He Who Whispers Read Free

they say. Now I have come all the way from Edinburgh. And I could not get a sleeper on the train, either, because of “priority”.’ He straightened up and shook a bulky arm in the air. ‘This word priority is a word which stinks in the nostrils of honest men!’
    â€˜Hear, hear, hear ,’ said Miles Hammond with fervour.
    Professor Rigaud woke up from his indignant dream, fixing Miles with a hard little glittering eye from behind the thin shells of glasses.
    â€˜You agree, my friend?’
    â€˜Yes!’
    â€˜That is good of you. You are –?’
    â€˜No,’ Miles answered his unspoken question, ‘I’m not a missing member of the club. I’m a guest too. My name is Hammond.’
    â€˜Hammond?’ repeated the other. Interest and suspicion quickened in his eye. ‘You are not Sir Charles Hammond?’
    â€˜No. Sir Charles Hammond was my uncle. He …’
    â€˜Ah, but of course!’ Professor Rigaud snapped his fingers. ‘Sir Charles Hammond is dead. Yes, yes, yes! I read of this in the newspapers. You have a sister. You and your sister have inherited the library.’
    Barbara Morell, Miles noticed, was looking more than a little perplexed.
    â€˜My uncle,’ he said to her, ‘was a historian. He lived for years in a little house in the New Forest, accumulating thousands of books piled up in the wildest and craziest disorder. As a matter of fact, my main reason for coming to London was to see whether I couldn’t get a trained librarian to put the books in order. But Dr Fell invited me to the Murder Club …’
    â€˜The library!’ breathed Professor Rigaud. ‘The library!’
    A strong inner excitement seemed to kindle and expand inside him like steam, making his chest swell and his complexion a trifle more purplish.
    â€˜That man Hammond,’ he declared with enthusiasm, ‘was a great man! He was curious! He was alert! He’ – Professor Rigaud twisted his wrist, as one who turns a key – ‘pried into things! To examine his library I would give much. To examine his library I would give … But I forgot. I am furious.’ He clapped on his hat. ‘I will go now.’
    â€˜Professor Rigaud,’ the girl called softly.
    Miles Hammond, always sensitive to atmospheres, was conscious of a slight shock. For some reason there had been a subtle change in the attitude of both his companions, or so it seemed to him, ever since he had mentioned his uncle’s house in the New Forest. He could not analyse this; perhaps he had imagined it.
    But when Barbara Morell suddenly clenched her hands and called out, there could be no doubt about the desperate urgency in her tone.
    â€˜Professor Rigaud! Please! Couldn’t we – couldn’t we hold the meeting of the Murder Club after all?’
    Rigaud swung round.
    â€˜Mademoiselle?’
    â€˜They’ve treated you badly. I know that.’ She hurried forward. The half-smile on her lips contrasted with the appeal in the eyes. ‘But I’ve looked forward so much to coming here! This case he was going to talk about’ – briefly, she appealed to Miles – ‘was rather special and sensational. It happened in France just before the war, and Professor Rigaud is one of the few remaining people who know anything about it. It’s all about …’
    â€˜It is about,’ said Professor Rigaud, ‘the influence of a certain woman on human lives.’
    â€˜Mr Hammond and I would make an awfully good audience. And we wouldn’t breathe a word to the press, either of us! And after all, you know, we’ve got to dine somewhere; and I doubt whether we could get anything at all to eat if we left here. Couldn’t we, Professor Rigaud? Couldn’t we? Couldn’t we?’
    Frédéric the head-waiter, dispirited and angry and sorry, slipped unobtrusively through the half-opened door to the hall, making