He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr Page B

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.
    â€˜At the telephone?’ Barbara repeated.
    â€˜Yes, miss.’
    â€˜But’ – the words sounded almost comic as she flung them out – ‘he was looking for someone to serve us drinks!’
    â€˜Yes, miss. The call came through while he was downstairs.’
    â€˜From whom?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m awfully sorry,’ she said to Miles. ‘I shall have to go now.’
    He stared at her.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    Miles restrained an impulse to laugh, though certainly not at her. A great dazzle of illumination came into his mind. He bent down, picked up the fallen articles, dropped them into her handbag, and closed it with a snap.
    â€˜You arranged all this, didn’t you?’ he asked her.
    â€˜Arranged? I …’
    â€˜ You dished the meeting of the Murder Club, by God! In some way you put off Dr Fell and Mr Justice Coleman and Dame Ellen Nye and Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all! All except Professor Rigaud, because you wanted to hear his first-hand account about Fay Seton! But you knew the Murder Club had never entertained any guests except the speaker, so you hadn’t bargained on my turning up …’
    Her dead-serious voice recalled him.
    â€˜Please! Don’t make a fool of me!’
    Wrenching loose from the hand he had put on her arm, Barbara ran for the door. Frédéric, a stony eye on one corner of the ceiling, slowly moved aside for her as one who calls attention to the fact that he could have sent for the police. Miles hurried after her.
    â€˜Here! Wait! I wasn’t blaming you! I …’
    But she was already flying down the soft-carpeted hall, in the direction of the private stair to Greek Street.
    Miles glanced round desperately. Opposite him was the illuminated sign of the gentleman’s cloakroom. He snatched up his raincoat, crammed his hat on his head, and returned to face the speaking eye of Frédéric.
    â€˜Are the dinners of the Murder Club paid for by somebody in a lump sum? Or does each person pay for his own?’
    â€˜It is the rule for each person to pay for his own, sir. But to-night –’
    â€˜I know, I know!’ Miles thrust banknotes into the man’s hand, with pleasurable exhilaration at the thought that he could nowadays afford to do so. ‘This is to cover everything. Present my distinguished compliments to Professor Rigaud, and say I’ll ring him in the morning to apologize. I don’t know where he’s staying in London,’ this was an impasse he swept aside,