Weird Tales/Volume 1/Issue 2/The Whispering Thing

by Laurie McClintock and Culpeper Chunn

Death and Terror Are Spread Broadcast
by the Icy Breath of

The WHISPERING
THING

By Laurie McClintock and Culpeper Chunn

CHAPTER I.

THE THING STRIKES.

JULES PERET, known to the underworld as The Terrible Frog, hated the foul air in crowded street cars and the "stuffiness" of a taxicab, and, whenever possible, he avoided both.

Hence, having nothing in view that demanded haste, after leaving police headquarters, he had, in spite of the lateness of the hour, elected to make the journey home on foot. He had not gone very far, however, before he began to wish that he had chosen some other mode of traveling, for he had scarcely ever seen such a gloomy night. It was January, and the atmosphere was of that uncertain temperature that is best described as raw. The darkness was Stygian. A fine mist was falling from the starless skies, and a thick grayish-yellow fog enwrapped the city like a wet blanket.

The chimes in a church steeple, two blocks farther on, had just struck the hour of ten, and except for Peret and one other wayfarer, who had paused in the sickly glare of the corner lamp to light a cigarette, the street was deserted.

"A fine night for a murder!" muttered Peret to himself, as, with head lowered, he plowed his way through the fog. "Diable! I must find a taxi."

With this thought in mind, he was about to quicken his pace when, instead, he jerked himself to an abrupt halt and stood in an attitude of listening, as the tomblike silence was suddenly broken by a hoarse scream, and, almost immediately afterward, a cry of agony and terror:

"Help! help! I'm dying!"

The cry, though muffled, was loud enough to reach the alert ears of Peret. It appeared to come from a tall, gloomy-looking building on the right side of the street. By no means certain of this, however, Peret crouched behind a tree and strained his ears to catch the sound should it be repeated.

But no cry came. Instead, there was a terrific crash of breaking glass, and Peret twisted his head around just in time to see a man hurl himself through the leaded sash of one of the lower windows of the house and fall to the pavement with a thud and a groan.

A moment later Peret was by his side. Whipping out a small flash-light, he directed the little disc of light on the man's face.

"Nom d'un nom!" he cried. "It is M. Max Berjet. What is the matter, my friend? Are you drunk? Ill? Sacre nom! Speak quickly, while you can. What ails you?"

The man rolled from side to side, convulsively, and tore at the air with clawlike hands. To Peret, he seemed to be grappling with an invisible antagonist that was slowly crushing his life out. His face was blue and horribly distorted: his breath was coming in short, jerky gasps.

Suddenly his tensed muscles relaxed and he lay still. Unable to speak, he could only lift his eyes to Peret's in desperate appeal.

"Dame! You are a sick man, my friend," observed Peret, feeling the man's pulse. "I will run for a physician. But tell me quickly what happened to you, Monsieur."

There was an almost imperceptible movement of the dying man's froth-rimmed lips, and Peret held his head nearer.

"Now, speak, my friend," he entreated. "I am Jules Peret. You know me, eh! Tell me what is the matter with you. Were you attacked?"

"As-sas-sins," gasped the stricken man faintly.

"What?" cried Peret, excitedly. "Assassins!"

The look in Berjet's eyes was eloquent.

"Who are they?" pleaded the detective. "Tell me their names, Monsieur, before it is too late. I will avenge you. I promise you. I swear it. Quickly, Monsieur, their names—"

Berjet murmured something in a voice almost too faint to be audible.

"Dix?" questioned Peret, straining to catch the man's words. "You mean ten, eh?"

With his glazing eyes fixed on the detective, Berjet made a desperate effort to reply, but the effort was in vain. The ghost of a sigh escaped from his lips, a slight tremor shook his frame, and, with a gurgling sound in his throat, he died.

"Peste! What did he mean by that?" muttered Peret, getting to his feet. (Dix is the French word for "ten".) Did he mean he was attacked by ten assassins? The devil! It does not take an army to kill a single man."

"What’s the matter, old chap?" It was the pedestrian whom Peret had observed lighting a cigarette near the corner lamp a few minutes previously. "The old boy looks as if he had had a shot of bootlegger's private stock."

"He has been murdered," returned Peret shortly, after giving the man a keen scrutiny. Then: "Be so kind as to run to the drug store across the street and ask the druggist to send for a physician. Also request him to notify police headquarters that a murder has been committed. Have the notification sent in the name of Jules Peret. Hurry, my friend!"

Without waiting to reply, the man spun on his heel and dashed across the street. Dropping to his knees again, Peret made a hasty but thorough search of the dead man's clothing, but beyond a few stray coins in the pockets of his trousers, found nothing. As he was finishing his examination, the stranger returned, accompanied by the druggist and a physician who had chanced to be in the drug store.

Peret rose to his feet and stepped back to make room for the doctor.

"What's the trouble?" asked Dr. Sprague, a large, swarthy-faced man with a gray Vandyke beard.

"Murder, I'm afraid," replied Peret, pointing at Berjet's motionless body.

Dr. Sprague bent over the inert form of the scientist and made a brief examination.

"Yes," he said gravely, "he is beyond human aid."

"He is dead?"

"Quite."

"Can yon tell me what caused his death?"

"I cannot be positive," replied the physician, "but he bears all the outward symptoms of asphyxiation."

"Asphyxiation?" repeated Peret incredulously.

"Yes."

Peret's skepticism was written plainly on his face.

"But that is at variance with the dead man's last words. I was with M. Berjet when he died and there was certainly nothing in his actions to suggest asphyxiation. However—" He exhibited his card. "I am Jules Peret, a detective. The man that you have just pronounced dead is Max Berjet, the eminent French scientist. If he was murdered—and I have reason to believe that he was—the murderer has not yet had time to escape, as M. Berjet has been dead less than two minutes. It is possible, therefore, that I can apprehend the assassin if I act at once. Can you stay here with the body pending the arrival of the police?"

Dr. Sprague glanced at the detective's card and nodded, whereupon Peret, with a single bound, cleared the iron fence that inclosed the little yard in front of Berjet's house. As he landed, feet first, on the lawn, he heard Dr. Sprague give a piercing scream.

So startled was he by the unexpectedness of it that he lost his footing and fell forward on his face. Leaping to his feet, he whirled around and directed the beam from his flashlight on the physician.

Dr. Sprague, with his hands clawing the air in front of him, appeared to be grappling with an invisible something that was rapidly getting the best of him. His lips were drawn back in a snarl: his eyes seemed as if they were about to pop from his head, and bloody froth had begun to ooze between his clenched teeth and run from the corners of his mouth.

As Peret was preparing to leap back over the fence, he heard a terrible scream issue from the throat of the unknown pedestrian, and saw him throw up his arms as if to ward off a blow. Then the man reeled back against the fence and began to struggle desperately with something that Peret could not see.

Whipping out his automatic, the detective again vaulted the fence, but before he could reach either of them, both Dr. Sprague and the pedestrian crashed to the pavement, the first dead, the second still fighting for his life.

CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.

ALTHOUGH the moment was obviously one that demanded caution. Jules Peret was never the man to hesitate in the face of an unknown danger.

He realized that he was in the presence of some terrible invisible thing that might strike him down at any moment, but, as he had no idea what that thing was and could not hope to cope with it until it attacked him or in some manner made itself manifest, he dismissed it from his mind for the moment and turned his attention to the two men who had gone down before its onslaught.

Kneeling beside Dr. Sprague's prostrate form, he bent over and peered in the physician's face. One look at the horribly distorted features and the glassy eves that stared into his own, told him that the man was dead.

Turning now from the dead to the living, Peret jumped to his feet and ran to help the pedestrian who, with the help of the terrified little druggist, was in the act of staggering to his feet. Although the druggist's teeth were chattering with fear, his first thought seemed to be for the sufferer, and he helped Peret support the man, too weak to stand unaided, when he reeled back against the fence.

Choking, gasping, spitting, the pedestrian fought manfully to regain his breath. His face was purple with congested blood, and his glazed eyes were bulging. Great beads of sweat poured from his forehead and mingling with the froth that oozed from between his lips, flecked his face as he twisted his head from side to side in agony.

"What is the matter with you?" shouted Peret. "Speak! I want to help you."

The stricken man made a violent effort to throw off the invisible horror that had him in its clutches. Then the muscles of his body relaxed, and he ceased to struggle. Drawing in a deep breath of air, he expelled it with a sharp whistling sound. Then, exhausted, he shook off Peret's hand, and sank down on the pavement in a sitting posture.

"Sacrebleu!" yelled Peret. "Speak to me, my friend, so I can avenge you! One little word is all I ask. What attacked you?"

"I—I don't know," the man gasped. "It—It was something I could not see! It was a monster—an invisible monster. It whispered in my ear, and then it began to choke me. Oh, God—."

His head fell forward; he began to sob weakly.

"An invisible monster," repeated Peret, staring at the man curiously. "What do you mean by that?"

Before the man could reply, the police patrol-wagon swung around the corner and, with a clang of the bell, drew up to the curb. Detective Sergeant Strange of the homicide squad and two subordinates leaped to the sidewalk and approached the Frenchman.

"Well?" demanded Strange, with characteristic brevity.

"Murder," returned Peret, with equal conciseness, and nodded at the two bodies on the pavement.

"How?" Strange shot out.

"I don't know," replied Peret. "As I was passing the house ten minutes ago, Max Berjet, the man on your left, hurled himself through the window, cried out that he had been attacked by ten assassins, and died immediately afterward. After summoning a physician, I started to enter the house to investigate, and heard the doctor scream. When I turned I saw Dr. Sprague and this man"—pointing to the pedestrian—"struggling in the grasp of something I could not see. Before I could reach them, the two men fell to the pavement. Dr. Sprague died almost instantly; this other man, as you see, is recovering. He has just informed me that he was attacked by an invisible monster."

Strange's bellicose features twisted into a grin.

"An invisible monster, eh? Well, it had better stay invisible if it's still sticking around." He whirled about, and to the patrolman: "I want all available men here on the jump, Bill. Call the coroner at the same time. O'Shane"—to one of the plainclothes men who accompanied him—" watch the front of that house and keep an eye on these bodies until the coroner comes. Mike, take care of the back of the house, and," he added with a grim humor, "keep your eye peeled for an 'invisible monster'."

Strange turned once more to the Frenchman.

"You're sure these two men are dead, Peret?"

"They will never be any deader," replied Peret shortly.

"All right—Who is that man?" pointing over his shoulder at the druggist.

"I am the proprietor of the drug store across the street," spoke up the druggist. "I ran over with Dr. Sprague, who happened to be in the store when this gentleman summoned assistance."

Strange nodded.

"I may have to hold you as a witness," was his curt reply. "Stick around until I can find time to question you. Now Peret, before we enter the house, spill the details. What do you know about this 'invisible monster'?"

"Little more than I have already told you," answered Peret, and launched into a detailed recital of his harrowing experience.

Although Detective Strange was a man difficult to surprise, he made no effort to conceal his astonishment when Peret brought his story to an end.

"You say Dr. Sprague and this other man were seized by the Thing when your back was turned?" he questioned.

"Oui; as I was leaping over the fence." nodded Peret, "I heard Dr. Sprague scream just as I landed on the ground. When I turned to see what was the matter, both he and the other man appeared to be struggling with some invisible antagonist. Before I could reach them, both men fell to the ground. Sprague was apparently dead before he fell. The other man, after a struggle, threw off the Thing—whatever it was or is."

"Didn't you see anything at all?" demanded Strange.

"Absolutely nothing."

"Hear anything?"

"No, But that man"—jerking his thumb at the pedestrian—"said he heard the Thing whisper."

"I also heard the Thing whisper," interposed the druggist, a small, bald-headed individual with a cataract over one of his eyes. Still in a state of nervous apprehension, he had edged up close to the two detectives as if seeking their protection. "I was talking to Dr. Sprague when he was attacked," he continued, darting furtive glances over his shoulder from time to time. "An instant before he screamed I heard a—a whispering sound."

Peret's eyes shone with interest.

"It's strange that I did not hear this sound," he muttered, half to himself. "Just what, exactly do you mean by a whispering sound, Monsieur?"

"I scarcely know." replied the druggist, after a moment's thought. "It was a whisper—nothing that I could understand. Just an inarticulate whisper. I had hardly heard it when Sprague screamed and began to struggle."

"Whence did the whisper emanate, Monsieur?" queried Peret eagerly.

"I do not know."

"You saw nothing?"

"Nothing."

"'S damn funny," growled Strange, scratching his ear. "An 'invisible monster' that whispers is a new one on me," He looked at the Frenchman perplexedly. "Queer business, Peret."

"It is," agreed Peret; then whirled around to confront the pedestrian. "Ah, Monsieur, perhaps you can help us a little, eh? How are you feeling now?"

"Considerably better," returned the other in a hoarse voice, and then added, "But I don't believe I'll ever recover from the shock. What, in God's name was it, anyway?"

He was a tall, heavy-set man with glittering black eyes, a close-cropped mustache and, though his features were irregular, had rather a handsome countenance. Although deathly pale and still a little shaken, he seemed to have himself pretty well in hand.

Strange looked at him shrewdly.

"What's your name?" he asked, taking out his notebook.

"Albert Deweese," replied the man. "I am an artist and have a studio in the next block. I was on my way home when I heard the crash of breaking glass as Mr. Berjet jumped through the window-sash. Naturally, I ran back to find out what the trouble was."

Strange made a note and nodded.

"What attacked you?" he suddenly shot out.

"I don't know," replied Deweese. "The Thing, whatever it was. was invisible. I felt it. God knows, but did not see it."

"But you must have some idea of what the Thing was," Strange insisted. "Was it a man, or an animal, or—?"

Deweese shook his head slowly.

"I have said that I do not know," was his emphatic reply, "and I do not. How could I, when I did not see it? It was large, powerful and ferocious, but whether it was an animal of some kind, or a demon out of hell, I do not know."

"Perhaps your ears served you better than your eyes?" said Strange. "Did you hear the Thing when it leaped upon you?"

"I did," replied Deweese, with a shudder. "At almost the very instant that it attacked me I heard it whisper."

"Eh, bien, Monsieur," cried Peret, "and what did it say to you?"

"It did not say anything intelligible," was Deweese's disappointing reply. "It just whispered."

Strange and Peret looked at each other in silence. The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. Strange took a hitch in his trousers, and his face became stern.

"All right," he said curtly to Deweese. "Stick around till the coroner comes. I want to question you and this other man further, a little later on."

He gave an order to O'Shane, who was standing a little distance away with his eyes glued on the front of Berjet's house, then turned to Peret.

"I'm going in." he growled, and drew his revolver.

The Frenchman threw his cigarette on the pavement, drew his own automatic, and, opening the front gate, ran across the little yard. Followed by Strange and Deweese, who asked and obtained permission to accompany them, Peret buttoned his coat around his frail body, got a firm grip on the window ledge and, with the agility of a monkey, climbed through the broken sash of the window through which Berjet had projected himself.

The room in which the detectives found themselves had evidently been the scientist's sitting room. It was simply but comfortably furnished and was quite masculine in character. The walls were lined with well-filled book shelves, and in the center of the room was a large table, littered with a miscellany of papers, pamphlets, pipes, burnt matches and tobacco ashes. On the carpeted floor near the table lay an open book, the leaves of which were rumpled and torn, Except for this, the room was in perfect order.

"No signs of gas anywhere," said Strange, audibly sniffing the air. "The asphyxiation theory of Dr. Sprague's is a dud, in my opinion."

Peret, who had begun to make an inspection of the room, did not reply. Strange continued his investigation while Deweese stood near the window looking on.

The result of Peret's examination, which, while brief, was more or less thorough, annoyed and confounded him. The detective sergeant also appeared to be puzzled. The Frenchman was the first to give expression to his thoughts.

"The three doors and the four windows in this room, sergeant, are locked on the inside," he remarked, as Strange paused for a moment to look at him with questioning eyes. "The key to that door on the far side of the room, and which I am sure is the door of a closet, is missing, but the other keys are in the locks. The windows, moreover, are, as you have no doubt observed, fastened with a form of mechanism that could not possibly have been sprung from the outside. Yet Berjet said he was attacked by ten assassins!"

"The point that you are trying to make, I take it," Strange grunted, "is that the broken window is the only means of egress from the room."

"Your penetration is remarkable," snapped Peret, who always became irritated when baffled.

"It's the devil's own work." commented Deweese, who had been watch ing the movements of the two detectives with keen interest. "Certainly there was nothing human about the Thing that attacked me, and I imagine that Berjet's death can be laid at the door of the same agency."

Peret flung himself into a chair and lit a cigarette.

"Any way you look at the thing, it seems preposterous," he said reflectively. "The 'invisible monster' theory is too absurd for serious consideration, and the other theories that have been advanced do not stand up in the presence of the facts. However, let us consider. We will assume that Berjet was, as he said, attacked by ten men. Eh! bien! How did they get out of the room? All of the exits are locked on the inside, as you see.

"There is a small transom over that door opening onto the hall, it is true, but it is not large enough for a child to crawl through, much less a man. Dr. Sprague seemed to think that Berjet was asphyxiated. Yet this room, as you yourself observed when we entered it, sergeant, contained not the slightest trace of any kind of gas. As a matter of fact, the room is lighted by electricity. What are we to conclude from these premises? That the poison fumes, assuming that poison fumes were the cause of Berjet's death, were administered by human hands? If so, oblige me, my friend, by telling me how the owner of those hands got out of the room?"

"Well, if the murderers were invisible, and they were, if the testimony of you and Deweese counts for anything," rejoined Strange, "they might have followed Berjet through the window without having been observed by you."

"Invisible murderers!" snorted Peret, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "You are growing febble-minded, my friend. Didn't Berjet say he saw his murderers?"

"So you say," returned Strange rudely. "But you didn't see Sprague's murderer, although you claim to have been looking at him when he was attacked. Maybe your eyesight is failing you," he added.

Peret glared at the detective sergeant, but said nothing.

"Perhaps Berjet was subject to a hallucination," ventured Strange, after a moment's thought. "He may just have imagined he saw the murderers."

"Perhaps he just imagined he was murdered, too," retorted the Frenchman, and returned to his examination of the room.

At this juncture someone rapped on the door opening into the hall. Strange crossed the room, turned the key in the lock and, opening the door, admitted Central Bureau Detectives Frank and O'Shane.

"Well?" demanded Strange.

"Major Dobson sent us four men from headquarters, and we've searched the house as you ordered," answered O'Shane. "We drew an absolute blank. The house is empty."

"Hasn't Berjet got a family?" inquired Strange.

"The people next door say that Berjet's wife and daughter are spending the winter at Palm Beach."

"Ain't they any servants?"

"All of the servants go home at night except Adolphe, the murdered man's valet."

"Did you find him?"

"No."

"Was the front door, and the rest of the doors and windows in the house, locked?"

"The front door was not only unlocked but slightly ajar. The rest of the house was secured."

"Do you not think it possible that the murderer might have slipped out of the front door while you were watching without being seen by you?"

"Absolutely not." said O'Shane, emphatically. "I didn't take my eye off the front of the house after you entered it until the men the major sent arrived. Mike watched the back of the house with equal care. Nobody could a-got out without one of us knowin' it. If a murder's been committed the murderer's still in the house somewhere."

The burly sergeant nodded his satisfaction.

"Well, if he's here, we'll get him," he declared. As an after-thought: "Got the house surrounded?"

"I've thrown a cordon around the whole block," replied O'Shane. "A mouse couldn't get through it without getting its neck broke."

"Good." Strange drew his revolver, which he had returned to his pocket after entering the room, and tried the handle of the closet door. "Now, men, before we go any farther, let's get this closet open. It may contain a secret exit, for all we know. Take a chair and burst it in, one of you."

"Wait, my friend, I know an easier way," said Peret.

He drew a jimmy from his inside coat pocket, inserted the flattened end in the crack between the door and the jamb, and bore down on the handle. Yielding to the powerful leverage, the door creaked, splintered around the lock and flew open.

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Peret, leaping back.

The body of a dead man rolled out on the floor!

CHAPTER III.

ALINGTON FINDS A CLUE.

VIOLENT death means nothing to the average police official; he comes in almost daily contact with the most brutal and horrible form of it.

Therefore, while the utter unexpectedness of the corpse's arrival in their midst had a very noticeable effect on the excitable French sleuth, and more especially on Deweese, with his wracked nerves, the others, though momentarily startled, seemed to consider it all in the day’s work.

Strange flashed a brief glance at Peret, and then finding him glaring blankly at the cadaver, shifted his gaze to encompass the gruesome object of the Frenchman's regard.

The dead man, like Peret, it was easy to see, was—or, rather had been—a native of France. The cast of his features was unmistakable. He was of medium height and build, was slightly bald, and his upper lip was adorned with a small, black, tightly-waxed mustache. The dagger that was buried to the hilt in his breast gave silent though ample testimony to the manner in which he had met his death.

His clothing was badly torn, and there was other evidence to show that he had put up a desperate fight with his murderer before the fatal blow was struck. In his present state he made a ghastly spectacle, for his face was badly discolored and smeared over with dried blood, and his eyes, one of which was nearly torn from its socket, were wide open and fixed on the ceiling in a glassy stare.

"Who is he?" asked O’Shane, after a brief silence.

"Adolphe," replied Peret, bending over the body. "Berjet's valet."

"You knew him," Strange stated rather than questioned.

"Yes, yes," said Peret. "I have seen him. He was le bon valet. See, sergeant, his limbs are cold and stiff. He was assassinated at least two hours before his master was. Mon dieu! What does it all mean?"

He rose to his feet, ran his fingers through his chair in a distracted manner and stared at the corpse as if he hoped to find an answer to the baffling mystery in the glassy eyes.

"Well, for one thing, it means that we got to get busy," was Strange's energetic response.

Whereupon O'Shane began to explore the closet. Strange, however, seemed to be in no hurry to follow the example set by his subordinate. He made several entries in his notebook, leisurely scratched his ear and looked at Peret from the corner of his eye. Though he would have died rather than admit it, the detective sergeant was one of the little Frenchman's staunchest admirers.

He had been associated with Peret almost daily for several years, and had given up a good many hours to the study of the other's methods in the hope that some day he would be able to emulate his friend's success. He knew that, mentally at least, Peret was his superior, and he was ever ready to place himself under the other's guidance when he could veil his real intentions sufficiently to make it appear that he himself was the leader.

"This case, at first glance, is the cat's meow," he said, tentatively. "It's the most complicated murder mystery I ever had anything to do with. What do you make of it, Peret?"

As Peret was about to reply, the door opened and three men entered the room. The first of these, a tall, middle-aged man, with a gray mustache and a fine, upright carriage, was Major and Superintendent of Police Dobson. Immediately behind him came Coroner Rane, an elderly man with penetrating gray eyes, and Police Sergeant Alington, small, stoop-shouldered and addicted to big-rimmed spectacles.

"What's all the trouble about, sergeant?" was Dobson's greeting. He nodded to Peret, and continued: "I happened to be in my office when your call came. so I hurried over."

"I'm mighty glad you came." said Strange. "I'm afraid this case is going to prove troublesome. Did you view the bodies on the pavement."

"Yes," said the major. "I helped Rane examine them."

"Well, here's another one for you to examine," said the detective grimly, and, stepping aside, he exposed to the view of the newcomers the body of the dead valet.

"This is not murder, it's a massacre!" exclaimed the coroner. He knelt beside the body, and scrutinized the valet's face.

"This man has been dead for several hours, major," he continued. "Death was probably instantaneous, as this dagger is buried to the hilt in his heart." He tapped the hilt of the weapon with one of his fingers, and looked up at Strange. "Is this man supposed to have been murdered by the 'invisible monster' also?" he asked sarcastically.

"So you've heard about the 'invisible monster'," returned Strange, non-committally.

"Detective Frank, who was guarding the bodies on the pavement, told us some wild tale about an invisible murderer," remarked Dobson, with a quizzical uplift of his brows. Then, failing to draw an explanation from the sergeant, he asked: "Have you made any arrests?"

"I have not," replied Strange, then gave a rapid account of the measures he had taken to prevent the murderer's escape.

Dobson nodded his approval.

"Now, tell me all you know about these mysterious deaths," he suggested, and Strange, nothing loath, gave a brief though vivid recital of all the known facts in the case.

"This third murder," he said in conclusion, "instead of complicating matters, seems to make the going a little easier. In the dagger, with which this man was killed, we have something tangible, anyway. But as for Max Berjet and Dr. Sprague—."

"Dr. Rane," interrupted Peret from the depths of a morris chair into which he had dropped, "will you venture an opinion as to how Berjet and Sprague met their deaths?"

"It is impossible to reply with any degree of certainty until after the autopsy," answered the coroner: "but offhand I should say that they were either asphyxiated or poisoned."

Peret scowled at the coroner and relapsed into silence.

Strange, however, seemed to find comfort in the coroner's words. With a determined look on his hard-bitten face, he wheeled.

"Deweese," he rasped, in a tone calculated to impress on the hearer the absolute certainty of his words, "the coroner declares that you were poisoned." He shook a finger at the artist, as if daring him to deny it. "The poison was probably administered several hours before you felt the effects of it. Now think! Who gave it to you? Who had the opportunity to give it to you? Who had a motive?"

"I was not poisoned," rejoined Deweese, quietly but emphatically. "I was choked—choked by an unseen thing that whispered in my ear. Not only did I hear it whisper, but I felt it breathing in my face as well."

Peret half rose to his feet, opened his lips as if to speak, then grunted and sat down in his chair again. Nevertheless, this new bit of evidence, if such it might be called, seemed to impress him, and he continued to eye the artist eagerly.

"Who is this man?" asked Dobson.

Strange, with a gesture of helplessness, explained.

"You see what we are up against, Chief," he said. "I know how to trace a flesh and blood murderer, but, if you'll pardon me for saying so, I'll be damned if I know how to run down a spook, with no more substantial clues than a breath and a whisper."

"Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are you, that you were not attacked by a human being?" questioned the major.

"I am as certain of it as I am that I am alive," answered the artist.

"Nor an animal?"

"Yes."

"Nor something inside of you?"

"If you mean poison, or something like that, yes."

"Do you not think you might have been overcome by poisonous fumes of some sort?"

"Absolutely not. It was not that sort of sensation that I experienced at all."

"Have you any idea what it was that attacked you?"

"Not the remotest idea."

"You did not see it?"

"I did not."

"Could you have seen it if it had had substantial form?"

"Yes, because it was between me and the street lamp."

"Have you ever had any similar experience in the past—any experience that resembles it in the slightest way?"

"Never!"

Dobson threw a puzzled look at the coroner.

"Well," he began, and was interrupted by a blinding flash of light that suddenly illuminated the room.

With a cry of terror, Deweese whirled and, darting across the room, was about to hurl himself through the window, when Strange caught him by the arm and dragged him back.

"S'nothing but a flash-light, he said reassuringly. "Sergeant Alington is photographing the finger-prints on the dagger. "S'no wonder it scared you. Made me jump myself."

Deweese shook off the sergeant's hand and glared at the little finger-print expert.

"For God's sake, let me know before you set that thing off again," he cried in a shaking voice. "I've come through an experience that has shot my nerves to pieces and I can't stand any more shocks tonight."

"Sorry," apologized Alington, and then, like the little human bloodhound he was, turned once more to the business of nosing out and developing the finger-prints on the dagger.

"Now," resumed the major, after ordering O'Shane to have the house and vicinity toothcombed, "let us take up these murders and this assault in logical order and see if we cannot get to the bottom of this mystery. Granted that the evidence may at first appear to point that way, to contend that they were committed by a supernatural agency is absurd. Even if the murderers had some way of making it impossible for their victims to see them, we know that they were either human or animal, or, at least, directed or controlled by human intelligence.

"First of all, we have the death of Max Berjet. This man, it appears, died in the presence of our friend Peret. He hurled himself through that window, had a convulsion, and died. Before he died, however, he told Peret that he had been attacked by ten men. By the way, Peret, what were Berjet's last words?"

Peret sat hunched in his chair in an abstracted manner, staring into vacancy with knitted brow. He was evidently not pleased by the interruption, and showed his displeasure by scowling at the major.

"Just before Berjet hurled himself through the window," he explained, ungraciously, "I heard him cry, 'Help! help! I'm dying!' As he lay dying on the pavement he gasped, 'Assassins . . .dix!' just like that. Dix, in the French language, means 'ten,' and Berjet was a Frenchman. Figure it out for yourself."

The major nodded, thoughtfully.

"The words scarcely need any figuring out," he observed drily. "They seem to figure themselves out. However, in view of the fact that all of the exits were fastened on the inside, and also because there is no evidence to show that any considerable number of men have recenetly been in this room, I think that we may leave the number of the scicntist's murderers open to question.

"Turning now to the second death, Dr. Sprague appears to have been attacked in the sight of at least two men, our amiable friend Peret and the druggist. Mr. Deweese was attacked at or about the same time that Sprague was, and the attack was also witnessed by the two persons named. Sprague and Deweese struggled with their antagonists, who, from all testimony, appear to have been of immense strength and ferocity.

"Sprague was killed almost instantly, and our friend the artist, after a desperate struggle, was fortunate enough to overcome, or at least to throw off the Thing that had him in its grasp. Deweese, the druggist and Peret declare that they did not see the Thing—that, in short, it was invisible; but both of the former gentlemen testify to the fact that they heard it whisper, and Deweese informs us further that he felt it breathing in his face.

"It seems safe to assume, therefore, that the Thing had substantial form, for even if we have to admit in the face of the facts that the Thing was invisible, we know that it could not have been a supernatural being, since supernatural beings are not supposed to whisper and breathe."

He paused, looked at the coroner as if inviting speech, and then, when only silence answered, continued:

"Let us turn now to the murder of the valet. There is certainly no doubt as to the manner in which he died. He was stabbed to death, and Dr. Rane has expressed the opinion that he has been dead for several hours. Yet, in spite of this, and in spite of the fact that the form of his murder is entirely different from that of Berjet and Sprague, it seems clear that the three murders, as well as the attack on the artist, are closely related to each other.

"Whether or not they are correlated is a matter which only the future can determine: but that they all bear some connection with each other and were committed by the same agency, there seems to be no doubt. The circumstances that surround the several murders speak for themselves. Therefore, in view of the fact that Berjet's valet was the first of the three men to meet his death, it is my opinion that if you find his murderer you will have found the man or Thing responsible for the other two murders, and for the attack on our friend, Deweese."

Strange heaved a sigh of profound satisfaction. He was now on familiar ground. Unseen and unknown forces that struck men down, forces that were apparently of some other world, were beyond his depth; but human knife-wielders were his meat. Given something tangible, a clue, or a motive, or even a theory that was not beyond his comprehension, there was no man on the force who could obtain quicker or more satisfactory results than he.

Therefore, while in his own mind, he had already settled on the dagger as the one key to the mystery in sight, it flattered him, in spite of the obviousness of the clue, to have the major's opinion coincide with his own.

"I agree with you, major," he cried heartily. "The man that we want most is the man that murdered the valet; and," he added with a tightening of his jaws, "I'm gonna get him!"

"Wait," said Sergeant Alington, who had been an interested listener to the major's summing up of the case. "I have some information to reveal which I think will be of interest to you."

He cleared his throat, set his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose, and glanced at several slips of paper he held in his hand.

"Before the bodies of Sprague and Berjet were taken to the morgue, I secured the finger-prints of both of them. I have since photographed a number of prints found on various objects in this room. Among the latter are a set of well-defined prints on the handle of the dagger that killed the valet. The photographs of these prints will not be available for purposes of comparison, of course, until I develop them; but the impressions on the daggerhandle are so clean-cut that they stand out clearly under the developing powder, when a magnifying glass is applied to them. While I cannot speak positively, therefore, I think that I have succeeded in identifying them."

"Well?" growled Strange, straining forward.

"Well," replied Alington, "instead of clearing up the mystery surrounding the murders of Sprague and Berjet, the finger-prints on the dagger tend to complicate it—that is, if we are to assume that the prints were made by the valet's murderer, and this, I am sure, all of you will agree with me in doing."

"Well?" repeated Strange, who saw his last glimmer of hope growing dimmer and dimmer. "Who murdered the valet?"

"If the prints were made by the man I think they were," said Alington slowly, as if to prolong the taste of his words, "the valet was murdered by Max Berjet."

CHAPTER IV

THE TERRIBLE FROG TAKES THE TRAIL.

STRANGE, at once perceiving the blank wall into which his inquiry had led him, sat down on the arm of a chair and sought to hide his discomfiture by biting a liberal sized chew from the plug of tarlike tobacco that he fished out of his trousers pocket.

He had, very naturally, believed that the solution of the mystery was to be found in the finger-prints on the dagger, and his sudden disillusionment annoyed and angered him. He felt himself baffled and, having a profound dislike for the little finger print expert anyway, it incensed him to have to admit even momentary defeat at the latter's hands, especially in the presence of his superior.

The major, however, accepted the exploding of his theory with equanimity

"It is obviously impossible for the scientist to have had any direct hand in Sprague's murder," he observed, "if he himself was murdered at least ten or fifteen minutes before the doctor was. And even if we assume that he had an indirect hand in it, and the circumstances surrounding the several murders would seem to disprove this, there is his own death still to be accounted for." He turned to the artist. "Mr. Deweese, did you know Max Berjet?"

Deweese shook his head.

"Never heard of him until tonight," he declared.

The major sighed.

"I thought as much," he asserted. "It seems a waste of time to try to fasten Sprague's murder and the attack on you on Berjet." He thought for a moment; then: "Sergeant Alington, you are sure, are you, that you have not been over-hasty in the conclusions you have drawn from your cursory examination of the prints? If there is any doubt in your mind, I suggest that you return to headquarters and develop the plates at once."

"You can judge for yourself, major," returned Alington, a little nettled. Like most experts, so-called and otherwise, it annoyed him to have a carefully-formed opinion of his disputed or even questioned. He could countenance such a thing in court, under the baleful eye of His Honor; but it was quite another thing at the scene of a crime, where he felt himself to be upon his own ground.

Strange, sensing his annoyance, paused long enough in his exploration of the table drawer to look at him and grin. Catching the latter's eye he winked, which exasperated the expert to such an extent that he dropped his magnifying glass. Strange, feeling fully repaid for any fancied injury, grinned again and dumped the contents of the drawer on the table.

With an injured air, Alington retrieved his magnifying glass and offered it to the major. He then held out for Dobson's inspection a set of finger-prints on a regulation blank and the dagger that the coroner had withdrawn from the breast of the dead valet. The dagger was an ordinary white bone-handled hunting knife, with a six-inch, double-edged blade. Dobson held it gingerly by the blood-smeared blade, in order not to disturb the thin coating of black powder that had been sprinkled over the handle.

Like most efficient police officials, Dobson had some knowledge of dactyloscopy, and the detectives awaited his verdict with eagerness. Applying the magnifying glass to the handle of the knife, the major leisurely examined the series of whorls and ridges that showed through the black coating. He then compared them with the finger-prints of the dead scientist, and, when he had concluded his examination, slowly nodded his head.

"You are right, sergeant," he was forced to acknowledge. "The two sets of prints are undoubtedly identical." He handed the dagger and glass to the expert. "Your evidence can not be combated, sergeant," he added.

Alington inclined his head slightly and retired to his place beside the table.

"Well," grumbled Strange, disappointed by the expert's vindication, "that at least clears up the first murder. As for the murder of Berjet, as clues are wholly lacking, in my opinion the only way we will make any headway is to motivate the crime."

"Has the ownership of the dagger been established?" asked the coroner.

"It has," replied Strange, without enthusiasm.

He held up to view the sheath of the hunting-knife, which he had found in the table drawer. A large "M. B." had been cut on the front of the leather covering by an unskilled hand. The letters were crude and the edges worn, and they had evidently been cut in the leather a long while ago.

The coroner examined the letters closely and returned the sheath to Strange.

"There can scarcely be any doubt as to the ownership of the knife," he agreed.

"What progress are your men making with their search?" demanded the major.

"The men have gone over the house twice without success," declared Strange. "O'Brill and Muldoon are now on the roof and the other men are searching the adjoining houses."

"And have they found no evidence of any person having been in this house?"

"No one except Berjet and the valet."

"Dr. Rane, what do you think of this affair?" questioned Dobson impatiently. "We are progressing too slowly to please me. Have you any suggestions to offer?"

"I think it might help us if Mr. Deweese would describe in the most minute detail exactly what happened to him," returned Rane. "There is much of his story that has yet to be cleared up."

"Mr. Deweese," said Dobson, turning to the artist, "suppose you recount the details of your attack in your own way, and then, if necessary, we will question you."

Deweese had entirely recovered from his shock by this time and seemed eager to be of aid.

"On my way home from the theater," he began, "I stopped near the corner lamp, less than half a block away, to light a cigarette. As I was striking a match I heard a terrific crash of breaking glass behind me, and at once ran back to see what had happened. I found this gentleman"—nodding at Peret—"bending over the body of a man on the pavement. The body has since been identifed as that of Max Berjet. Mr. Peret declared that the scientist had been murdered, and, at his bidding, I went to the drug store on the other side of the street to summon aid.

"While a clerk was 'phoning for the police I returned to the scene of the tragedy accompanied by the druggist and Dr. Sprague, who happened to be in the store at the time. Dr. Sprague examined and pronounced Berjet dead. Mr. Peret then informed the doctor that he was a detective and requested him to remain with the body until the police arrived, so he could make a preliminary investigation in the house. This Dr. Sprague agreed to do, and Mr. Peret ran across the pavement and jumped the fence in front of Berjet's house.

"I was standing a few feet away, talking with the druggist, and saw everything that followed. At the very instant that Mr. Peret leaped over the fence, I heard Dr. Sprague scream and saw him throw out his hands as if to grapple with something. He was standing by Berjet's body at the time. He appeared to have been attacked by some powerful and ferocious Thing, which I could not see, and I sprang forward to go to his assistance. It was then that I heard the whispering sound and felt the Thing hurl itself upon me.

"I could see nothing, but I felt my throat caught in a viselike grip and my chest crushed between two opposing forces. I cried out once, and then my breath was shut off. I threw out my hands to grapple with the unseen Thing, but there appeared to be nothing to grapple with. My hands came in contact with nothing but air.

"Yet all of this while I could feel the monster crushing my life out. The terrible grip on my throat kept pressing my head back, inch by inch, and the pressure around my body seemed on the point of caving my ribs in. Everything went black before me, and I could feel myself losing consciousness. Calling to my aid every ounce of strength I possessed, I made a last desperate effort to free myself of the Thing, and just as I felt life slipping from my grasp, the pressure on my throat and chest relaxed and, too exhausted to stand, I fell to the pavement."

"Unconscious?" asked the coroner.

"No, never for a single instant did I lose consciousness. Every terrible second of that eternity is indelibly stamped on my mind."

The recollection of his frightful experience made the artist tremble. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his face.

"Was Dr. Sprague still struggling with his—ah—antagonist when you were attacked?" questioned the major.

"I cannot say," replied Deweese. "After I was attacked I had little thought to give to anything but my own defense."

"The testimony of both Peret and the druggist show that Deweese and Sprague were attacked at practically the same time," observed Strange, shifting his quid from east to west. "Both men struggled for a few seconds—about half a minute, according to Peret—and fell to the pavement at the same instant."

"Then it appears that we have more than one thing to contend with," interposed the major a little grimly. "Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are you, that you did not see the Thing? Think before you reply."

"It is not necessary for me to think," retorted the artist, "God knows, if I had seen the Thing I should not have been able to forget it this quickly!"

"When did you hear the Thing whisper—before or after it attacked you?"

"Before. After it hurled itself upon me I heard nothing."

"But you felt it breathing in your face?"

"Not after the attack: no. It was immediately after I heard the whispering sound that I felt the Thing's breath on my face. After that terrible grip became fastened on my throat, everything else became negligible."

"You mean that even if the Thing had been breathing in your face it is doubtful if you would have known it?"

"Yes."

"Did this breathing sound or feel like the breathing of a man?"

"No; the Thing's breath was quick and jerky and as cold as ice."

"Cold?" cried Peret, leaping to his feet.

He had been sitting back in his chair in an attitude of dejection, staring at a blank space on the wall. He had, with one ear, however, been drinking in every word of the conversation, and now he rose from his chair with such suddenness that he all but upset the little finger-print expert standing in front of him.

"Yes, cold," repeated Deweese, the perspiration dripping from his brow, "cold and clammy."

"Dame!" cried the Frenchman, breathing on his hand as if to test the temperature of his breath. "Think well, my friend, of what you are saying. The breath of living things is warm. Perhaps it was not the breathing of a monster that you heard. It may have been—." He hesitated, and then, at a loss, stopped.

"There was no mistaking the—the thing I felt on my face," rejoined the artist grimly. "Except for the fact that it was cold and spasmodic it was like the breathing of a man."

"Like the breathing of a man choking on a piece of ice?" suggested the coroner.

"Exactly."

"Eh, bien!" called the Frenchman, and smote himself on the forehead with his clenched fist. "Why did you not tell us this before?"

The Frenchman was transformed. Heretofore, in appearance at least, he had been an insignificant little man with no special capacity for the intricacies of unsolved crime mysteries. But now that the germ of an elusive idea had taken root in his mind he seemed to grow in stature as well as in intellect. His eyes became animated, his nostrils distended, his foolish little mustache took on an air of dignity, and his narrow shoulders seemed to grow straighter and to broaden.

Twisting the starboard point of his mustache fiercely between his fingers, he began to pace rapidly up and down the room. Dobson, who was acquainted with these symptoms, threw a significant look at the coroner. The look, however, failed to register, for Rane was staring at the floor, with knitted brow. He appeared to be thinking deeply.

Strange scratched his ear reflectively and stole a glance at the Frenchman, He, also was familiar with the latter's eccentricities and, like the major, was always a little awed by an outburst of his friend's temperament. Experience had taught him that this was a moment for silence, and he was determined to maintain it at all costs.

But even while he was rolling this thought around in his mind, and glaring threateningly at O'Shane, who was moistening his lips as if about to speak, the Frenchman put an end to it in a manner peculiarly his own.

"Triomphe!" he cried, with such suddenness and vigor that the iron-nerved detective sergeant jumped. "I've got it! At last I see the light!"

In his excitement he danced up and down in front of the major, to the secret amusement of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese. Strange, however, knowing what this overflow of energy denoted, leaned orward eagerly and strained his ears to cateh what would follow.

"Well, what have you got!" asked the major calmly, though the coroner thought he could detect a note of vast relief in his voice.

"The answer to the riddle, major," yelled Peret too excited to contain himself. "I've got it! I've found it! The mystery is solved. Nom de diable! The Thing is—"

"Stop," said the major, truculently. "We must use some discretion here. Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Peret, or are you simply making a wild guess?"

"I know it," shouted Peret, making a heroic though futile effort to lower his voice. "Ah, it was too simple! Like taking the candy from the mouth of the little one! Oui, m'sieu; The mystery is solved! I stake my reputation on it. I will show you—Stay!"

To the horror of the central office men, he grasped the dignified major by the lapel of his coat and dragged him (not unwillingly) out of his chair and half across the room. When they were well out of earshot of the others, he drew the major's head down and poured a perfect torrent of whispers in his ear.

Dobson heard the Frenchman out without interruption, but, while evincing the deepest interest, he did not appear to be altogether convinced. However, Peret had once been under his command, and there was no one who had more respect for his ability. It was he himself who, a year or so previously, had characterized the Frenchman as "an accomplished linguist, a master of disguise and one of the most astute criminologists on this side of the Atlantic."

In his present extremity, moreover, he was like a drowning man clutching at a straw. He was not in a position to reject a possible solution of the mystery advanced by a man of Peret's ability, no matter how unsound it might appear to him.

"What you say seems plausible enough," he remarked, when Peret paused for want of breath; "but it is, after all, only a theory. There is not a shred of evidence to give weight to your words."

"Evidence is sometimes the biggest liar in the world," said Peret, a little dashed by Dobson's lack of enthusiasm. "In this case, however, there is, as you say, no evidence of any kind—yet. We must therefore look for it, before it sneaks up on us and bites us. Ah, my dear friend. Think! Consider! Reflect! Why, the thing is as clear as a piece of crystal."

"What suggestions have you to make?" asked the major, visibly impressed. "I suppose you have in mind some plan—."

"Oui!" cried Peret, with fierce enthusiasm. "Except for one little thing, I ask that you give me a free hand. I will either prove or disprove my theory within twenty-four hours. Your men in the meantime, can make an independent investigation."

He made several hieroglyphics on a page torn from his memorandum book and handed it to the major. Dobson studied the characters for a moment, and then nodded.

"All right," he said briskly. "I give you a free hand. Call headquarters when you want, and in the meantime let me know at the earliest possible moment, if you learn anything of importance. Allez—vous-en."

"Remember—no arrests!" hissed Peret, and, clapping his hat on the back of his head, he fled from the house as if pursued by the devil himself.

CHAPTER V.

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.

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 trick 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.

THE WHISPERING THING.

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 Sargeant 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 nightlatch 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 iminediately 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.