“That’s one on you!” he said, with a certain grim triumph. “After
Greta said there was something came in the night that wasn’t trees
rustling, I sat up and smoked. First night I read and nothing
happened. Next night I sat in the dark. There was no breeze and I
heard nothing for my pains. Third night I stayed in the dark again,
and about twelve o’clock a breeze came along. All mixed up with the
rustling and sighing of the leaves I heard a voice calling as plain as
I ever heard anything in my life! And it called _me!_”
“Haufmann!”
“It blame-well called _me!_ I’d take my oath before a jury on it!”
“This is almost incredible!” I said. “I wish Moris Klaw were here.”
“Where is he?”
“He is in Paris. He will be away over the week-end.”
“I met a man curiously enough,” continued Haufmann, “just outside the
Charing Cross Tube, on my way here, who’s coming down to have a look
into the business--a hot man on mysteries.” He mentioned the name of a
celebrated American detective agency. “I’m afraid it’s right outside
his radius, but he volunteered and I was glad to have him. I’d like
Klaw down though.”
“What about the girls?”
“I was going to tell you. They’re at Brighton for a while. Greta
didn’t want to quit, but poor Lal was dead scared! Anyway, I got them
off.”
The uncanny business claimed entire possession of my mind, and further
work was out of the question. I accordingly accompanied Haufmann to
the hotel where the detective was lodged and made the acquaintance of
Mr. J. Shorter Ottley. He was a typical New Yorker, clean-shaven and
sallow complexioned with good gray eyes and an inflexible mouth.
“We don’t deal in ghosts!” he said, smilingly; “I never met a ghost
that couldn’t stop a bullet if it came his way!”
“I’ll make a confession to you,” remarked Haufmann. “When I heard that
soft voice calling, I hadn’t the sand to go and look out! How’s that
for funk?”
“Not funk at all,” replied Ottley, quietly. “Maybe it was wisdom!”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve got an idea about it, that’s all. Did Miss Haufmann hear it the
same night?”
“Not the same night I did--no. She seems to have dozed off.”
“When she _did_ hear it, was it calling you?”
“She couldn’t make out what it called!”
“Did she go to the window?”
“Yes, but she only looked out from behind the blind.”
“See anything?”
“No.”
“I should have very much liked an interview with her,” said Ottley,
thoughtfully.
“She could tell you no more than I have.”
“About that, no! There’s something else I would like to ask her.”
That evening we all three dined at The Grove, dinner being prepared by
a woman who departed directly we were finished. A desultory game of
billiards served to pass the time between twilight and darkness, and
the detective and I departed, leaving Haufmann alone in the house.
This was prearranged by Ottley, who had some scheme in hand. Side by
side we tramped down the poplar avenue, went out by the big gate, and
closed it behind us. We then skirted the grounds to a point on the
side opposite the gate, and, scaling the wall, found ourselves in a
wilderness of neglected kitchen garden. Through this the American
cautiously led the way toward the house, visible through the tangle of
bushes and trees in sharp silhouette against the sky. On all fours we
crossed a little yard and entered a side door which had been left ajar
for the purpose, closing it softly behind us. So, passing through the
kitchen, we made our way upstairs and rejoined Haufmann.
A post had been allotted to me in the room next to his and I was
enjoined to sit in the dark and watch for anything moving among the
trees. Haufmann departed to a room on the west front with similar
injunctions, and the detective remained in Haufmann’s room.
As I crept cautiously to the window, avoiding the broad moonbeam
streaming in, I saw a light on my left. Ottley was acting as Haufmann
would have done if he had been retiring for the night. Three minutes
later the light vanished, and the nervous vigil was begun.
There was very little breeze, but sufficient to send up and down the
poplar ranks waves of that mysterious whispering which Klaw and I had
previously noted. The moon, though invisible from that point, swam in
an absolutely cloudless sky, and the shadow of the house lay black
beneath me, its edge tropically sharp. A broad belt of moon-bright
grass and gravel succeeded, and this merged into the light-patched
gloom of the avenue. On the right of the poplars lay a shrubbery, and
beyond that a garden stretching to the east wall. Just to the left, an
outbuilding gleamed whitely. Some former occupant had built it for a
coach house and it now housed Haufmann’s car. The apartments above
were at present untenanted.
I cannot say with certainty when I first detected, mingled with the
whistling of the branches, something that was not caused by the wind.
But ultimately I found myself listening for this other sound. With my
eyes fixed straight ahead and peering into the shadows of the poplars
I crouched, every nerve at high tension. A slight sound on my left
told of a window softly opened. It was Ottley creeping out on to the
balcony. He, too, had heard it!
Then, with awful suddenness, the inexplicable happened.
A short, shrill cry broke the complete silence, succeeding one of
those spells of whispering. A shot followed hot upon it--then a
second. Somebody fell with a muffled thud upon the drive--and I leapt
to the window, threw it widely open, and stepped out on the balcony.
“Ottley!” I cried. “Haufmann!”
A door banged somewhere and I heard Haufmann’s muffled voice:
“Downstairs! Come down!”
I ran across the room, out on to the landing, and down into the hall.
Haufmann was unfastening the bolts. His injured arm was still stiff,
and I hastened to assist him.
“My God!” he cried, turning a pale face toward me. “It’s Ottley gone!
Did you see anything?”
“No! Did you?”
“Curse it! No! I had just slipped away from the window to get my
repeater! You heard the voice?”
“Clearly!”
The door was thrown open and we ran out into the drive.
There was no sign of Ottley, and we stood for a moment, undecided how
we should act. Then, just inside the shadow belt we found the
detective lying.
Thinking him dead, we raised and dragged him back to the house. Having
refastened the door, we laid him on a sofa in the morning room. His
face was deathly and blood flowed from a terrible wound on his skull.
Strangest of all, though, he had a gaping hole just above the right
wrist. The skin about it was discoloured as if with burning. Neither
of us could detect any sign of life, and we stood, two frankly
frightened men, looking at each other over the body.
“It’s got to be done!” said Haufmann, slowly. “One of us has to stay
here and do what he can for him, and one has to go for a doctor!
There’s no telephone!”
“Where’s the nearest doctor?” I asked.
“There’s one at the corner of the first road on the right.”
“I’ll go!” I said.
Without shame I confess that from the moment the door closed behind
me, I ran my hardest down the poplar avenue until I had passed the
gate! And it was not anxiety that spurred me, for I did not doubt that
Ottley was dead, but stark fear!