THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22400, 22 April 1936, Page 23

THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

By JOHN HUNTER Author of "When the Gunmen Came," "Buccaneer's Gold," "Dead Man's Gate," etc,

(COPYRIGHT)

AN EXCITING STORY, PACKED WITH THRILLS AND MYSTERY

SYNOPSIS One evening, when London ia enveloped in fog, a mitn nnmed Mahoney, who hns been drinking steadily for some hours, makes his way to the Pimlico office of a cripple I'ercival Brendon, over whom ho has a liold. Brendon is just coming out. nnd they walk a littlo distance together— Mahoney, meanwhile, uttering threats. When near the river, Brendon suddenly stabs Mahoney, tipa the body into the river, and throws the knife after it; but the knife drops on to the deck of a barge. About the same time, Lillian Hartway, who has just returned from France, is alone in the compartment of a London-bound train when a young man opens tho door and enters. After begging her riot to pull the communication cord, ho tells her that his name is .TefTery Sanders ard that ho has just crossed from France in tr'smnll boat. He is penniless, and she lends him money and gives him her address so that he can return it when he is able to do so. She does not notice the look of horror in his eyes when he rvnds the address, nor his peculiar expression when, inadvertently, he catches sight, in her bag. of a visiting card bearing the name and the Pimlico address of Percival Brendon. They part at the station, and Lillian makes her way to the house of Paul Barclay, whose name and address so ap-i fated .TefTery Barclay's butler. Kimber, and his housekeeper. Mrs. Allard, who treat him as an equal when they are alone together, have just told him that they are afraid of someone whom they call "Turquin" and of a mysterious detective known as "Smith." Barclay succeeded in calming their fears just as Lillian arrives. Learning that she is his niece, whom he has not seen since she was a child, he makes her welcome. (Now read on) CHAPTER lll.—(Continued) In the dininsr room Barclay bad suggested that Lillian might like something to eat. She refused a meal, but consented to drink some of his delicious port and to take a few biscuits and a cigarette with it. He chatted about Tours and the Chateau district. A very long time had elapsed since he had been there. . She told him a good deal about it. It had not changed. " Plus ca change, plus e'est la meme chose." she smiled. "The big cars and motor coaches come and go now, but the countryside remains the same. They can't change it, though they change themselves. I love it." " Yet you've left it." He eyed her quizzically. " To visit an old uncle who has neglected you shamefully. She flushed. " Who has received me kindly. It was ungrateful of me to say how much I love Tours." " It was honest," he said. " Suppose I write to the Defrages ? We might fix something up." " Oh, no. Please, i d rather you didn't. Thev'd resent anything that looked like charity. I'm going to write and tell them 1 have a job in London, and am saving up to come over and see thern. Indeed, that's exactly what l in going to do. Do you think you could help me get a post? I thought you might know somebody." He reflected. "Why work?" he mked. "There is all this." " I'd rather, Really. Again don t think me ungrateful." " H'm. Well, I.might fix you up. Would you care to live here while you're at your job." She laughed. " It's beautiful. What little I saw of it enchanted me. But if my work entailed living in—l had a modiste's in mind —I'd have to do so. You see, I'm afraid I know very little that's commercially useful, except that, like all girls, I've studied clothes. But there are so many of us like that, aren't there?" Very few who can wear them like you," said Barclay, and there was no fulsomeuess nor offence in his remark. He made it as a plain statement of irrefutable fact. " Mannequin, eh? How'd that suit you? Wearing thousand fuinea fur coats—for other women to uy; and hundred guinea wisps of silk called evening gowns; and so on. A life in a million!" . " There are many worse," smiled Lillian, and her eyes sparkled. " I might take some rich man away from his uninteresting wife. Then I should be made for life." Barclay laughed at her. He liked her. He was glad she was so beautiful. He would be able to be proud of her. He would take her out, he decided. Lunch at the Savoy, cabarets at places like Monseigneur's, the Cafe de Paris. She, would decorate him. People would say that there went Paul Barclay and his beautiful niece. Mrs. Allard intruded herself. The room was ready if Miss Hartway cared to tome up. " Come down again," said Barclay, getting to his feet as Lillian rose. " That is unless you're very tired." " I'd love to. Ten minutes." She followed Mrs. Allard up the broad and imposing staircase, away along the main first floor corridor to the left, and so to the blue room at its far end. It was, like all the main rooms in the house, of splendid proportions, and Barclay had that taste which ensured that its furnishings and lighting were discreet and soothing. The fire crackling on the hearth gave it a cheerful look, and Lillian oxclaimed with pleasure as she entered. " It's awfully kind of you," she said to Mrs. Allard. " I'm afraid I arrived at a very unfortunate time. You see, we were so frightfully delayed." Mrs. Allard remained, as before, utterly expressionless. "It's quite all right," she said, and her tone indicated that sho merely obeyed orders and had no personal feeiings in the matter at all. She closed the door and left the girl to her own devices Lillian unpacked very quickly such frocks as she wished to keep as uncreased as possible, and, having slipped off her coat and skirt, she donned a simple black velvet semi-evening frock which, with a single brilliant relief at the waist, enhanced her beauty, if that were possible. Then, putting her hair to rights, she went downstairs. She saw Betty lurking in the passage-way as she went along, and she smiled at the girl. Betty smiled in return. Lillian thought she looked a little scared. Barclay was still in the dining room when sho got down. He was sipping his port and eating nuts, and it was evident that ho intended to remain in the room for the rest of tho evening. She saw his eyes run over her swiftly. She saw involuntary admiration leap' into them, and she felt that secret delight which any woman must feel when a roan inoffensively but quite openly is forced to admire her. She had just resumed her chair, and Barclay was again beginning to chat to her, when there came another tap at the door and Kimber presented himself. He looked direct at Barclay, without a muscle of his face moving' What his eyes said only Barclay might read. "Mr. Julius Turquin has called, sir," he said in a very even voice. CHAPTER IV. For just a second there was silence in the long, lovely room. Kimber continued to look Barclay straight in the eyes with a blankness which was more deeply meaning than any effort at the conveyance of a message, while Barclaytwiddled a walnut between his thumb and fingers and seemed, for the moment, unable to think. Then he spoke to Lillian. "An old friend of mine," he explained. "You want me to go?" She got up. "Well . . . you see . . ." Even Barclay was temporarily thrown off his balance, though rapidly recovering himself. Lillian smiled. "I understand. Besides, I'm awfully tired. The journey and the fog you know. I'll say good

night." She waved her hand to him prettily. "See you in the morning, Uncle Paul." He watched her go out, then said to Kimber: t "Wlmt does he want?" "Dunno," said Kimber stolidly. "Better see him." Barclay nodded, and Kimber withdrew. Barclay could not understand Turquin's visit. Turquin was supposed to know nothing at all about Paul Barclay. Turquin was supposed never to have heard of Paul Barclay, even though it was his money which helped to keep Barclay in luxury. Kimber announced Turquin. Ho came into the room quietly, and the door closed alter him equally quietly, as though his sliding silence had infected Kimber. He was a slim man, very elegant in a cat-like, rather feminine fashion. He wore a just too well-cut dress suit, and the points of his gleaming shoes were just too pronounced. His hair was iron-grey, sleek as a dove's plumage; his face thin and lined somewhat ascetically, with a little droop at the corners of the hard mouth, as though Turquin stood back and sneered at all the world. His eyes were grey and pitiless, hooded at the outer corners, and they held a quality of appraisement which never, in any mood, entirely left them—as though Turquin weighed up humanity and situations constantly, and found them all contemptible. "Good evening, Mr. Barclay," he said, and came forward smoothly. Ho spoke with what has been called the Oxford accent. Barclay was on bis feet.. "Good evening. 1 was wondering to what happy chance I owe this pleasure. Will you take a chair? Some wine?" Turquin seated himself "No, thank you. 1 never drink under certain circumstances. It isn't a question of Puritanism, but of common sense. If you don't drink, you don't get drunk; and drunken men are fools." "You believe in onc-hundred-per-cent efficiency." smiled Barclay. The hooded eves returned the smile. "Exactly. But my time is short. I really only called to ask you one question. Mr. Barclay. Barclay spread his hands. He was now entirely at his ease, and ready to meet Turquin toe to toe. He had that immense self-confidence which, while sometimes a virtue, often blinds its possessor to the abilities of others. It is good to be confident in oneself. It is at times fatal to be over-confident, because though a fool is, they say, born every minute, Mother Nature contrives to slip an intelligent man here and there as a makeweight. "There's 110 hurry," said Barclay. "I'm sorry you adhere so strongly to teetotalism. This wine is really excellent." Turquin nodded and leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Barclay, did you ever hear of a man named Patrick Mahoney ?" He had chosen his moment well. He asked the question just as Barclay was tipping more wine into his glass and had, indeed, nearly refilled it, and as the words left his lips he watched the bottle, and the hand that held it. Both were quite steady. The rich wine swam lazily in the glass. The bottle was replaced, and Turquin, lifting his face, saw only polite inquiry in Barclay's eyes. "It's not an uncommon name," said Barclay, thoughtfully. "Let me see . . . No, I'm afraid 1 haven't, Mr. turquin. Are you particularly interested in this man, .and . . ." Barclay hesitated nicely. "Er—perhaps you would tell me how I might be expected to know something about him ? After all, we are strangers." Once more Turquin nodded. Those nods seem to r register points, facts which were stored away behind the thin and cynical face, the reptilian hooded eyes. "1 owe you an explanation," he admitted. Like his physical movements, his tongue was as smooth as velvet. One could never imagine Julius Turquin raising his voice in wrath; or, if he did so, one might think that all hell would be let loose with that raising. "Mahoney was a bit of a ne'er-do-well," he went on easily. "He once did me a signal service. By the way, I ought to say that 1 have a flat in Park Mansions, overlooking Hyde Park Corner. Flat 95." "An admirable place," smiled Barclay. Like practically everybody in London he knew the massive new steel and concrete and marble palace which, containing some 300 super-luxurious flats, reared its horizontally lined white facade above Hyde Park Corner at the bottom of Park Lane. "In a way," went on Turquin, "Mahoney was a dependent of mine. I couldn't employ him. He was, in mv opinion, unemployable, a useless wastrel toward whom, however, I had feelings of gratitude. He used to drink, and drink heavily. I . . . well . . . perhaps I should say I pensioned him. A small sum per week . . . nothing. ... It bought %im food and lodging and — drink." Turquin dismissed his allowance to Mahoney with a flick of his right hand. Barclay was listening intently. He knew all this was a lie —a lie from beginning to end. He knew Turquin fenced. He knew the smoothly-spoken, aristocratically-voiced person across the table was a killer, as deadly as the black mamba, and just as wantonly murderous—for the mamba slays for the sake of slaying. He knew Turquin had como to test him. Ho knew Tur,quin suspected a great deal. He knew he had survived the first test —that dramatic announcement as he poured out the wine. Right down inside he braced himself, and, thus braced, achieved that outward semblance of carelessness which only enormous effort can endow. "This evening," said Turquin slowly, "the river police found Mahoney. He had been stabbed to death not very much earlier—late this afternoon perhaps." "What a dreadful thing!" said Barclay, and sipped his wine. "Had he any known enemies?" The hooded eyes were narrowed, so that they were slits of moving light. Turquin sprang his second trap. "The police also found the knife. The murderer must have thrown it, as ho thought, into the river. But there was fog over the water, and he actually pitched the knife so that it stuck into the deck of a barge. -I believe there are finger-prints on its hilt." Barclay twisted his glass in the light. "Clever things, those," he said. "I can never understand how those fellows can differentiate between all the whorls and spirals, or whatever they're called. A marvellous discovery. 1 suppose the police communicated with you—as an old friend of Mahoney's?" The question was asked easily, but it was as shrewd and disturbing as the sudden thrust of a rapier. "Er—yes." Barclay could have shrieked with laughter. Ho had riposted once, and onco only—and he had got home. "As a matter of fact, Mahoney's landlady rang me up. She knew I had kept the man." Turquin grinned crookedly. "It appears he owed a month's rent and she was agitated about it. So perhaps her' solicitude was not altogether unselfish. I sent the money over." (To b* continued daily)