He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr Page A

love with her.’
    If her first remark had been a trifle disconcerting, the second took him completely aback.
    â€˜Are you setting up as a mind-reader, Miss Morell?’
    â€˜I’m sorry! But isn’t it true?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Anyway,’ he countered, ‘why do you ask that?’
    â€˜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 …’
    â€˜You see, Miss Morell, I’m a historian.’
    â€˜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 …’
    â€˜She is wonderfully attractive, isn’t she?’ Barbara indicated the photograph.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.

CHAPTER 5
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Professor Rigaud, sir,’ he announced, ‘is downstairs. At the telephone.’
    Barbara, who had stopped only long enough,