“Nope. You ordered me to watch the house, and, not knowing what your game is, I haven’t made any effort to see him. He’s here, though, and its damn funny, too. Last time I heard of him, two months ago, he was in Petrograd.”
“If you have not seen him, how do you know he is living in this house?” asked Peret impatiently.
In a subdued voice, Bendlow rapidly related all he knew about the man he called the Wolf, and gave his reasons for believing him to be the present occupant of the house. When he concluded, Peret could scarcely control his elation.
“Voila,” he exclaimed softly. “You have done your work better than you know, my friend. Everything fits together beautifully. Now, let’s to work. I wonder if there is any one in the house now?”
“Can’t say for sure, but I doubt it.”
“Well, we’re going in, regardless. It’s dangerous business, but necessary. I must clear up the mystery of the whispering Thing.”
“The Whispering Thing?” questioned Bendlow.
“Oui,” whispered Peret tersely. “I cannot tell you what it is, for I do not know. But it’s a demon, my friend, be sure of that! Keep close to me and be prepared for any eventuality. Ready?”
“Yep,” laconically. “Lead on.”
Peret tried the door behind him and found it locked. After several unsuccessful attempts, he opened it with a master key and, followed by Bendlow, entered the cellar. Closing the door, Peret brought his flashlight into play, and then, like a phantom, he passed over the concrete floor and ascended a flight of steps in the rear.
Unlocking the door at the head of the steps, the two detectives stepped out into the carpeted hall and paused for a moment to listen.
No sound greeted their ears. The house was as dark and silent as a grave. Even the light in the vestibule had been extinguished.
“Where next?” whispered Bendlow.
“The first floor, then upstairs,” breathed Peret in his ear.
Guided by frequent flashes from Peret’s flashlight, the two detectives explored the parlor, dining-room and kitchen, and found them empty, cold and silent. When they returned to the hall, Peret leaned over and put his lips to his companion’s ear.
“Wait at the bottom of the front stairs and watch,” was his whispered order. “I’m going up. Warn me if any one enters the house, and if you hear me cry out, turn on the lights and come to my help as rapidly as you can. The Whispering Thing strikes quickly, and, having struck, moves on.Comprendez-vous?”
“Yep,” croaked Bendlow, and took up his stand at the place designated.
Flashing his light around the hall once more, so as not to lose his sense of direction, Peret began his slow and cautious ascent to the second floor. Placing his feet carefully on that part of the steps nearest to the wall so they would not creak, he worked his way up to the top of the steps. There he paused to listen.
No one knew better than he how fatal it would prove to be caught prowling around the house of a man as desperate as the Wolf was reputed to be, in the dead of night. There was not only the man himself to be feared; there was the Whispering Thing, for if Dalfonzo was, as he suspected, implicated in the murders he was investigating, it was certain that the invisible assassin, be it man, beast or devil was in league with the renegade Italian.
Yet a search of the man’s house during his absence, or at least without his knowledge, seemed necessary, since Peret not only had no evidence against the Count, but had as yet to learn the exact nature of the Thing; and it would be useless to make an arrest until he could fasten the crimes on their perpetrator.
Having assured himself that no one was stirring, therefore, Peret began to explore the second floor. The house was a small one, and it did not take him long to go through the four rooms that comprised the second floor, especially as two of them were unfurnished. The other two rooms, which contained only the necessary articles of bedroom furniture, bore signs of recent occupation, but Peret was unable to find in them anything of an incriminating or even of an enlightening character.
Rendered moody by his failure to find the evidence he sought, the Frenchman returned to the hall and was about to retrace his steps to the first floor when he felt a pressure on his arm and heard Bendlow’s hoarse, low-pitched warning in his ear.
“Something’s in the vestibule.”
Peret’s muscles grew tense.
“Somebody coming in?” he asked quickly.
“Nope,” came the reply. “It’s something in the vestibule between the two doors. It musta been there all the time we’ve been here, as the front door hasn’t been opened since I’ve been on guard.”
“How do you know something’s there?” whispered Peret.
“Heard it moving around, and when I put my ear to the keyhole I heard it breathing.” was Bendlow’s startling reply.
Peret’s jaws closed with a snap, and his grasp on his automatic tightened.
“Eh, bien,” he hissed. “Follow me down stairs. Keep hold of my coat so we won’t get separated. If anything approaches you from the rear,shoot first and ask questions afterwards. It begins to look as if we had tracked the Whispering Thing to its lair.En avant!”
Cautiously and noiselessly, the two men made their way down the dark steps to the first floor. Followed closely by Bendlow, who had an automatic in his hand, Peret tip-toed across the hall and applied his ear to the keyhole in the front door. He heard a slight movement on the other side of the door, and his spine stiffened.
Peret waited, with his ear glued to the keyhole. He could plainly hear something moving around restlessly in the vestibule, but, for the moment, he could not determine what it was. Suddenly, however, he heard athumpon the door and a scratching sound on the floor. This was followed by a loud whining yawn.
Peret caught Bendlow by the arm and drew him away from the door.
“It’s a dog,” he whispered disgustedly. “Dalfonzo doubtless placed him there to guard the entrance during his absence. Lucky for us we entered by way of the cellar, eh?”
“I thought it might be a dog when I first hear it,” muttered Bendlow; “but after what you said about the Whispering Thing I thought I better not investigate alone. Maybe the dog’ll convince you that the Wolf is a tough customer. He’s a hard man to catch napping. Going back upstairs?”
“No. I am through. There is no one in the house, and I can find no trace of the Whispering Thing.Sapristi!what a blind trail it is that I follow. Are you sure, my friend, that you have not made a mistake in thinking that Dalfonzo—”
“Not a chance,” was Bendlow’s emphatic reply. “This house, however, may be a blind. The Wolf may be laying low and working through his confederate. He may not even be in the city. However, as I am working in the dark, I will not hazard any more guesses. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the Wolf—”
“Hist!”
But Peret’s warning came too late. Engrossed as they were in their whispered conversation, neither of them had heard the outer front door open, or the whine with which the dog welcomed the man who entered the vestibule. Peret’s alert ear had caught the sound made by a key being turned in the lock of the inner door, and he hissed his warning just as the door was opened to admit the man and the dog. At the same instant a match flared in the hand of the new-comer, and the two detectives, as if on pivots, whirled.
“The Wolf,” croaked Bendlow hoarsely, and, with Peret following darted down the hall.
“Halt!” commanded the Wolf, and the dog, with an angry growl, shot between his legs and hurled itself after the detectives.
Reaching the door at the head of the cellar steps, Bendlow grasped the knob and wrenched it open. A streak of flame stabbed the darkness and a bulletzummedby Peret’s ear and buried itself in the wall.
“Get him, Sultan,” cried the Wolf, and fired another shot.
Sultan tore down the dark hall, his lower jaw hung low in readiness, but when he reached the end of the hall he found the two prowlers had disappeared and the cellar door was closed.
If Sultan was doomed to disappointment, so, too, were Peret and his husky companion, for they were not to make their escape as easily as they had at first believed they would. As they climbed from the basement window a dark form loomed up in front of them and a harsh voice commanded:
“Hands up!”
At the same instant the cold muzzle of a revolver came in violent contact with the Frenchman’s nose.
“Diable!” swore Peret softly, and, realizing that he was at the other’s mercy, elevated his hands with alacrity and, with a backward swing of his foot, kicked Bendlow on the shin.
Bendlow, however, needed no such urging. At the first spoken word, he had raised his automatic and taken deadly aim at the dark form in front of Peret. Something in the speaker’s voice, however, made him hesitate to shoot.
“Climb out of there, you!” ordered the voice harshly. “No funny business if you’re fond of life. C’mon out.”
“Dick Cromwell!” spoke up Bendlow suddenly. “Drop your gat. It’s Bendlow and Peret.”
“Well, for the luva Mike!” exclaimed the central bureau detective, and lowered his revolver. Then, to someone behind him. “It’s the Terrible Frog, Sarge.”
With a sigh of relief that was not unlike a snort, Peret scrambled out of the basement, and, without loss of time, tersely explained the situation to the three city detectives who crowded around him and his companion. His explanation, however, did not altogether satisfy Sergeant O’Brien, who was in charge of the party. Although he and the other two detectives had been set to watch the house at the Frenchman’s suggestion, he had not been informed of this and had no knowledge of Peret’s connection with the cause, and further, while the two private detectives were both well and favorably known to him, he had been ordered to arrest any one who attempted to leave the house, and orders were orders.
The only thing he could do, therefore, was to hold the two men until he could telephone for instructions. Having explained this to Peret, he went to the patrol box in the next block to get in communication with headquarters, while the others retired to a safe distance from the house to await his return. When he rejoined them, a few minutes later, the two prisoners, after being subjected to much good-natured badinage, were released.
At the corner, where he found the taxi still waiting for him, Peret gave Bendlow his orders for the night, then climbed in the cab and left his lieutenant to shift for himself. His only desire now was to get home and crawl into bed. The past hour’s work had disgusted and depressed him. The only thing he had accomplished had been to put Dalfonzo on his guard, and that was the last thing in the world he desired to do. Nevertheless, he felt that he had the case pretty well in hand and that within the next twenty-four hours he would be able to act decisively. And in this he found consolation.
Reaching his apartment house, he descended to the sidewalk, paid and dismissed the chauffeur without doing him bodily harm—which, considering the size of the fare, was little less than remarkable—and even wished the bandit good-night.
Peret entered the apartment house with a sprightly step. Had he been attending his own funeral he would have done no less. His vast supply of nervous energy had to have some outlet, and even in moments of depression he walked as if he had springs in his heels.
It was long after midnight, and the front hall was deserted. Rather than awaken the elevator boy, who was dozing in his cage, Peret mounted the stairs to the second floor. At the front end of the dimly-lighted hall, he came to a stop and tried the door of his sitting-room. As he expected, he found it locked.
Inserting the key in the lock, he opened the door and entered the dark room. As he replaced the key in his pocket with one hand, he pushed the door shut with the other.
He heard the spring of the night-latch close with a loudclick. He was about to reach out his hand to find the push-button that operated the electric lights, when, suddenly, his head flew back with a snap and his body became tense.
The silence in the room was suddenly broken by a loud though inarticulatewhisper—a loud, jerky, sibilant sound, that departed as abruptly as it had come.
The blood in the Frenchman’s veins congealed. He could see nothing. The darkness was so intense that he could almost feel it press against his eye-balls.
Moistening his lips, he waited, with every sense alert, half believing that his ears had deceived him. But no. Almost immediately the silence was once more broken by a blood-curdlinghiss, and, at the same instantPeret felt an ice-cold breath on his cheek.
He shuddered, too paralyzed with fear to move. The hiss, or whisper, seemed to come from in front of him, and in his mind’s eye he could see the invisible Thing gathering itself for attack. He shuddered again as It moved around in back of him and, after chilling his fevered cheek with its icy breath, whispered in his ear.
There was nothing human about the whisper: it had an unnatural and ominous sound, and the breath of the unseen Thing, which now fanned his face, was as cold and clammy as the respirations of an animated corpse.
Peret was undoubtedly a brave man. He had the heart of a lion and the strength of many men twice his size. But for once in his life he knew fear—real fear—a terrible, overpowering apprehension of impending danger.
The tragic happenings in the vicinity of Berjet’s house were still so fresh in his mind that even his lively imagination could scarcely have lent color to the deadly peril in which he knew he stood. In a flash he recalled everything that Deweese had said about the whispers and the breathing that had preceded the attack of the monstrous Thing, and he remembered the death struggles of the scientist and Dr. Sprague, and their horribly distorted features as they lay stretched out on the pavement at his feet.
Again he heard the agonized scream of the physician and saw his bulging eyes as he battled for his life with the invisible monster.
He wanted to move, to scream, to strike out, to do anything but remain inactive, but, for the moment, he was helpless, for his soul was gripped by the icy fingers of terror. The hair of his head bristled and beads of cold perspiration burst from his brow.
That he stood in the presence of the Whispering Thing—the whispering and respiring supernatural horror that had, but a few short hours before, crushed the life out of the two men whose death he had sworn to avenge—he could not, and did not, for a moment doubt.
This story will be concluded in the next issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell your news dealer to reserve a copy for you.