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 loud _click_. 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 inarticulate
_whisper_—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-curdling _hiss_, and, at the same instant
_Peret 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._
_The Last Thrilling Chapters of_
_The_ Thing _of a_ Thousand Shapes
_A Weird Novel_