He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr Read Free Book Online Page A

think I intimated to mademoiselle that I am a collector of such relics. It is a beauty, eh?’
    With a dramatic gesture, picking up the cane in both hands, Professor Rigaud unscrewed the curved handle. He drew out the long, thin, pointed steel blade, wickedly caught by candle-light, and he laid it with some reverence on the table. Yet the blade had little life or gleam; it had not been cleaned or polished in some years; and Miles could see, as it lay there across the edge of Fay Seton’s photograph, the darkish rust-coloured stains that had dried along it.
    â€˜A beauty, eh?’ Professor Rigaud repeated. ‘There are also blood-stains inside the scabbard, if you care to hold it up to the eye.’
    Abruptly Barbara Morell pushed back her chair, got to her feet, and backed away.
    â€˜Why on earth,’ she cried, ‘must you bring such things here? And positively gloat over them?’
    The good professor’s eyebrows went up in astonishment.
    â€˜Mademoiselle does not like it?’
    â€˜No. Please put it away. It’s – it’s ghoulish!’
    â€˜But mademoiselle must like such things, surely? Or else she would not be a guest of the Murder Club?’
    â€˜Yes. Yes, of course!’ she corrected herself hastily. ‘Only …’
    â€˜Only what?’ prompted Professor Rigaud in a soft, interested voice.
    Miles, himself wondering not a little, watched her as she stood grasping the back of the chair.
    Once or twice he had been conscious of her eyes fixed on him across the table. But for the most part she had looked steadily at Professor Rigaud. She must have been smoking cigarettes furiously throughout the narrative: for the first time Miles noticed at least half a dozen stubs in the saucer of her coffee-cup. At one point, during the description of Jules Fresnac’s tirade against Fay Seton, she had bent down as though to pick up something from under the table.
    A vital, not-very-tall figure – it may have been the white gown which gave her such a small-girl appearance – Barbara stood moving and twisting her fingers on the back of the chair.
    â€˜Yes, yes, yes?’ went on the probing voice of Professor Rigaud. ‘You are very much interested in such things. Only …?’
    Barbara forced out a laugh.
    â€˜Well!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t do to make crimes too real. Any fiction-writer can tell you that.’
    â€˜Are you a writer of fiction, mademoiselle?’
    â€˜Not – exactly.’ She laughed again, trying to dismiss the subject with a turn of her wrist. ‘Anyway,’ she hurried on, ‘you tell us somebody murdered this Mr Brooke. Who murdered him? Was it – Fay Seton?’
    There was a pause, a pause of slightly tense nerves, before Professor Rigaud eyed her as though trying to make up his mind. Then he chuckled.
    â€˜What assurance will you have, mademoiselle? Have I not told you that this lady was not, in the accepted sense, a criminal of any kind?’
    â€˜Oh!’ said Barbara Morell. ‘Then that’s all right.’
    And she drew back her chair and sat down again, while Miles stared at her.
    â€˜If you think it’s all right, Miss Morell, I can’t say I agree. According to Professor Rigaud here, nobody went near the victim at any time –’
    â€˜Exactly! And I repeat the statement!’
    â€˜How can you be sure of it?’
    â€˜Among other things, witnesses.’
    â€˜Such as?’
    With a quick glance at Barbara, Professor Rigaud tenderly picked up the blade-part of the sword-stick. He replaced it in the cane-scabbard, screwed its threads tight again, and once more propped it up with nicety against the side of the table.
    â€˜You will perhaps agree, my friend, that I am an observant man?’
    Miles grinned. ‘I agree without a struggle.’
    â€˜Good! Then I will show you.’
    Professor Rigaud illustrated the next part of his argument by again