He Who Whispers

But here was the familiar room, with the Leonardo above the mantelpiece, and soft brilliant sunshine. An the telephone was ringing shrilly. The events of last night returned to Miles as he heard it ring.

Marion was safe. Safe, and going to get well. Dr. Garvice had said she was out of danger.

Yes! And Dr. Fell was asleep upstairs in his own room, and Professor Rigaud in Steve Curtis's: these being the only two other inhabitable bedrooms at Greywood. That was why he had dossed down here in the chair.

Greywood felt hushed, felt empty and new-washed, in a fresh morning stillness, though he could tell by the position of the sun that it must be past eleven o'clock. Still the telephone kept on clamouring on the wide window- sill. He stumbled over to to, stretching his muscles, and caught it up.

“May I speak to Mr. Miles Hammond?” said a voice. “This is Barbara Morell.”

Then Miles definitely became awake.

“Speaking,” he answered. “Are you—I asked you this once before—by any chance a mind-reader?”

“What's that?”

Miles sat down on the floor with his back to the wall under the windows: not a dignified position, but it gave him a sense of siting across from the speaker for a heart-to-heart talk.

“If you hadn't rung me,” he went on, “I was going to try to get in touch with you.”

“Oh? Why?”

For some reason it gave him extraordinary pleasure to hear her voice. There was no subtlety, he reflected, about Barbara Morell. Simply because she had played that trick with the Murder Club, it showed her as transparent as a child.

“Dr. Fell is here. . . . No, no, he's not annoyed about it! He hasn't so much as mentioned the club! . . . Last night he tried to make Fay Seton admit something, and he had no success. He says now you're our last hope. He says that if you don't help us we may b dished.”

“I don't think,” Barbara's voice said doubtfully, “you're making yourself very clear.”

“Look here! Listen! If I came in to town this afternoon, could I possibly see you?”

Pause.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“This is Sunday. I think there's a train,” he searched his memory, “at half-past one. Yes, I'm sure there's a train at half-past one. It takes roughly two hours. Where could I see you?”

Barbara seemed to be debating.

“I could meet your train at Waterloo. Then we might have tea somewhere.”

“Excellent idea!” All last night's bewilderment swept over him. “The only thing I can tell you now is that there was a very bad business here last night. Something happened in my sister's room that seems past human belief. If we can only find an explanation . . .”

Miles glanced up.

Stephen Curtis—sober-faced, conscientiously correct from his hat to his grey double-breasted suit, carrying a rolled umbrella over his arm—Stephen Curtis, coming in at a jaunty pace from the reception-hall, caught the last words and stopped short.

Miles had dreaded telling Steve, dreaded telling the mental counterpart of Marion. It was all right now, of course. Marion wasn't going to die. At the same time, he spoke hastily to the telephone.

“Sorry I have to ring off now, Barbara. See you later.” And he hung up.

Stephen, his forehead growing faintly worried, contemplated his future brother-in-law sitting on the floor: unshaven, wild and tousle-headed.

“Look here, old man . . .”

“It's all right!” Miles assured him, springing to his feet. “Marion's had a very bad time of it, but she's going to get well. Dr. Garvice says . . .”

“Marion?” Steve's voice went high, and all the colour drained out of his face. “What is it? What's happened?”

“Something or someone got into her room last night, and frightened her very nearly to death. But she'll be as right as rain in two or three days, so you're not to worry.”

For a few seconds, while Miles could not meet his eye, neither of them spoke. Stephen walked forward. Stephen, that self-controlled man, fastened sinewy fingers round the handle of his rolled umbrella; deliberately he lifted the umbrella high in the air; deliberately he brought it down with a smash on the edge of the table under the windows.

The umbrella subsided, bent metal and broken ribs amid black cloth; a useless heap, an inanimate object that for some reason looked pitiful like the body of a shot bird.

“It was that damned librarian, I suppose?” Stephen asked almost calmly.

“Why should you say that?”

“I don't know. But I knew at the station yesterday, I felt it in my bones, I tried to warn you both, that there was trouble coming. Some people cause something-or-other wherever they go.” A blue, congested vein showed at his temple. “Marion!”

“We owe her life, Steve, to a man named Professor Rigaud. I don't think I've told you about him. Don't wake him now; he's had a long night of it; but he's asleep in your room.”

Stephen turned away. He walked over to the line of low white-painted bookshelves along the west wall, with the big framed portraits over them. He stood there with his back to Miles, his hands spread out on the shelf-top. When he turned round a little later Miles saw, with acute embarrassment, that there were tears in his eyes.

Both of them suddenly spoke with desperation of trivialities.

“Did you—er--just get here?” asked Miles.

“Yes. Caught the nine-thirty from town.”

“Crowded?”

“Fairly crowded. Where is she?”

“Upstairs. She's asleep now.”

“Can I see her?”

“I don't know any reason why not. I tell you, she's all right! But go quietly; everybody else is in bed.”

Everybody else, however, was not in bed. As Stephen turned towards the door to the reception hall, there appeared in the doorway the vastness of Dr. Fell, carrying a cup of tea on a tray and looking as though he did not quite know how it had got there.

Ordinarily it would have been as startling to Stephen Curtis to find an unexplained guest in the house as to find a new member of the family at breakfast. Now, however, he hardly noticed Dr. Fell; the presence of someone else only served as a reminder that he was still wearing his hat. Stephen turned in the doorway. He swept off his hat. He looked at Miles. Nearly bald, even his fair moustache seeming disarranged, Stephen struggled for words.

“You and your damned Murder Club!” he said clearly and viciously.

Then he was gone.

Dr. Fell, clearing his throat, lumbered forward hesitantly with the tea on the tray.

“Good morning,” he rumbled. He looked uncomfortable. “That was—?”

“Steve Curtis. Yes.”

“I—ah--made this tea for you,” said Dr, extending the tray. “I made it all right,” he added argumentatively. “And then it seems to me I began concentrating on something else, so that some half an hour elapsed before I put in the milk. I greatly fear it may be cold.”

This remark was both made and received in perfect seriousness, since both Dr. Fell and Miles were otherwise preoccupied.

“That's all right,” said Miles. “Thanks very much.”

He gulped down the tea, and then put cup and tray on the floor beside him as he sat down in the big chair by the fireplace. Miles was steeling himself for the outburst he knew must come, the admission he was compelled to make.

“This whole situation,” he said, “is my fault.”

“Steady!” said Dr. Fell sharply.

“It's my fault, Dr. Fell. I invited Fay Seton here. The good Lord alone knows why I dd; but there you are. You heard what Steve said?”