At 9 a. m. on the following morning Jules Peret presented himself at the
front door of a small, unpretentious red-brick house on Fifteenth Street,
one block from the home of the murdered scientist.
One would never have suspected from his manner or appearance that, eight
hours previously, he had battled with an invisible menace in the narrow
confines of a darkened room, and had felt stark terror grip his soul
before he emerged triumphant from the most harrowing experience of his
adventurous career. No one would ever have suspected that, because, to
all outward appearance, Peret was at peace with the world and had no
thought on his mind of greater weight than the aroma of the cigarette
between his lips. Debonair as ever, and attired with the scrupulous
neatness that was so characteristic of him, he made a picture that had
caused more than one young lady to pay him the honor of a lingering
glance when, a half-hour previously, he had issued from his apartment and
pursued his way down the well populated thoroughfare.
In answer to the tinkle of the bell the door was opened three inches by
the butler, a small, wrinkled, leathery-faced old Chinaman, whose head
was as bald and shiny as a polished egg. In one hand he held a faded silk
skull cap, which he had evidently just removed from his head or forgotten
to put on.
“Whatchee want, huh?” he demanded, with a regrettable lack of civility.
“I want to see your master,” returned Peret courteously, extending his
card. “Please present my compliments to him, _Monsieur_, and tell him my
business is pressing.”
“Mlaster no see nobody,” chattered Sing Tong Fat. “He sick. Allee samee
dlunk. No see noblody. Clome back nex’ week.”
“But it is necessary that I should see your master this morning,” was
Peret’s polite but firm retort. “Your master will be glad enough to see
me when you show him my card.” He displayed his badge of special officer
and added, “Get a wiggle on!”
“_Yak pozee!_” shrilled Sing Tong Fat indignantly, and opened the door.
“You clazy. Allee samee tong man. Master have you alested.” He contorted
his face until it resembled a hyena’s, and broke into a shrill laugh.
“_Tchee, tchee._ (yes, yes.) Alee samee tam fool clazy man.”
“You are an amiable old scamp, _Monsieur_,” laughed Peret. “But we are
losing time, and time is of importance. Where does your master hang out,
eh? I will present my own card.”
“I tellee him you see him flirst,” chattered the Chinaman. “You wait
here. He sleepee. Me wakee him up. He sick. Allee samee dlunk. You wait
leddle time. _Tchon-dzee-ti Fan-Fu_ (it is the will of the master).”
A door on the right side of the hall opened and a man stepped out into
the hall. In spite of his disheveled hair and the brilliantly-colored
dressing robe that covered his heavy frame, there was no mistaking the
handsome features of Albert Deweese.
“’S all right, Sing,” he said, when he saw who his visitor was. “I
decided to get up for a while.” Then to Peret: “Good-morning, Mr. Peret.
I guess you think I am an inhospitable cuss, what? Fact is, I have been
trying to sleep.”
“No, I do not think you are inhospitable, _Monsieur_,” replied Peret,
as he shook hands. “After your experience last night, you need time to
recuperate. The wonder of it is that you are able to be up at all.”
“I agree with you there!” responded Deweese with feeling. “I told Sing
last night when I retired to admit no one this morning until I rang,
which accounts for his discourtesy in keeping you waiting. I felt the
need of a round twelve hours’ sleep to recover from the effects of my
adventure, but I haven’t been able to close my eyes. I feel as if I shall
_never_ be able to close them.”
Deweese indeed showed the effects of his near-tragic battle with the
Whispering Thing. His face was grayish-white and the heavy black
circles under his bloodshot eyes accentuated his pallor and gave him an
appearance that was almost ghastly. Had he been stretched out on a bed
and his eyes closed, one could easily have mistaken him for a corpse.
Dismissing the garrulous and indignant old Chinaman, he crossed the hall
and ushered Peret into a large, well-lighted room that was fitted out as
a studio. The walls were hung with canvases of an indifferent quality in
various stages of completion, and on an easel near a large double window
reposed the half-completed picture of a semi-nude, which immediately
caught and held the detective’s gaze.
After a moment’s critical inspection of the painting, Peret remarked:
“You seem to be a busy man, my friend. But I don’t suppose you find much
interest in your paintings this morning, eh? In fact, you look on the
verge of a collapse. Have you seen your physician yet?”
“That’s the first thing I did after leaving Berjet’s house last night,”
the artist replied. “He found nothing serious the matter with me,
however. Shock more than anything else, I suppose. But to what do I
owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Peret? Have you had any success in
running down the Thing?”
“Yes and no,” answered Peret, and then went on to explain: “We are hot on
the trail, but haven’t yet succeeded in entirely clearing up the mystery.
It was in the hope that you would be able to help me a little that I
called upon you this morning. I thought you might like to see the affair
through to the end.”
“Good!” cried the artist, his feverish eyes glittering with eagerness.
“After I had gotten some sleep, I intended hunting you up, anyway. You
are right when you say I want to see the thing through to the finish. You
can count on me to help you in any way that lies in my power. God knows,
there is no one more eager than myself to get to the bottom of this
affair! With the Whispering Thing still at large—”
He shuddered involuntarily, laughed, and added, “It is difficult for you
to understand my feelings, I guess.”
“Perhaps it’s not as difficult as you imagine, my friend,” said Peret
quietly, subsiding into a chair. He selected a cigarette from the case
the artist proffered, and continued: “But let us get down to business.
First, I will recount a few facts disclosed by my investigations and then
explain how you can help me. In the meantime, let us be comfortable. You
are as pale as a ghost. Be seated, my dear fellow, I beg of you,” he
added with solicitude.
“Oh, I am not as bad off as I may appear,” declared Deweese confidently,
dropping into a chair nevertheless. “I will be all right after a few
hours’ rest. Now, let me have your story. Naturally, I am consumed with
curiosity to hear what you have discovered.”
“Ah, you are a delightful companion, _Monsieur_,” was Peret’s genial
response. “Me—I am a great talker, but a poor listener. I will tell you
what I know with pleasure. But let me first congratulate you upon the
excellence of these Persian cigarettes. _Sacre!_ But you have a delicate
taste, _Monsieur_.”
The artist bowed his acknowledgment to the compliment, but impatiently.
It was evident that he was eager to hear what the Frenchman had on his
mind, and Peret, remarking this, did not keep him longer in suspense.
“I will not take up your time by recounting all that has transpired since
I saw you last night, _Monsieur_,” began Peret, “and for the sake of
convenience I will tell my story in a round-about sort of way. Let me
begin with my first attempt to motivate Berjet’s murder.
“M. Berjet was, as you are doubtless aware, a scientist of international
repute. In scientific circles, in fact, he was a towering figure. I have
the honor of having had a casual acquaintanceship with him for several
years, and as I knelt beside his dead body on the sidewalk last night I
recalled to mind many of the achievements that had brought him moderate
wealth and fame. Among other things, I remembered having recently seen a
newspaper account of a new invention of his—a poison gas of unparalleled
destructive powers, the formula of which several warring nations have
been trying to purchase.
“As clues were sadly lacking, and our investigation in his house failed
to reveal any satisfactory explanation for Berjet’s death, I at once
assumed that the motive for the murder had been the theft of the formula.
I knew that at least one of the nations that have been trying to acquire
the formula would go to almost any length to gain possession of a new and
really effective weapon of this kind. I therefore got in touch with the
Secret Service, which usually has an intimate knowledge of such matters,
and learned several facts that made me more certain than ever that I was
on the right track.
“Berjet’s poison gas, I learned, is indeed a terrible destructive agent.
It is said to be even more deadly than Lewisite. A minute portion of a
drop, if placed on the ground, will kill every living thing, vegetable
and animal, within a radius of half a mile. Think, then, what a ton would
do!
“Berjet called his invention ‘Q-gas.’ The formula was first offered to
our government for a moderate sum, and rejected, and at the time of his
death the savant was negotiating for its sale to the French government.”
“Surely, you are not going to try to make me believe that this Q-gas
played a direct part in the death of Berjet and Sprague and the attack on
me,” interrupted Deweese. “Believe me, Mr. Peret—”
“I do believe you, my friend,” was Peret’s smiling response. “The gas
itself played no part in the tragedy last night, but the formula is at
the bottom of all of the trouble, as has been suggested. The murders were
simply incidental to the robbery of the formula.”
“Have you discovered who the robber was?” queried Deweese, with natural
curiosity.
“Yes,” replied Peret calmly. “Even without clues to work with, this
would not have been very difficult. Of the several nations that have
been trying to get possession of the Q-gas formula there are only one
or two that would authorize their agents to go to such extremes as were
employed last night to acquire it, and as virtually all of their agents
are known to the Secret Service, our search would have been confined to
a limited group of men and women. It would simply have been a matter of
elimination.”
Deweese nodded his understanding, and the sleuth continued:
“Almost from the very first, however, for reasons which I will explain
later, I was led to suspect a man who has since turned out to be a
notorious international agent, known in diplomatic circles as Count
Vincent di Dalfonzo. During his absence, I made a somewhat hurried search
of his rooms after my departure from the scientist’s house, but could
find nothing to incriminate him.
“One of my operatives, however, a former Secret Service agent, was able
to identify him, if nothing more. According to this operative, Dalfonzo,
who is one of the greatest scoundrels unhung, at the present time bears
the secret credentials of a nation I will leave unnamed, but one which,
I have reason to know, has made several unsuccessful attempts to buy the
Q-gas formula from Berjet.”
Deweese was leaning forward in his chair, an eager listener. As Peret
paused to relight his cigarette, he remarked:
“If Dalfonzo is such a notorious character, one would have thought that
the Secret Service would have kept him under its eye.”
“One would have thought so, indeed,” agreed Peret, expelling a cloud of
smoke from his lungs. “When last heard of several months ago, Dalfonzo
was in Petrograd and he probably entered this country in disguise and has
since kept himself well under cover.”
“Have you arrested him?”
“I have scarcely had time yet, _Monsieur_,” answered Peret. “I feel safe
in saying, however, that he will be in the custody of the police within
the next twenty-four hours.”
“Good! I will never feel safe while this scoundrel is at large, if indeed
he really did have a hand in the murders of Berjet, Sprague and Adolphe,
and the attack on me.”
“Dalfonzo had nothing to do with Adolphe’s murder, and only an indirect
hand in the attack on you,” said Peret. “_Sacre bleu!_ Dalfonzo is not
the kind of man that strikes down his victims with butcher knives and
such; he is a man of delicate ideas and sensibilities, _Monsieur_.”
“So it seems,” said Deweese drily. “I know that the finger prints on the
dagger tend to prove that Adolphe was murdered by his employer, but in
the light of the other facts can this evidence be considered conclusive?
The prints on the dagger may simply be a trick to confuse the police. The
Whispering Thing—But stay! For the moment I had forgotten the Whispering
Thing. It seems to me that we are getting away from the main issue.”
“Patience, _Monsieur_,” said Peret, with an enigmatical smile.
“Everything will be explained in good time. But first, let me assure you
that the finger prints on the dagger are genuine. Adolphe was undoubtedly
murdered by the scientist, and as the penalty for this crime he gave his
own life.”
Deweese started. The Frenchman’s indirect method of telling his story,
and the complacence with which he stated apparently contradictory facts,
confused and annoyed him.
“You mean—?” he began.
“I mean that Berjet was murdered because he stabbed his valet.”
“Well,” averred Deweese, unable to conceal his impatience, “all of
this is about as clear as mud to me. First you say that the motive for
Berjet’s murder was the robbery of the formula, and now you declare that
he was done away with because he killed his valet. What am I to believe?”
“What you will, _Monsieur_,” replied Peret. “Everything I have stated is
true, although I confess that as yet I have nothing to prove it. If the
facts seem contradictory, it is because I have expressed myself badly.
“According to my theory, Count Dalfonzo (for a consideration of course),
induced Adolphe to steal the formula of Q-gas from his benefactor. When
poor Berjet learned that he had been betrayed he stabbed the betrayer
in a fit of insane rage and hid the body in the closet in his library
until he would have time to dispose of it. Dalfonzo in some way learned
of this, or suspected it, and as he already had the formula in his
possession, decided that his safest plan would be to murder Berjet before
he could communicate with French Secret Service agents operating in this
country, who were about to consummate the purchase of the secret. _Eh,
bien!_ the murder was committed, and but for one little slip, one tiny
slip—_Ha; ha!_ It is amusing, is it not, _Monsieur_?”
“Very!” rejoined Deweese sarcastically. “I think, however, that I have
begun to get a glimmer of what you erroneously conceive to be the truth,
and that is that Dalfonzo and the mysterious Thing are identical.”
“Patience, _Monsieur_, patience,” cried Peret. “The glimmer of light that
you see is a will-o’-the wisp. Dalfonzo is a man; the Thing is—the Thing.
The murders were _instigated_ by Dalfonzo, but were _committed_ by the
invisible terror.”
Deweese, as had many a man before him, began to wonder if he had to deal
with an imbecile or a man by no means as feeble-minded as he seemed. In
his puzzlement he stared at Peret for a moment, with mouth agape, then
he leaned forward in his chair until less than two feet separated his
corpselike face from Peret’s.
“And what the devil _is_ the Whispering Thing?” he asked sharply.
“All in good time,” came the amiable reply. “Let us first consider the
little slip that upset Dalfonzo’s apple cart.”
“Well, let us consider the little slip then,” said Deweese, relaxing in
his chair. “Where did our diplomatic freelance slip?”
“Why, when he tried to murder me in the same way that he did that poor
Berjet,” quietly responded Peret.
The artist half rose from his chair and stared at the detective with
astonishment written on his face.
“Do you mean to say that _you_ have been attacked by the Whispering
Thing?” he demanded.
“Just that, _Monsieur_. I was attacked by the whispering phantom in my
rooms last night after I left the scene of the attack on you. You can
realize, therefore, that I can appreciate all that you have gone through.
It is true that my experience was, in some respects, not as terrible as
your own, because I escaped the Thing before it could do me bodily harm.
But I never expect entirely to recover from the fright it gave me. _Mon
dieu_, what a monster this Dalfonzo is!”
“It was at his instigation that the Thing attacked you?” questioned
Deweese.
“Who else?” asked Peret.
“Well,” cried Deweese, impatiently, “why do you beat around the bush
so much? Be definite. What the devil is the Whispering Thing? And who,
exactly, is the man you call Dalfonzo?”
Peret lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at the artist.
“I will answer your second question first, _Monsieur_,” he replied, with
exasperating slowness. “My answer will explain why I have been beating
around the bush, as you call it.”
He leaned slightly forward, his right hand in his coat pocket, his eyes
smiling, the muscles around his mouth tense.
“Count Vincent di Dalfonzo,” he said, “is the man who at the present time
calls himself Albert Deweese—_Don’t move, Monsieur!_ The revolver in my
coat pocket is centered on your heart!”
_CHAPTER VIII._