THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22403, 27 April 1936, Page 18

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

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued) Ten minutes went past. Lillian could see that the watcher was now perturbed. He' kept staring towards tho door. Lillian called for more coffee and lit another cigarette. She was willing to sit for half an hour, if necessary. A quarter of an hour had slipped away. The man at the other table was making no pretence at sipping the codec he had ordered. lie looked strained and annoyed. Lillian guessed Jeff had enough law to make his escape complete. He would never bo fool enough to linger at the house at Blackheath, but would stay there just sufficiently long to place the facts before his aunt who, Lillian had already gathered, was a capable, courageous and intelligent woman. Lillian called the waiter and he presented the bill. She guessed the watcher was now charged with wrath, and she also guessed ho would follow her. She settled the account and strolled out, walking rapidly towards Piccadilly, and diving straight into a huge shop specialising in women's intimate wear. She calculated the man would be a very bold and hardy person if he came after her into such a feminine holy of holies. She was out of the shop by another entrance in two seconds, claimed the first taxieab she saw, and told the driver to run round the quiet squares near Hyde Park Corner, and go slowly. Thus she was enabled to assure herself that her cab was not followed, and, perfectly satisfied on this point at last, she drove to Paul Barclay's house. Barclay was resting, as was his custom during tho afternoon, and she went to her bedroom. Ten minutes later she slipped out and posted a letter, and as she once more came to her room she met the girl, Betty. Betty smiled at her nervously, and Lillian stopped and spoke to her. "What's the matter, Betty?" she asked. "You look a little distressed." She began to walk into her room and Betty followed her. " i_i may be leaving, miss," said Betty, and-stared at Lillian. " Jf you don't mind my saying so, miss, you look a bit pale-like. You hajl a fright?" " I've had a rather exciting lunch," smiled Lillian. " Why are you leaving? Aren't you comfortable here?" Betty looked round; then gently closed the door and spoke in a soft, scared voice. " I don't like it, miss, and that's a fact. I know you're Mr, Barclay's niece, and I do hope you won't mind my saying all this. But there's something queer about this place. That Mrs. Allard . . . and Kirnber. . . . You know. . . . Lillian smiled. " Flirting, are they?" she suggested. " Lord, no. Not them. But they're as stiff with one another when anybody's About; and then I come on them suddenly whispering and talking confidential. And 1 "heard Kimber in her room last night. Not that there was anything wrong. I'll say that. B he seemed frightened to me. He said he was going to clear out before the hammer fell. Those were his exact words. He said it couldn't go on. And he said he believed in Smith, whatever Mr. Barclay said —only he called him 'Barclay.' And he said Ttirquin was taking too many chances. Now, if you remember, miss, Mr. Turquin was tho gentleman who called the other night." " I remember quito well," agreed Lillian, and looked puzzled. " Betty. You mustn't eavesdrop, you know. J mean spy." " 1 wouldn't for the world, miss," declared Betty virtuously. " Only—well. I just couldn't help overhearing. That's all. I'm frightened. I am, really, miss. It's sort of creepy. A big secret somewhere. And 1 don't like it." At that moment the door opened unceremoniously, and Mrs. Allard presented herself. She came to an abrupt standstill as she saw Lillian, and said: " 1 beg your pardon, Miss Hartway. 1 didn't know you were in. 1 was just coining to see that your room has been properly done." She gave Betty a hard and long look, and went out. Betty turned and stared at Lillian, and Betty's eyes said, as plainly as human eyes might, " I told you so." Lillian frowned. Was it possible that Mrs. Allard was aware of the fact that Betty was talking to her, and had deliberately walked in so that the conversation might bo checked? Betty spoke in a breathless whisper: " I lay awake all night last night, miss I couldn't get over it. And somebody came in the early hours of the morning. I heard them. A car. I was that scared . . . Then I heard people moving downstairs, and I opened my door a bit. After a while Kimbnr came up and ho went into Mrs. Allard's room. I. . ." Betty hesitated, and went very red. " You crept out and listened, eh?" said Lillian. Betty nodded. " I had to, miss. I don't know why—like wanting to know the worst. Kimber was wild and frightened, I thought. He said something about Turquin's putting the brake on. He's calling the bluff. I'm sure 1 don't know what it was all about. And then Mrs. Allard said something very quick. She can be awful when she's Annoyed. She said something about what the hell's tho good of a picture you can't sell? Barclay shouldn't have accepted it. Then I bolted back and got into bed, and I shivered so I shook the bed —I did, really I" " Well, you'd better run along now," said Lillian. " And, Betty, if you've made up your mind to leave, I should do so without delay. Your nerves will go to pieces if you stay here. It's all imagination, 1 think, but that doesn't alter tho fact of its effect on you. Off you go I" She gavo the girl a smile, and Betty scuttled out, while Lillian sat at the table in her room and thought—and thought; and all through her thoughts, like a black and ominous thread, ran an uneasiness which amounted to fear. CHAPTER VIII. The following morning Jeff received a letter. He had established himself in a lodging not far from tho British Museum and had telephoned his address to Aunt Sarah immediately ho was fixed up. The letter was from her, and ran as follows: " My Dear Nephew, " About an hour after 1 had your telephone call two men came. They said they were police officers and asked to see you. They were distinctly truculent. It is said that an Englishman's home is his castle, and 1 presume that tho same statement applies to the home of an Englishwoman, in spite of the fact that

she is the lesser of the two. I pointed out to them that they had better go. They were very rude and one of them spoke a curious kind of English, such as I understand some Americans use. 1 am not quite sure of this. At any rate, they went off with a bee in their bonnets, as I gave them the length of my tongue in no uncertain terms. I am, however, wondering if they were police officers at all. All the policemen I have met have been extremely considerate and polite, and these men were just the reverse. Don't forget to air that spare vest before you put it on. And, my dear boy, take great care of yourself. I havo the greatest of misgivings regarding the whole of this affair, and shall be glad when you can safely come and see me. " Your affectionate aunt, " Sarah." .Teff grinned, folded the letter and put it into his pocket; then frowned. Aunt Sarah was probably right. The visitors had not been policemen. Whatever their duty might be, they would have been kind to Aunt Sarah. So that the peoplo who had been trailing him had identified him, and had taken an audacious step in their efforts to get hold of him having lost him in London. Ho had plenty of time in which to think, and ho used it. He was somewhat puzzled by the whole affair, and . . . though loath to admit it ... a little puzzled about Lillian. The lucky—, or unlucky —chance of his visit to the house of Mr. Perceval Brendon had dragged him into a matter which, at first sight, seemed totally divorced from the affairs of Paul Barclay; yet . . . thinking it over ... he began to wonder if there might not be some vaguo and, at present, invisible connection between the two. Lillian had had Brendon's address in her handbag. She had explained uhy, but, somehow, that explanation seemed fragile when subjected to calm examination. But, of course, Lillian was not. . . . He went hot all over and thrust all suspicions from his mind. He had been puzzled from the first as to how he might try to prove his innocence and the guilt of Barclay, and he now resolved that perhaps his best method of approach might be a tortuous one. He might find it would pay him to pick up and cling to the one thread of sinister activity he had so far encountered—the assault on Perceval Brendon. It might lead him nowhere, from a personal standpoint. It might lead him a great way toward his own particular goal. Anyhow, it meant doing something. It meant abandoning vague ideas and impossible plans. He spent a great deal of that day watching Brendon's house. Nobody left it or entered it, and it had generally an air of desertion which, to his overworked imagination, suggested deep and intense mystery. He made some very careful and casual inquiries of people round about, and learnt that Mj. Brendon did not live in the house but used it as an office, though what business ho conducted from the office nobody knew. Sometimes, it seemed, he did not visit the place for a week or two. At others, he would turn up daily. During this period of intermittent watching—for Jeff broke his longish vigd from time to time in order to eat and drink—he slowly became aware or the fact that ho himself was observed. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling, and he immediately thought of the gunman and his companion. I'hey might be on his trail again, and if they were he would have to make it his business to dodge them. He studied the man. He was a little fellow, loosely built, with longish arms and shambling legs. His clothing was terribly shabby, and his face unshaven. An uncertain and watery pair of eyes wandered away from Jeff as Jeff looked at him. Evening came, and dusk. Ihe little man stood staring at Jeff now without attempting to disguise the fact. Here, thought Jeff, was no dangerous watcher, at any rate. He strolled along the pavement. The little man stopped him. "Got a match, mate?" He had the stub of a cigarette in his fingers. Jeff produced a box of matches and a packet of cigarettes. "Try one of these," he suggested. The other thanked him, lit up, and eyed him with cunning inquiry. "You looking for anybody?" he asked. "1 seen you all day—tin an' orf." "Not particularly," replied Jeff; and, acting on sudden inspiration, made a daring move. "At least, not as much as a number of people are looking for me." The watery eyes opened wide ; "Thasso? You got a nerve, anyhow." A long draw at the cigarette, some thought. " You seen Mr. Brendon lately P" "I saw him the other night," said Jeff, truthfully. "Reelly? Thass funny, ain't it? I been wanting to see him —urgent." Jeff's confession that a number of people wanted to find him had evidently bred a modicum of very reserved confidence. "I've wrote 'im and had no answer. It's a question of dough, you know —boodle. I mean to say, a bloko can't live on air, and I'll tell that to anybody. 1 don't like it." "Windy?" suggested Jeff. "Me?" The little man laughed too scorn lull v. "Why should I be? Nothink to be windy about. Whero'd you see him P" "Outside hero. 1 had a word with him. Then he went off." "Well, now. . . ." The watery eyes became more uncertain still. "I'll be movin'. So long, mate, and thanks for the tag." The little man drifted away. Jeff was more puzzled still. There was something tremendously strange about Mr. Perceval Brendon, oven if one overlooked the criminal assault on him which Jeff's interference had checked. Shabby and shadowy vaguenesses like the little man hung around him. Mysterious talk which might mean much, and yet meant nothing. . . . Intermittent appearances, definite vanishments. A curious calling which did not demand close attention. Payments of money to such as the little shambling creature drifting up the road. And —that wild cry of recognition when Jeff had intervened on his behalf. Jeff came to a sudden, momentous and dangerous decision. That night ho would, somehow or other, broak into Perceval Brendon's house and search it from ground to garret. He went off for food. He was in no hurry. The later he carried out his perilous task, tho better. Ho had read a hundred times in a hundred thrillers of heroes, for strictly lawful purposes, of course, breaking into enclosed premises, and it had always seemed easy; but now he contemplated doing it himself he found his heartbeats rather fast and furious. Ho went to the pictures and sat tho show through until the house closed. And still he waited. The wind had wafted to his ears tho chimes of distant Big Ben —the half-hour after midnight —when lie trekked once more toward Mr. Brendon's house. He had already decided that his best means of entry was through the lower front window, and before going to the cinema ho had purchased a stout tableknife. He had read that they slipped back window-catches with ease. He found that tho writers were all wrong. He had to stand on tho pavement to get at this catch, for the house had no forecourt. He felt as though a searchlight played on him, and that all Scotland Yar'd stood invisibly about him and criod: "There he is! There he is I" It was a disturbing experience. (To be continued daily)