Jules Peret was a man of parts. Born in the slums of Paris, he had
migrated to America at an early age and, following the vicissitudes of
a dissipated youth, had, by the sheer power of will and ability, forced
himself to the top of the ladder of success in his chosen profession.
Eccentric, high-strung and affected, he was nevertheless something of a
genius in his particular line. As a plainclothes man under the command
of Major Dobson, his success had been outstanding. This was largely
due to his love of the dramatic, and his knack of making the most
unpretentious case assume huge proportions in the eyes of the public.
His methods were simple, apparently infallible, always spectacular. For
which reason the newspapers gave him much space on their front pages
and delighted in referring to him as the Terrible Frog and the Devil’s
Sister—appellations, by the way, that had their origin in the dives of
the underworld.
Three months ago Peret had severed his connections with police
headquarters and established himself as a “consulting detective.”
And because of the enviable record he had made while serving his
apprenticeship on the “force,” he had at once found his services in great
demand.
At this time Peret was about thirty-four years of age. A small effeminate
man, with delicate features, small hands and feet, rosy cheeks and thick
eye-brows, one would have taken him for almost anything in the world but
a detective. In manner and dress, he was typical of the _boulevardiers_
of Paris. He affected a slender black mustache about the same general
size and shape of a pointed match-stick, and he had a weakness for
pearl-striped trousers and lavender spats.
Exteriors, however, are sometimes deceiving, and this was true in the
case of the little Frenchman. When aroused, Peret was like a tiger. It
was not for nothing that he had earned his terrible _noms de guerre_ in
the world of crime.
Erratic in manner as in dress, his departure—or, rather, his flight—from
the home of the murdered scientist, was as distinctive of the man as was
his mustache. The mirth of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese
meant nothing to him. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts for the
moment to consider the effect of his behavior on the others. He had
simply felt the impulse to action and had obeyed it with characteristic
promptness, energy and enthusiasm.
On the sidewalk he paused for a moment.
The night was pitch-black. Not a star was visible. The fog still hung
over the city in heavy folds and at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet
almost obliterated the street lights. A little crowd of morbidly curious
sensation-seekers had gathered in front of the house and, much to their
dislike, were now being herded away from the immediate scene of the crime
by two uniformed policemen.
Turning up the collar of his coat, Peret wiggled his way through the
crowd and sped across the street to the drug store. Entering a telephone
booth, he ordered a taxi. He then called up his office, and when the
connection was made, poured a volley of instructions into the receiver in
language that must have burnt the wires.
Replacing the receiver on the hook, he left the store and, when his taxi
arrived a few minutes later, started out on a feverish round of inquiries.
His first call was at the Army and Navy Building. Evidently luck was
against him, for after a moment’s stay he emerged from the building, with
a scowl on his face. Hopping into the taxi, he ordered the chauffeur to
drive to the Treasury Department.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, he had, as expected, some difficulty
in gaining admittance. A cabalistic message sent to some mysterious
personage within, however, had a magical effect on the watchman, who
swung wide the doors for him.
His stay within was brief, and after the portals had again been opened to
let him out, he sped down the flight of steps in front of the building
and crossed the street on a dead run. From the corner drug store he
fired a message over the wire to police headquarters, then, quitting the
store, once more boarded the taxi and instructed the chauffeur to drive
him to a certain street corner.
After a short run, the cab came to a stop at the corner of a dark street
in one of the residential sections of the city. Instructing the chauffeur
to wait for him, Peret left the car and, wrapping his coat around him,
glided off in the darkness.
Half way down the block, at the intersection of an alley, the Frenchman
paused. Though the fog had lifted somewhat, the mist had turned into
a heavy sleet and, if such a thing were possible, it was even darker
than it had been an hour previously. Except for the taxi waiting at the
corner, the street, so far as Peret could see, was deserted.
Stepping behind a tree-box, Peret surveyed the row of houses on the
opposite side of the street. A dim light burned in several of the
vestibules; otherwise the houses were wrapped in darkness. Satisfied that
he was not observed, Peret stepped from behind the tree-box and gave a
peculiar, birdlike whistle.
In answer to the signal, the eye of a flash-light blinked near the front
door of one of the houses in the middle of the block, and Peret, clinging
to the shadows, crossed the street. Drawing his automatic, he traversed
the lawn to the house.
“Bendlow?”
“H’luva night to be abroad, Chief,” came a hoarse whisper. “What’s the
row, anyway?”
Although it was too dark to distinguish the speaker’s features, or, as
a matter of fact, even to see the outline of his form, there was no
mistaking the foghorn voice of Harvey Bendlow, former Secret Service
agent and, at the present time, night manager of Peret’s Detective
Agency. Restoring his automatic to his pocket, the Frenchman gripped the
other’s hand.
“Haven’t time to explain now,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve got a big
job ahead of us. How long have you been here?”
“’Bout an hour,” croaked Bendlow. “I came on the jump just as soon as
your message was received at the office. I’ve been prowling around taking
a look-see.”
“Seen anything of the occupant of the house?”
“Nope. I guess the Wolf is in the hay,” was Bendlow’s enigmatic reply.
“What’s that?” asked Peret sharply. “Who is this that you call the
‘Wolf’?”
“Say, don’t you know whose house you sent me to watch?” demanded Bendlow
in surprise.
“No; I have a suspicion that the man living in this house is a foreign
agent, but I’m not sure that I know who he is.”
“Well, your suspicion does you credit. This house at the present time is
occupied by Count Vincent di Dalfonzo, better known to the Secret Service
as the Wolf.”
“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Peret, with rising excitement. “You are sure?”
“None surer! Known him for a long time.”
“Tell me what you know about him, quickly, my friend.”
“Take too long now. He’s got a record. Had a coupla run-ins with him
when I was attached to the Secret Service. He’s a clever and dangerous
guy. International agent. Famous spy during the war. Plays only for big
stakes, and the harder the game the better he likes it. Renegade Italian
nobleman. His mother was an American. Takes after her in looks, I reckon.
Never know he was a wop to look at him. He’s been a thorn in the side of
the foreign Secret Service for years. Too clever for them. They know he’s
the milk in the cocoanut, but they can’t crack his shell, so to speak.
He’s bad medicine, and no mistake. He kills at the drop of a hat.”
“But how do you know he is living in this house, eh? Have you seen him?”
“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 a _thump_
on 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
bullet _zummed_ by 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.
_CHAPTER VI._