wrapped up. He opens the door and takes the packages. He permits nobody to see what he's doing. I find nothing wrong with that. There are men who would sell their souls to learn Barnadonna's secrets. Perhaps that is how he obtained those secrets by selling his own soul. Hey, what's that? Are you bringing a formal charge of witchcraft against Mr. Barnadonna? No, Your Honor. No, Your Honor. We have told you that everything is brought to the bottom of the tower for Mr. Barnadonna. That was a mistake. There was one thing he went out and got himself. Yes, yes, yes. It was an object the size and shape of a man wrapped round and round with a white cloth. If one were to dig up poor dead Paola from his grave, Your Honor, and carry him furtively to the tower late at night, still clad in his shroud, that is the sort of parcel one would carry, the sort we just saw Mr. Barnadonna carrying. Hmm, hmm, hmm. A corpse, an automatic ringing mechanism, and other secrets. There is a sinister logic about the combination. There's only one way to be certain. Yes, Your Honor. That is why we brought these shovels along with us. Go, Chesler. Yes, Your Honor, yes. This confounded night air was always hard on my arthritis. And here in this deserted graveyard it seems still worse. We're almost down to the coffin, Your Honor. Go, go, go. Ah, I've struck you. Good, good. Now make haste. Come, straight away. All right, Chesler, the top of the coffin is cleared. Now give me a hand and opening it. Right. But Paolo's body is still there. Paolo is still here, Your Honor. But Senior Barnadonna could be using another dead body for his automatic mechanism. Hmm, hmm. You are right, Chesler. I will speak to Senior Barnadonna the very first thing in the morning. I heard something very disturbing yesterday. You, Senior Barnadonna, are reputed to be making your secret ringing mechanism out of a... out of a... Yes? Out of a corpse. I see. One brought back to life, of course, enslaved by my wizardry to strike the ours forevermore, huh? Naturally, you have a certain measure of proof, Your Honor. Oh, yes, yes. You were seen carrying what appeared to be a body wrapped in a shroud. It was late at night and you were hurrying toward the tower as if wishing not to be observed. It is my inflexible practice never to display my inventions until they can safely be shown. That time will come when the tower is thrown open to the public. Well, uh... When will that be, Senior? Tomorrow at noon, Your Honor. And you will see that you and your precious townspeople are the worst pack of meddling fools that ever handicapped a genius! Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to my work. What a strange man. I was so sure of myself. Well, we will know tomorrow if the rumors are true. I can't understand what is delaying, Barnadonna. The bell was to ring at the stroke of moon. It is noon now, Your Honor. I know, Cheserelle. That's what puzzles me. Senior Barnadonna is usually a man of his word. Maybe he found it necessary to make some very sudden changes, Your Honor. Yes, that could very well be. Well, we shall soon find out. I'll hail him. Senior Barnadonna! Oh, Senior Barnadonna! He doesn't answer. Naturally. He is probably much too busy. Well, we won't give him any more time to destroy the evidence. If we can prove a sorcery charge, we won't have to pay him a button. Open the door. It's locked. Then break it down. Follow me. What a climb. 300 feet straight up into the air. Your Honor, come here. Against the bell. It's Senior Barnadonna. Dead. With his head bashed in just like poor Paolo. Serves him right if someone murdered him. But this was not murder, gentlemen. See, he was working on the bell with mallet and chisel. Evidently, he had not turned off the clockwork. And the heavy hammer of the automatic bell ringer swung round with tremendous power and crushed his head against the bell. Then the bell ringer is what we thought it was. No, Chesere. It is no reanimated corpse. Then what? It is an amazingly intricate bit of machinery. More ingeniously wrought than any I have ever seen. And so, Senior Barnadonna was not a tool of the devil. He was a genius. The greatest genius of our time. Then, by whose vengeance did he die? Perhaps we will never know. From the dust he came and to the dust he returns. Peace to your ashes, Barnadonna. The world of men is poorer for your passing. Has Enrico reached the top of the tower yet, Chesere? Yes, Your Honor. Then give him the signal. All right, Enrico! Ripley and Barnadonna's coffin. And drove him so far into the ground we won't have the expense of the funeral after all. But is it? Yes, Your Honor, just as we thought. What are you jabbering about? The bell, Your Honor. There was a floor in it where poor Paolo's blood splashed into the molten metal as it was being cast. Senior Barnadonna thought he repaired the floor. But he hadn't. Then what has that got to do with this calamity? It was right there, Your Honor, that Barnadonna's famous bell cracked. And Paolo has taken his vengeance from the grave.