He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr

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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Yes.’ The word was clipped off. ‘I know.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Ah, zut!’ fussed Professor Rigaud, and began to look about for a bell.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Yes, Miss Morell?’
    She withdrew her hand quickly. ‘I … I don’t know how to begin, really.’
    â€˜Then suppose I begin?’ said Miles, with that tolerant and crooked smile which so much inspired confidence.
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What makes you think that?’
    â€˜Isn’t it true? Professor Rigaud’s noticed it too.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Of course. What do you want to know?’
    Barbara tapped the photograph of Fay Seton, lying between them beside the folded sheaf of manuscript.
    â€˜You’re fascinated by that, aren’t you?’ she asked.
    â€˜Well – yes. I suppose I am.’
    â€˜You wonder,’ said Barbara, ‘what it would be like to be in