He Who Whispers (6 page)

‘What assurance will you have, mademoiselle? Have I not told you that this lady was not, in the accepted sense, a criminal of any kind?'

‘Oh!' said Barbara Morell. ‘Then
that's
all right.'

And she drew back her chair and sat down again, while Miles stared at her.

‘If you think it's all right, Miss Morell, I can't say I agree. According to Professor Rigaud here, nobody went near the victim at any time –'

‘Exactly! And I repeat the statement!'

‘How can you be sure of it?'

‘Among other things, witnesses.'

‘Such as?'

With a quick glance at Barbara, Professor Rigaud tenderly picked up the blade-part of the sword-stick. He replaced it in the cane-scabbard, screwed its threads tight again, and once more propped it up with nicety against the side of the table.

‘You will perhaps agree, my friend, that I am an observant man?'

Miles grinned. ‘I agree without a struggle.'

‘Good! Then I will show you.'

Professor Rigaud illustrated the next part of his argument by again sticking his elbows on the table, lifting his arms, tapping the forefinger of his right hand against the forefinger of his left, and at the same time bringing his intent, gleaming eyes so close to the fingers that he almost grew cross-eyed.

‘First of all, I myself can testify that there was no person in or on the tower – hiding there – when we left Mr Brooke alone. Such an idea is absurd! The place was as bare as a jug! I saw for myself! And the same truth applies to my return at five minutes past four, when I can take my oath that no murderer was lurking inside to make subsequent escape.

‘Next, what happens as soon as Harry and I go away? The open grass space, surrounding the tower on every side except for the narrow segment where it overhangs the river, is instantly invaded by a family of eight persons: Monsieur and Madame Lambert, their niece, their daughter-in-law, and four children.

‘I am a bachelor, thank God.

‘These people take possession of the open space. By sheer numbers they fill it. Papa and Mama are in sight of the doorway. Niece and eldest child keep walking round the tower and looking at it. The two youngest are actually
inside
. And all agree that no person either entered or left the tower during that time.'

Miles opened his mouth to make a protest, but Professor Rigaud intervened before he could speak.

‘It is true,' the professor conceded, ‘that these people could not speak as to the side of the round-tower facing the river.'

‘Ah!' said Miles. ‘There were no witnesses on that side?'

‘Alas, none.'

‘Then it's fairly obvious, isn't it? You told us a while ago that one of the battlements round the parapet, on the side facing the river, had crumbling pieces of rock broken off as though someone's fingers had clawed at them in climbing up. The murderer must have come from the river-side.'

‘Consider,' said Professor Rigaud in a persuasive voice, ‘the difficulties of such a theory.'

‘What difficulties?'

The other checked them off on his forefinger, tapping again.

‘No boat approached the tower, or it would have been seen. The stone of that tower, forty feet high, was as smooth as a wet fish. The lowest window (as measured by the police) was fully twenty-five feet above the surface of the water. How does your murderer scale the wall, kill Mr Brooke, and get down again?'

There was a long silence.

‘But, hang it all, the thing
was
done!' protested Miles. ‘You're not going to tell me this crime was committed by a …'

‘By a what?'

The question was fired back so quickly, while Professor Rigaud lowered his lands and leaned forward, that Miles felt an eerie and disturbing twinge of nerves. It seemed to him that Professor Rigaud was trying to tell him something, trying to lead him, trying to draw him on, with that sardonic amusement behind it.

‘I was going to say,' Miles answered, ‘by some sort of supernatural being that could float in the air.'

‘How curious for you to use those words! How very interesting!'

‘Would you mind if I interrupted for a moment?' asked Barbara, fiddling with the tablecloth. ‘The main thing, after all, is about – is about Fay Seton. I think you said she had an appointment with Mr Brooke for four o'clock. Did she keep that appointment at all?'

‘She was, at least, not seen.'

‘
Did
she keep that appointment, Professor Rigaud?'

‘She arrived there afterwards, mademoiselle. When it was all over.'

‘Then what was she doing during that time?'

‘Ah!' said Professor Rigaud, with such relish that both his auditors half dreaded what he might say. ‘Now we come to it!'

‘Come to what?'

‘The most fascinating part of the mystery. This puzzle of a man alone when he is stabbed' – Professor Rigaud puffed out his cheeks – ‘it is interesting, yes. But to me the great interest of a case is not in material clues, like a bright little puzzle-box with all the pieces numbered and of a different colour. No! To me it lies in the human mind, the human behaviour: if you like, the human soul.' His voice sharpened. ‘Fay Seton, for example. Describe for me, if you can,
her
mind and soul.'

‘It might help us,' Miles pointed out, ‘if we learned what she had been doing which upset people so much, and changed everybody's feelings towards her. Forgive me, but – you do know what it was?'

‘Yes.' The word was clipped off. ‘I know.'

‘And where she was at the time of the murder,' continued Miles, with questions boiling inside him. ‘And what the police thought about her position in the affair. And what happened to her romance with Harry Brooke. And, in short, the whole end of the story!'

Professor Rigaud nodded.

‘I will tell you,' he promised. ‘But first' – like a good connoisseur, tantalizingly, he beamed as he held them in suspense – ‘we must have a glass of something to drink. My throat is as dry as sand. And you must drink too.' He raised his voice. ‘Waiter!'

After a pause he shouted again. The sound filled the room; it seemed to draw vibrations from the engraving of the skull hung over the mantelpiece, it made the candle-flames curl slowly; but there was no reply. Outside the windows the night was now pitch-black, gurgling as though from a water-spout.

‘Ah, zut!' fussed Professor Rigaud, and began to look about for a bell.

‘To tell you the truth,' ventured Barbara, ‘I'm rather surprised we haven't been turned out of here long ago. The Murder Club seem to be very favoured people. It must be nearly eleven o'clock.'

‘It
is
nearly eleven o'clock,' fumed Professor Rigaud, consulting his watch. Then he bounced to his feet. ‘I beg of you, mademoiselle, that you will not disturb yourself! Or you, either, my friend:
I
will get the waiter.'

The double-doors to the outer room closed behind him, again whisking the candle-flames. As Miles got up automatically to anticipate him, Barbara stretched out her hand and touched his arm. Her eyes, those friendly sympathetic grey eyes under the smooth forehead and the wings of ash-blonde hair, said silently but very clearly that she wanted to ask him a question in private.

Miles sat down again.

‘Yes, Miss Morell?'

She withdrew her hand quickly. ‘I … I don't know how to begin, really.'

‘Then suppose I begin?' said Miles, with that tolerant and crooked smile which so much inspired confidence.

‘How do you mean?'

‘I don't want to pry into anything, Miss Morell. This is entirely between ourselves. But it has struck me, once or twice to-night, that you're far more interested in the specific case of Fay Seton than you are in the Murder Club.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘Isn't it true? Professor Rigaud's noticed it too.'

‘Yes. It's true.' She spoke after a hesitation, nodding vigorously and then turning her head away. ‘That's why I owe you an explanation. And I want to give you an explanation. But before I do' – she turned back to face him – ‘may I ask you a horribly impertinent question?
I
don't want to pry either; really I don't; but may I ask it?'

‘Of course. What do you want to know?'

Barbara tapped the photograph of Fay Seton, lying between them beside the folded sheaf of manuscript.

‘You're fascinated by that, aren't you?' she asked.

‘Well – yes. I suppose I am.'

‘You wonder,' said Barbara, ‘what it would be like to be in love with her.'

If her first remark had been a trifle disconcerting, the second took him completely aback.

‘Are you setting up as a mind-reader, Miss Morell?'

‘I'm sorry! But isn't it true?'

‘No! Wait! Hold on! That's going a bit too far!'

The photograph
had
been having a hypnotic effect; he could not in honesty deny it. But that was curiosity, the lure of a puzzle. Miles had always been rather amused by those stories, usually romantic stories with a tragic ending, in which some poor devil falls in love with a woman's picture. Such things had actually happened in real life, of course; but it failed to lessen his disbelief. And, in any case, the question didn't arise here.

He could have laughed at Barbara for her seriousness.

‘Anyway,' he countered, ‘why do you ask that?'

‘Because of something you said earlier this evening. Please don't try to remember what it was!' Humour, a wryness about the mouth to contradict the smile in her eyes, showed in Barbara's face. ‘I'm probably only tired, and imagining things. Forget I said it! Only …'

‘You see, Miss Morell, I'm a historian.'

‘Oh?' Her manner was quickly sympathetic.

Miles felt rather sheepish. ‘That's a highfalutin' way of putting it, I'm afraid. But it does happen to be true, in however small a way. My work, the world I live in, is made up of people I never knew. Trying to visualize, trying to understand, a lot of men and women who were only heaps of dust before I was born. As for this Fay Seton …'

‘She
is
wonderfully attractive, isn't she?' Barbara indicated the photograph.

‘Is she?' Miles said coolly. ‘It's not a bad piece of work, certainly. Coloured photographs are usually an abomination. Anyway,' fiercely he groped back to the subject, ‘this woman is no more real than Agnes Sorel or – or Pamela Hoyt. We don't know anything about her.' He paused, startled. ‘Come to think of it, we haven't even heard whether she's still alive.'

‘No,' the girl agreed slowly. ‘No, we haven't even heard that.'

Barbara got up slowly, brushing her knuckles across the table as though throwing something away. She drew a deep breath.

‘I can only ask you again,' she said, ‘please to forget everything I've just said. It was only a silly idea of mine; it couldn't possibly come to anything. What, a queer evening this has been! Professor Rigaud does rather cast a spell, doesn't he? And, as far as that's concerned' – she spoke suddenly, twitching her head round – ‘isn't Professor Rigaud being a long time in finding a waiter?'

‘Professor Rigaud!' called Miles. He lifted up his voice powerfully. ‘
Professor Rigaud
!'

Again, as when the absent one had himself called for a waiter, only the rain gurgled and splashed in the darkness. There was no reply.

M
ILES
rose to his feet and went over to the double-doors. He threw them open, and looked into an outer room sombre and deserted. Bottles and glasses had been removed from the improvised bar; only one electric light was burning.

‘A queer evening,' Miles declared, ‘is absolutely right. First the whole Murder Club disappears. Professor Rigaud tells us an incredible story,' Miles shook his head as though to clear it, ‘which grows even more incredible when you have time to think. Then
he
disappears. Common sense suggests he's only gone to – never mind. But at the same time …

The mahogany door to the hall opened. Frédéric, the head-waiter, his round-jowled face aloof with reproach, slipped in.

‘Professor Rigaud, sir,' he announced, ‘is downstairs. At the telephone.'

Barbara, who had stopped only long enough, apparently, to pick up her handbag and blow out one candle which was fluttering and flaring in a harsh gush of wax-smoke, had followed Miles into the outer room. Again she stopped short.

‘At the telephone?' Barbara repeated.

‘Yes, miss.'

‘But' – the words sounded almost comic as she flung them out – ‘he was looking for someone to serve us drinks!'

‘Yes, miss. The call came through while he was downstairs.'

‘From whom?'

‘I believe, miss, from Dr Gideon Fell.' Slight pause. ‘The Honorary Secretary of the Murder Club.' Slight pause. ‘Dr Fell learned Professor Rigaud had been ringing up from here earlier in the evening; so Dr Fell rang back.' Was there a dangerous quality, now, about Frédéric's eye? ‘Professor Rigaud seems very angry, miss.'

‘Oh, good Lord!' breathed Barbara in a voice of honest consternation.

Over the back of one of the pink-brocaded chairs, chairs ranged as stiffly round the room as in an undertaker's parlour, hung the girl's fur wrap and an umbrella. Assuming an air of elaborate unconcern which would have deceived nobody, Barbara picked them up and twisted the wrap round her shoulders.

‘I'm awfully sorry,' she said to Miles. ‘I shall have to go now.'

He stared at her.

‘But, look here! You can't go now! Won't the old boy be annoyed if he comes back and finds you're not here?'

‘Not half as annoyed,' Barbara said with conviction, ‘as if he comes back and finds I
am
here.' She fumbled at her handbag. ‘– I want to pay for my share of the dinner. It's been very nice. I –' Confusion, utter and complete, overcame her down to the finger-tips. Her handbag overflowed, spilling coins and keys and a compact on the floor.