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 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.

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