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The WHISPERING
WINDOW
By
CORTLAND FITZSIMMONS

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
NEW YORK MCMXXXVI


Copyright, 1936, bt Cortland Fitzsimmons
All rightt reserved. No part of this
work ">ny be reproduced without the
written permission of the publishers.
Printed in the United States of America


THE WHISPERING WINDOW


»,


THE WHISPERING WINDOW
i
If young Charlie Doane hadn't called on me that
Thursday night I'd have missed one of the most excit-
ing experiences of my rather checkered and eventful
life. I've had adventures, all sorts, but Charlie's visit
was to be my introduction to murder, though neither
one of us knew it at the time.
It was the next morning that my lust for crime de-
tection was born. I've read about murders in the press
and books, but to see a victim right before your eyes
is an entirely different matter. My house was robbed
once and I can still remember my burning rage as I
went over my things to see what had been left to me.
I had that same hot uncontrollable rage as I looked at
poor Mrs. Briggs. I wanted to get the person who had
done that monstrous thing and throttle him with my
own two hands. I was a one-woman lynch riot all by
myself.
At seventy-five, and more or less in my right mind,
my interest in young men is put down as a maiden
lady's whim. At thirty-five I was called a rather reck-
less old maid, and when I was forty they didn't have a
name for me. The common use of the term "Bachelor
Girl" hadn't been invented then. I've always liked men,


2 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
with a preference for the younger ones. My reasons for
never marrying are my own business, but now as I look
back on my life, I do feel that I would like to have had
a husband—but that, as a young man once said to me,
was a pluperfect wish and no man is that good. Per-
haps the young lad was right. I haven't missed the
man at all, but there is something about being called
Mrs. Something or other which sounds infinitely more
satisfying and fulfilled than being plain Miss Ethel
Thomas. As you probably have guessed, I'm known as
a character. Heaven knows what they would have
called me if I hadn't been born to wealth and a social
position in New York.
I had always liked young Doane. Even as a blond,
long-legged, rather skinny boy I had found his down-
right straightforwardness interesting. I admired him
for that quality. I have it myself, but it took years of
training people and family before I could safely ignore
all the social dictates that keep most people hidebound,
particularly women. Being born to a position in so-
ciety with your name in the Social Register is a respon-
sibility if you're not society-minded. But what I think
or what I'm like has nothing to do with the story ex-
cept as it may explain my part in the unraveling of the
strange and horrible murders which the press so de-
lighted in calling "The Bargain Day Murders."
As I said, my part in the weird business (weird and
horrible it was, but I enjoyed every minute of it) came
about because Charlie Doane called on me that night


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 3
before the yearly Doane Sale. If you know anything
about New York at all you know that the Doane Sale
is one of the biggest bargain merchandise events in the
entire country.
If you were born to wealth as I was and were fortu-
nate enough to have your health and live as long as I
have, you just can't help having more money than you
know what to do with. There I've ended a sentence
with a preposition, but I can't help it. If I'm going to
tell this story, it'll have to be in my way and preposi-
tions, split infinitives and the like can go hang. Perhaps
I'll get away with it just as Will Rogers did, bless him!
I wonder if they'll call me quaint.
To get back to my money. It is important to the story.
Uncles and aunts and cousins kept dying, possessed of
that strange idea that money must be kept in a family.
Their kindness kept adding a bit here and there to my
already substantial fortune, making it necessary for me
to find new and better investments each time I received
another legacy. Money is a responsibility. If you want
to keep it, you have to work for it. I realized that when
I was reasonably young. Among other things, I have
been called a smart business woman. I was always on
the lookout for a good investment (I have to be) and
when Charlie Doane came to me five years ago and
made me a proposition, I accepted it.
Charlie hated the store and all the details of its man-
agement, although he did stay in it until his father
died. At Robert Doane's death we, who were in the


4 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
know, dould see no reason why Herbert Hastings, who
owned twenty-five per cent of the stock and had been
acting president and general manager, shouldn't go
on in that capacity. I certainly knew that Charlie
didn't want to be tied down with the responsibility of
the position. Herbert went into the store after he mar-
ried Charlie's sister Gladys, a prissy, empty-headed
woman if ever I saw one. Herbert had some money and
bought into the store, which pleased everybody at the
time. It was 1921 and in the light of what has happened
since, no one remembers that period as a depression,
but I do because I can remember how skittish money
was at the time.
Robert Doane's will divided his fortune more or less
equally between his two children. I suppose it was a
matter of pride, family name and all that sort of thing
which prompted him to leave the store stock as he did.
Herbert already owned twenty-five per cent of the stock.
In the will Robert left Gladys enough shares to make
the Hastings family forty-eight per cent owners. To
Charlie went the remaining fifty-two per cent, so that
store control would still belong to the Doanes. Men
have queer ideas about their names, wanting them to
live and be known; but, then, that was Robert's busi-
ness and he was so like the run of the mill as far as
business men are concerned that I needn't single him
out for my criticism.
Soon after the estate was settled, Charlie came to me
and offered me twenty-five per cent of his holdings in


THE WHISPERING WINDOW j
the store. He didn't say so, but I knew he felt he could
trust me. I liked his genuflection to his father's wishes
because between us we would still control the store
policy; and the name of Doane, for better or worse,
would go down in department store history. Charlie's
reason for turning over his stock to me was a personal
one. He wanted to go cavorting around the world; and
I didn't blame him. When a man has as much money as
he wants I don't see why he doesn't have a good time
instead of trying to make more.
Charlie was known as a most eligible bachelor. I often
wondered why he didn't marry. I asked him once and
he said he'd fallen in love with me and all other women
suffered by comparison. A man who can make speeches
like that shouldn't be allowed to run around loose. If I
had been younger or if I had known a man like Charlie
when I was a girl
I will ramble, but when your head is full of so many
things I suppose it's natural. To get back to my deal
with Charlie. It was a silent one. Charlie wanted my
cash and I took his stock. We didn't make any legal
transfer. He took my money, I took a part of his stock
and put it in my safe deposit box, where it was, if and
when it was needed. Dividends were paid to Charlie,
who transferred my share to me. It was a nice arrange-
ment which suited us both. At the time the store was
making money. It was a good investment.
Dividends began to fall off after the depression finally
convinced some of the men, who should have known


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 7
Charlie, like so many other men, was on the verge of
ruin. Being down there in the South Seas for so long,
he had no idea of the frightful things happening to
our finances. It was a letter from me which brought
him home. I didn't bother to write him for nearly a
year, but when two dividend periods passed with no
word from him I wanted to know why. I thought he
had forgotten to transfer the first dividend, but I knew
he wouldn't let two go by without letting me know
why. If he needed the money for himself, all he had
to do was say so. When he received my letter he became
worried and started for home. He found himself prac-
tically wiped out and the store stock worth next to
nothing.
"Isn't there any business at all?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered thoughtfully, "there seems to be
a fair amount of business." He answered my question
and then went wool-gathering. Charlie's thoughts were
off somewhere and I didn't propose to sit there wanting
information while he did a bad imitation of Rodin's
"Thinker." He was sitting on a stool in front of me,
his elbow on his knee, his good firm square chin
cupped in the palm of his hand.
"Come, come, Charlie!" I scolded. "Don't sit there
mooning like a young calf. It doesn't become you. Col-
lect what thoughts you have and bring them out into
the open. I take it you came here for help or advice or
both."
"I did." He shifted his position and looked up at me.


8 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
I'd do a great deal to save him from a hurt of any
kind. I rather think what little maternal instinct I have
has centered itself in Charlie. When you can't have a
man for a husband, you'd like to think of him as a son.
I feel that way about Charlie.
"Well, are you going to tell me or will I have to drag
it out of you? If the store is doing business, why are
you on the verge of ruin?" I demanded.
"That's what puzzles me," he said seriously. "I haven't
been back long enough to get the proper picture. The
store is teetering on the edge of collapse. Business has
been fairly good for depression years, but there have
been no profits for some time and it is beginning to go
into the red. When a business starts downhill, it slides
rapidly unless something is done quickly," he ended
hopelessly.
"Where are your losses?" I demanded.
"Generally, all over the store," he replied.
"Haven't they tried to reduce overhead?" I asked im-
patiently, feeling certain I knew how to remedy the
situation.
"Salaries have been cut. We're operating with a min-
imum staff. All that sort of thing has been done," he
explained.
"Doesn't your accounting system show the vulnerable
spots?" Not being in business, I sometimes think busi-
ness management is very stupid.
"The books seem all right. I've been going over
them. That's one of the things which bother me. I think



THE WHISPERING WINDOW 9
we ought to get in an outside accountant for a complete
check-over."
"Why don't you?" I asked. "I've always believed a
good diagnosis is more than half the cure."
"Herbert doesn't think we should spend the money,"
he replied.
"Herbert, indeed!" I snorted. "He's always been
penny wise and pound foolish."
"He's been running the business while I shirked my
responsibility," Charlie reminded me.
"What are you going to do about it? Just sit there and
let the whole thing go to pot?"
"I guess we'll have to borrow money." He said it dole-
fully. "That is, if I can hypnotize some bank president."
"Which means you will have to give up the store
control. It will be a Doane store in name only, is that
what's worrying you?" Before he answered, I went on,
"You don't want outside interests in there, do you?"
"No, I don't. I've always hated the store. You know
that. At the same time I've been proud of it, and, by
God, I'm not going to let it get out of my hands! I'm
not going to sell out and I'm not going to lose control.
It was my job and I ran away from it. Now I've got to
go back into harness and patch up, if I can, the mess my
neglect has caused."
"Now you're talking like Charlie Doane. Go to it!"
I was proud of him then. For a moment I had thought
the straightforward go-getting young man I had liked
had been jellied by his stay in the South Seas. I'll admit


THE WHISPERING WINDOW n
our leaders had done what you did or jumped off a
cliff, the depression wouldn't be half as bad as it is
now. I can take a licking if I have to. I'm in on this
Doane deal with you and I'm going to see it through
to the end. You don't want outside interests in the store.
You have considered me as being one of you. We'll
see what is to be done to-morrow after we have a talk
with Herbert. The first thing to do is to put our finger
on the sore spot. When we've located the ailment we
can worry about the cure."
"If you mean you may be willing to dump more
money into the store," he said, "the answer is No." His
dander was rising.
"I'll protect my investment in any way I think fit.
Think that over." I hurled that at him, filled with deter-
mination. The young scamp telling me what to do! I
liked it, but I wouldn't let him know it. Even a bossy
woman likes to have some one with grit enough to tell
her what to do.
Charlie had been thinking over my suggestions and
finally said, "To-morrow is a bad day. You know what
a Doane Sale is like. Every man, woman and child in
the store will be doing the work of two people."
I didn't know anything about a Doane Sale. I knew
they had them—you couldn't help it if you read the
papers—but what it might mean to the store I had no
idea. "Sale, fiddlesticks!" I said. No, I didn't say that at
all; I swore. "Hell and damnation," were my actual
words. I put the fiddlesticks in because I think that this


iz THE WHISPERING WINDOW
might one day be published. I suppose every one thinks
he can write a book. I've heard people talk about it,
and while I know my friends think my occasional
cussing is cute, quaint and a lot of other descriptive
adjectives instead of a form of expression, I did feel
that an editor, something gray and drooling perhaps,
might think it wasn't just nice. I've only met one editor
and he was a dreamy, impractical, head-in-the-clouds
young man who, if he wasn't, shall I say odd, certainly
suggested lavender. If I was a nice old lady I don't sup-
pose I'd know anything about pale young men, but
then I do read a great deal and I can't help seeing what
I see.
I assured Charlie that, sale or no sale, our business
was important and in the words of our President the
time for action was at hand. I fancied that our troubles
were over, at least the discussion of them, and settled
back for a friendly chat. I was wrong. Charlie's mind
wasn't free for a chat. There was something else bother-
ing him. He had something he wanted to say and he
didn't know how to go about saying it.
You've seen children, servants and men fumbling
about, doing a mental teetering on the brink of a dis-
closure of some sort. That was Charlie. I've little patience
with the attitude of mind which engenders such an
uncertainty. When I want a thing I ask for it. When I
have something to say, I say it and devil take the con-
sequences.
He was vague, answering my attempts at conversa-


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 13
tion with monosyllables. I wanted to hear something
about the South Seas, but I could get nothing out of
him. I gave him chance enough to speak and when he
still evaded the issue I pounced on him.
"What have you done?" I snapped. "Robbed a bank,
raped a virgin, or murdered an old lady for her false
teeth?"
He smiled a sickish sort of a grin and came out with
it. "It's happened," he said.
"What?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant.
"I've fallen in love at last."
I gave the news time to sink in. I knew he'd like me
to be impressed. Why are people so shyly ashamed of
being in love? I've been in and out of it a hundred
times and have always felt a divine exultation over the
experience. It's just like playing solitaire—you always
hope the next time will work out without your stack-
ing the cards.
"Who is she?" I asked after a proper interval.
"No one you know." He still evaded a direct answer.
I knew I'd have to drag it out of him, so I went to
work. "Did you meet her traveling?"
"No."
"Then, where did you meet her—pick her up on the
street?"
"It's a girl at the store," he said, a trifle nettled.
I was surprised at that. It seemed just a little cheap
to me, but for once I didn't say anything.


14 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"You'll like her," he assured me. He had probably
read my thoughts.
"I hope so." I couldn't keep the emptiness and hurt
out of my voice. I was losing something and I couldn't
do so without regret.
"It's not what you think," he said defensively.
"I'm not thinking," I retorted.
He swung round on the stool and put his chin on my.
knee and looked into my eyes. "She's a grand girl,
Ethel. I think she's beautiful and good. She has every-
thing." His face glowed. When a man talks like that
the case is hopeless. He went on. "I've haunted the
jewelry department. I've been nice. I've invented ex-
cuses just to talk to her. I've done all the things a man
can do to make a woman aware of him."
"How long have you known her?" I asked.
"I don't know her at all. She won't let me. She has a
'Hands off' sign in evidence all the time."
"She would if she were a nice girl," I defended.
"She probably doesn't trust you."
"But I"
"She doesn't know your intentions are honorable,"
I teased.
"I neither look nor act like a roue, do I?" he de-
manded.
"Love at first sight, eh?"
"I guess so. She's the only girl in the world for me."
"And she's giving you no encouragement?" I asked
without any effort to conceal my skepticism.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 15
"She doesn't give me anything. She doesn't even
know who I am."
"If you think any employee in the store doesn't know
you, you're crazy," I retorted.
"There's no reason why she should," he protested.
Bats may be blind. I don't know about that, but they
certainly have nothing on a man in love.
"Except that you own the store," I reminded him
caustically.
He paid no attention to that, but went on with his
mooning. "Why didn't I meet her before?" He cer-
tainly wasn't asking me that question. "Why does it
have to happen now when I'm as good as broke?"
"She'll probably be satisfied with you as you are,"
I suggested.
"I'd like to give her everything."
"Do you want a wife," I asked tartly, "or something
to dress up and show to your friends?"
"A wife, of course."
"If she's the right girl, what you have will make no
difference."
"I'm sure of that, only I'd like to be able to do things
for her."
"Why don't you wait until you learn something
about the girl?" I suggested.
"I know I want her. What more is there?"
Of course I had no answer. We let it go at that. I
gave him several drinks of my very best brandy, but
that only increased his glumness. He was worried about


16 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
business and he wasn't at all sure that he'd be able to
get the girl. He was considerably mellowed as he said
goodnight and told me he was determined to put the
store on its feet and get the girl at the same time.
"To do or die for them both," I teased, having no
idea how close to death he would be.


II
I was supposed to be at the store shortly after nine
the next morning. Punctuality has always been one of
my virtues, I think, but a vice and a terror to my friends.
I can see no excuse for wasting another person's time
and I have no patience with people who are habitually
late and take pride in what, to me, is a most incon-
siderate shortcoming. I've never waited more than
fifteen minutes for any one and I doubt that I ever will.
When I say shortly after nine, I mean not more than
ten minutes past the hour. I manage my ame; I sup-
pose that's why I'm not late for appointments. Mal-
colm, my chauffeur, had his order for the car and
called for me at eight forty-five. We were singularly
lucky with the traffic lights and pulled into the side
drive of the Doane store several minutes before nine.
For the first time in my life I really saw what a store
sale meant. Malcolm had difficulty getting the car into
the old carriage drive at all. I never saw so many non-
descript women herded in one spot. They were jammed
about the entrance, milling and chattering, crowding
and shoving, fighting for position. Malcolm turned his
head with that look which always asks a silent ques-
tion. His expression was contemptuous. He's really an
awful snob.
"I'll sit here until they get inside," I said, knowing
he would feel relieved. He does like to take care of me.
i7


18 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
I was fascinated by what I saw. There were hundreds
of women of all sizes and shapes. I've seen pictures in
the so-called humorous magazines of the crowds at a
sale, but this was my first at-hand experience. My
Lincoln is an old model and therefore rather high from
the ground. Long ago I discouraged smart young
salesmen with the new-car-a-year-and-save-money idea.
A car is good as long as it runs, and I have no desire
to be zoomed over the country in one of those new
doodle-bug models which are cluttering the streets at
the moment and are advertised as being smart. Jules
Verne and H. G. Wells should have thought of them
years ago along with their other weird notions.
From my lofty seat I could see the crowd. Pressed
close to the door was a round, red-faced, rather jovial-
looking Irish woman. That is, she was jovial until a
portly, black-wigged Jewish woman by skilful maneu-
vers almost succeeded in obtaining Ireland's position.
It was a battle of races and I didn't want the doors to
open until I had seen the show finished. Several tired
females had squatted on the running-board of the car
and one of their children with sticky fingers was climb-
ing on the rear fender to get a peek inside. Malcolm
was annoyed and gave me that look of his, but I shook
my head to quiet him.
The little bout being enacted in front of me made
me think of "Abie's Irish Rose" and the Cohens and
the Kellys.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 19
This particular Mrs. Cohen had edged herself into
a position beside my Irish friend. I'll admit I was pre-
judiced in favor of the Irish woman. I don't know why,
but I liked this Mrs. Kelly and was placing my bets on
her. She looked a person who did things openly and
with determination. A quality I've always admired.
With a wiggling of hips and shoulders (I've seen it
in the subways) Mrs. Cohen forced Ireland a bit to
one side. Just as I was wondering what Redface would
do, out went the Kelly elbow in a vicious poke and
although I couldn't hear it, I'm sure Mrs. Cohen
grunted. Ireland had regained her position directly in
front of the door, where an attendant stood ready to
open up. I sat back. I was sure of Ireland's supremacy
in anything resembling a fight; but I think we were
both lulled into a sense of security by her momentary
victory. I sank back against the cushions. We had both
underestimated the enemy, for just as the door was
about to swing open I saw Mrs. Kelly wince and jerk
to one side. From her actions I am sure that the Cohen
foot must have planted itself on an aching Kelly corn
or bunion. At any rate, Mrs. Cohen was swept into the
store first and victorious, while poor Mrs. Kelly, fight-
ing for her position, milled about in the crowd. Like a
wave of water spreading itself over a flat plain, the
eager women vanished in the aisles of the store. Mal-
colm opened the door for me and as he did so I caught
him scowling at the child's fingerprints all over the
rear of the car.


20 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"What on earth!" I exclaimed as the blaring strains
of a band smote my ears. I looked into the street, think-
ing to see one of the pre-war German bands. They
played horrible music, but they were picturesque and
a part of the life that once was New York. "Is there a
parade somewhere?" I asked as Malcolm took my arm.
He always handled me as if I were something brittle
which he expected to break apart at any moment.
"No, madam. It's music in the store. Customary, I
believe, on Sales Days." His disgust for the rabble which
had just left us was obvious in the pained tones of his
voice.
"Don't wait," I said, and then unable to resist teasing
him a little I added, "unless you want to do some shop-
ping."
"I patronize the small shops," he informed me
prudishly.
"I'll telephone or take a cab." I turned from him.
Malcolm has a way of running me, and every once in a
while I have to assert my independence. He hates to
have me ride in cabs, keeps insisting that they are not
safe, while I find the drives interesting and many
times exciting, particularly Sixth Avenue on a wet
afternoon.
As I stepped into the store Peterson, the doorman,
smiled and greeted me cheerfully. The band was on a
platform in the center of the main floor and was mak-
ing a terrific din. A few feet ahead of me Mrs. Kelly
was standing, a bewildered expression on her florid


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 21
face. I had somehow not thought of her as ever being
bewildered. I don't know what prompted me, unless
it was a feeling for a kindred soul, for I guessed what
her trouble was by the way she clutched at her skirt
on one side. I stopped and asked,
"Is there something I can do for you?"
"I can't hear a word you're saying, for that damned
band!" she shouted.
I had to shrill at her over the trumpeting of the
band. "Is there something I can do for you?" I re-
peated.
"There is not," she replied with a rich brogue, "un-
less you're after having a safety-pin and an extra garter
hidden about you somewhere. I've broke the both of
them trying to get in here."
She was clutching her side, and having been in a like
position I wondered why she did not do what I'd have
done in a similar predicament. It's simple enough to let
your petticoat fall to the ground, step out of it and roll
it into a small wad. But, then, I've never been called
modest in that false use of the word. I was chuckling as
I said I was sorry, and for the poor woman's benefit I
pointed to a door a few feet from us. She waddled to-
ward the sanctuary, still gripping at her undergarment.
I could see no trace of a falling stocking. At the door
she turned and winked at me, an inclusive friendly
gesture, opened the door and vanished from my sight.
I have always been the first to laugh at people who
resort to bromides and trite phrases as a means of ex-


22 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
pression, but, darn it all, they do have their place. Trite
as it may sound, it is the little things which are im-
portant. There, I wanted to say exactly that. If I hadn't
arrived early and witnessed the bout between my Mrs.
Kelly and Mrs. Cohen the store murders may have
gone down in history as unsolved crimes. As unim-
portant as it may seem, the mere fact that I stopped
and spoke to that poor woman, distressed as only an
inherently modest soul can be embarrassed, was to
be very important later on.
Not because I knew the Doane family but because
it was in itself a very satisfactory store, I had always
liked to shop there. Then, too, the fact that the clerks,
the older ones, knew me helped, I suppose, to flatter
me. My Christmas list for the Doane employees had
always been a large one. From the moment I passed the
ever-vigilant Peterson at the door until I reached the
particular department I was bent on at the moment, I
was always greeted with glad smiles, and I don't believe
it was just because at Christmas I was something of a
Lady Bountiful. I have always tried to remember that
in the scheme of things we are all human beings, some
of us more fortunate than others due to the possession
of worldly goods. I don't hold with the near-sighted
philosophers who say that money isn't everything. It
isn't, I'm willing to admit, but the mere fact of having
money, enough of it, does give you a sense of security
and the courage to do things which otherwise you
might not dare venture. Money, of course, can't make


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 23
a person happy. No one thing can. Happiness, like the
measles, must get its start from within. I've lived a
full and, to me, happy life, and my money helped,
there can be no question of that.
After leaving Mrs. Kelly going through that door, I
continued along the aisle. I had to cross the main floor
to the elevators in the corner, which were the ones I
always used when I went as high as the executive offices.
I'll take a minute here to describe as much of the
main floor as we need know about. As you enter the
store from the side entrance, which I always used, on
your right you pass several feet of paneled wall. I
never thought about it or knew what was behind that
wall until I was so precipitately thrown into the excite-
ment of that day. The door toward which I had directed
Mrs. Kelly was in this walled area. On the left, opposite
the walled space, and beyond the balcony stairs, was
the hand-bag section. Next to it was the jewelry depart-
ment; and on the other side of the jewelry there was
a counter of women's handkerchiefs. The buyer of
that department knew my weakness and kept an eye
out for me. Whenever she had a bit of Honiton or
Carrickmacross lace she knew I would like she usually
sent it home on approval.
I stopped for a moment at a table in the book-shop,
which is just across from the jewelry department.
There is always something in a book department to
catch your eye, and Mrs. Curtis at Doane's certainly
knew how to catch my eye—also my purse. Right


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 2j
go toward the elevators, for at that moment the man
who had slipped through the partition from the book
department reappeared in the door and beckoned. His
face. was white and he looked so helpless, as only a
man can, standing there, that I felt his call for help
was directed toward me. It wasn't, of course, but noth-
ing could have held me back.
I reached the door directly behind Mrs. Curtis, who
was too intent on what she was doing to notice me.
"What happened, Clayton?" Mrs. Curtis asked
crisply. I have the greatest admiration for that woman.
She was always busy and I don't believe she had time
to read much of anything, but she knew about books
and, most important of all, she knew the books I liked
to read. Furthermore she never, if she felt it, showed
any intolerance for my rather catholic taste. She sold
me love stories, mysteries, biographies and anything
else that I happened to want and did it as if each one
was the most important book in her stock. I can't abide
opinionated book clerks who have such superior taste
that they make you and your preferences seem less than
the dust.
Clayton—I have never learned whether that was his
first or last name—was at the gulping stage and said,
"It's Mrs. Briggs and Miss Oliver."
"Both of them?" Mrs. Curtis expressed the surprise
which I myself was feeling.
"Yes, ma'am. Miss Oliver is on the floor and Mrs.


26 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Briggs is hunched over her desk paying no attention
to Miss Oliver."
"Did you call the infirmary?" Mrs. Curtis asked.
He showed clearly that he had not. "Do it," she ordered
and went through the door. I followed.
Behind the partition there was a narrow corridor
which ran the length of the paneling. I noticed three
doors opening from the side of the narrow passage and
one at the extreme end which I thought must have been
'the door through which Mrs. Kelly had vanished for
major repairs. As I followed Mrs. Curtis to the center
door of the series I could hear the store signals bonging
out their calls for executives. Perhaps you have noticed
the sound. Suddenly you hear bong, bong, then a pause
and then two or three more bongs. That is a system
used by the telephone operators when they want to
locate an important person in the store. Each executive
has a different signal.
I suppose you are thinking, "Why doesn't she get on
with the story?" I merely mentioned the call signals
because had I gone to the executive offices I would have
missed both Charlie and Herbert, for they were at the
moment being summoned to the main floor.
Mrs. Curtis stepped into a small office. I was directly
behind her. Clayton's description had been brief and
adequate. Mrs. Briggs was most certainly hunched over
her desk in a strange posture and Miss Oliver was still
prone on the floor. Never in my life have I seen a


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 27
woman equal in size to Mrs. Briggs; that is, outside
of a circus, where one expects to see freaks.
Mrs. Curtis knelt beside the girl and put a beringed
hand on her brow.
"Just a faint," I said. "She's coming out of it now.
I saw her eyelids flicker." If Mrs. Curtis was surprised
to see me, she didn't show it.
She stood up and said, "I never faint myself. What
does one do?"
"Pat their wrists, dash cold water on their faces,
lift their legs up to get the blood back to the head, or
just leave them alone," I replied. I was more interested
in the Briggs woman. I didn't know what her trouble
was, but I felt certain that whatever it was, she was the
reason for the Oliver girl's scream and subsequent
fainting.
Mrs. Briggs' body was against the desk. Her head
seemed to squat on the mound of flesh which was her
body. Undressed she must have looked like a series of
inflated inner tubes. One fat, ham-like arm was on the
top of the desk. It was her hand I noticed—although fat
and chubby, it was smallish and cute. I always notice
nice hands. Her nails were well-manicured, and in
noticing them I spied the small bottle which lay on its
side with the poison label turned up.
"Look!" I cried, and pointed at the bottle.
Mrs. Curtis gasped and the next moment was making
the sign of the cross; an automatic gesture, I'm sure,
but one which impressed me at the moment. I saw


28 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
several other things in those few seconds while the com-
motion in the corridor warned us that others were ap-
proaching. In front of Mrs. Briggs there was a golden
chalice and trailing from her hand I saw a broken
string of golden rosary beads.
They all seemed to come at once. A uniformed
nurse who knelt beside Miss Oliver; Herbert Hastings
looking very much the stolid, getting-heavy-around-
the-jowls business man; John Grover, his second in
command, bustling, loudish in dress, red of face and
full of action; Charlie, with that steadiness about him
which was a relief to me; young Sandy McLeod, red-
headed, blue-eyed, freckled and as Scotch as good oat-
cakes.
"What happened, Mrs. Curtis?" Herbert asked, tak-
ing no notice of me, surprised or otherwise.
"I don't know. There was a scream. Clayton came
in here and then called me. Miss Thomas came with
me. I think Mrs. Briggs"
While she was talking, Charlie came and stood beside
me, his hand reassuringly on my arm. Not that I
needed help or protection, but there are some things
a man does that endear him to the hearts of women.
Charlie was like that—thoughtful, protective and con-
siderate of all women.
The nurse was between Miss Oliver and us. Herbert
and John Grover were at the desk, stepping over the
body of Miss Oliver to get there. Sandy McLeod walked
around her and I liked him for it.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 29
It was Herbert who finished Mrs. Curtis' speech.
"She's committed suicide," he stated, and in his voice
I read resentment, criticism and annoyance. He might
just as well have said, "How dare she do it here on a
Sales Day!"
The nurse shifted her position. We had a full view
of Miss Oliver. I felt Charlie's hand tighten on my
arm for the fraction of a second. There was a tense
worried look in his eyes as he left me and knelt beside
the girl, who was regaining consciousness.
I knew then. He didn't have to say a thing. There
was a possessive tenderness in his every muscle as he
bent over her.


Ill
You can't live as long as I have and be unfamiliar
with death. One of the greatest penalties exacted from
those of us who live to an old age is the losing of
friends and intimates by the natural processes of elimi-
nation. The older you get, the greater the price. Death
has always awed me. It is so devastatingly final, such an
end to everything. I love life. Perhaps that's why I have
always felt sorry for people who found life so unattrac-
tive or so difficult that they thought they must end it.
I was made reverent for a moment by the most unex-
plainable of mysteries—suicide.
Herbert's speech annoyed me. Suppose the poor soul
had ended her life in his store on one of his Sales
Days? What of it? She had spent most of her life in the
store; it was probably more a part of her than anything
else she had ever done. If she was tired of living, I
think she picked the proper spot, sale or no sale. I felt
like telling him so, too, and probably would have done
so (another of my weaknesses which people have grown
to condone; they say I have a sharp tongue) had not
John Grover spoken at that moment.
He turned to Sandy and said, "Get a stretcher and
keep the crowd away. They're beginning to herd in
the book department and we can't have that."
The store, nothing but the store. There was no real
30


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 31
thought for that poor woman except perhaps by Mrs.
Curtis, who seemed genuinely moved, Charlie, who had
sympathy for everybody, and myself.
"We'll have to take her out the back way," Sandy
said suggestively as he viewed the bulk of her body.
"Get the stretcher! We'll take care of that," Herbert
said impatiently.
Sandy was off to a telephone in the next office. Mrs.
Curtis, with a glance at Miss Oliver, who was being
reassuringly held in the nurse's arms, followed him.
"What happened to her?" Miss Oliver asked.
It was the first good glimpse I had had of the girl.
She was lovely to look at. A creature of breeding and
culture, you could see that, and in any position except
flat on her back I'm sure she'd have had poise and dig-
nity. No woman can look her best just coming out of
a faint, flat on her back in a cramped office. I knew
what Charlie meant. I knew why he felt about her
as he did. For a moment I was intensely jealous. I
suppose a mother feels that way about her sons. I liked
the look of the girl and resigned myself to the idea of
Charlie loving her. Charlie was bound to love and
marry some day. He was far too normal to die a
bachelor.
"There now, dear," the nurse soothed with that as-
suring tenderness which only a good nurse or a mother
lulling a fractious child to sleep can manage.
"Is she dead?" Miss Oliver asked insistently.


32 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
At the nurse's nod of affirmation, Miss Oliver sighed
deeply.
"Come up to the hospital and rest for a while," the
nurse suggested.
Miss Oliver sat up. "I can't." She tried to stand. "I'll
have to keep my eye on the department. The clerks will
be upset. There's so much to be done."
What gets into store people? There she was, just
after a terrific shock, probably a mass of quiver inside,
thinking not about herself, but the store, as soon as she
gained full possession of her faculties. For a moment
I suspected her of making what the boys call a grand-
stand play; but what followed made me a little ashamed
of myself.
I could tell by the look in his eye that Herbert ap-
proved of the young lady's attitude. He was mentally
licking his chops. It was Charlie who stepped into the
gap-
"The department can take care of itself for a half-
hour. I want you to go with the nurse. That's an order."
He was short about it and bossy, but kind with it all.
I fancied I saw a smirk steal across the faces of both
Grover and Herbert, but I'm not sure.
Miss Oliver seemed doubtful about Charlie's author-
ity and looked questioningly at first Herbert and then
John Grover for confirmation.
Herbert grudgingly said, "Mr. Doane is right, Miss
Oliver." Then he spoiled it by saying, "You'll need all


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 33
of your energies later, so it's best you take a brief rest
now."
The girl was assisted to her feet by Charlie and
stood for a moment while the nurse smoothed out her
clothes. I've had nieces and young cousins galore in
the course of my life, but I've never seen any person,
even a Thomas, who suggested the perfect thorough-
bred so well as Miss Oliver did standing there. I
couldn't take my eyes away from her. I didn't blame
Charlie one bit for falling in love. She wasn't just
pretty or beautiful; it was something fine, a sense of
quality that glowed about her. If she had an aura, I saw
it as she stood there. For a moment I envied her her
fine smooth skin and soft golden hair. I was momen-
tarily ashamed of my own blonde wig, one of my so-
called idiosyncrasies. I made up my mind to see more
of that girl—provided, of course, she would permit it.
It wasn't just because of Charlie. I wanted her to like
me for myself. I'd have made the effort for any woman
Charlie wanted to marry and I wouldn't have cared
much one way or the other, but this girl was different.
I racked my memory for Olivers I might have
known in the dim past. Stephen Oliver was the only
one I could recall. He was an idle man-about-town,
of good family, who never did anything remarkable
except to marry some chorus girl and retire to Italy,
I think it was, and live as a remittance man for the
rest of his life. His family had been shocked and
ashamed, but Stephen wouldn't give up the girl. I ad-


34 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
mired him for his courage at the time, but that must
have been fifty years ago.
Charlie and I watched her as she started to go. His
eyes were expressing openly the admiration he was feel-
ing. She had just reached the door, still under the
protecting care of the nurse, when John Grover stopped
her.
"Miss Oliver," he called, "just a moment. You knew
her quite well. Is there some one we could notify?"
Miss Oliver stopped. "She has a son, Carl Briggs,"
she replied.
"And where can I find him?" Grover asked.
The girl started to speak. She made a sound which
would have been a spontaneous reply to the question
had she finished it. You've heard people start a word
and cut it off. It was an R sound and I had the feeling
that she was going to say Regent and give a telephone
number. Her eyes flickered for a moment before she
went on with a statement which was good enough but
was not what she started to say the first time. It all
happened very quickly and perhaps if I had not been
so interested in her looks, I'd not have noticed it.
She said, "Right beside the telephone, there is an
address book."
I like people who can think quickly. I've known a
few rascals in my time who did it very well, both male
and female. I'm not accusing Miss Oliver of being a
rascal. Her reply was an evasion of some sort and the
reason for it intrigued me. My positiveness may have


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 35
been an old woman's fancy or it may have been intui-
tion, for I've told many a lie to evade an issue.
The nurse urged her out of the room. As they left
I turned to Charlie and said, "Fine-looking girl, don't
you think?"
I've had lots of experiences, but when it comes to
love at first sight I must admit I'm a bit skeptical,
because it doesn't take into account such things as table
manners, speech and disposition. But of course I wasn't
surprised when Charlie said, "She's the only woman
I've ever seen who is capable of being your rival." He
squeezed my arm affectionately. Perhaps now you
understand why I like Charlie Doane. A dozen Irish-
men who had kissed the Blarney Stone as many times
could not have said anything more charming. Few
men have the wit or the ability to pay a compliment
to one woman when they are enthralled by another.
Imagine at seventy-five being compared to something
young and lovely! I was thinking beyond the compli-
ment when Herbert exploded impatiently,
"Why don't they come with the stretcher?"
"How about the police?" Charlie asked. "We'll have
to notify them, won't we?"
"Later," John Grover muttered. He was preoccupied,
pushing a blotter back and forth along the edge of the
desk. He made me think of a small boy playing with
a train.
Outside, that confounded band went on playing. I
suppose it did lend a tone of gaiety to the sale and


16 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
probably helped to keep people quiet after the scream.
Music does calm people, I suppose, but there is music
and music and a department store is no place for a
concert.
There were only four of us there then—Herbert,
Charlie, John Grover and myself, and of course the
dead woman. It suddenly occurred to Herbert that I
didn't know John Grover. He acknowledged the intro-
duction with some asinine remark about being sorry to
meet me on such a sad occasion. He had about as much
compassion as a blood-thirsty fan at a prize-fight.
Herbert added to my annoyance by saying, "I didn't
expect our conference to be like this."
Grover was peering about at the top of the desk. I
suppose he wanted to see if the woman had left any
important work undone.
"Don't be an ass all your life, Herbert," I snapped,
completely out of patience with both of them.
John Grover guffawed, Herbert blushed and Char-
lie's eyes seemed to say " 'Atta girl." People do egg me
on, you know. I didn't know then that the three of
them had raked me over the coals a few minutes be-
fore. Charlie told me about it later. It seems that John
Grover and Herbert didn't want me in on any store
conference. Charlie insisted—I had to drag that out of
him—that since I held twenty-five percent of his stock
I could not and would not be ignored. It was Grover
who said that since the stock had not been transferred
I could be counted out. Charlie explained that he had


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 37
said some terrible things about me to the effect that
even if he was willing to do anything as shabby as that,
they were reckoning without a full knowledge of me,
my temper and love of a good battle. I don't know,
Charlie didn't say, but from looking at John Grover,
I'm sure he called me "the old dame."
Sandy and two pasty-faced, thin-shouldered young
men came in with the stretcher at that moment and I
found myself wondering how those men were going to
be able to carry away that mountain of flesh. No one
had tried to find an address book, because the woman
occupied the entire front of the desk and I'm sure that
none of us were interested in even attempting to move
her.
Fred Banter, who was head of the personnel depart-
ment, came in all out of breath, his face beaded with
perspiration, to see what had happened. He was accom-
panied by a man they called Kramer who was head of
the store detectives. He was my idea of a detective,
heavy and dull, with shifty eyes and an expression
about the mouth which resembled an incipient snarl.
He spoke in short gruff sentences which I imagine was
his idea of being efficient and businesslike. They stepped
to one side while a short explanation was given.
"Now you won't have to discharge her, Mr. Doane,"
Banter said.
Charlie flushed at the remark and said, "Providence
has a way of taking care of things."
The young men went to work and handled her very


38 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
well, I thought, only they didn't get her properly on
the stretcher and when they tried to lift her, her head
lolled back with sickening looseness.
"Wait a minute!" It was Sandy who spoke and in his
excitement I detected a slight burr.
"Get her head on the stretcher!" Grover commanded.
"It's not that." Sandy was on his knees on the floor
beside the woman, who had been lowered back.
"You're only delaying things!" Grover snapped. "Let
the men get on with their job!"
It seemed unduly heartless to me, that speech, but
then nothing is important in a store but the store. I was
glad Sandy stuck to his guns.
"It may be important," he insisted. The two men
couldn't move the body until Sandy was out of the way
and he didn't budge.
We were all interested in what he was doing. I know
I was. With his fingers he was smoothing out the flesh
of her neck, which was nothing more or less than
several rolls of fat.
"What are you doing?" Kramer asked impatiently.
"Look!"
Sandy directed attention to her neck.
There was a dark bruised ring about the woman's
throat. Sandy's quick eye had discovered something
which we all had missed. The implication was obvious,
but Charlie surprised me by asking,
"What of it?"
i


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 39
"I think, sir—" Sandy's words just wouldn't seem
to come.
"What the boy means," I said for him, "is that the
woman has been murdered, choked to death with—"
my eyes went to the broken string of rosary beads on
the desk, "that golden chain."
Naturally they didn't want to believe me.
"It doesn't seem possible," Charlie said doubtfully.
"It can't be," John Grover denied.
"Come now, ma'am," Kramer said, and for less than
two cents I could have slapped his heavy face.
"But the poison," Herbert said, for all the world like
a small boy who hates to give up an established idea.
"That's ridiculous!" Banter objected. "Who would
want to kill old Briggs?"
"We'll have to call the police now," Sandy said.
"Keep out of this, McLeod," Kramer barked. "Get
back out there on the floor where you belong."
Sandy did as he was told. He was a nice lad, but no
match for his gruff superior, though I'll bet Sandy
had ten times as much brains.
The matter-of-factness of the others annoyed me.
Why on earth didn't they do something?
The two young men with the stretcher were, I
thought, singularly unmoved by the bomb-shell which
had been exploded in our midst. If one of them had
nonchalantly lighted a Murad I'd not have been sur-
prised.
Herbert, who was beside the desk, peered into the


4o THE WHISPERING WINDOW
chalice. What he expected to find I've no idea, but he
was very satisfied with himself as he turned to the
rest of us and said,
"There's poison in there. She must have taken it.
The mark on her neck is probably from a string of
beads or a necklace."
"Then where is the necklace?" I demanded. "And
look at her lips." I pointed down at the flaccid mouth.
"Wouldn't they be burned if she had taken poison?
Furthermore, is there a mark of her lips on the cup?"
Up to that time Herbert had not touched the chalice.
Prompted by my words he reached for it and was
halted by Charlie's serious voice saying, "I wouldn't
do that if I were you. Fingerprints are important."
Herbert's hand went back to his side as if he had
been stung.
"This is a fine mess!" Grover muttered.
"On Sale Day, too," Banter said. "It'll be a bother
with the police interrupting our work. I don't suppose
we can"
"Why didn't you post a sign in the store this morn-
ing," I snapped, "warning murderers to wait until the
sale was over?" They made me sick with their old store
and sale.
"Better call the police," Charlie instructed Kramer, .
who hesitated a moment, looking from Grover to Her-
bert.
It was Grover who nodded.
Kramer went into the next office. We could hear his


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 41
harsh voice coming over the top of the partition. The
band was quiet at the moment. I'm sure we all had the
same idea as Kramer's voice came to us distinct above
the rumble of the store itself. Why hadn't some one
heard the murderer?


IV
Charlie has always said that he'd rather have my
luck than a license to steal. Being born rich rather than
poor is luck and something over which we can have no
control. I've been lucky, I'm willing to admit, and it
was a piece of luck that I should happen to know the
detective who was put in charge of the case. On the
other hand, my knowing him was not luck at all.
Peter Conklin, the detective, had once directed traffic
at the corner of my street. As I told you, I've always
been interested in men. Peter was a young man when I
first saw him shivering on the corner in the cold Janu-
ary wind. I found him pleasant and agreeable always.
Being a person who doesn't mind her own business ex-
clusively, I stopped one day to speak to him. He had a
shock of curly black hair (I saw that when he removed
his hat, contrary, I believe, to regulations), dark laugh-
ing eyes and a slightly snubbed nose. At various times
I bought and gave him such things as ear-muffs and
gloves, to say nothing of the coffee and, perhaps I
shouldn't mention it here, good liquor which I in-
structed my cook to give him whenever he appeared at
the service door. Peter and I were the best of friends
while he was on the beat. He was promoted about three
years ago and I had lost track of him until I saw him
taking charge in Mrs. Briggs' office. When you have
42


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 43
lived as long as I have, done and known the things
and people I have, then perhaps you will have the same
kind of luck. I certainly wouldn't have known as much
about the case if it hadn't been for Peter and I'm quite
sure no other man would have allowed me to interfere
as much as he did. Call it casting bread on the waters
if you like.
While the others were waiting for the police to
arrive, which took about fifteen minutes, I walked
through the store, thinking about the murdered
woman. I have a friend who calls all mystery stories
Who-done-its. I was asking myself who and why as I
roamed up one aisle and down the other. The store's
bustle of business went on without interruption. The
band played intermittently. Except for the clerks in
the book, stationery and jewelry departments no one
in the store seemed to know that there had been a
tragedy. One death couldn't interrupt the routine of a
great store. Business had to go on. Tragedy and heart-
ache could be played against its rumble, but couldn't
stop its voice. The show had to go on.
As I passed the religious counter at the end of the
book department, where all sorts of things of interest
to Roman Catholics were on display, I saw my Mrs.
Kelly involved in the purchase of a plaster Madonna
and a thirty-nine-cent rosary.
"Do you wish them sent?" the clerk was asking as I
drew near.
"Of course. Do you think I can be lugging that


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 45
the poison? Had she intended to commit suicide, after
all? It didn't make sense. If there were some one I
wanted dead and I found him in the act of taking his
own life I'm sure I wouldn't hasten matters and com-
plicate things for myself by killing him. Such ques-
tions were milling about in my mind as Mrs. Doyle
trundled away from the counter.
I was loitering over the biography table in the book
department when Sandy came to tell me that the police
had arrived. Herbert and Grover both had felt certain
the police would want to question me, as I was one of
the first at the scene of the crime. The police were at
work in the little office, scads of them intent on their
jobs. There was a doctor examining the body of the
poor woman, photographers were setting up their
cameras, fingerprint men were already at work at the
desk and a young man with his back to me was exam-
ining everything in that room. Charlie and the others
were huddled in a group near the door, watching. I
peered over their shoulders to see what was going on.
I've read about such things in books, but this was the
first time I had ever seen the police in operation. The
young man in charge turned round.
"Peter Conklin!" I exclaimed.
"Hello, Miss Thomas!" he said, grinning at me with
that bond of fellowship which had always existed be-
tween us. He took off his hat, which up to that time
had been cocked on the back of his head. "What are


46 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
you doing here?" he asked. "I've always thought it
would be fun to pinch you."
"Try it," I challenged, very glad to see him again.
At that moment the doctor, who was very intent on
his work and I'm sure had no sense of humor, spoke
to Peter. "I can see no trace of poison on her lips or
in her throat," he said. After that had sunk in, he went
on, "The condition of her eyes and tongue doesn't indi-
cate death by strangulation."
"Then what did kill her?" Peter demanded.
"I can't tell, but from this brief examination I believe
the pressure on her throat frightened her to death. I'm
sure her heart stopped. I can tell more later. As soon
as the photographers have finished I'll take her away
and give you a full report."
"How do you think she was strangled?" Peter asked.
"Gird or wire," the doctor replied matter-of-factly,
"probably applied by some one she knew very well."
"Wasn't it the chain?" I raised my voice to ask.
The doctor gave me a contemptuous look.
"Would that be possible?" Peter asked.
"Too frail," the doctor replied. "She undoubtedly had
the rosary in her hands when the strangulation started.
I believe she broke the beads herself. I found a small
piece of the chain in her left hand."
There was the first of my theories gone to pot, but I
had to admit, as I thought about it, that the doctor was
probably right. Poor soul. Had she tried to pray even


48 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Probably," Grover replied. Til find out." He in-
structed Sandy to call the repair department.
"All ready," one of the photographers announced.
Peter asked us to go into the next office and wait.
The next room belonged to Mrs. Curtis and I found it a
fascinating place. I follow the Times "Book Review"
and "Books" of the Herald Tribune carefully and knew
that most of the books in that office were not yet pub-
lished. There were a few galleys, some paper-bound
advance copies and other books not yet on the market.
I'd like to have taken a half-dozen of them away with
me.
An officer stuck his head into the door and said, "I
can't locate the girl who fainted."
"She's in the infirmary," I said, wondering why
some of the men didn't speak up.
"That's where she isn't," the officer replied.
"Find her!" Peter snapped. The man withdrew.
Sandy returned, accompanied by a man in blue over-
alls which were full of interesting pockets and loops
from which suspended a hammer, a screw-driver, a
pair of pliers and other things I couldn't identify. He
looked like a gadget tree.
"Were you in Mrs. Briggs' office this morning?"
Peter asked.
"I fixed a call-button for her," the man replied.
"At what time?"
"About ten minutes after eight."
"Any one else in there?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 49
"Miss Oliver was in and out of the office for a few
minutes," the man answered.
"What's the button for?" Peter asked.
"It connects her office with the wrapping desk in the
jewelry department and was put in to save the old lady
steps. She had trouble getting around. I did most of the
work last night and finished up this morning," the man
explained.
"Did you leave any wire behind?" Peter asked.
"I don't remember," the man replied. "There may
have been some small bits. I don't know."
I imagine electricians are something like plumbers
and leave their tools here, there and everywhere,
though how he could with that fascinating suit of his
with a place for everything on it, I don't know.
"Outside of Miss Oliver, was there any one else in
here while you were working?"
"A mail girl came in, and then just as I was finishing,
her son came."
That was a surprise to me. Was that why Miss Oliver
had hesitated when asked about the son?
"You know him?" Peter asked.
"Naw," the man replied. "He said, 'Hello, Mom,'
when he came in. I was finished then and left."
As the electrician was leaving, an officer came in
with Beth Oliver, who was dressed for the street in a
neat fall coat and a most becoming hat.
"She was just coming in," the officer announced
with the satisfaction of a captor in his voice.


50 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Just a short time before I had heard her say that she
had to take care of the department. Why had she sud-
denly decided to let the store take care of itself? As
she faced Peter there was something lurking in the
depths of her eyes that I could not fathom. She was
calm and poised as she waited for Peter to begin.
Where had she gone and why?
"Why were you out of the store, Miss Oliver?" he
asked.
"I wanted a breath of fresh air," she answered.
"How long were you gone?" he went on.
"Just a few minutes," she answered.
"She got out of a cab," the officer cut in.
"Fresh air in a cab, Miss Oliver?" Peter had a cute
way of making a question-mark by arching his eye-
brows.
"Yes; I had the windows open."
"The driver said he picked her up on Fifty-first
Street," the policeman offered.
I wondered how he had learned so much in such a
short time and decided that Peterson had probably
identified the girl. I discovered later that my guess
was correct.
"You walked up and rode back?" Peter suggested.
"Yes, I did," she agreed, somewhat relieved.
"You worked for Mrs. Briggs?" Peter went on.
"I was her assistant."
"You were the one who found the body and
screamed?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW ji
"Yes."
"It must have been a shock." She didn't make any
answer to that. He went on. "We expected to find you
in the hospital."
"I didn't go there," she answered. From what I saw
of it later, I didn't blame her.
"You rested in one of these offices, I believe?"
"In this one," she answered.
"How long did you stay here?"
"Just a few minutes. I couldn't sit still, I couldn't
rest. I had to move about. The store seemed stifling; I
decided to walk."
"Do you know of any reason why Mrs. Briggs would
want to commit suicide?" he asked.
"No."
"Can you think of any one who would want to mur-
der her?" was the next question.
"No." Her voice was so low I could hardly hear the
answer.
"Tell us what you did from the time you entered
the store until you found the body," Peter suggested.
Peter's stenographer's pencil flew over the paper as
Beth talked.
She began with directness and told her story calmly.
She arrived at the store at five minutes past eight.
That statement surprised me. I had no idea that people
in department stores had to do an hour's work before
the store opened. No wonder they are so tired and list-


52 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
less in the late afternoon. The hours seem much too
long.
Mrs. Briggs had been cross with her for being late,
she said. There was no resentment in the girl's voice as
she said it. From what followed I gathered that the
Briggs woman was something of a martinet. Beth
Oliver—I always think of her as Beth now—said they
had worked until nine the night before getting ready
for the sale. Another fact which surprised me. Certainly
one half of the world doesn't know how much the
other half works. Laugh at that if you will; I know
it's bromidic, but it's true. I glanced accusingly at Her-
bert, but of course my censoriousness made no impres-
sion on him.
On her arrival that morning Beth did a few odd jobs
in the office, called the repair department to see why
the call-button had not been installed and then went
to the stockroom to see that everything was in readi-
ness there for the day's sale.
"Didn't you come back here at all?" Peter asked her
then.
"Once," she replied.
"Why?" he asked.
"I found a small bag of rhinestone jewelry tucked
away behind some boxes," she answered.
"Was that so important?" he asked.
"It seemed so to me."
"Explain, please." He sat back waiting.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 53
"For some time," Beth continued, "we have been
having shortages in inventory."
"Just what does that mean?"
Herbert broke in to explain, though I'm sure Beth
could have done it. The gist of what he had to say was
this: Their sales didn't cover the stock which they had
bought. In other words, when they bought a hundred
dollars' worth of merchandise and sold half of it they
should have fifty dollars in cash and fifty dollars in
stock. They didn't. They had the fifty dollars in cash
but not more than thirty dollars of stock. He said they
had checked and rechecked their inventory, but were
unable to locate the shortages.
"I understand," Peter said to stop Herbert's continu-
ance with a list of store figures. He turned back to
Beth. "This bag of jewelry. Why did you bring it
down?"
"I have believed that our shortages were due to theft.
The jewelry I found had been taken from the depart-
ment, as it was already marked for sale. It was the first
tangible evidence we had had that things were being
taken out of the store by employees."
"Did you suspect any one person?"
She hesitated, reluctant, I imagine, to accuse any one.
"What did Mrs. Briggs say about it?" Peter didn't
make an issue of It.
"She was talking to her son and didn't say anything.
I put the bag on the table, explaining where I had


54 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
found it, and went back to the stockroom and stayed
there until I heard the opening bell."
"Didn't Mrs. Briggs make any comment?"
"She just nodded," Beth answered.
"Then you and she had talked about shortages be-
fore?"
"Yes."
"And you did suspect some one?" I wondered when
he would come back to that question.
"We suspected every one," she answered.
"You sound like a policeman," Peter grinned at her.
"Didn't you have anything tangible?"
"We talked about it last night," Beth answered. "For
some time I have been watching the department and
one girl in particular. I suggested last night that Mrs.
Briggs let the girl go."
"Why?"
"I have found her trays badly arranged, her stock
scattered in different places and once or twice I dis-
covered little piles of easily concealed items. I believed
they were segregated on purpose."
"You reported those things to the store detectives?"
Peter asked.
"I told Mr. Kramer. He watched the girl, but we
could never catch her stealing."
"That's right," Kramer confirmed Beth's statement.
"And the girl?" Peter ignored Kramer.
"Mrs. Briggs was going to dismiss her this morning."
"Did she do it?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 55
"I don't know."
"She didn't." Banter stepped forward. "She'd have
to do it through me. There were no complaints to-day.
Probably due to the sale." He smirked.
"Mrs. Briggs was murdered," Peter said brutally.
"Do you think this girl—" He didn't finish the ques-
tion, because Beth interrupted.
"But I thought—" Beth hesitated. I was sure she was
acting.
Peter repeated his question. "Do you think the bag
of jewels you found may be connected with her mur-
der?"
"I shouldn't think they were valuable enough for
murder," she answered.
Peter turned to Herbert then and asked, "Do you
know offhand the shortage figures in the jewelry de-
partment?"
"In the past year," Herbert replied, "it has run into
several thousands of dollars. A really terrific loss,
enough to keep the department from making money."
"Then the amount was large enough to warrant mur-
der; that is, if Mrs. Briggs knew the thief."
"Exposure would mean jail," Herbert pronounced.
Peter digested that for a moment and turned back
to Beth.
"Who is the girl?"
"Must I?" She asked the question of all of us.
"Speak up, Miss Oliver," Grover urged.
"Eva Sutton," Beth said.


V
I was wondering why Peter had asked that question
about Carl Briggs. He evidently knew something which
had escaped me. I'm sure I'd have been as uncomfort-
able as the girl was had that calculating stare of his
been turned on me.
"Tell me about the finding of the body," he sug-
gested with a smoothness I didn't exactly trust.
"When I first entered the office," Beth began, "I
thought she was sleeping."
"Sleeping?" Peter asked quizzically.
"Cat-naps," Beth explained. "She was very touchy
about them, too," she went on. "I bustled about the
desk doing a few odd jobs trying my best to make
enough noise to waken her."
"You didn't see the bottle of poison?" Peter's ques-
tion contained more than a modicum of doubt.
"When I entered the door I thought she was sleep-
ing, as I told you," Beth continued her explanation.
"She didn't like to come out of a doze with any one
watching her. I didn't look at her again for several
minutes. I was expecting her to say something to me.
It was a game which we have been playing lately. When
I finally looked, wondering why she had not spoken, I
saw the bottle. I must have screamed then. I don't
remember anything else until the others were all in
here."
57


58 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"You believed it suicide?" he asked.
"Yes."
Peter sat back, digesting what she had said.
Her story sounded true enough and Peter seemed
satisfied. I wasn't. That girl was holding something
back. If she sat in one of the offices next to the death
room she probably heard everything that was said by
us when we made our startling discovery of the mur-
der. Another thing. I was sure when she left the office
to rest that she had no intention of leaving the store.
Why, then, had she left the store? Was it because
sitting in the room next to us she had heard our talk
and exclamations when Sandy uncovered the murder?
She must have heard us, because when Kramer left us
to telephone the police we could hear his sharp voice
so clearly. Beth, if she hadn't been caught just as she
was returning, intended to keep her little walk a secret.
I was certain of it and determined to know why. She
was afraid of something.
Peter asked her to stay with us, explaining that she
would doubtless be helpful. He then questioned Mrs.
Curtis and myself. We really had nothing to offer ex-
cept the time we heard the scream. I remembered be-
cause I had looked at the clock thinking that I should
be in Charlie's office. Grover, Charlie and Herbert had
nothing to tell, because they came after we did. Peter
excused them. They started away and looked inquir-
ingly at me. I was too interested and didn't want to
leave. If their curiosity was dead, mine wasn't. As


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 59
Charlie left he whispered, "Invite that girl to dinner;
me, too."
That was a presumption on Charlie's part and he
knew it. I've always been a stickler about my dining-
room. To me it is my holy of holies next to my bed-
room. Just as there are people I wouldn't think of sleep-
ing with, so are there people I refuse to dine with if I
can help it, and I most certainly can in my own home.
He must have seen something flicker in my eyes.
"Please," he coaxed and was gone. I gave him no sign
and I never told him that I intended to do it, anyhow.
If a man thinks he has planned or engineered a thing
a woman is a fool to disillusion him. They get little
enough out of life as it is, when you stop to think of it.
Few women do. I've heard women say, "Oh, I wish I
were a man!" That's sheer ignorance. Did you ever
stop to think of a man's lot in life? He sees some pretty
chit of a girl who decides that he will make her a good
husband. From that moment until the day he dies the
man doesn't have a chance. He asks the girl to marry
him after she has encouraged him enough and then he
keeps his nose to the grindstone for the rest of his life
so that she can have the things she wants. I don't
wonder some of them kick over the traces. There are
exceptions to my observations, I know. I've seen women
sacrifice their lives for their husbands and wondered
why they were such fools, since the shoe is expected to
be on the other foot.
Peter went to the door and gave his henchman there


6o THE WHISPERING WINDOW
two orders. He was to find the bag of jewels in Mrs.
Briggs' office and to bring the man Clayton with him
when he returned. Peter then turned to Banter and
asked,
"Did you see Mrs. Briggs this morning?"
"No. But I did talk to her on the telephone," Banter
replied.
"At what time?"
"About a quarter of nine. I'm not sure; it was before
the store opened."
"The time's right," Kramer interrupted. "Briggs
called me in about the bag of jewelry. I was there when
she asked Mr. Banter for an extra clerk."
"Why wasn't the Sutton girl discharged ?" Peter asked
Kramer.
Banter broke in. "After all, we had no conclusive
proof that the girl was a thief. Kramer has been watch-
ing her and hasn't been able to get a thing on her.
We're short-handed on a day like this."
Peter turned to Kramer. "I want to talk to that girl.
Bring her in here, will you? What's her job?"
"Sort of second assistant," Kramer replied.
"Okay. I won't keep you away from your store work
any longer." Peter dismissed them both.
I was glad to see them go. Banter was all right, a little
on the servile side, not a Uriah Heep exactly, but a
distant relation. Kramer was'the obnoxious one. I dis-
liked them both.
While Peter was waiting for the man Clayton to be


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 61
brought in he said, "This is slow, tiresome work, Miss
Thomas."
I agreed that it was.
He surprised me by asking, "Do you think this crime
was planned?"
"Murderers haven't been my line," I answered. I
didn't know what he was driving at.
He laughed and said, "It's a pity. You'd have made
a good detective. I've been watching your eyes. You've
been doing a good bit of thinking while I've been
asking questions and listening to answers."
"Was it planned?" I asked. He certainly gave me an
opening.
"I don't think so," he replied thoughtfully. "It is
what I call a spontaneous crime. That's why there are
no clues except possibly the poison, which one of my
men is working on now. The murderer thought fast,
Miss Thomas. For some reason he wanted to be rid of
Mrs. Briggs. He was given the incentive to kill first
and the ready means of accomplishing it. Whether she
died directly from strangulation or not doesn't matter.
The murderer wanted it to look like suicide. Why?"
It seeflled an obvious question to me, but before I
had a chance to reply, Clayton was brought in by
Smith the policeman, who reported that he was un-
able to find the bag of jewelry. Peter made no com-
ment, but I was dying to know where the jewels were.
Clayton's section in the book department is right
opposite the door in the partition. Peter asked him


6i THE WHISPERING WINDOW
about the people who had used the door during the
morning.
Clayton remembered Beth, Miss Blake the stationery
buyer, John Carol and Eva Sutton of the jewelry de-
partment, also the electrician. When asked if there was
any other means of entering the offices, he opened up
a whole new series of possibilities for me. There was
the door to which I had directed my Mrs. Kelly whose
name I later discovered was Doyle. I may just as well
call her by her right name now.
It was Clayton who called my attention to the other
door in the little office directly opposite the one by
which we had entered. I gasped then as I realized what
it meant to any one investigating the crime. Peter
laughed at me. "I take it back," he said.
"Take what back?" I asked, knowing full well what
he meant.
"You should have noticed the extra doors," he said,
mocking me.
"What do you know about them?" I asked.
"Each of these offices opens onto a rear corridor
which runs parallel to the show windows on the side
street. The show windows are used for furniture dis-
plays and the rear corridor is a wide one. The wide cor-
ridor connects with the elevators for the receiving-
room."
"Anything else?" I asked. I knew he was pulling my
leg, but I thought I would get as much information out
of him as I could.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 63
"That's all for the moment," he replied. There was
an amused smile in his eyes as he said it.
"Do you mean to say you're wasting your time with
all these questions when the murderer probably en-
tered and left by that rear corridor?" I asked indig-
nantly.
"Everything is under control," he assured me cockily.
He was so sure of himself that what followed was a
terrible blow to him, I know, though for the life of me
I don't see what he could have done about it.
Peter had been busy before I was called into the
office. He is a smart young man and can't reasonably
be blamed for what happened. I didn't know this at
the time, but it belongs here. As soon as Peter arrived
on the scene of the crime he investigated all entrances
and exits and made inquiries about all doors and where
they led. He sent a man out to the receiving-room at
once to get the names of all the people who had entered
the wide corridor from the receiving-room. William
Evans, known in the store as Willie, was not at his post.
He was out to his lunch. I know it sounds ridiculous,
but they do crazy things in department stores. It seems
that Willie was a checker as well as receiving clerk in
the morning. He went on duty at six and I suppose he
did want something to eat about ten. At any rate, he
had gone when Peter sent his man for information. The
man who was relieving Willie (I can't bear the name
Willie and I imagine any man who is called it must
deserve it) promised to notify the officer the moment


64 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Willie came back. That's why Peter was so cocksure.
He expected to get the information he wanted.
In the meantime the man Clayton stood shifting
from one foot to the other like an impatient crane. He
was greatly relieved when Peter turned back to him
and asked, "Did you notice anything unusual about any
of the people who passed you going through that door?"
"No—" Clayton started, then stopped himself.
"Then you did?" Peter was eagerly alive.
"Well," Clayton hesitated, "when Miss Oliver came
out she looked about as mad as a wet hen."
Peter didn't turn to look at Beth, but I did. She
smiled at Clayton's remark as if she were secretly
amused with herself.
"And," Clayton continued, "Miss Sutton had been
crying, but," he hastened to add, "that wasn't unusual.
Mrs. Briggs did get under people's skin. I spoke to her
when she came back and she snapped at me. She was
boiling mad."
"As soon as you heard Miss Oliver's scream you ran
in here?" Peter asked.
"Yes."
"Did Miss Oliver scream immediately after she en-
tered these offices?"
Clayton was puzzled by the question. He looked help-
lessly toward Beth, who helped him by saying, "He
didn't see me enter."
"Then you came down the back elevators?"
"Yes," Beth replied.


66 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Carl Briggs—" she began, and stopped. I could see
the pulse in her throat quiver. Poor dear, what she had
to say was not going to be easy. Peter was patient. I
suppose he sensed some revelation which would have
definite bearing on the case. He didn't urge her. She
was for all the world like some one about to plunge into
the cold surf.
"Carl Briggs is my husband," she said, and without
waiting or paying any attention to my gasp of surprise
or Peter's rather satisfied smile hurried on. "We've been
married several months and lived together until last
night, when I definitely left him."
"Why?" Peter asked.
"I'm sure it has nothing to do with Mrs. Briggs'
death," she evaded.
"But you did go to see your husband this morning
after you learned that Mrs. Briggs had been murdered,
didn't you?" Peter insisted.
"Yes," she replied softly.
"Why?"
"Is it true, Mr. Conklin, that a wife cannot be made
to testify against her husband?" Beth asked.
"This isn't a court of law, Miss Oliver," he replied.
"But you are looking for a suspect. You have sent
for Carl. You would like to fasten the guilt on him and
give yourself a case," she reasoned.
"I'm not anxious for a case against any person unless
that person happens to be guilty," he replied fairly
enough. "You must realize that your present attitude


68 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"I did not."
"What did you do about it?"
"I told Mrs. Briggs last night that I was through with
Carl."
"This conversation you overheard. Was it so ter-
rible?" he asked.
"It was cheap and vulgar."
I knew exactly what she meant. I've heard parts of
weird conversations in washrooms, things revolting to
a sensitive person.
"You explained your feelings to Mrs. Briggs?" Peter
went on.
"Yes."
"Did you have to explain the details?"
"Mrs. Briggs never dealt in half-measures," she said,
giving me another facet to the Briggs woman's char-
acter.
"So that was why Briggs accused you of spying?"
"Undoubtedly. I've noticed that mothers are willing
to sacrifice anything and anybody for their sons." That
was an observation which surprised me. She was a little
young to have been so accurately aware of the fact. She
went on, "Mrs. Briggs considered me a good influence
in Carl's life. She wanted to keep us together. She was
furious with me last night because I refused to change
my mind. Mrs. Briggs had a temper and I rather suspect
she upbraided Carl this morning about his attentions
to girls in the department."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 69
"But," Peter objected, "you were in her department.
Why did she encourage you?"
The point was well taken and I waited for Beth's
answer.
"I was her assistant, not just a clerk, and I think,"
she hesitated just a moment, "she respected me."
"The conversation you overheard. Was it about some
particular girl?" he asked.
"Must I answer that?" she begged.
"No, but it would help if you would. I'm not trying
to pry into people's lives, you know. I'm looking for
the motive to a murder."
"But why would Eva Sutton want to kill her?"
Beth asked. "She didn't know anything about the con-
versation or my stand in the matter."
I don't know that Beth mentioned the girl's name
intentionally. It was a natural defensive statement and
at the moment Peter took no notice of it.
"Why did you go to see your husband this morning?"
Peter returned to that phase of the questioning. "Did
you want to warn him?"
"In his way he was fond of his mother. I wanted to
be able to tell him myself. I thought under the circum-
stances it was the least I could do."
"How did he take it?" Peter asked.
"He wasn't there."
That, I think, stumped Peter a little. It certainly was
flat after the excitement I, at least, was feeling.
"Thank you," Peter said. "Now, one thing more be-


7o THE WHISPERING WINDOW
fore you go. When you came down in the receiving-
room elevator, did you see any one coming out of the
corridor?"
"No."
"Did you hear any one or anything?"
"No. I was rather intent on getting on the floor. Mrs.
Briggs depended on me to look after things. I should
be out there now, if you are through with me." She
stood up, her attitude asking permission to go on with
her work.
"You may go," Peter said, "but I'd like you to be
ready if I need you again."
Beth left her hat and coat on the clothes-tree in the
corner of the office. After she had gone and we heard
the door in the outer partition close, Peter turned to
me and said, "Why doesn't she tell all she knows?"
So Peter had the same feeling about her that I had!
"An unwilling witness," he went on, "is one of our
greatest problems."
"It seems to me she has told you plenty," I retorted.
"Women always side with each other, don't they?"
I knew he was teasing, but I answered, "We have to."
Peter next questioned Miss Blake, the stationery
buyer, who said she and her assistant had been on the
floor from eight o'clock on and knew nothing about
the murder.
Peterson, the doorman, was a blank. He had been
so busy, he said, watching the people coming into the
store that he had not noticed the little door at all.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 71
I suppose I should have mentioned the Irish woman,
Mrs. Doyle, then; but I didn't, because she didn't seem
to be important at the time. A woman with a falling
petticoat and a broken garter is much too busy to be
thinking of murder. I know and I've never had the
misfortune to break both of them at once.
John Carol, the clerk from the jewelry department,
was questioned next.
"You were in here this morning?" Peter asked.
"Yes, sir."
"At what time?"
"I don't know exactly, but it was before nine."
"Why did you come in?"
"I answered the buzzer," Carol replied with a sheep-
ish grin. Peter smiled too, but I didn't understand the
allusion.
"You mean the new one?" Peter asked.
"Yes, sir. Just after the electrician came out to tell us
that it was installed, it rang insistently. I answered it."
"What did Mrs. Briggs want?"
"Eva Sutton."
t'
"Was Mrs. Briggs alone?"
"No, sir. Her son was with her."
Peter looked at the top of the partition as he said,
"These partitions are not very high. Did you happen
to hear any of their conversation as you came in or
went out?"
Carol's eyes went to the top of the partition before
he answered, "I did hear them."


72 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"What were they saying?"
This digging and delving into the privacy of people
seemed distasteful to me, but I realized that Peter could
get nowhere unless he amassed information.
"It was Mr. Briggs. He was mad. I picked up part
of a sentence. I heard him say, '—and I'm telling you
to mind your own business. I'm going to get the money
and I'm not going to let you stand in my way.' I
coughed then," Carol said, "to warn them I was there.
When I entered the office Mr. Briggs had stopped talk-
ing, but his face was red. Mrs. Briggs told me what she
wanted and I left immediately."
"Hear anything else?"
"No, sir."
"All right, Carol, thanks. You may go."
Carol was glad to get away.
Eva Sutton came in next. She was a blonde, fairly
natural too. I'm an authority on blondes. I was one my-
self until my hair became so thin that I had to get the
transformation which I now wear. She was a rather
pathetic creature, with sad, pale-blue eyes. She had very
smooth fair skin, but used too much liquid powder.
She wasn't the hard cold type of blonde that you so
often see; she seemed rather beaten to me, as if life
had demanded too much from her. She was shortish
and thin to the point of emaciation. She needed food,
good food, but I suppose she was like all the modern
young women who try their best, even going so far as
ruining their health, to look like slats. I've seen women


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 73
do a lot of crazy things in the course of my life, but I
think the elimination of curves and the gradual evolu-
tion to flat chests, is one of the most unfeminine things
they have ever done. They talk about allure, meaning
gaunt faces and slim figures. I'll bet you right now if
you were to ask ten men which they would prefer,
nine of them would vote for hips and bosoms, and all
your skinny allure would be thrown overboard, as it
ought to be. These wind-blown walking poles you see
on the avenue now have just about as much feminine
allure as a green lamppost. Take ten married men who
have skinny wives and a mistress on the side and you'll
find the mistress is built as a woman should be. There's
nothing comforting about a skinny woman. Did you
ever hear of any one weeping comfortably on a flat
chest?
Eva Sutton was nervous as she stood before Peter.
"Sit down," he suggested.
She slid into a chair gratefully. She tried to be com-
posed, but I noticed her hands flutter. Her nails were
dyed that terrible deep red. I dare say her toe-nails were,
too. She looked like that.
. Peter Conklin had an interesting technique. In the
first place, he didn't look like a policeman and he
didn't sound like one. He asked Eva Sutton several
seemingly unimportant questions, which she answered
readily enough when she realized he wasn't going to
bite her. She became a little more at ease after we had
learned that she was a second assistant and was respon-


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 75
I'm no fool. I know what she was driving at. All the
stuff in that bag came from my section, but I didn't
know anything about it. Honest I didn't."
"Did you know about the shortages in the jewelry
department?"
"Say, you couldn't work in this store and not know
about it," she answered.
"Have you any idea about the jewels? Some one
must have taken them up there, intending to dispose
of them," he suggested.
"I have ideas, yes," she admitted, "but I'm not going
to say anything. I don't want to get in trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" he asked.
"Mrs. Briggs is dead, isn't she?" the girl replied.
"Then you think the store thefts have something to
do with her death?"
"I won't answer you," she cried. "I won't! You can't
make me! I need my job. I can't afford to be out of
work, and I don't know anything anyhow!" She was
hysterical by the time she had finished.
"All right, Miss Sutton. Don't get yourself into a
state," he said kindly. "We'll forget about the jewels,
for the time being."
She calmed down after that and didn't see the sig-
nificance of his next question as I did.
"When was the last time you saw Carl Briggs, pri-
vately I mean?"
"A couple of days ago," she replied.
"You are quite sure, Miss Sutton?" he urged.


76 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"I ought to know when I saw him," she flashed back,
the color in her cheeks rising.
"How did you know that Miss Oliver told Mrs.
Briggs about you and her son?"
"He told me," she replied.
"When?"
"The other night when I saw him," she answered
readily enough. I knew the poor thing was trapped and
felt sorry for her.
"That's very strange." Peter shook his head thought-
fully.
The girl was uncomfortable. She began to squirm.
I once saw a rat caught in a wire trap and she reminded
me of it. She knew she was caught and she wanted to
extricate herself, but she didn't know how to do it.
"I can't understand it," Peter continued after a mo-
ment. He looked straight at the girl then and spoke
slowly. "Miss Oliver didn't know until yesterday that
you were interested in Mr. Briggs."
"Huh!" It was a polite way of suggesting that Beth
was a liar. Why do women fight so with each other
over men? Heavens! They're like street-cars. There's
always another one along in a minute or so.
"You seem doubtful," he suggested.
"She's known about me for a long time," she replied
with an air of swagger.
"Mrs. Briggs?" Peter asked.
"No. Oliver. She tried to break it up. We were just
friends. We've known each other for a long time." She


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 77
seemed a bit hasty in her explanation. "She was jealous,"
she added.
"If you haven't seen Mr. Briggs privately for several
days, how could he have told you what he did when
he didn't know it himself until he came to see his
mother this morning?"
"I don't know," she answered helplessly.
"Why don't you tell me the truth?" he suggested.
"It can't harm any one."
She remained stolid and silent.
"You don't want Mr. Briggs to get into trouble, do
you?" he asked.
"No." It was only one word, but it was freighted
with feeling.
"You're not helping him by your silence. As a matter
of fact, you've made me very curious. I work on the
theory that you don't try to hide things unless there
is something to hide."
"He didn't do it. He couldn't have done it. He was
with me. He left me just a minute or so before the
sflfream came," she defended.
"And where were you?"
"We were out by the receiving-room elevators," she
replied. "Willie can tell you that."
"I'll check that point with Willie when I see him,"
he assured her. "Since you know he didn't do it, I
don't see why you were so reluctant to tell me about
having seen him."


78 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"He told me not to say anything about it," she
answered without thinking.
"When?" Peter's tone was careless. I leaned forward.
Were we going to get the answer to the riddle so
easily?
"When I telephoned him," she answered.
"You called him to tell him she had committed sui-
cide, was that it?"
"No. To tell him she was murdered."
"How did you know?"
I wondered about that, too, and waited eagerly for
her answer.
"Clayton." She went on to explain. "He had his ear
glued to that partition from the time the body was
found. When they discovered it was murder and not
suicide, Clayton came over and told us. It was then I
telephoned Carl. He said, 'Better not say anything about
seeing me. You know what the police are.' He didn't
do it, mister. Honest he didn't."
"By telling me you have given him an alibi," he as-
sured her. "Tell me something else. Did you see any
one go into the wide corridor while you were talking
to Mr. Briggs?"
She considered for a moment before she spoke.
"Only Oliver. When she stepped off the elevator we
kept out of sight. I talked to Carl for a few minutes
more before he left. Then I stopped to speak to Willie
and was just coming back into the department when J
heard the scream."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 79
"Were you returning by way of the corridor?" he
asked.
"No. There's a door into the store from the receiving-
room."
"How long was it from the time you saw Miss Oliver
until you heard the scream?"
"It might have been ten minutes; I don't know."
"And you saw no one enter or leave the corridor
while you were there?" He repeated the question.
"No one but Oliver." She was positive of that point.
"That's all, Miss Sutton."
She started away, but he stopped her. "Was Mr.
Briggs with his mother when you left her office?"
She did some mental calculating before she answered
his question rather reluctantly. "Yes," she said.
"Any idea of the time?"
"Quarter of nine, I guess. I dunno."
"You may go."
The girl left hurriedly, glad to get away. I didn't
like her, but I did feel sorry for the poor thing. She
knew Briggs was going to be involved and she had
tried to help him by making things look bad for Beth
Oliver.
"It makes it look bad for Miss Oliver, doesn't it?"
Peter asked.
"Now you're talking like a policeman," I retorted,
"and you know it. What about the son?"
"They're in it together," he said. "There's more to
this than meets the eye."


8o THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Bosh!" I exploded. "So far you haven't a thing
against the Oliver girl except your unfounded suspicions
and the testimony of that blonde baggage who was
just in here."
"Then why doesn't the Oliver girl talk? What is she
» holding back?" he demanded.
1 couldn't answer that question, because I didn't
know.


VI
Richard Davis, Peter's secretary, or rather I should
say stenographer (Peter says detectives don't have sec-
retaries, it sounds too sissy), had been a very busy
young man up to the time Eva Sutton left the litde
office. I had my first good look at him when he raised
his head from that pad over which he had been so in-
tent. He had a wide face, clear, rather large blue eyes
and a crop of short stubby hair one shade removed from
blond—you know, the in-between color. German origin,
I decided. He smiled, which rather surprised me.
He had seemed so serious, but I don't suppose you
have time for anything else if you have to sit and make
those funny little crisscross marks on paper as people
talk. For the life of me, I don't see how he can read
them back as glibly as he does. Those notes which he
can read so easily have been of great help to me in the
writing of this book. Even now, months after it all hap-
pened, he can turn to any particular spot I mention
with uncanny accuracy and read just what I want to
know. I suppose his shorthand training stands him in
good stead now, otherwise he would never be able to
read my deplorable scrawl. My cacography is supposed
to be full of character, which is utter nonsense. It's so
bad I very often can't read what I've written myself,
once the ink is dry.
81


82 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Davis dug into his pocket and pulled out a package
of cigarettes and said with a nod toward me, "Do you
mind?"
Mind! Heavens above! I reached for one of them
avidly. There are times when I think chivalry has been
dead for centuries, due largely to the thoughtlessness
of women; and then Charlie says or does a nice thing
or a man like Davis shows the deference and considera-
tion which I was brought up to expect and I readjust
my ideas until some flagrant discourtesy infuriates me
all over again.
"Like to stretch your legs and rest your hand?"
Peter asked.
Davis gave him a warm appreciative smile and stood
up.
"You have the Oliver girl's address," Peter said.
"Send a man up there to see what he can find. Knick-
knacks would be interesting, if any," he suggested.
"And while you're at it, send some one around to the
Sutton girl's apartment on the same mission. Also re-
mind Smith that I'm waiting for the Briggs man. He
doesn't live more than four blocks from here and could
have crawled over by this time."
With Davis out of the way I said to Peter, "I've en-
joyed this. Thanks for letting me stay."
"You'll soon get tired of it. You've seen how routine
it is when you get right down to it," he said matter-
of-factly.
It may be routine to Peter, but the glimpses into


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 83
people's lives I had had whetted my curiosity for more.
"Are you really serious about the Oliver girl?" I asked
him point-blank.
"She's holding out on me and that's something a de-
tective doesn't take lightly."
"Rot."
"Rot or not," he came back defensively, his eyes
gleaming, "this woman wasn't murdered for fun, you
know. The Oliver girl knew the woman rather in-
timately. She was married to the son. Do you suppose
she broke with him just because of what she happened
to hear in the washroom?"
"Of course she did," I replied. "That girl is not cheap.
She looks and acts as if she Jaas been well bred. If we
knew more of the conversation she overheard we
might understand her better. You have some imagina-
tion, haven't you?"
He laughed. I like people to laugh when I get caustic.
I've grown to expect it.
"There's this thieving to be taken into consideration,
too," he went on after a moment. "The Oliver girl
knew about the shortages. She says she found the bag
of jewels in the stockroom."
"Don't you believe her?" I asked.
"Not too much," he replied thoughtfully.
"That girl is honest, no matter what else she may be,"
I insisted.
"I can't go on a woman's intuition," he grinned
impishly. "I must get at the facts."


84 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"You've allowed the Sutton girl to influence your
judgment," I accused.
"Perhaps. The Sutton girl is and probably has been
jealous of this Lothario son of the murdered woman
for whom we are waiting and her testimony isn't too
trustworthy, for that reason. While she didn't exactly
accuse the Oliver girl of stealing, you were left to draw
your own conclusions from what she said. Now, I
know what you're going to say," he stopped me before
I could even begin. "The Sutton girl is holding back,
too, and I'm going to get to the bottom of this before
I'm through. I have to find the murderer and to do so
I must know why the murder was committed."
The store was a mad-house of mystery, evidently.
My reason for being there at all was because they
didn't really know why business was so bad. Unless
the woman was murdered for personal reasons, her
death must have had something to do with the store.
Would the amount of jewelry, silver, etc., stolen pro-
vide a sufficient motive? Of one thing I was positive—
the Oliver girl was neither a thief nor a murderess. I've
always been interested in men because they offer more
variety, but this girl captured my imagination. She was
so lovely. I don't mean pretty. I haven't much use for
pretty women. You see, I was one of seven girls and
they were all beautiful except me. If you have been
reared with a bevy of beauties you may understand
a little of my feeling on the subject of pretty women
and appreciate perhaps the agonies I suffered as a grow-


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 85
ing girl until I realized that there were other things
attractive to men and some women outside of beauty.
I knew a charming woman years ago—a fine woman,
too. At the first glance she was positively ugly; that is,
as far as facial features were concerned. She had a larg-
ish, slightly pitted nose, rough skin and a mouth that
was all wrong, but after you had been in her company
for ten minutes you didn't think about her looks. Her
eyes were bright and alive. She was one of the few
people I've known who really had charm. She had a
soothing voice and she was cramfull of ideas. She had
so much to give and did it graciously. She was an ex-
cellent talker, but a far better listener and had the
knack of making you talk. When you left her you were
rather drunk at the sound of your own voice, only you
didn't know it. You thought she was a brilliant con-
versationalist. She was, if and when you gave her a
chance.
Beth wasn't like that. She was lovely to look at and
I felt she was fine. I've heard men say that some women
are the salt of the earth and they didn't mean beauty.
They meant a woman who had the qualities which have
made the world go round. I could see Beth as a wife
and mother. Not one of these sentimentalized Mother's
Day mothers, but a woman who would live, work for
and understand her family without any thought for
herself except the satisfaction she derived from the
service rendered.
I've lived long enough to know that one of the great-


86 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
est mistakes we make in our contacts with people is
giving them the qualities, in our own imagination, that
we would like them to have. I didn't want to be wrong
about Beth. Perhaps my intuition was at work. Charlie
liked her and I wanted her to like me. If she didn't,
it would mean the end of my friendship with him. I'm
no fool. I know what a woman can do with a man.
I've seen long friendships end with a sudden pop be-
cause of women.
I looked at Peter intently for a moment and said,
"Do you want to make a bet?"
"Depends," he hedged.
"I'll bet you anything you like, the Oliver girl is
innocent of even the slightest connection with the case
except for the misfortune of having been the first to
find the body."
"You're on," he agreed. "Ten dollars against a new
hat."
"For me or for you?" I asked.
"What?"
"The hat. Mine cost much more than ten dollars," I
warned.
"If you win you get ten dollars. If I win you buy
me a hat. Agreed?" he asked.
"Agreed," I replied, "if you will let me continue to
be in on your investigation."
"If you get any kick out of it, it's okay with me.
I don't see why you are so interested. It's so long-
winded. We're always hoping a hot tip may be just


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 87
round the corner. If it isn't, we have to wait." He went
to the door and called petulantly to Smith, "Hasn't that
Willie man returned to duty yet?"
"You seem to think he's important," I said, hoping
to get his reasons.
"Of course he is. If none of the people who went
through the door into the department are guilty, then
the murderer probably came in the rear way and either
left by that entrance or through the little door which
our friend Peterson, unfortunately for us, was not
watching. Yes, ma'am. Willie ought to give us some
good suspects." He was thinking out-loud when he
made the last remark and not talking to me.
I had an idea and asked, "When do you think the
murder was committed?"
"I can't tell until after I've checked with this Willie
person and Mrs. Briggs' son. Damn him, anyhow! I hope
he isn't making a getaway. He was warned early
enough."
"That would be evidence of guilt?" I asked.
"Well, it would be highly suspicious," he admitted.
"Would it help to remind you that the scream came
at exactly ten minutes past nine by the store clock?"
"It's a good thing to know," he answered appre-
ciatively.
I went on. "It was about eight-thirty when the elec-
trician finished his work. Shortly after that Carol came
in here. Then the Sutton girl followed. You didn't ask
her how long she stayed," I accused.


88 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Checking back on me, eh? She said about a quarter
of nine," he grinned. "The son was the last person we
know to see her alive. When I question him I'll have a
fairly accurate idea of the time when the murder was
committed."
"If the son didn't do it," I said, "she was probably
killed between five minutes of nine o'clock and a min-
ute or two after."
"Getting it down pretty fine, aren't you?" he asked.
This time he didn't grin.
"It couldn't have been more than a minute or two
after nine when the Oliver girl arrived at the office," I
continued.
"Why?"
"Because she started down after she heard the open-
ing bell and was seen by Briggs and Miss Sutton. The
Sutton girl went back to the department and Miss
Oliver came into the office and discovered the body."
"Which, according to your own statement, gave the
Oliver girl at least five minutes to kill the woman and
prepare the suicide set-up," he said glibly, and I could
have slapped him and bitten my tongue at the same
time. I do talk too much, there is no question about
that.
"Miss Oliver was doing her work at the same time,
trying to make noise enough to rouse the woman out
of what she supposed was a cat-nap," I retorted, trying
to patch up the blunder I had made.
"That's what you think," he taunted me annoyingly.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 91
dangerous ground. "Tell her anything. Accuse her of
shop-lifting. I don't care, so long as you bring her to
me in the book department where I'll be waiting—and
hurry," I urged. "It's important."
They have an efficient system in department stores.
He went to a telephone, gave a description of the
woman to the operator, and in a few minutes I heard
the bonging signals sounding all over the place.
I went back to Beth, borrowed a pencil from her
and printed my address on the back of my card and
gave it to her. Then I went to the book department to
wait. A clerk tried to interest me in some of the latest
novels, but I couldn't concentrate. My mind was on the
Irish woman, Mrs. Doyle. I was staking a lot on her.
My mind had been so full of murder all morning
that I had quite forgotten my reason for being in the
store at all on a Sales Day. I went back to Beth and
asked her to get Charlie Doane on the telephone for
me. I explained to Charlie that I was too interested in
the pursuit of the murderer to waste time on a meeting.
I did ask him if he could postpone it until late after-
noon and, lamb that he is, he agreed. We made it ten-
tatively for sometime after five-thirty. After he had set
the time he asked me quite solicitously if I would be
too tired. He suggested taking time off for lunch and a
rest. I had no patience with that idea. I never rest in
the daytime. Beds were made for use at night. I like to
be doing things all day, old as I am. My doctor says I
have the vitality of a horse when in reality I ought to


92 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
be done up in lavender and lace and a poke-bonnet,
resting and dozing in the shade of my boudoir. When
I reach the lavender and lace period I hope I die, be-
cause I'll be of no use to myself and nothing but a
nuisance to my servants and friends.
"I'm not going to eat lunch and perhaps miss some-
thing really interesting," I retorted. I heard him chuckle
and hang up.
I went back to Beth. I wanted to know something
about the girl. I talk a lot about family and all that
sort of thing, when, as a matter of fact, I like people
for what they are themselves and not because of their
ancestors. I've known well-bred bores and scamps—
more bores than scamps, as I think about it. Family
background can't make a person, but it does give a
frame if they have anything in themselves, though all
it does for most of them is to make them snobbishly in-
sufferable. I've heard a lot of family talk since the de-
pression from people who are living in the glories of
the past and trying to keep their social prestige up in
their reduced circumstances instead of making the best
of what they have. Less talk and some of the grit which
their hardy ancestors had would do a lot for them
financially. Beth, at least, was working. I'm sure she
could have found an easier way. Since we had no com-
mon ground I wanted to find something from which
we could build, so I asked very bluntly,
"Was your grandfather, or father, for that matter,
Stephen Oliver?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 93
She was clearly surprised as she answered, "Yes, my
grandfather."
"Then you were educated abroad?" I felt positive,
but I wanted to be sure.
"In a convent in France," she replied.
"I knew your grandfather," I explained, quite satis-
fied with myself. Old Stephen Oliver might have been
a foolish man about town, but he had family, traditions
and breeding, and even the chorus girl grandmother of
Beth hadn't hurt her any. As a matter of fact, the girl
before me probably owed a great deal to that grand-
mother. I've noticed so-called blue blood running pretty
thin these days after too much fine breeding. When I
look at some of the children of our present first fami-
lies I shudder a little. They are so thin, pale and puny.
A dose of good healthy common blood would buck up
the lot of them. At least, it would make them more
alive and less dull.
"He died last year," she said.
"He was an old man," I answered, thinking back.
"He must have been about seventy-one or two. He was
a little younger than I. We often danced together."
She made no reply to that. There is nothing to say
to an old person's reminiscences except, "Is that so?"
or, "How nice!" and I hate the people who do it.
"Do you realize," I asked point-blank, "that the de-
tective is inclined to suspect you?"
She flushed and answered, "I had that feeling."
I did a thing then for which there is no excuse. It


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 95
"We'll have to work late to-night, clearing up after
the sale," she explained.
"Bother the work!" I said. "Come to dinner anyhow.
Can't you let some one else do it for you?"
"You really don't know much about department
stores, do you ?" she asked. "There's so much to be done,
Miss Thomas, and without Mrs. Briggs the brunt of it
will fall on me. If I were to shirk responsibility now, I
might lose my position and the chance to become the
buyer. It's very important that I have something to do.
I must work," she explained, giving me a good under-
standing of her economic situation.
I was glad Peter didn't hear that speech. His police
mind would probably have decided there and then that
she killed the Briggs woman to get the job. I suppose
such things have happened. According to the press,
there are all sorts of reasons for murder.
"Well, it'll have to be to-morrow night, then, and
we'll be alone," I agreed. Then I remembered Charlie's
request. "If it's important, and I'm sure it is, perhaps
we'd better have Mr. Doane with us," I suggested.
"If you think best," she agreed.
"This information you have for us?" I asked. "Is
that what you were holding back when you talked to
the detective?"
It startled her as I hoped it would. "I've already been
forced to incriminate one person," she said, "which I
didn't enjoy doing."
"You mean the Sutton girl?" I asked quickly. "You
couldn't help yourself. Earlier this morning you were


VII
I saw Sandy in the main aisle going toward the book
department with Mrs. Doyle in tow. I hurried after
them.
There were a number of things racing about in my
mind. What did Beth Oliver want to tell me? What
did she know about the son that she hadn't told? Did
she think the son had killed his mother for her money?
For a moment I doubted her. Perhaps she was just a
smart shrewd woman looking for a wealthy husband.
Had Charlie's attentions given her ideas? Was that her
real reason for breaking with Briggs? Had she pur-
posely worked on my curiosity with this important
secret she had to tell me, so that I would ask Charlie to
dinner with her? If that was her game I had certainly
played into her hands. I've known some smart women
in my day who could engineer things beautifully. I've
done enough of it myself to recognize it while it's being
done. If she wanted Charlie she didn't have to use me
as a go-between. He was too obviously interested in her
himself. No, the girl was genuine. I was letting my
imagination run away with me.
Mrs. Doyle was waddling along beside Sandy like a
broad boat in a heavy sea. There was something about
the set of her body as her one free arm swung which
made me feel that she wasn't doing it at all gladly.
97


98 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Sandy stopped at the book department and looked
about just as I came up to them.
"Oh! It's you," she greeted me.
"Thank you, Sandy," I said, dismissing him. I told
Mrs. Doyle my name. She reciprocated by telling me
hers, which, of course, I knew.
"I was wondering who it was as knew I broke me
garter," she said with a good-natured twinkle in her
eye.
"I think you can probably do me and the store a
great favor," I started my explanation.
"How can the likes of me do you a favor?" she asked
skeptically.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully enough. "I'm
hoping you can. Do you remember the door I pointed
out to you this morning?"
"Indeed and I do. And a haven of refuge it was."
"Something terrible has happened in the store, Mrs.
Doyle. I'd like you to go with me to the detective and
talk with him."
"Not on your life!" she refused immediately.
"Please," I urged.
"I don't want to be mixed up with the police," she
said flatly.
"Mr. Charles Doane and myself are vitally interested
in what has happened. We just hoped that you might
have seen or heard something"
"You mean the man who owns the store?" she asked.
"Yes."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 99
"Now, what could I know?" she grinned at me. "I
don't even know what it is that happened."
"Didn't you hear the scream?" I asked, my hopes
falling.
"You'd have to be deaf not to and me that close to
the sound of it."
"It's about that. Won't you?"
"Well"
"There'll be no complications for you," I assured
her. "This may just be an old woman's whim. I'm
turning detective."
"Are you, now?" She looked at me speculatively.
"You don't look so old."
"Seventy-five," I said. I know I don't look it, but I
like to see the incredulous doubt on people's faces when
I tell them. Up to my sixty-fifth birthday I felt my age
was nobody's business, but from that point on, knowing
that I am remarkable for my age (I've seen so many
museum pieces at seventy), I've been rather boastful.
Why be remarkable if you can't get some fun out of
it?
"Go 'way!" Mrs. Doyle grinned and I rather antici-
pated a poke in the ribs, which didn't materialize.
"True," I assured her. "You're a young-looking
woman yourself."
"Sixty," she replied proudly, "and nothing the matter
with me much but varicose veins and a touch of blood-
pressure now and then."
We were getting quite chummy. I was doing my


1ooTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
best to make the woman like me. She gave me a glance
which was more squint than anything else and said,
"And what is it you're detectin'?"
"If you'll promise not to tell—" I leaned toward her
and paused, "—murder."
"Glory be to God! Here! This morning!" she gasped.
I nodded.
"I'll have none of it!" She made me think of a great
turtle crawling into its shell. Her refusal was so em-
phatic.
"Mrs. Kelly—" I started to plead.
"Doyle's the name," she reminded me snappishly.
"Mrs. Doyle. Surely you want a criminal brought to
justice? The woman who was killed, a poor soul so fat
she was unable to get around easily, was done to death
in her office this morning." I was making no impres-
sion on her. She had made up her Irish mind. I had to
do something. "Killed while she was praying, her
rosary torn apart by her death struggles." I threw the
words at her hopefully.
"God rest her soul," she muttered. "Saying her
prayers, you say? The poor creature." She crossed her-
self.
"A good woman," I went on, "foully murdered. I
want to find the fiend who did it. Imagine, it might
have been one of us."
"I'd like to see any one try it!" she said belligerently.
"I hoped you might have seen or heard something,"
I went on, making my voice sound very hopeless.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 101
"I don't know anything about it. How could I?"
"The detective has been unable to unearth any clues
so far," I explained. "I just thought that since you were
in that little corridor you might have chanced to hear
or see something which would be important."
"I was too busy fixing myself. Maybe you've never
tried to fix a petticoat and a garter at the same time."
"If you would just talk to the detective," I urged.
"They have ways of learning things, putting two and
two together, as it were, that people like us would never
think of. Little things which to us are unimportant be-
come significant under their questioning."
"Don't I know it," she assured me. "You read about
it in the papers all the time."
"Then you'll do it?"
At that moment I saw Peter's face appear at the door
in the partition. "Please come," I urged. "I'll take you
in there and tell the detective you'll talk to him."
"I suppose one good turn deserves another, but mind,
now," she warned, "I don't want to be mixed up in
nothing, and," she added, "it'll do no good."
In the little corridor we found Smith. I told him to
find Mrs. Doyle a chair.
"I'll be glad to rest my feet if nothing else," she said.
I wondered what she would say if she knew that Smith
was leading her into the office where Mrs. Briggs had
been killed. I went into the next room to see Peter.
Davis was back at his desk with pencil ready.
I told Peter I had a witness for him.


1o2 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"She'll have to wait. Briggs has just arrived. I thought
you were going to miss it. Sit over there." He pointed
to a chair.
"Anything new develop?" I asked.
"A report from the doctor. Her heart gave out at the
shock. She probably died from fear of being strangled.
The poison is a polish, mostly prussic acid, which they
use to clean metals."
"Then it was planted to make it look like suicide?"
"Exactly. Did you get any information from the
Oliver girl?" he asked with a grin.
"No." I was annoyed with him. Why did he think
he had to spy on me? Peter either had his mind on the
bet or else he wasn't quite sure of me. I didn't tell him
she was to dine with me, as that was store business and
no concern of his.
At that moment Smith opened the door and Carl
Briggs came in. I knew him for an actor immediately.
You can see hundreds of him on Broadway and Seventh
Avenue in the neighborhood of the Palace Theatre. I
suppose he was what is generally known as good-look-
ing. He was masculine enough, heaven knows—the
dark type—with a regularity of feature that probably
took make-up very well. He was a big man. If there
was a little less of everything he might have been one
of those youths who pose for collars and underwear.
He did have what is popularly known as sex appeal,
I'm sure of that. His clothes, while not loud, were
showy. His hair, which had a slight ripple, was pulled


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 103
back away from his brow and was, I'm sure, held in
place by some smelly sort of grease. He's one type who
has never interested me. I'm confident with his clothes
off he'd look a little like a fur rug. I've seen men like
that on the beaches with hair all over them. By that I
don't mean I dislike actors, hairy or otherwise. I've
known many actors and actresses in my day and found
them fascinating people, although they do talk a good
bit about themselves—but, then, that is something that
we have in common.
They were artists, serious about their work, who
lived, breathed and adored the stage. When I think of
the theater to-day and remember what it was I'm seized
with longing and regret. The excitement and glamour
have gone. There are no matinee idols any more. Of
course, I do like Clark Gable; but, then, seeing him on
a screen isn't the same as seeing James K. Hackett on
the stage. There was a glamour about the flesh-and-
blood person before you that the screen lacks. It's more
true about the women than the men, too, I think. Per-
haps the stage hasn't changed so much, after all, but
it is the people who are different. No. It is the stage. I
rarely ever see a play any more that I feel I can get my
teeth into. Most of them are frothy fluff composed of
some good smart wise-cracks. I think most playwrights
to-day spend their time trying to outdo the other fellow
for neat lines and let their plots go hang.
Carl Briggs, as he stood facing Peter, had that manner
about him which announces itself with a capital I. I


1o4 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
believe his type is commonly known in the profession
as a "ham." Pork in any form has never been tasteful
to me except sausage seasoned with sage. He made a
good entrance, I'll say that for him, but it seemed quite
as if he were playing a part.
"Where is she?" he asked dramatically.
For a moment I felt ashamed of my feelings. Ham
or no ham, he undoubtedly loved his mother and was
genuinely moved by the sudden news of her death.
After all, he had seen her just a little while before,
alive and well. While I was willing to give him the
benefit of the doubt he didn't seem like a person who
would be filled with filial affection or any other emo-
tion which would not be of direct benefit to himself.
If he hadn't killed her himself the news must have
been a terrific shock.
"We've taken her away, Mr. Briggs," Peter said sym-
pathetically. "Sit down."
"I can't, if you don't mind," Briggs answered. He
paced up and down a minute and then asked, "Who
did it?"
"We've no idea. There seems to be no reason for the
crime, so far," Peter replied suggestively. "Perhaps you
can furnish us with one."
"She's the last person in the world I'd expect to be
murdered," Briggs answered, and I knew exactly what
he meant. There are some people who seem fit victims
for murder, nasty old men and oily preying young
ones, flighty good-looking girls who get themselves


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 1o5
into messes; but not a great mountain of flesh like Mrs.
Briggs.
According to her son, Mrs. Briggs lived rather
quietly with only one passion, her job at the store. She
had worked for Doane's for nearly forty years, which
led me to believe that he must be about thirty-five in
spite of his efforts to look like a juvenile. His mother
had a few intimate friends who dined or visited with
her at her home because she did not go out very much.
I could understand that. He didn't live with her, he
said. He had a small apartment of his own. He gave
acting as his occupation.
When asked about his visit to the store that morning
he candidly admitted that he had come to borrow
money. He offered as an excuse the scarcity of stage
jobs. He had an interesting voice and I wondered why,
if he was so hard up, he didn't work for the radio. They
could do with good voices. I didn't know then the dis-
dain a regular actor has for all radio work, unless of
course he is a top-notcher and is commensurately paid
for his valuable services.
He admitted that his mother had been cross and
rather upset, but he didn't know why. He suggested
that it was probably irritation due to the sale. Sales, he
said, had always made her cross, and he probably knew
that fact better than any one.
"You were here," Peter asked, "when your mother
sent for Miss Sutton?"
"Yes."


106THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"What did she say to Miss Sutton?"
"She gave her a bag of jewelry and told her to return
it to stock. She was pretty mad and blamed Miss Sutton
because most of the pieces came from her section."
"You know Miss Sutton quite well?" Peter suggested.
"I know most of the girls who work in the depart-
ment," he admitted in a tone that implied he was irre-
sistible to women.
"But don't you know Miss Sutton better than the
others?" Peter insisted.
"I wouldn't say that." From under his heavy brows
he seemed to be trying to determine just how much
Peter knew.
"And Miss Oliver?" Peter suggested.
"Oh, her!" He dismissed Beth as easily as that.
"Why were you so long getting here?" Peter asked.
"I came as soon as I heard about it," he replied.
Peter let that pass and asked, "Who would want
your mother dead, Mr. Briggs?"
I expected a denial. He didn't answer the question.
He seemed suddenly divested of all his sham and pose.
I would give my eye-teeth (mine happen to be false)
to know what young Briggs was about to say. He
looked at Peter, and I'm sure I saw the glint of real
manhood in that glance. Just as he opened his mouth
to speak it happened. I can't be sure that I heard the
report of the gun because there was so much noise in
the store, but it seems as if I did.
Carl Briggs' mouth opened. For a moment there was


VIII
It was too much for me. As I have said, I've never
been the fainting type, but I did feel all wrong inside
as Davis pronounced the man dead. Perhaps the mo-
mentary dizziness came from leaning over so suddenly.
At any rate my head was swimming and I did totter
as I regained my feet. Davis put up a protecting hand
to steady me. I'm rather sensitive about my ability to
do things at my age and Davis' nice automatic gesture
of help was a thrust at my vanity and I'm sure saved me
from fainting.
"I'm all right," I managed to assure him; "it's just
that I'm not accustomed to two murders in one day."
The band was playing rather frantically, I thought,
trying to drown the tumult in the store. At that mo-
ment I wanted to get away. I didn't care about catching
murderers or anything else. I wanted air, fresh air, not
the store-laden type, which was heavy and dull and
filled with noise and the blaring of that infernal band.
I went into the narrow corridor and hurried toward
the side entrance. As I opened the door into the main
part of the store I was facing the foot of the stairs which
led to the balcony.
For those of you who are not familiar with the
Doane store I will describe a little more, fully the first
floor. You know about the small suite of offices at the
108


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 109
right of the side entrance. On the left as you enter
there is a staircase that leads to a balcony which paral-
lels the side street and runs across the Avenue side of
the store. As you reach the head of the stairs there is a
small box-like office which has a door opening onto
the balcony. Next to this office there is a string of ele-
vators. Then come the telephone booths along the wall,
and in front of them a number of chairs against the
balcony rail. On the Avenue side in the corner nearest
the telephone booths is the Personal Service depart-
ment; then another lounging place for tired shoppers.
This section is equipped with writing-desks and a post-
office station. The balance of the balcony is devoted to a
manicure parlor.
As I closed the corridor door I could hear some one
crying hysterically behind me. For a moment I won-
dered if it was Mrs. Doyle wailing over the dead. At
the head of the stairs as I looked up, I saw Beth Oliver
standing beside Peter, who was rattling the knob of the
little office trying to get inside. He stopped the working
of the knob and put his shoulder to the door and began
to push, bracing his feet on the heavy carpet. The door
opened suddenly and Peter literally fell into the office.
It was too much for me. New excitement and a burn-
ing curiosity made me forget my momentary desire for
air. I started up those stairs and pushed my way through
the crowd at the top—you know how people herd when
there is excitement of any kind. Beth Oliver was at the


no THE WHISPERING WINDOW
door. A group of women were crowding against her
as I arrived.
I sailed through those startled women, making good
use of my elbows to forge ahead. If I had not known
the trick, memory of what I had seen at the store door
that morning would have helped me. A surprise attack
is always effective. As I reached Beth's side I gave her
a slight shove, said, "Go in," and closed the door be-
hind us.
There was a smell of powder in that room, but that
wasn't what surprised me. Charlie Doane was standing
there, looking, I thought, very blank for him.
"Well," Peter said, "what have you two to say for
yourselves?"
"Why were you breaking in here ?" Charlie countered.
"You ought to know," Peter said accusingly.
"Don't let's talk in riddles," Charlie replied impa-
tiently. "I just came down in the elevator when I heard
you trying to break down the door. Why?"
We all turned to look, then, and sure enough in
the corner of the office there was the door of a small
automatic elevator.
Peter scratched his head and made a quick survey
of the room, which contained a flat desk, a telephone,
two wooden armchairs and nothing else. The door to
the automatic lift and the door onto the balcony were
the only means of entrance or exit to the room.
Peter went to the elevator and pulled open its sliding


THE WHISPERING WINDOW in
door. He gave it a hasty but thorough search and then
came back to us.
"I'll have to frisk you," he said to Charlie.
"All right, but why ?" Charlie asked, and with a wink
at me he raised his arms over his head while Peter
patted him from top to bottom, looking for a gun. Of
course there wasn't any gun there.
When Peter had finished that operation Charlie said,
"Now will you tell me what it's all about?"
"Just another try at murder," Peter said. "The
woman's son this time."
"He's dead," I told them.
"What?" Charlie gasped.
"You sure?" Peter demanded.
"Oh, no!" Beth moaned.
I kicked out one of the chairs and sort of eased the
girl into it. She was feeling pretty shaky at the moment.
"The shot came from this room," Peter stated defi-
nitely. I believed him because, as I say, I'm sure I
smelled powder when I stepped through the door.
"But how could it?" Charlie protested.
"That's what I'll have to find out," Peter reminded
him grimly.
There was a rap on the door.
"Who is it?" Peter snapped.
"McLeod," the voice answered. "Anything wrong
here? Step back, please." We could hear him admonish-
ing the crowd.
Peter let him in. "Go down and send my man Smith


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 113
and heard the car coming up to my floor. When the
car arrived I came down at once and heard you trying
to get in here. That's all there is to tell."
"Isn't it pretty late to be going to lunch ?" Peter asked,
and I could have slapped him for his intimation.
"Yes, rather," Charlie answered. "I was going over
some figures," he looked at me, "and lost all track of
time."
I suddenly remembered that I had had no lunch, if
you can call what I eat luncheon. I have a few lettuce
leaves and either a pear or a tomato. Most people eat
too much, anyhow. One good meal a day is all I need
and I have that at night.
"What's the idea of this thing, anyhow?" Peter
asked, pointing to the lift, and although I hadn't for-
given him for suspecting Charlie I did feel sorry for
him, just the same. One murder in a day ought to be
enough for even a policeman, but when you get two
of them and one done practically under your very nose,
it is a bit thick. I knew Peter would be in for a grilling
from his superiors, though for the life of me, I don't
see what he could have done about it.
"The elevator, you mean?" Charlie said.
"Yes," Peter answered.
"It was an idea of my father's," Charlie explained.
"He loved this store and everything about it. When
this new building was planned, Father had this private
shaft put in for his use and the use of store executives.
He rode down in it every morning and stood on the


n4THE WHISPERING WINDOW
balcony at the head of the stairs and said a few words
to the employees."
"Every morning?" Peter asked.
Charlie nodded a little shamefacedly, I thought.
"Yes. Ten minutes before opening time the employees
gathered on the main floor and sang for about three
minutes, then Father spoke to them for another three,
which gave them four minutes to get back to their
posts before the doors were opened."
"Sounds like a Rotary Club luncheon I once went
to," Peter said.
"The same idea," Charlie agreed.
For the life of me I didn't know whether Peter was
serious about the Rotary Club idea or not. I've always
meant to ask him; but it slipped my mind at the time.
It's no mystery to me that all men are boys in various
stages of development and I suppose if they want to
get together, sing songs and slap each other on the back
as they yell "Hello, Bill!" or "Hi, Jerry!" it's perfectly
all right. It certainly is no worse than the weird outfits
they wear when a group of Shriners, I believe they are
called, get together. Personally, I never had much use
for Robert Doane or his ideas. He was one of those seri-
ous young men born to get ahead in the world and have
no fun while doing it. After all his years of struggle he
left a huge store, a no-account daughter and a son who
didn't care for the business. But, then, I don't suppose
he could help being stuffy.
"How about that porthole?" Peter demanded.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW irj
"That was another of Father's ideas," Charlie ex-
plained. "He would stand in front of that little window
by the hour watching the store and the people."
"Sort of a spy-glass?" Peter suggested.
"I don't think that was his intention. I can't say."
Charlie's voice mumbled away to nothing.
An officer tapped on the door. He was one of Peter's
men sent up by Sandy. Peter admitted him.
"See that?" Peter pointed to the elevator. "Get
Bayard. Have him go over it for fingerprints. When
he has finished I want you to go up in it and stop at
every floor between here and the top. Take Bayard
with you. See if you can find any prints on each of the
doors. Stop and ask questions. I want to know who used
the pesky thing, coming and going, in the last fifteen
minutes."
Peter went back to the porthole. It was open just as
Charlie had left it. He put his face to it and jerked
back. He repeated the operation several times until I
thought he had been suddenly bereft of his senses.
"Did you know about this?" he turned and asked
Charlie.
"I just told you that you could see most of the main
floor."
"I don't mean that. You can hear voices," he ex-
plained.
Then I was sure he was mad.
"Voices?" I asked, and moved away from Beth to
join Charlie, who had stepped closer to Peter.


iiSTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
As you approached that little window and stood with
your face about three inches from the opening you cer-
tainly could hear voices. It was a most unaccountable
experience. It sounded exactly as if people were talking
just outside the partition. The three of us crowded to-
gether and listened.
"Are you feeling better now?" a voice asked.
The voice topped a low hiccoughing sobbing. We all
looked down at the same time. From our vantage-point
we could see into the three small offices. Carl Briggs
was stretched on the floor just as I had left him. Eva
Sutton sat in a chair looking down at the body while a
doctor worked over him. The store nurse was there,
standing beside Eva Sutton, with that impersonality
which only nurses can assume in the face of anything.
Things had happened so fast. I was so completely
bowled over by Carl Briggs' murder that I hadn't
stopped to think about the why of it. That little port-
hole explained a lot of things. I was so certain that
Briggs, as he stood facing Peter, was about to tell us
something of importance that I was doubly amazed
when he toppled over clutching at his chest. The idea
struck Peter and myself at the same time. Whoever it
was who had been standing at that little porthole,
thanks no doubt to a crazy freak of store construction
and acoustics, had heard everything that had been said
in the office. Carl Briggs had been shot to keep him
from talking.
I'm sure the listening window was not planned by


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 117
old Robert Doane. I don't believe he would have
stooped to such a trick, but I'll bet when he discovered
it worked he stood there doing as much listening as
looking. Men talk about women, but they themselves
are born snoops and gossips.
The officer and Bayard rapped on the door and were
admitted.
"Get anything you can find on here first," Peter in-
structed, indicating the little window as we moved
away from it.
Beth stood up. "May I go?" she asked.
"What were you doing on the balcony?" Peter asked
without answering her question.
"I came to see Mr. Doane," she answered.
You could have knocked me down with a feather. I
always knew Charlie went after anything he wanted,
but somehow the idea of his meeting the girl in the
store like that bothered me.
"Just a moment," Charlie spoke up. "Did I under-
stand you to say you came here to see me?"
"Isn't that what you said?" she asked.
There was something there which I didn't under-
stand; neither did they, by the look of them.
"Let's begin all over again," Peter suggested to Beth;
"Mr. Doane seems a little confused."
"About ten minutes ago I was called to the telephone
in the department," she explained. "A man's voice, he
said it was you," she looked at Charlie, "asked me to


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 119
I'll have to dismiss you from the store. You are no good
to us unless you can do your work. The store comes
first, you know." He turned to Peter, "We'll be in the
main floor tea-room. Then I'm sending Miss Oliver
home."
"Miss Oliver can't go home," Peter said grimly.
"But—" Charlie began a protest.
"Sorry." Peter included both of them. "I know Miss
Oliver has had two severe shocks, but this is murder
and it makes a difference. I don't care what she does
with her time, but I don't want her to leave the store
until I say so—you either, for that matter."
"I'll be all right," Beth said to Charlie, and then
turned to Peter. "I'll be in the department when you
want me."
She was brave. The average person in her position
would have wanted to leave the store immediately
after Mrs. Briggs' death because of the emotional upset.
If you have lived with a person, their sudden death
does something to you; you don't have to love them to
be affected. She had been carrying on, a quality which
I have always admired in man or woman.
I gave the girl a gentle shove toward Charlie.
"Thank you," she said.
As Charlie held the door open for her to pass through
I whispered to him, "Be careful." Why, I know not un-
less it was a premonition.
He scowled a warning to be quiet and stepped onto
the balcony behind Beth. A little later Peter came over


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 121
"What does this mean?" Herbert asked.
"A cover up job to hide the first murder," Peter
snapped.
"Is he dead?" Banter asked.
"Want any help?" Kramer offered his services.
"There's nothing any of you can do. If I want you
I'll let you know. You're really in the way. I wish you'd
clear out and give my men a free hand."
They started to go, trailing off somewhat like whipped
dogs, when Peter stopped Kramer. "I wish you'd locate
William Evans for me."
"We'll do it at once," Grover answered for Kramer,
"if we can."


When I followed Peter into the office Eva Sutton
was still there sitting in the chair looking down at
Briggs. She clasped and unclasped her hands hopelessly.
She was quiet except for a recurrent heart-racking sob
which seemed to shake her entire poor little body. I
felt sorry for her. I didn't know what the Briggs man
meant to her or why she was sobbing like that. The
poor thing seemed numbed and dazed, and no wonder,
two murders in sudden succession are enough to upset
any one.
"What are you doing here?" Peter asked.
"I came in when I heard the shot," she replied list-
lessly. Her mind seemed to be engrossed in some prob-
lem of her own.
"Then you expected something to happen?" Peter
asked pointedly.
"I just heard the shot." She was vaguely inattentive
to Peter.
"And you ran in to see what had happened to
Briggs? Is that it?" Peter tried to get through her
stoniness.
She nodded.
"But why?"
"I don't know. I had a feeling." She stopped and
looked up at Peter. "I can't talk to you now, I'm— I
can't think straight." She was pathetic.
123


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 123
"I'll talk to you later." Peter turned to the nurse.
"Take her away," he instructed.
At Peter's suggestion the nurse took hold of the girl's
arm to lead her away. For a fleeting moment I won-
dered how the department was working with two of
the women, no, three of them, not there to check
every sale which was being made. I was beginning to
be store-minded, and no wonder, I had heard so much
store all day long.
The nurse tugged at Eva's arm, which roused the
girl from her befuddled mental state. For a moment
her eyes were blank. Then fear welled back into them.
She yanked her arm out of the nurse's grasp and said
to Peter, "Let me stay here with you. Don't send me
away, please!"
"Sorry," he said kindly, "but you must go."
"I don't want to go!" she wailed.
"The nurse will take good care of you." He nodded
to the nurse again.
"I won't go! You can't make me! I'm not going to
be killed too!"
"There, there." The nurse tried to quiet her.
"Who would want to kill you?" Peter asked.
"They—" She moaned. "Why did they kill him?"
She pointed at the prone body.
I followed the direction of her fingers. My glance
at the corpse gave me the queerest feeling. Carl Briggs
looked different stretched there in death. There was
something vaguely familiar about him, something which
I had not noticed before. Death had robbed him of his


124 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
personality. The shell of what had once been a man
reminded me of some one I had known and yet I
couldn't remember.
"Who are 'they'?" Peter asked.
"The murderers," she replied in a lowered voice.
"Are there more than one?" Peter asked quickly. It
was a neat question, gauged to trap the girl.
"How do I know?" she asked without guile.
Peter braced himself squarely in front of her and
demanded harshly, "Just what do you know?" She re-
fused to look at him. "Out with it!" Peter insisted.
"You're too interested in all this to be entirely innocent."
"If I knew I'd tell you," she said after a moment.
"Why are you afraid?" he demanded; his patience
showed signs of fraying.
"Because—" She stopped stubbornly.
"Are you going to tell me?" His voice was keen with
annoyance.
"No." It was a flat defiant refusal.
"Do you want to be arrested?" he threatened.
If he hoped to frighten her he failed, because she re-
plied, "I don't care. I'd be safe." The poor thing was
completely overwrought. She bit her lips and pulled
at her handkerchief when she wasn't daubing her eyes
to keep the tears back. "Please don't send me back
there!" she pleaded, "I don't want to die."
Peter was stumped. "I'll take care of you," he prom-
ised with assurance, "if you'll tell me what you fear.
I can't protect you from a danger I don't understand."


i26 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
ing in Doane's store. Robert, whose wife became an
invalid after Gladys was born, went a-maying soon
after that. Mrs. Briggs, who had just been widowed,
became the object of his affections. Carl was the result
of that second sowing. I did some rapid calculations,
as a person will on hearing such a story, and realized
that Gladys was thirty-five. I had been wrong about
the Briggs boy. He was probably only thirty-one or
thirty-two. I was allowing perhaps longer than neces-
sary for decency. I believed the girl's story. As Carl
Briggs lay there on the floor, he was an overripe image
of what Robert Doane had been as a younger man.
That's what I had tried to determine as I vaguely
recognized something just a few minutes before.
Robert Doane. I didn't think he had it in him. You
never can tell about a man and least of all about the
quiet, serious type. I'm not blaming him. I knew his
wife too well. She enjoyed her ill health to a fairly ripe
old age. She was the sighing, weepy type of invalid. I
called on her a few times, but lost my patience and
stopped going.
Doane and Mrs. Briggs were warm friends up to the
time of his death. Eva Sutton said that Doane had
given Mrs. Briggs money for her and Carl. That, if
true, may explain why he didn't have more cash when
he died.
When Peter asked her how she knew all that, her
answer was reasonable enough.
She said that people in the store knew about it. She


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 127
asked, and her question was logical enough, "Why do
you suppose they kept such a big fat woman on in the
store?"
I hadn't thought of that angle. Eva Sutton said the
store executives knew about Mrs. Briggs and Robert.
After Robert's death they didn't dare dismiss her. She
also went on to say that Carl Briggs had discovered the
truth and was going to claim his rights. Carl wanted
some of the money which had been left to his mother.
The mother was either frugal or perhaps she didn't
trust Carl; at any rate, she kept a tight rein on the purse-
strings. Carl was building up a case against the store,
determined to bring suit in the courts unless his mother
gave him the money he felt was rightly his.
They had been arguing about it that morning when
she had been sent for. Eva admitted listening.
"What did you hear?" Peter asked.
"Mrs. Briggs told him she had to be careful of the
money because now that Charlie Doane was back she'd
probably lose her job."
I groaned inwardly, remembering what Banter or
Grover had said earlier in the morning. Charlie had
wanted to discharge the poor soul. Peter evidently re-
membered it too.
"So she knew she was going to be fired, eh?" he
asked.
"She seemed to be sure of it," the girl replied. "It's
very funny," she went on and not without reason, "that
they should both be killed just at the moment Carl had


i28 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
his plans ready for a suit. They are all in the plot."
There was meanness in her eyes as she looked at me
accusingly. "Why don't you ask the Oliver girl what
she was doing in that little office just before Carl was
shot?"
"How do you know she was in there?" he asked.
"Because I looked up and saw her coming out of the
door just before I heard the commotion in here."
"It's utter nonsense," I assured Peter.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that," he answered
seriously.
"If it's such nonsense," she turned to me, "why were
they both killed?"
"That is what Mr. Conklin is trying to find out," I
answered. "Charlie Doane didn't kill either one of
them, and you know it." I turned to Peter to see if he
believed me.
"He seems to be able to get himself into suspicious
places, just the same," Peter replied.
"I don't believe Charlie Doane even knows this
story," I went on with my defense.
"Huh!" The girl's doubt was scathing.
"How do you know so much about this?" I turned
on the girl, controlling my desire to throttle her. "Who
gave you your information? What was Briggs to you?"
"I've known Carl Briggs a long time," she replied
promptly, defiance of me in her eyes. "We were just
friends."


130 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"This is a serious charge you're making," Peter
warned.
"I know it," she replied, "and I don't care, if you will
protect me."
"I'll send a man with you to the department. Keep
mum. We'll take care of you. I'll need you later."
The girl was taken away.
I knew the things she had said were utter rot. I
didn't believe Charlie knew the story of his father's
affair, but I did know that Charlie believed himself in
love with Beth. Beth. Why under the sun hadn't she
told Peter the story she was keeping for me? Drat her,
anyhow! Her silence was going to make things worse
for both of them. She had added grist to Peter's mill by
keeping silent.
"Now we're getting places." There was triumph in
Peter's voice.
I was thinking about Herbert Hastings. The store
had been his life ever since he had entered into it. I
felt at the time of the wedding that he was marrying
the store and not Gladys. The name of Doane had
grown to mean a great deal to Herbert. Having no
background of his own, he had lived in the reflected
light of the Doane name. He'd do anything to protect
the store and keep the name of Doane clean, I was
sure of that, but somehow I didn't think he'd go as far
as murder.
"It's odd," Peter said, "the way the Oliver girl keeps
popping into the picture."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 131
"You're a nitwit, Peter Conklin," I accused, com-
pletely out of patience with him.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Suppose we think
out-loud for a moment, you and I."
"Sort of clear the fog?" I asked.
"It might. You know these people better than I do
and obviously you want to protect them. We can begin
at the beginning."
"It's a waste of time," I said tartly. "The criminal
has had too much time already."
"You sound like the Police Commissioner," he smiled
wryly.
"How about this Willie person?" I asked. "Did you
get anything from him?"
"By George!" he exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about
him. We have been sort of busy," he reminded me
needlessly. "Smith," he called over the partition, "get
that man from the receiving-room!"
"He hasn't come back," Smith answered from the
door. "They don't know what has happened to him.
He's never done it before, they say."
"Send some one to his home. I want that man. Also
ask Mr. Hastings to come down here."
"I have the other reports for you," Smith said.
"Send a man to find Willie and come back," Peter
commanded.
Smith had papers in his hand when he came back.
Peter read the notes to me. The telephone call to Beth


132 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Oliver came from the private office on the balcony.
Peter was almost gleeful in his satisfaction.
"Wrong," I insisted. "If the things the Sutton girl
says were true—and they're not," I added, "Charlie
Doane wouldn't call her to that office and implicate
her in the man's murder."
"You have a way of smacking a nail on the head,"
he admitted. "Who called her?"
"Doesn't your report say?"
"The operator doesn't know, only remembers making
the connection."
"Too bad." I'm afraid I sneered.
"Yes, isn't it?" he replied. "How do you like this?"
He read from Smith's report. " 'Beth Oliver registered,
at the address given, last night under her own name.
There was a package for her at the desk, delivered this
morning. The package contained jewelry.'"
"Obviously a plant," I said immediately.
"By whom?" he asked.
"That's your business," I retorted.
"And how!" he replied with satisfaction.
Peter went on with the report. Eva Sutton had an
expensive apartment in the Fifties. Peter arched his eyes
at me. Nothing incriminating was found there.
"It doesn't coincide with her fear of losing her job,"
I said pointedly.
"It will bear some investigation," he replied. "We
are beginning to get into things now." There was relish
in his voice.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 133
"That girl has something she is hiding," I said
definitely.
"Miss Oliver?" he asked, knowing very well what I
meant.
"No," I snapped. "Eva Sutton. She told us about Mrs.
Briggs to divert attention from herself."
"Perhaps." He went on reading the report.
There were no fingerprints in Mrs. Briggs' office that
were distinguishable except Beth Oliver's and those of
the dead woman. I was beginning to doubt the efficacy
of fingerprints in solving crimes.
When Peter had finished with the last of the reports
he sent Smith away and grunted. "You see," he said,
"how exciting a man-hunt can be when you really
begin to get going. We had two crimes and no tangible
evidence, but now we are going places. I've got a case
at last and a motive."
"You've got wild ideas. You're so wrong." Trying to
convince him was like shoveling sand against the tide.
"The Oliver girl killed the old dame and then your
friend killed the son to cover her," he said. He had
convinced himself that he was right at last.
"What are you going to do?" I asked. He was so
smug and I felt so helpless.
"Work with the material I have at hand," he an-
swered. "We have a fairly good motive now and a little
circumstantial evidence will help us a lot. Your friend
Mr. Doane didn't want any scandal. He wanted to get
Mrs. Briggs out of the store. We know he planned her


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 135
in their own store. They save that for little apartments
somewhere on Riverside Drive."
"Isn't Park Avenue the street of kept women now?"
I asked with as much naivete as I could manage.
"Depends on the girl and the man's income," Peter
came right back.
"I suggested he take her to lunch," I reminded him.
"And Doane jumped at the chance, too. He wanted
a little time to think. He's in a spot, with all this scandal
brewing. The papers will love it. Maybe he did both
murders, the first to hush the scandal and the second
to get the girl."
"You don't know Charlie Doane," I insisted. "If he
knows about this chapter in his father's life he'd do all
that he could to make amends."
For the second or third time that day he said, "That's
what you think." An expression which has always
nettled me. Some words and phrases jar me. "So what,"
a recent contribution to our slang, is another of them.
There are some colloquialisms which I use and like
because they are so expressive. Then, too, one must
resort to slang occasionally if one hopes to be under-
stood. Pure speech these days is about as rare as virgins
in front of the library lions at Fifth Avenue and Forty-
second Street.
I didn't answer Peter. He stood up, stretched and
said he'd have to see the reporters or they would begin
to give him the old raspberry. I asked him about that
and he said it was the same as the Bronx cheer. I still


136THE WHISPERING WINDOW
didn't know. He demonstrated for me. I must say the
idea is expressive if not altogether delicate.
I visualized the headlines in the afternoon papers
telling all about the death of the ex-mistress of Robert
Doane—Son Suspected—and all that horrible stuff.
"You're not going to put in all the things you've just
told me, are you?" I asked fearfully.
Til tell them there have been two murders and we
report progress and hope to have the guilty party late
this afternoon. That'll give the boys an extra, which is
just what they want."
She'd gone completely out of my mind up to that
moment. "Where's Mrs. Doyle?" I asked.
"Who?"
"The woman I told you about. We've kept her wait-
ing a long time."
When asked, Smith said he hadn't seen the woman
since the second murder. I was annoyed and showed it.
"See how we lose witnesses in this case," Peter
taunted. "Willie and now your Mrs. Doyle."
I was stubborn about that woman. She had been
nearer to the scene of the first crime than any one we
had questioned up to then. Bother her, anyhow! Why
couldn't she have waited? I went to the telephone and
asked for Sandy and told him to find Mrs. Doyle
again.
"You'll never find her," Peter comforted me when
I hung up.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 137
"I'll find her if I have to turn New York inside out,"
I vowed.
"Just tell me how you'd do that. I'd like to know—I
have a couple of problems on my hands, too."
I was doing some fast thinking. What paper would
Mrs. Doyle be likely to read? One of the scandal sheets,
obviously. I couldn't imagine her reading the Times,
Sun or the Tribune. Well, that was that. How to get at
her through the paper?
"What's the plan?" he urged.
"Peter," I began, "a woman like that probably reads
the scandal sheets or the tabloids. Couldn't you get
the reporters to run a story about her, asking her to
come back to the store?"
"I might, but why do you think she's so important?"
"Peter," I begged, "don't give what you have just
heard to the press until you are sure, please. It can do
no harm for you to wait a little while. You are wrong.
If I could only prove it to you! Do you want to ruin
your career by making a fatal mistake?"
"Stop," he said with a twinkle in his eyes; "you're
breaking my heart."
I knew he was spoofing me, but I was far too serious
to be able to respond to his jocular mood. I told him
about my meeting with Mrs. Doyle early in the morn-
ing. I told him about sending her to that little door.
"Just believe that Beth Oliver is telling the truth,"
I reasoned. "We know she came down in the rear ele-
vator a little after nine. Eva Sutton saw her."


138 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"So what?"
I ignored that and went on, because it dawned on
me then that he was pulling my leg, but I had to be
sure he'd keep Eva Sutton's story out of the papers.
"Your man Willie, Eva Sutton and Carl Briggs were
in the receiving-room and saw Beth. We are reasonably
sure that the murder of Mrs. Briggs took place very
close to nine o'clock. If the murderer had gone through
the receiving-room on his way out, four people would
have seen him. He didn't; he must have gone by the
door which Mrs. Doyle used. You can't find Willie. He
must have seen the murderer go into Mrs. Briggs'
office. We've checked all the people who used the door
into the book department, haven't we?"
He nodded.
"It was just after nine when Mrs. Doyle went through
that door. If any one in the world saw the murderer
she's the person. Isn't a story from her worth trying
before you do something which I know you'll regret
later?"
"Why didn't you tell me this before ?" He was boiling
mad.
"Because at first I didn't think about her and then
when I did I wanted to surprise you."
"You've done that, all right," he threw at me over
his shoulder as he dashed toward the door and collided
with Herbert Hastings.


14oTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
"She's been a figure in the store, one of the fixtures—
what is known as an old-timer." Herbert essayed a
weak smile.
"You knew about Mrs. Briggs and Mr. Doane?"
Peter went directly to the point.
Herbert looked down as he said, "Yes."
"A number of store people, I believe, knew about it,"
Peter went on.
Again Herbert replied with a demure, "Yes."
"Do you know any reason why Mrs. Briggs should
have been murdered?" Peter demanded.
"None," Herbert replied immediately.
"She was an old woman, fat, unable to get about.
Why did you keep her on?" Peter shot the question
at him.
"She did her work well," Herbert answered.
"Don't evade the question, Mr. Hastings." There
was a warning note in Peter's voice.
"It was understood that she was to have a position in
the store as long as she wanted it," Herbert answered.
"Understood by whom?"
"Mr. Doane expressed that wish just shortly before
he died," Herbert said, and I must admit he seemed
reluctant to say it.
"Then you've been carrying out the wishes of a dead
man?"
"Yes."
"How did you feel about Mr. Charles Doane's sug-
gestion that Mrs. Briggs be let go?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 143
"What did she have to say about him?"
"She assured me she would keep him quiet."
"Has Charles Doane ever done or said anything which
would lead you to believe that he knew about the
Briggs scandal?"
"Never. That's why I was worried when he wanted
to pension Mrs. Briggs. I was afraid it might come out."
"I'm looking for a motive, Mr. Hastings. Up to the
time young Briggs was shot there were one or two rea-
sons why the woman was killed. With Briggs mur-
dered we have a slightly different aspect to the case.
You might have killed them both to avoid a scandal."
"I wouldn't do that." Herbert accepted the accusa-
tion and answered it fairly enough.
"What is going on in the store, Mr. Hastings?" Peter
asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Who or what group of people in the store would
want the Briggs woman out of the way?"
"I don't know."
"If the death of Mrs. Briggs is connected with the
store in any way, how does young Briggs enter into it?"
"I can't answer that, either." Herbert seemed puzzled.
"Did you ever have any reason to suspect Mrs. Briggs
herself in connection with the shortages you mention?"
"Oh, no! She was absolutely honest."
"If there was anything crooked going on in the store,
would you know about it?" Peter asked.


144 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"It would be brought to my notice eventually," he
replied.
"Have you any explanations about the shortages?"
"None whatever."
"Did you discuss her shortages with Mrs. Briggs?"
"Often."
"Did she ever advance any theory?"
"No, but she assured me yesterday that she would
get to the bottom of them or die trying."
"I wonder if she did?" Peter mused.
"Did what?" I asked.
"Died trying," he replied.
"You don't die trying in a case like that," I answered.
"She died because her trying was successful."
"You'll keep this family scandal out of the papers,
won't you?" Herbert asked uneasily as he prepared to
go-
"It won't be mentioned unless it has something to do
with the murder," Peter assured him.
When Herbert was out of hearing, I said gleefully
to Peter, "I told you Charlie Doanc knew nothing about
this scandal!"
"Maybe you're right. I'm going out now to have a
talk with the reporters. I'll try to locate your old lady
for you. See you later."
"You won't tell them about Charlie and the scandal?"
I begged.
"Not until I have a talk with Charlie Doane and the


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 145
Oliver girl. I'll see them as soon as I get through with
the reporters."
"Don't let what Herbert said about the Doane tempers
influence you," I urged. I regretted it the moment I
had said it.


XI
I wanted to see Charlie. If he had to know about
his father's derelictions I wanted to be the one to tell
him. I had some other things to tell him as well. I
didn't want him to be knocked out by the news of
Beth's marriage to Carl Briggs and all the things it
implied.
Beth was in the jewelry department looking much
better. I stopped at her counter, wondering what she
was thinking and feeling. Across the aisle I saw Eva
Sutton scowling at us. I leaned forward and said,
"Peter Conklin now thinks Charlie Doane killed young
Briggs so he could marry you."
"He couldn't think that," she replied, amazed. "It's
beyond reason."
"Do you know that the whole store has been talking
about you and Mr. Charles Doane?" I demanded.
"I hardly know Mr. Doane. Why should they?"
"Don't ask me riddles. I'm telling you facts. Eva
Sutton has been telling things to Peter Conklin." I
remembered her accusation and asked, "Were you in
that room at the head of the stairs?"
Beth repeated the story she had told Peter. I believed
her. She was probably turning away from the door with
her hand on the knob when the Sutton girl, looking
up from a distance, saw her and decided that she was
closing the door behind her.
146


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 147
Beth looked at me and asked, "You don't believe
these stories, do you?"
"Certainly not. Do you think I'm a fool ? What I think
isn't important. It's what Peter thinks and the papers
say, that we must worry about now—scandal," I
finished.
"I'm sorry; believe me, I am."
The poor thing looked it. I reached out and gave her
a reassuring pat on the arm. "I'll see you through this,
don't you worry. Now call Charlie Doane for me and
tell him to meet me on the main floor in front of the
central elevators right away. I've got to talk to him."
She reached for the telephone. "Sit tight," I advised.
"It's bound to be all right."
I waited until she finished telephoning. People who
insist upon talking to you while you are trying to con-
verse over the telephone ought to be shot at the first
offense.
"He'll be down," she said.
"The Sutton girl hates you. Why?" I asked with abso-
lutely no consideration of her feelings.
"I don't believe it's hate," she said thoughtfully. "It's
resentment. She was in the department when I came.
She expected to be made assistant, but they gave the
position to me."
"Are you being nice?" I snapped.
"No—natural."
I smiled then before I asked, "She seems to know a
lot about Carl Briggs. Any special reason?"
"He liked women," she replied rather coolly.


148 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Just what did you hear in the washroom?" I asked,
determined to know something definite about Eva
Sutton.
"Mr. Doane will be waiting for you," she answered.
I can take a hint even if it is as broad as a barn door.
I turned away then without any further questions.
I wouldn't have blamed Beth a bit if she had re-
sented me for the rest of her life. I was thinking about
that and blaming myself for being an interfering old
fool as I went through the drug and perfume depart-
ment. A girl stepped out from behind a demonstration
table and sprayed me with some vile-smelling perfume
from an atomizer. I'm particular about perfumes and
gave that girl an awful glare which froze her speech
before she was half through. I heard her say something
about "a frost-bitten old harridan" and I didn't blame
her. After all, she was only doing her job even though
she made me smell like a street-walker. I kept sniffing
at myself, my nose going like a rabbit's, while I waited
for Charlie. Smelling to high heaven makes you feel so
self-conscious. I imagined everybody was looking at
me. They probably were thinking I had Saint Vitus
dance or some other affliction because of the twitching
of my nose. Charlie didn't help matters any when he
came down, took one sniff and saidj
"Come up and sit in my office for a while, will you?
It needs disinfecting."
I was in no humor to jest. I plunged into my reason
for wanting to see him. He took the story about his


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 149
father and Mrs. Briggs squarely. He hadn't known
about it. There was no reason why he should. He just
shook his head dubiously for a moment and then said,
"Well, I suppose she was pretty once. It makes me feel
better about the old man, though. I always thought he
was a Sunday School superintendent and nothing else.
I'm glad he did it. He never had much of a life. I used
to pity him. When I was fresh out of college, with all
the 'ologies running through my head, I thought the
store was a substitute for the things I knew Father
wasn't getting. Mother wasn't much of a wife to him."
Charlie is one of the few men I've known who has
been able to see his mother clearly without sentiment.
After all, mothers are women first and traditions after-
ward. He went on, "Dad leading a double life." He
shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. "You
never can be sure of people, can you?"
"No, least of all a detective," I reminded him. "You're
both in it. Why didn't you tell me that you had been
making a spectacle of yourself over the girl?"
"I haven't done a thing except hang about in the
jewelry department most of the time," he grinned at
me.
"You did enough to have Peter suspect you both of
murder. He'll develop a case of circumstantial evidence
against you that may be your finish," I warned him.
"Gosh, that's bad!" He took hold of my arm and
steered me off to one side. "You know, Ethel, that sort
of lets me into it."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 151
I figured she'd be better off out of the store. I had my
little talk all prepared."
"You must have gone down the back way," I in-
terrupted.
"I did," he replied. "Just as I was about to go into
her office I heard Herbert's voice. They must have been
having some sort of an argument, because Herbert
sounded cross."
"Go on," I urged.
"I walked through one of the other offices and out
by the narrow corridor to the side entrance."
"At what time?" I asked.
"Just before the store opened," he replied.
"Did any one see you?"
"I don't know. Say, you sound like your friend
Conklin."
"I ought to, I've been with him all day. Charlie," I
put a hand on his arm, "you must be careful. Why don't
you tell Peter?"
"And spend the night in the hoosegow? No, thanks."
"You're sure Mrs. Briggs was alive when you heard
Herbert speak?"
"Of course she was. I heard her voice."
"That's something, but not much," I agreed.
"It can't be important." He tried to brush the thought
aside.
"Can't it? That's where you're mistaken. The person
who killed Mrs. Briggs knew you were down there.


152 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
How, I don't know unless he was in your father's little
office peeking through the porthole. I'm sure he knows."
"Why are you so positive?"
"Did you call" Beth and ask her to meet you in the
office?"
"No," he answered promptly.
"Then you were framed. The murderer knew she
would tell her reason for being there. What are we
going to do?" I'm afraid I was close to the wailing-
point just then. "When Peter learns about this he'll
arrest you." My anxiety seemed to impress him just a
little.
"There's something friend Peter doesn't know yet
which may change his mind," he said grimly.
"I can't stand any more riddles. If you've anything to
tell me, out with it," I insisted.
"Don't be obvious about it and don't look startled,"
he warned, "but take a good look at what's in my hand."
He moved up beside me and put his hand through
my arm. His fist was closed. As we walked slowly he
opened his fingers and I saw a few feathers nestling in
his palm.
"What is it, a new trout fly?" I asked acidly. "I'm in
no mood for trifling nonsense."
"It's a dart used by the natives down in the South
Seas. They put them in blowguns and use them to kill
things," he explained.
"Is it poisoned?" I asked. I knew that much about
darts.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 153
"They usually are."
"Where did you get it?"
"I brought it back with me."
"No, no, no," I said impatiently. "Where did it come
from now. Was it blown at you?"
He laughed.
"You have a queer sense of humor," I said annoyed.
"Ethel sweetheart" (when he talks like that I'm putty
in his hands), "you came within an ace of losing your
most ardent admirer." He said it jocularly enough, but
there was grim seriousness under the surface which I
didn't miss.
"What do you mean?" I asked quickly.
"Some one in the store doesn't want me here. This
cute little weapon was cleverly fixed into the pad on
my chair. I sat on it."
I clutched at his arm, "Charlie, you don't mean they
tried to kill you that way, do you? I never heard of
any one being murdered in the seat."
He laughed uproariously for a moment and between
chuckles said, "Killed in the pants." I hadn't meant to
be funny. His eyes were moist from tears of laughter
when he finally managed to say, "I'm afraid that was
the idea. Those darts are supposed to be poisoned. I
called them poison darts when I brought them in and
hung the panel on the wall of my office."
"Fine idea of toys you have," I snorted.
Charlie then gave, to me, a perfect example of un-


154 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
derstatement, for he said in all seriousness, "You know,
Ethel, things are beginning to be a bit complicated."
I laughed. I couldn't help myself. It was his turn to
look hurt. "What are you going to do about it?" I
asked.
"Nothing for the moment. Your friend Peter prob-
ably wouldn't believe me, anyhow."
I was wondering why he didn't say something about
Beth. The news that she was married to Carl Briggs
hadn't startled him as I thought it would. When he
did mention her it was to ask, "Isn't she wonderful?"
"She's in a tight spot along with you. They electro-
cute women in this state, you know," I warned.
"You're crossing bridges before you come to them.
Our job is to get the murderer. We know Peter Conklin
is wrong."
"But why not tell him about the dart?" I insisted.
"I'm not telling any one but you."
"But"
"Don't argue with me." He stopped my speech. "I
want the person who fixed this thing in my chair to
become uneasy. If you had planned a rather clever way
to kill a man you would be uneasy until he was dead,
wouldn't you?" he asked.
"I suppose so," I admitted.
"I don't want my embryo assassin to know that I've
been warned. I'll be safe as long as he thinks the darts
are poisonous. I want you to keep your eyes open. I'll
do the same. Don't give me away."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 155
"For heaven's sake, do be careful," I urged as he pre-
pared to leave me.
"That goes for you, too. If I'm out of the way, you
can't prove anything, but you might be a nuisance, so
watch your step."
"I'll take care of myself," I assured him. "You're
the one I'm worrying about. You act as if this were a
tea-party. Beth Oliver's story about that telephone
call"
"Charming girl, by the way," he interrupted me.
"Charm, your granny!" I was annoyed. "Don't you
see you're headed for the electric chair? Peter will find
out about your being down there this morning. You
didn't see any one. You have no alibi. Where were you
from the time you left those offices until you reappeared
there?"
"On the way back to my office."
"Who saw you?"
"No one that I remember. I used the private lift."
"Which is probably full of your fingerprints," I
moaned. "You're a blind jackass, Charlie Doane, put-
ting your head right into a noose."
"Aren't you being a little emotional for you, of all
people?" he chided.
"I'm thinking about Peter Conklin. He's been baffled
long enough. He's talking to the press representatives
right now. Lord only knows what he's telling them.
Can't you get it through your head that he suspects
you?"


ijSTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
"But he has nothing tangible," he objected.
"He doesn't need anything tangible. Suppose they
find your fingerprints in that lift?"
"I was in it, why not?"
"Heavens above!" I exclaimed. "A man certainly
can be dumb and exasperating without half trying.
When Peter found you in that room you were wearing
gloves, weren't you?" I didn't wait for him to answer.
"How are you going to explain your fingerprints? You
didn't make them when you had your gloves on. He'll
ask you questions. He's bound to arrest you."
"I can just say I used the lift sometime during the
morning."
"And make things that much worse for yourself.
He'll think you were in there listening to what was
being said."
"But I can prove my story, if necessary, by Herbert."
He positively beamed at me as if the thing were all
settled.
• "Herbert has his own neck to worry about," I re-
minded him. "You tell your story and then what hap-
pens? Herbert admits being in there talking to her,
but don't forget he didn't see you. Herbert will say
the woman was alive when he left her. You can't prove
that you left that suite of offices before the crime was
committed. No one saw you leave. You can't account
for your time. O dear!" I was frightfully upset at the
prospect before us.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 157
"There's the dart," he offered. I think he began to
wonder just what would happen to him.
"You could have put the dart there yourself. It's too
thin." Then I said a silly thing. "Of course, if you had
died from the dart—" I was so serious that his sudden
burst of laughter both startled and annoyed me. Then
I, too, saw how funny it was and laughed with him.
A good laugh does things for you. We both felt less
afraid.
We were in a jam and knew it. Peter would be furi-
ous and doubly suspicious when he learned that Charlie
and Herbert had been in those little offices that morn-
ing. I was trying to think of some plan, when Charlie
said very quietly,
"I think I have the answer to our immediate prob-
lem."
"What is it?" I asked eagerly.
"You're working with Peter Conklin," he replied;
"it wouldn't be fair to tell you. Go back there and see
him. Pick up what information you can, but keep still
about this. I'll have to work fast." He took my elbow
and steered me back across the main floor.
We went through the jewelry and book departments.
He left me at the little door. At that moment I had
an idea. I clutched at his sleeve and held him fast. He's
a tall thing and I had to stretch up on my toes to
whisper to him.
"Willie will tell Peter that he saw you and Herbert.
Had you thought of that?"


158 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Yes," he answered, "I've thought of that, but per-
haps Willie won't be found."
I released my grasp on his arm. He left me standing
there. I'm sure my mouth was hanging open. I hadn't
thought much about Willie one way or another. Where
was he? What had happened to him? I knew Peter
was concerned about him and annoyed because he
hadn't been located all day.
As I went into the little corridor and walked to the
office which Peter had been using I tried to fathom
Charlie's meaning. There was a threat under his words
and I didn't like it. I was to like it less during the next
hour or two and I must admit now that my faith was
put on the rack and almost torn to shreds.


XII
While waiting for Peter I had a nice chat with Davis.
He, above all things, confided in me that he wanted to
be a writer. Perhaps if I had not had that confidence
this story would never have been written. He has been
of inestimable help to me with his notes, memories and
suggestions. We are doing this on a fifty-fifty basis. If
he can get a little money ahead he says he will give up
his job as a stenographer and do nothing but write. My
first impulse was to endow him with enough money to
last him a year and let him see what he could do. I
discarded that notion because a man should work for
the thing he wants. I can help him if he gets in a tight
spot.
Peter came back a little refreshed, I thought, after
his interview with the representatives of the press. He
said he gave them the story of the first two murders and
nothing else. He kept his suspicions to himself, thank
fortune. The reporters were pleased with the story of
Mrs. Doyle and promised to run it on the first page in
a little square box. Peter said that all police cars had
been advised to look out for her, as well as all rounds-
men and traffic officers. He explained to me that the
call had gone out from headquarters to every precinct
in the city.
"This would have been unnecessary," he said scath-
ingly, "if you had taken her address."
159


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 161
mountains and you sure have it. On the other hand,
I'm supposed to be a detective and being suspicious is
part of my job. I'm going to do a little investigating
that you won't like. Can you occupy yourself for an
hour or two?"
I sniffed at that as we waited for Smith to return
with Mrs. Doyle's address. We had a discussion about
her. Smith was doubtful about Mrs. Doyle. He didn't
believe she'd come without a warrant.
"Let me go for her," I suggested. "She'll come for
me, I'm sure. I'll call my chauffeur. He'll be here in
fifteen minutes."
"Detail Carter to ride to the Bronx with Miss
Thomas," Peter instructed Smith; and explained to
me, "An officer with you will save time."
After I put the call through for Malcolm and the
car, Peter called the store operator and told her to find
Charlie for him. I could hear the signal bonging out
in the store. Charlie's call was one long and two short
bongs. After a minute or so the operator reported that
she was unable to locate Charlie. Peter turned to me as
if it were my fault.
"If you don't find him before, he'll be in his office
after five-thirty. We're to have a meeting," I told him.
"I hope so," he replied. From the reproachful looks
he cast in my direction you'd think I had Charlie tucked
away in my sleeve somewhere.
"Why don't you go on with your investigation and
prove yourself wrong, so you can get on the right


WHISPERING WINDOW
track?" I asked. "Charlie Doane isn't the murderer and
the sooner you're sure of it the better."
"Then who is?" he demanded.
"Haven't you any other clues?" I asked innocently
enough I thought.
"Clues!" he bellowed. "Clues! Sure I have, and they
all point to your precious Charlie!" He faced me indig-
nantly. "That private elevator is full of his fingerprints
and yet he was wearing gloves when we discovered
him in that little room."
"Gentlemen usually wear gloves when they are on
the street," I reminded him.
"I'm not talking about gentlemen. I'm talking about
murderers," he barked. "How and when did his finger-
prints get there?"
I could have answered that question then, but I
didn't I try to wait for my bridges before I go over
them.
"And what's more," Peter railed at my silence, "when
he opened that little porthole with his gloves on he
wiped all fingerprints off."
"He could have, but he didn't and you know it. He
merely opened the window to show it to us. When
you've exhausted him, I'd begin working on Eva
Sutton, if I were you."
"She's just a dizzy blonde scared out of her wits."
(His tone said clearly, "Why bother me with that
now?") "What have you got against her, anyhow?"
"She's clever, smarter than we realize," I argued.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 163
"When you know why she's afraid, you'll have some of
the answer to your riddle."
"She'll just pull the noose tight about the necks of
your friends."
"She tried that," I insisted. "She didn't explain her
fear to us. She evaded the question and centered your
interest on first Robert Doane and Mrs. Briggs and
then on Charlie and Beth Oliver. She fooled us both,
at the time."
"More of your intuition?" he asked mockingly. "I'll
try my system for a while."
He left then. I've no idea why he was so stubborn
and I've never asked him. It does no good to remind a
man that he was wrong. The woman who says to a man
"I told you so," is nothing short of a fool.
My mind had been full of murder all day. I knew
Charlie Doane was not the murdering type, but Peter
didn't. I tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together as
I went out into the wide corridor. I met Grover in the
hall. He asked me if I had seen Peter. He seemed very
serious and intent. I left him and walked to the receiv-
ing-room, when the idea struck me. What had Charlie
meant when he said Willie Evans wouldn't be found?
I stopped at the desk and asked the man who was
taking Willie's place what he knew about Willie's
habits. When I learned that Willie usually ate his lunch
somewhere in the nether regions I extracted full infor-
mation and decided on a little investigation of my
own. I took the elevator as directed down one floor. It


164 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
was a bit bewildering down there, but I finally found
the room and the man in charge. There were boxes
on wheels called wheelers, full of refuse and trash,
and over at one side a chute into which the man
dumped the papers, etc.
The attendant was just emptying a wheeler into the
chute as I coughed to attract his attention. He was
surprised.
"Are you in charge here?" I asked.
The man was curious and nodded.
"Did you know Willie Evans?" I went on.
"Sure," the man answered.
"See him to-day?"
"For a few minutes," the man replied.
"Tell me about it."
"What's the matter with him?" the man asked
anxiously.
"I'll tell you that later. When did you see Evans?"
"He came down here this morning to eat his lunch.
He came every day," the man explained. "He kept an
eye on this place for me while I went out to get some
coffee."
"Then you left him here this morning?"
"Yeah. He came down like he always did and said
hell was popping upstairs. We chatted for a few min-
utes. He sat on that box right over there and began to
eat his sandwiches." He pointed to the box worn shiny,
undoubtedly by a succession of Willies who had sat


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 165
upon it. I controlled a shudder. It was a dull dreary
place to eat one's lunch.
"Were you alone when Willie came down?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied.
"You're sure of that?" I insisted.
"Yup."
"Where did Willie go from here?" was my next
question.
"Gosh, I dunno. He could have got me in Dutch,
him leaving me flat the way he did. I'm not supposed
to be away. You see, Willie always covered me," he
explained.
"What did Willie tell you about the things that had
been happening upstairs?"
"He told me about Mrs. Briggs, that was all. He said
the police were up there bothering everybody."
"Did he advance any theories about the murder?" I
asked hopefully.
"I dunno as you'd call it a theory, but Willie said
that son of hers would probably be in bad because he
had been in there this morning."
I was excited. Perhaps I would find the clue we
needed. "Did he mention any one else?"
"Nope." He thought for a moment. "No, he didn't."
"I'm afraid your friend Willie has been murdered,"
I said seriously.
"Quit your kidding, lady." The man laughed in my
face. "Who'd want to murder him?" There was con-
tempt in the question.


166 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"That's what I'm trying to find out," I replied.
"When you came back and found Willie gone, think
hard," I cautioned, "did you notice anything unusual
about the place?"
"No," he said after a moment's thoughtful considera-
tion, "unless leaving his lunch half finished would be
unusual. I thought he'd be back any minute. Willie
loved to eat. He was sort of a glutton. When he didn't
come back I folded his lunch in his paper and put it
up there." He pointed to a shelf and a grease-stained
paper parcel.
"Was there any sign of a struggle?" I asked.
"I didn't notice none. I try to keep the place clean,
but there's usually some paper and trash scattered
around. I just swept up a minute ago," he said with
pride.
"Everything was as you left it when you returned?"
I was insistent on that point.
"Except Willie was gone," he said promptly. "Say,
wait a minute. I left a wheeler right there by the chute.
Willie must have emptied it, because it was moved
back."
"Did Willie do your work for you, too?" I asked.
"Sometimes if the wheelers came down too fast he'd
empty them."
"Where does the chute lead?"
"To the baler downstairs."
"How do you get there?"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 167
The man's face went white. "Say, you don't
think"
"I'm not thinking and don't you, if you're wise," I
cautioned. "Just tell me how to get down there."
I went back to the elevator, following his instruc-
tions, and down one more flight. I was in the sub-base-
ment. I had never seen the underside of a big building
before. I have always accepted their warmth and air-
cooling systems without thinking about them. There
was a furnace room near the elevator, the door of
which was open. Great asbestos-covered pipes ran in all
directions. Square tin conveyors paralleled them in
many places. I went down a long corridor which was
beside the shafts of store elevators. The counterweights
and wires rattled and groaned as somewhere above the
cars started and stopped. There was a dank damp smell.
Escaping steam hissed from some of the pipes. It was
a clammy place. I expected to see spiders and crawly
things any moment, but I didn't.
I hurried. I didn't like the place at all. At last I found
the room where a tall blond Swede was in charge. He
introduced me to the baling machine. I can remember
letter-presses in my father's office years ago. The baler
looked like a huge and more elaborate press.
The blond Swede was not surprised to see me. I can
rather imagine the conversation which was carried on
through the chute after I had left the room above.
At that moment a rush of paper, cardboard, broken


16B THE WHISPERING WINDOW
boxes and other rubbish slid down the chute into the
baler.
"Does that come from upstairs?" I asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"How large is a bale?"
He showed me one which was standing at one side.
I shuddered. It was large enough to hold the body of a
man. The thought was too horrible and I tried to con-
trol my racing mind, but it was no use. Pictures of
horror floated before my eyes. I fought them hopelessly.
I imagine a person trying to escape insanity must feel
as I felt then. It couldn't be. I was letting my mind play
with something which was too inhuman and too
ghastly, and yet
"How many bales do you make during a day?" I
asked as I struggled toward normalcy.
"That depends," he answered.
"On what?"
"The amount of rubbish that comes down. I had six
yesterday afternoon and this morning."
"Where are they?"
"Zuccini calls for them every day about one o'clock.
We can't keep them here, they take up too much room,"
he explained.
"When did you take that one out of the machine?"
I pointed to the bale he had just shown me.
"About a half-hour ago," he replied.
"Did you bale anything between ten and twelve?" I
asked.


170THE WHISPERING WINDOW
hundred curious children, attracted by the policeman,
gathered about the car. Malcolm did his best to shoo
them off. A large overripe woman, a baby in her arms,
suspiciously blocked the door to the house.
She looked like a Neapolitan. I tried my Italian on
her. It worked. Her face broke into an immediate smile
as I rapidly explained my errand. We had a nice but
short conversation while she sent one of the children
in search of her husband, who was somewhere down
the street. He was excited as I told him what I wanted.
Carter and Malcolm, being in the dark and curious
about the rapid flow of Italian, drew together for the
first time since we started the trip downtown.
"Si, si, Signora," Zuccini said; "this way, please." He
led us through a long covered way into his warehouse,
where great bales of paper were stored.
He remembered the ones he had brought back from
Doane's and with the help of a swarthy, wiry young
man with sullen brooding eyes, who miraculously ap-
peared from somewhere, they began moving the bales.
It was the young man who drew away from one of
the bales with a horrified look at his hand. He ex-
plained to Zuccini that the bale felt sticky.
"What are you after?" Carter finally asked, unable
to hold his curiosity any longer.
"I think there's a man in there," I replied. Both Carter
and Malcolm were aghast.
"Open it up!" Carter ordered Zuccini.
Zuccini took a heavy pair of wire-cutters.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 173
I've done the Eden Musee and the wax works in
London, but never in my life have I seen anything as
horrible as that one smeared hand which for a single
instant the assistant raised from the mass of paper on
his flat fork.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 175
Smoking may be just a habit, a nervous expression
or an emotional outlet of some kind. I don't know
anything about that, but I wouldn't have taken fifty
dollars for that cigarette at that moment. It calmed
me. I inhaled it deeply and let the smoke trickle slowly
from my nostrils. It normalized me as nothing else
could have done and my thoughts began to regiment
themselves properly.
There was no question in my mind about the mur-
derer. As I sat there, my thin thread of smoke caught
by unseen drafts, vanishing over my head, I knew we
had been on the wrong track all day. There was a fiend
at large in the Doane store. A madman killing either
for the sheer lust of it or else prompted by an unreason-
able fear. His reason was not important. He must be
stopped before more damage was done. No one but a
fiend incarnate would have done what had been done
during the day at Doane's.
I kept asking myself the everlasting and eternal why.
What had Mrs. Briggs discovered that made her death
imperative? How was Carl Briggs connected with that
discovery—and Charlie, what of him? Why had an
attempt been made on his life? I've always found that
once your mind accepts an idea you are caught by it
and can't think clearly or rationally of anything else
until that idea is settled one way or another. I didn't
believe that Mrs. Briggs' affair with Robert Doane had
anything to do with the murders. I knew it was some-
thing else, it had to be; and yet my mind nibbled at


178THE WHISPERING WINDOW
woman with the baby waited and listened as I talked
to Peter. "I've found Willie Evans," I announced.
"Where was he, tucked under Mrs. Doyle's arm?"
he asked facetiously.
The balance of my story took all the humor out of
Peter. "I'll send men down. What are you going to
do?" he asked.
"Get Mrs. Doyle and be back at the store in time for
the meeting," I promised.
"You'll have to go some. I can send a man up for
her," he suggested.
"No," I replied. "I'd rather go myself. I need some
air after what has happened."
"Tell your chauffeur to pick up a motorcycle officer
at Twenty-third Street and the Express Highway," he
suggested. "I'll telephone instructions."
Malcolm was not too interested in the motorcycle
officer who was to be our escort. He did, however, go
over to the Express Highway, which saves a great deal
of time when one is going uptown. As Malcolm slowed
down on the curve at Twenty-third Street we picked
up the waiting officer, a trim Mercury on a motorcycle.
It was a thrilling experience for me. The policeman
on his giddy machine with siren wide open cleared the
way for us as we raced uptown, hit Riverside Drive
and shot north to One Hundred Thirty-fifth Street.
Then we had a mad ride across town, missing death
by inches several times as Malcolm, intent but disliking
his job, followed the trail blazed by the officer.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 181
"There's too many secrets in this place," he said
scornfully and turned to Mrs. Doyle.
She repeated what she had told me coming down in
the car. I sat back and listened and smoked one of
Davis' cigarettes. The store was very quiet and, except
for a few lights, dimly lit.
You know how your eyes rove as you sit thinking
and doing nothing. I saw that little whispering win-
dow and was thinking about the part it had played
in the day's tragedies. It was open.
As I look back on it now, much of what happened
might have been averted. That is, I think so, but one
never knows, because hindsight is so much more ac-
curate than foresight ever can be. Then, too, there is
this to be said for Peter and all of us connected with
the crimes—there was very little time for thinking.
Events piled themselves one upon the other too rapidly
for any one of us connected with the store to be able
to stand off and get any sort of perspective. Peter had
one crime to solve and before his routine with that case
had been completed he had another murder on his
hands, a much more daring one than the first. The day
had raced away from us with breathless rapidity.
"Do you think you could identify the man by the
suit he wore?" I heard Peter ask.
"I think so," Mrs. Doyle answered.
It was then that I believe I innocently signed a death-
warrant for another person. I don't know. They never
quite determined when she died. Peter has tried to con-


182 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
vince me that the poor thing was probably dead at the
time I spoke. It came to me suddenly. "Peter," I said,
interrupting him, "why didn't we think of it before?"
"What?" he asked, annoyed.
"Eva Sutton and Carl Briggs were in the receiving-
room. Willie was there, too. Carl Briggs is dead. Willie
is dead. I'll bet Eva Sutton knows who was in these
offices this morning just about nine o'clock. That's the
thing which has terrified her," I finished, quite sure
that I was right.
"Maybe," he admitted thoughtfully. "If we can make
her talk and Mrs. Doyle here can identify the same
man we have our case clinched." He looked at Mrs.
Doyle for a moment. "I want you to identify the man
on your own before we get Eva Sutton to talk." He
1 turned to me. "How about that meeting? Is it still on?"
For an answer I took the telephone and called the
executive offices. Herbert's secretary said he was wait-
ing for a meeting. I told the girl to tell him we would
be up immediately.
"Good," Peter said. "The man who has been doing
these things knows this store inside and out, upside and
down." He turned to Davis, "Get the Sutton girl, will
you?"
As he was giving Mrs. Doyle her instructions, I
crossed the room intent on the small ash-tray piled
high with cigarette stubs sitting at Davis' elbow. Why
are men so sloppy about ashes? I smoke, but when an
ash-tray is full I empty it into a waste-basket—that's


i84 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Why?" Peter asked, surprised.
"Because I'm responsible for them. They belong to
my department. If you're going to hold them, I'll
have to make out a memorandum to keep my figures
straight."
"What was Mrs. Briggs doing with them?" I was
wondering about that myself and was glad he asked
the question.
"She borrowed them for a display she had made.
The window came out last night. They should have
been returned to me this morning," she explained.
"We'll have to hold them as evidence, so make what-
ever notes you need to cover yourself," Peter advised.
Mrs. Curtis went to her desk, pulled out a drawer,
rooted in a mass of pads until she found one which
would make a carbon copy, then bent over to make
her notation. "Will you sign this?" Mrs. Curtis handed
Peter the pad. Like a wise man he took a moment to
read it before he signed.
As she was ready to leave, Peter said, "Mrs. Curtis,
I wish you had been in your office this morning."
"I'm rather glad I wasn't. I'm still fond of life," she
said with a grim conviction.
"It's so strange," Peter went on, "that in this store
surrounded by hundreds, the murderer could make
such a clean getaway."
"With each man and woman intent on his job, it's
not so strange—that is if you know anything about
department stores," Mrs. Curtis replied. "I was busy in


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 185
the department, there's always so much to do on a
Sales Day, and when I looked up and saw Mr. Doane
going up the balcony stairs I was glad he was not his
father."
I caught my breath. I knew what was coming. I saw
a gleam grow in Peter's eye. It's curious how often an
innocent conversation can get a person into trouble.
Peter did it cleverly. I'm sure Mrs. Curtis had no idea
that Peter was suspecting Charlie.
"That was before the store opened, wasn't it?" he
asked.
She took the bait very neatly.
"A little before the opening bell." She went on to
elaborate, "He went up the balcony steps and paused
for a moment before he went into the private office.
His father always stood in that spot and spoke to the
employees every morning."
"Yes, we've heard about that," Peter said with keen
satisfaction.
I wasn't conscious of Mrs. Curtis' leaving. I was busy
thinking. If Charlie paused there and looked over the
store, where was Herbert at that moment? Charlie
told me he had heard but not seen Herbert. Where had
Herbert gone?
I knew Peter would be furious again, but I had to
tell him what I knew of Charlie's visit to the offices
that morning and Herbert's possible part in the mur-
der. He boiled over and gave me a good piece of his
mind, but like all rows it did sort of clear the air.
s


186THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"And I thought you were a clever woman," he said
after his spontaneous anger had worn itself out.
I've never had any one say anything to me that was
more scathing. I hadn't failed Peter really. His idea of
me had failed him, but I felt sorry for him neverthe-
less, because he had tried me in the scales and I had
been found wanting.
"We must find them," I urged.
"If it isn't too late."
They say misery loves company and his speech did
confirm my fears, but that wasn't what I wanted at the
time. "Peter, do you suppose"
"We can suppose anything," he cut me short. "If
Doane believed that we wouldn't find Willie, there
must have been some idea at work in his mind. He
knew Hastings was in here. He paused at the head of
the stairs. I wonder what he saw, standing there?"
Peter pondered a minute and then asked, "If Doane
saw anything which would have incriminated his
brother-in-law, do you think he would have told me?"
"Not unless he was sure," I replied honestly.
"Perhaps he saw Herbert Hastings going toward
the rear elevators early this morning. The build-up of
events may have made him suspicious. I wish we knew
what he knew," Peter went on with his puzzling.
"I don't know what it is that Beth Oliver has to tell
me, but whatever it is, it must have some bearing on
the case," I suggested.
"We don't know what they may have said to each


XIV
On the sixth floor Herbert was pacing up and down
the little railed enclosure which formed an anteroom
for the executive offices. We put Mrs. Doyle into an
easy-chair and went forward.
"I'm ready for the meeting," I said.
"This is no time for a meeting," he growled.
"It's the very time for it. Call your people together
and let's get going." Bulldozing Herbert had always
been easy for me.
"Where's Charlie?" he asked. "Wasn't he with you?"
"He'll be here," I said with more assurance than I
felt. There was a lump in my throat which choked
back my words as I tried to talk.
"I've been trying to find him for the last hour," he
grumbled.
"He must be in the store somewhere," Peter sug-
gested.
"I hope so." Herbert was either a genuine actor or
else he really was afraid.
I had no idea what was in Peter's mind as we fol-
lowed Herbert to his office. He was planning some-
thing, however. I could tell that by the expression of his
eyes, which had grown more calculating than usual.
Herbert's office was impressive, with its somber mas-
sive furniture and morgue-like dimness. I've often
188


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 189
wondered why men select and furnish their offices as
they do. Why make the place in which you spend most
of your life a drab horror? I've seen one or two busi-
ness offices of which I approved. One was a little too
ornate, done in the Empire tradition, but it was cheer-
ful. The other was done in maple, looked clean and
cheerful and would have been a pleasant place to work
for any one at any time.
"I'll get the others," Herbert said as we settled our-
selves in the deep leather chairs.
"Better get Banter, Kramer and Sandy McLeod, too,"
Peter requested.
"This is supposed to be a stockholders' meeting,"
Herbert objected, "between Grover, Doane, Miss
Thomas and myself."
"I'm aware of that," Peter replied coldly. "I have
no desire to interfere with your meeting, but I'd like to
have you all together for a few minutes first. I've made
a discovery which will interest all of you."
Herbert gave instructions to his secretary and we
waited. I lit a cigarette and offered one to Peter, who
refused. Herbert dragged one of those silly heavy ornate
smoking-stands within my reach. I was interested in
watching the people as they arrived one by one. There
was speculation in their eyes as they trooped in and
stood about uncomfortably, waiting for they knew not
what. Each time the door opened or whenever I heard
a commotion outside I looked up, hoping to see Char-
lie, but he did not appear. In the full course of his life


19oTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
I had never known Charlie to make a promise which
he did not keep. He was never late for appointments,
which fact was a close bond between us. He had jok-
ingly promised me a drink after five o'clock. I suppose
it was silly of me to be thinking about that, but I
couldn't help myself. It wasn't that I wanted the drink,
though I could have used it well enough. I was think-
ing of it as a promise which Charlie had failed to fulfil.
At Herbert's suggestion, after Grover, Banter,
Kramer and Sandy had all arrived we went into the
board-room, another of those massively furnished dark
rooms with a long heavy table and great carved chairs
too heavy for even a strong man to move with com-
fort. The atmosphere of the place had a deadening
effect. You felt that you shouldn't speak above a whis-
per, and that was why Peter's voice was so startling
when he began.
"I have found Willie Evans," he pronounced, and
paused, eying them carefully.
I saw nothing but the natural surprise that one could
reasonably expect.
"Where?" Kramer asked.
"In a bale of waste-paper which had been taken out
of the building," he replied.
Herbert looked sick, and no wonder. The implica-
tions in Peter's cold hard voice could not be ignored.
The others asked questions all at once. Peter ex-
plained about Willie Evans as briefly as possible. When


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 191
he had finished there was a glum uneasy silence, broken
by Peter's voice as he turned to Kramer.
"Where is Eva Sutton?" Peter demanded.
Kramer looked dumber than usual.
"I talked to her shortly after the store closed," Her-
bert said. "Isn't she in the department? She told me
she was going to work to-night."
"She left to come up here. She hasn't been seen since,"
Peter answered. "How long did she stay here?" He
turned to Herbert.
"I don't know exactly. Twenty minutes, perhaps
longer."
"Can't you be sure, Mr. Hastings?" There was an
insinuation in Peter's voice.
"No, not exactly." Herbert flushed as he replied.
Peter turned to Banter. "How long has Eva Sutton
been employed in the store?"
Banter looked about the room for a moment and then
said, "A year or more. I can give you the exact figures
if you'd like me to look it up."
"Know anything about her?" Peter asked.
"She's been a very efficient clerk," Banter replied.
"How about her private life?" Peter asked.
Banter hesitated again. I was all agog. What had
Peter unearthed that I knew nothing about? It sounded
like the beginning of a good bit of rather juicy scandal
and I know of few women who don't relish a bit of
gossip every so often.
"I don't intend to drag the information out of you,"


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 193
"No," he answered.
"Did she tell you anything to-day which might have
some bearing on this case?"
"No."
"Did you see her this morning just before you went
into Mrs. Briggs' office?"
"No."
"She was out there in the receiving-room talking to
Briggs. You were in Mrs. Briggs' office this morning,
weren't you?" Peter's question was definite.
"Yes." Herbert's face had been drained of all color
as the questions and their implications were piled at
him.
"What were you doing there?"
"I was trying to prevent a scandal," Herbert replied.
"A personal one?" Peter asked.
Herbert didn't answer. Peter's voice was relentless as
he went on. "We have already discussed this, you and
I, but when we had our last talk I didn't know some
of the things which have since come to light.. If you
had nothing to hide, why didn't you tell me about
your visit to Mrs. Briggs just before the store opened?"
"I didn't want to become involved in her death, since
I had nothing to do with it," Herbert answered, mak-
ing a very neat point, too.
"You are involved, Mr. Hastings, greatly involved.
You were having an argument with Mrs. Briggs this
morning. You were overheard by Mr. Charles Doane.
He left the suite of offices and paused on the balcony.


194 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
You looked up and saw him. You were suddenly afraid.
You hurried up here, took one of the poison darts from
the plaque in his office and fixed it in the pad on his
chair."
Herbert's eyes were swelling. I'd never seen eyes pop
before. I was afraid they would burst as I watched
them with fascination.
"You were in that private office at the head of the
balcony watching for the arrival of young Briggs. You
knew about the acoustic peculiarities of that small win-
dow. When you were certain that Briggs was about to
say something which would have incriminated you,
you shot him and dropped the gun down the shaft."
There were loop-holes in Peter's story. They flashed
through my mind as I watched the faces of the others
listening so intently to Peter's accusation of Herbert.
Banter's mouth was open. The man probably has
adenoids. Kramer's expression was one of amazed in-
credulity. John Grover was smirking. I think he en-
joyed Herbert's discomfiture. Sandy McCleod looked
like a small boy who has just been told that there is no
Santa Claus. Herbert was completely overwhelmed.
"Before you killed Briggs, however, you had a busy
morning," Peter went on. "There was one other person
who could incriminate you and that was Willie Evans.
You knew his habits. You followed him to the basement
where he eats his lunch and killed him and then threw
his body down the chute to fall into the baler. Your
plans for the death of Mr. Doane had miscarried. You


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 195
were worried. What have you done with him? Where
is he?"
"You don't believe all this!" Herbert finally managed
to gasp. "You know I did none of these things."
"I'm not joking, Mr. Hastings. Where is Charles
Doane?"
A door at the side of the room opened and in popped
Charlie Doane with a tray containing bottles of Scotch,
Rye, charged water and ice. Behind him I could see
Beth in a small kitchenette with a second tray con-
taining glasses.
"Did I hear my name?" he asked.
I could have curled the smug young devil.
"Thank God, you're alive!" Herbert sighed with
heartfelt relief. For a moment I thought he was going
to faint.
"There goes your case," Grover said to Peter, whose
face was an interesting study.
"Or just beginning," Peter answered. He turned to
Charlie, "This is hardly a time for pranks, Mr. Doane."
"Pranks?" Charlie asked with a fine display of inno-
cence.
"We thought you were dead, both of you," I an-
swered his question.
"I was fixing that drink I promised you," he beamed
at me, "and being careful at the same time."
"Then give it to me and let's get on with our meet-
ing," I said testily; "that is, if Mr. Conklin is through."
"I'm finished for the moment," Peter answered.


196THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"How about a drink?" Charlie asked Peter.
"Scotch and soda," he answered.
I was busy looking at the men and their clothes.
Banter, Herbert and Charlie were wearing varying
shades of gray. Grover's suit was beige tan. Kramer's a
dark brown, Sandy's a pepper-and-salt mixture which
might be called gray. If Mrs. Doyle's memory was cor-
rect our suspects were narrowed down to three men.
Banter, Herbert and Charlie. Which one would she
recognize?
Grover took a cigarette from a package on the table
and reached into his pocket for a match. You've seen
men slap their pockets when they can't find a thing
they are sure should be part of their Tom Sawyer
pocket collection. Grover was like that.
Charlie handed, me some Rye with very little water
and said, "We can begin any time."
Kramer and Sandy went toward the door. Banter fol-
lowed them.
"This is no time to hold a meeting," Grover grum-
bled. "How can we concentrate on anything, under
the circumstances?"
"A drink will calm you," Charlie said. "What will
it be?"
"Scotch," he answered.
"You're staying to the meeting," Charlie said to
Peter. "I have some data which I think will interest
you."
The telephone rang. It wasn't in the cards for us to, 0


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 197
have that meeting. Herbert answered the telephone,
hung up the receiver and said, "There's a Mrs. Doyle
outside who is complaining that she can't stay here all
night." He looked toward me.
I'd forgotten all about her and jumped to my feet.
"With a look at Peter which I knew he'd understand
I said, "I think Grover is right. We ought to give up the
idea of the meeting for to-night, at least."
Peter nodded. "Finish your drinks," I said as I took
a last regretful sip of mine and put it down.
Peter held the door open for me, "Don't let her get
away again," he warned.
They say women and elephants never forget, but I
think some men have very long memories.
I expected to find Mrs. Doyle indignantly watching
the gate at the entrance to the omcest but she was not
there. She was down the aisle inspecting the price t3^:
on mirrors, console tables, chests and ather odd bits of
furniture which lined the partition. I hurried toward
her because I wanted her to be sitting „down ready to
watch the men as they came out.
There is nothing quite as deserted as a department
store after closing hours unless it is a seaside resort on
a rainy day. The floor was empty except for the rather
lumbering figure of Mrs. Doyle. The hum and racket
which had been the very pulse of the store all day long
had ceased and it seemed strangely quiet to me as I
went through the little gate toward Mrs. Doyle.
C Mrs. Doyle was busy moving along a line of Hope


i98 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
Chests, I believe they are called. Rather atrocious things
made of cedar. She lifted the lid of one, jumped back
as if she had been struck and emitted a noise halfway
between a yell and a groan. The lid banged down and
Mrs. Doyle started in my direction, a look of fear on her
face. She wore great flat shoes and in addition to her
bunions I'm sure she had fallen arches. At any rate,
her toe caught in the runner and she pitched forward,
crashed into me, and down we both went in the aisle.
The impact of her body knocked the wind out of me.
My stomach ached frightfully for a moment. I heard a
hollow crack and then knew nothing more until I was
being revived in the store infirmary.
The first thing I remember was the smelling-salts
being held under my nose by Beth Oliver. I pushed her
hand away and tried to sit up.
"Better be quiet," she warned.
"What happened?" I asked.
I raised myself on one elbow. Across the little room
on a second bed I saw the rounded bulk of Mrs. Doyle.
A doctor was working over her. He had a stethoscope
in his ears and was listening to her heart.
Peter and Charlie were watching anxiously.
I was dizzy for a moment and then sat up.
"What happened?" Peter asked, turning to me.
"I don't know." I explained as best I could, what I
had seen and what had happened.
Peter, after hearing me out, went over to the doctor
and asked about Mrs. Doyle.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 201
jaw, rubbing it ruefully as a man will who has been
unexpectedly hurt.
"I had a mix-up," he said with a grin.
When the lights went off so suddenly Charlie felt
certain the sudden darkness had something to do with
the chests in the aisle. With that idea in his mind he
started off across the floor. Peter and Smith, bent on the
same mission, were on their way when the lights went
out. Charlie, knowing the building, had cut across the
floor while Peter and Smith used the aisles, feeling,
groping their way. Although they were the first to start,
Charlie arrived on the spot before they reached it. He
stopped and listened. The place was still pitch-black
and he hoped to detect the sound of cautious movement.
He heard the sound of footsteps moving carefully and
almost soundlessly. Charlie waited tensed for action.
Suddenly he heard a man breathing. Charlie reached
out and grabbed the man. They struggled for several
minutes, his opponent getting one good one to Char-
lie's jaw. Charlie finally downed him and was sitting
on his chest when the glow from Peter's flashlight re-
vealed his identity. It was Smith. A short time after
that the lights were turned on again.
After the scuffle Charlie, Smith and Peter looked in
every chest on that aisle and found nothing. Naturally
they were baffled, wondering what it was that Mrs.
Doyle had seen to upset her so. It could have been a
mouse, of course, and I suggested that. Peter sneered
openly. _


202 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Stronger and hardier women than Mrs. Doyle have
been frightened by mice," I reminded him. "And don't
forget," I added, "elephants don't like mice."
"We'll soon find out what it was," Peter said with
determination and headed for the infirmary.
As we followed him, there was something about the
way Beth looked at Charlie's jaw which gave me an
idea of the way the wind was blowing in that quarter.


XV
When we had all gathered in a half-circle outside
the infirmary door, Peter stopped us. Just as he was
about to speak the doctor came out and cautioned us
to be silent because Mrs. Doyle still dozed. The doctor
went back into the infirmary. The electrician with the
fascinating overalls, gadgets and all, whom I had seen
earlier in the day, came down the aisle.
"What happened to the lights?" Peter asked.
"Some one threw the main switch and pulled out
several of the fuses for good luck," he explained.
"Where's the switch-box?"
"Over next to the elevators," the man answered.
It was a very bald statement, but it covered the situa-
tion completely.
"Smith," Peter called.
Smith bobbed into view from behind Herbert.
"Call Davis and have him come up here," he in-
structed. Then he turned to us. "I want to know where
you were, all of you, just before and during the time
the lights were out."
I was curious to see what the outcome of his ques-
tioning would be. He began with Herbert. "Where
were you?" he asked.
"I went back to my office," Herbert replied.
"Weren't you concerned about this lady?" Peter
pointed to me.
203


2o4THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Naturally, but she was in competent hands," Her-
bert answered.
"What did you do in your office?"
"I wanted to get something," Herbert answered.
"What?" Peter demanded impatiently.
"This." Herbert pulled a gun out of his pocket and
held it before him rather threateningly, I thought.
"Do you have a permit?" Peter asked.
Herbert nodded.
"And what do you expect to do with the gun?"
Peter went on.
"Protect myself," Herbert replied grimly.
"From what?" Peter demanded.
"That I can't answer."
For a moment I'll admit I suspected Herbert of want-
ing to commit suicide, but I was wrong. He loved life
too dearly.
"How long were you in your office?" Peter con-
tinued.
"I don't know exactly. I was coming across the floor
when the lights went out. I worked my way over here
and waited."
"Did you see or were you seen by any one?" Peter
asked.
Herbert looked at all of us as if he hoped to find cor-
roboration somewhere. When no one spoke, after a brief
wait, Peter grunted and turned to Grover.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Over there sitting in an armchair," Grover replied.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 2o5
Peter went on with his questions, but was unsuccess-
ful in getting any important information. Banter went
down to the fifth floor and didn't know that the lights
were out. Kramer said he had been in the anteroom
of the infirmary from the time we had been carried
there until the lights went out. Sandy said he had hung
around outside waiting for something to happen. It
was Sandy who telephoned to the basement for the elec-
trician. Beth and Charlie had carried me to the in-
firmary and were with me until the place was plunged
into darkness.
If Peter was disappointed by the lack of information
he was able to gather, he didn't show it. We were all
of us waiting for his next move when the doctor came
out to say that Mrs. Doyle was awake and could talk
for a short time. He warned Peter not to excite her.
As Peter turned toward the door, I stood up expec-
tantly. He hesitated a moment before he nodded for
me to follow him.
Mrs. Doyle, more than a little confused, was sitting
up in bed, her back bolstered by several pillows.
"Who knocked me down?" she demanded when she
saw me.
"You tripped and knocked me down," I explained
with a smile. "You fell."
"Did I now? Did I hurt you?" she asked solicitously.
"Knocked the wind out of me," I explained. "How's
your head?"


206THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"The head's all right. He says it's me heart. He won't
let me get up." She gave the doctor a belligerent look.
"Do you feel able to talk?" Peter asked.
"And what is it I'm doing?" she countered.
"Then tell us what you saw out there. Miss Thomas
says that something had upset you. You were hurry-
ing toward her when you tripped and fell. What did
you see?"
"The body of a girl stuffed into one of them boxes."
"Are you sure, Mrs. Doyle ?" Peter seemed reluctant to
believe her, and no wonder.
"Don't you think I know a body when I see one?"
she flared. "She was all bent up, and since it's no place
to take a nap, the girl must have been dead."
Peter and I exchanged a quick glance. The same
thought was in both our minds.
"We've looked in those boxes, Mrs. Doyle. They're
empty, all of them," Peter said quietly.
"I don't care what they are now. There was a girl in
one of them," she insisted. "The first thing I know
you'll be telling me I'm not here at all. I ought to have
stayed home and minded me own business, anyhow,
and I will the next time," she said emphatically.
She made a move to get out of the bed.
"Better continue to rest," the doctor warned.
"I've got some work to do," Peter said, and left the
office.
I knew where he was going and I wanted to be with


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 207
him. He was going to start a search for Eva Sutton's
body.
"I wouldn't have come at all if it hadn't been for
you," Mrs. Doyle said to me.
"I appreciate your coming," I assured her, but my
mind was on Peter and what he would find out there.
There was no telling where the body was by this time.
"After that man was shot this morning," she talked
on, "I wanted no part of it at all. I left the store then
and went home. I was telling my daughter, she's the
one that lives home with me, what happened over a
cup of tea when you arrived. I should have stayed home
minding me own business." Her voice drowsed for a
moment. "I'm that sleepy I can hardly keep me eyes
open." She yawned sleepily.
"Why don't you rest a minute?" I suggested, for I
was anxious to be with Peter.
"Maybe I will."
I pulled the pillows out from behind her back and
in a minute she was sleeping. The doctor said it was
the medicine he had given her.
Peter had started a search for the missing body.
Everybody was busy when I went out onto the floor.
I saw Peter in the aisle where Mrs. Doyle and I had
fallen and went directly to him.
He had been making a careful search of all the
chests and looked up from one as I approached him.
"Do you remember which one she was looking at as
you approached her?" he asked.


ao8 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
I showed him the chest.
"I thought so," he said.
He went to another chest. I followed. "Bend over
close to me when I open the next one," he said in a
lowered voice.
I did as I was told. He lifted the lid and I leaned for-
ward. "I found some hair in the chest you indicated.
I want you to do a job for me. Go to every man who
was with us in that office this afternoon and look for
hair on his clothes. Your eyes all right?" he asked.
I had to laugh at him; I couldn't help it. He was so
anxious. I assured him I'd always been able to see more
than I should most of the time, and went off on my
errand.
Herbert was across an aisle and I went to him as he
moved along peering onto and under day beds, sofas
and couches.
"Why did you get the gun?" I asked.
He stopped and looked at me, defiantly I thought.
"I learned a lot when Conklin was accusing me of
having killed Charlie. The same powers would like to
get rid of me, too," he said.
"What powers?" I asked quickly, hoping he would
have something to tell me.
"You don't suppose I'd be wasting my time if I were
sure, do you?" he asked logically enough.
"You must have some idea," I insisted.
"Do you suspect me?" he asked.
I did and I didn't and my answer was truthful


21o THE WHISPERING WINDOW
urged. As he turned away I clutched at a hair on his
sleeve just above the crook of his elbow. It was at the
place where a person's head would lie if carried in a
man's arms.
When I had the hair I didn't know what to do with
it. You can't put one down and expect to find it when
you come back. I hunted everywhere for a place and
my anxious eye spotted a telephone directory. The
prize I had clutched from Herbert's arm was put on
the page at the beginning of the H's.
I've played treasure hunt in my time and all sorts of
games about clues, but never had I taken them as seri-
ously as I did that early evening as I roamed about the
sixth floor of Doane's seeking first one man and then
another, looking for hairs. My success with Herbert in-
creased my zeal as I sought out Kramer and talked to
him. The man must have been a distant relative of
Bluebeard himself, because I found all sorts and vari-
eties of hairs plastered all over him. The man couldn't
have been very familiar with a clothes-brush, as I'm sure
the crop I reaped was not a one-day collection.
I filed my find under the K's and went looking for
John Grover, who was very businesslike in his method
of searching. He wasn't very cordial. In fact, he seemed
to resent my presence and finally asked me if I was
checking up on him. His collar bulged a little at the
back of his neck. On the inside of the bulge I could
see a white thread. I'd have probably pulled it out for
any other man, but not Grover. I asked him what, in


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 211
his opinion, was the reason for the tremendous slump
in Doane's profits.
"Bad business," he answered.
"Charlie doesn't think so," I said.
He turned and faced me more annoyed than ever,
and said, "What does he know about it? He just came
home, didn't he?"
He didn't stay still very long at a time, but I man-
aged as best I could. I kept him talking and heard
things that meant very little to me, but were, I suppose,
important to any one interested in department stores.
Among the things he mentioned were unit sales, dol-
lar volume, mark up, etc.
When I finally left him I had one hair to carry off
with me to file in the telephone directory under G.
They were nearing the end of the hunt when I ap-
proached Banter. There was a nice hair curled on his
shoulder just at the edge of his collar. My problem was
to get it without arousing his suspicion. I'd been so
successful with the others that I began to doubt my
luck.
"It's a bit like hunting for a needle in a haystack,
isn't it?" I asked.
"It's sheer foolishness," he replied. "If there was a
body here whoever tried to hide it was a fool."
He had just closed the lower part of a corner cup-
board and stood up.
"I feel a bit faint," I murmured and leaned toward
him, my hand out.


XVI
Peter's eyes were looking over and beyond me. I was
dying with curiosity. What more could I do for him?
What was his plan?
He bent a little closer and asked, "Is the coast all
clear?"
I nodded and whispered, "Haven't you found the
body?"
"No," he replied, "but I'll come to that later. This is
more important. I've been talking to the doctor about
Mrs. Doyle. He says it would be a grave mistake to
move her to-night. She's had a bad shock and should be
kept quiet. I suggested keeping her here, to which he
has agreed. I've sent for her daughter and that's where
you come in."
I didn't see what I could do, under the circumstances,
and started to tell him so. "But—" I began, when he
stopped me.
"Just be patient." He made me feel about six. I gave
him an all-right-teacher look and waited. "Mrs. Doyle
may be able to help us with the first murder. I don't
know, but she's more important now than she was
before. As you know, we've been shy of clues. As I see
it now, the field has narrowed down to elimination and
proof. These hairs will be a help, but they'll be thin
evidence at best."
213


214THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"Are you punning?" I asked. He was so serious that
he had to stop for a minute and consider what I meant.
He gave me a sickish grin which showed his annoyance
and went on.
"Our murderer has been covering himself all day
and he's been doing an excellent job of it. I don't want
him to suspect what we know, which is little enough,
God knows."
I gave him a look of agreement.
"I'd like you to stay here to-night with Mrs. Doyle if
you think you'll be able to stand it."
I was puzzled. If he had sent for the woman's daugh-
ter, why did he want me? "I can stand it, all right, but
why?" I asked, nettled by his doubts of my powers of
endurance.
He grinned at me and was more like himself than
he had been for hours. "I think the murderer will want
to move the body again."
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Why?"
"Why did he take it out of the chest where Mrs.
Doyle saw it?" he asked.
Of course I had no answer to that.
"He'll come back for the body, all right," Peter as-
sured me. "And that's where you come in. I'm glad we
didn't find it. I'm sure it's hidden on this floor some-
where."
"Just where do I come in?" I asked, not being able
to see his line of reasoning.
"It will be natural for you to stay with Mrs. Doyle.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 215
She's your witness, you've been mixed up in this thing
all day. I want extra people watching for me. I don't
want to post policemen all over this floor, for if I do
the murderer will take to cover. I'll pretend that we
must stay here because of Mrs. Doyle. I'll keep Davis
and Smith with me. If you'll stay and keep your eyes
open, that will make four of us."
"Can I tell Charlie?" I asked.
"I'd rather you didn't."
I agreed to that, but I thought he was wrong and
told him so. "If the murderer has an ounce of sense," I
said, "he'll leave well enough alone."
"He hasn't sense in the way you mean," Peter said.
"This man's idea is to cover up. The entire day has
been planned on that basis. It began with the death of
Mrs. Briggs. She was killed to cover something. The
death of the son was for the same reason. Willie was
killed because he was in a position to expose the mur-
derer. This girl was killed because she knew too much.
She was one of the last people in the office with Mrs.
Briggs if we can believe her. Don't you see what he
has been doing? He's been carefully covering his trail
all day. He not only killed Willie, but he tried to do
away with the body. I don't know the terms psy-
chologists use to describe him. I haven't studied as
much as I wish I had, but I do know this: the man's
mind is working on a single track. He's hipped on the
subject of covering up something he's done. If things
hadn't happened so fast and so furiously to-day we


216THE WHISPERING WINDOW
might have been able to get to his motive. We are pretty
sure now that it has to do with the store. The murderer
is going to be uneasy until he disposes of the body in
such a way that it can't possibly seem to be connected
with him. Imagine how you would feel if you had
transferred it from one hiding-place to another and
expected any moment to have some one find it?"
"I wouldn't have done it that way," I said.
I've often put myself in the position of a murderer
and thought about what I would have done under the
circumstances. A case of hindsight again.
"I'd stake my life that the man is waiting to get the
body out of here. I'm sure of it—so sure that I'm willing
to gamble my success on the idea. If we're smart we can
catch our man red-handed," he finished, hypnotized by
his idea.
I was still skeptical. "Wait a minute," I stopped him.
"Did you notice the clothes the men were wearing?"
He nodded. "Banter, Herbert and Charlie are wearing
gray suits,"
"McLeod's might look gray in some lights," he in-
terrupted.
I was willing to admit the truth of that, but there
was something else on my mind. "Why," I asked, "did
the murderer permit Eva Sutton to live all day?"
"Perhaps he didn't know she had seen him," Peter
suggested.
"Either that or—" I began, when a horrible realiza-
tion seized me. I remembered that whispering window.


218 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
"I don't know," I answered wearily. "My head is too
full of too many things."
"Maybe you shouldn't stay here, after all." He was
nicely considerate if a bit calculating as he said it.
"I'll stay. I'll be all right, but how about some din-
ner? I need food."
"Get your precious Charlie to take you out," he sug-
gested. "You can come back later, ostensibly to be with
Mrs. Doyle. I may not be able to talk to you again
to-night, so let's get it fixed now. I'll pick a spot for you
and suggest that you take a rest. When I do that it will
be your turn to watch. I'll have a flashlight for you to
carry in your bag. If you hear anything odd use the flash
but keep yourself covered. I don't want you shot," he
warned.
"This floor is so large that a dozen men could move
about on it and I'd neither see nor hear them," I ob-
jected.
"We'll take care of that," he assured me. "No one
will move about on this floor without making some
noise, rest assured of that. If and when you hear a
noise, crouch down behind your resting-place and turn
on your flash. Protect yourself," he warned again.
The promise of danger and excitement thrilled me.
"I'll do it," I promised. "I'll go to dinner now. I need a
pick-me-up. I only had half of that drink Charlie
gave me."
"Okay. How long will you be?"
"An hour or two," I answered.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 219
"Bring Doane back with you. He's not out of the
woods yet. Remember, he's wearing a gray suit." He
grinned as he said it, but his grin was only half fun.
I didn't answer him.
"Don't be too long," he said as I stood up.
I was tired and didn't propose going to some cheap
place where we could eat quickly. I wanted the luxury
of fine linen, good silver and crystal. I felt tired and
dirty. I'd been roaming about a dust-laden department
store all day, and while I wouldn't have missed any of
it for the world, at the same time I wasn't going to
rush right back for the night's vigil, body or no body,
and furthermore it seemed to me to be something
which would be done in the small hours of the night.
With the telephone book under his arm Peter moved
along beside me toward the infirmary. We had the
entire floor to ourselves, which made me feel safe to
ask, "Aren't you staking rather a lot on to-night?"
"It's going to simplify things a good deal if I can
catch the murderer red-handed," he replied.
"And you think it's Herbert Hastings?" I ventured
suggestively.
"Your guess is as good as mine," he replied.
We said no more because we were nearing the others.
Charlie was talking to Beth when we approached.
The others were standing about as if they expected
something to happen. Smith and Sandy were together.
They seemed to hit it off very well. Davis was sprawled
out on a divan and I think he was asleep. I don't know
*


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 221
"Get extra men and have them posted at every door
that leads to the street." He turned back to Charlie and
asked a horrible question. "Is there an incinerator in
the building?"
I've a good strong constitution and can stand most
anything, but that question sent cold shivers up and
down my spine. I asked Peter about it later and he said
it just occurred to him at the moment. You see, he was
anxious for the murderer to show his hand and hoped
that the mention of the incinerator might give the
murderer an idea if he hadn't already thought of it.
I'm old-fashioned, I know, in many ways. I've lived a
long time and I have seen many things developed.
When I hear about the air-cooled trains that whisk you
across the sun-baked deserts now and think back to
the hot horrible boxes in which I first crossed the coun-
try I wonder if I'm living in the same world. There
are so many things I accept to-day which I was skeptical
about yesterday.
I saw the automobile and airplane develop from
nothing. Tunnels have gone under rivers and dirigibles
have crossed the ocean. Men play hermit at the North
or South Pole and we are in touch with them by radio.
Such things are every-day occurrences. So many things
are common to us all now and accepted, but there is
one thing I will not accept and that is the modern idea
of cremation. I know it's supposed to be sanitary and
has been in vogue for centuries in one form or another,
but the family plot in Woodlawn is good enough for


222 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
me. Some one of my ancestors bought a great big plot.
He must have been ambitious at the time or else graves
were cheaper than they are now. At any rate, that's
where I'm going. The idea of that girl and the in-
cinerator turned my blood cold.
Charlie didn't answer Peter's question. He obviously
didn't know. John Grover said there was one.
"Isn't Mrs. Doyle any better?" I asked Peter.
"No. She'll have to stay here all night. The doctor
doesn't want her moved."
"But will she stay?" I asked, trying to be very inno-
cent.
"She'll have to stay," Peter said grimly.
"Then I'll stay with her," I announced.
"There's no need of that," Peter said.
"Nevertheless I'm staying," I said with determina-,
tion.
"But, Ethel—" Charlie began to remonstrate.
"Don't argue with me, young man. You can take
Miss Oliver and me to dinner and bring me back here
later."
"What's she got to do with it, anyhow?" Herbert
asked.
I was suddenly afraid for Mrs. Doyle. That phase
had never occurred to me before. Poor woman! She was
in danger. Had Peter thought of that? There was only
one person who could know why she was in the store.
The murderer. If he had been listening at that little
window, he knew Mrs. Doyle had seen him. It was an


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 223
awful responsibility. Something had to be done to pro-
tect the woman.
"It was just a foolish idea of mine," I said quickly.
"After young Briggs was shot I looked up and saw her
on the balcony. I told Mr. Conklin about her and he
had her brought here."
"Wasn't she the woman you brought—?" Smith
started to ask and stopped in the middle of his speech.
He was standing next to Davis and that sleepy young
man had kicked him a good vicious flip on the shin.
Drat the man, anyhow! He had probably spoiled
my lying.
I took hold of Peter's arm and said, "Tell your man
to let me in when I come back." I dragged him along
the aisle with me. Over my shoulder I called to Charlie
and said, "Come, Charlie, and bring Miss Oliver with
you."
As they started to follow us I whispered to Peter,
"That woman is in danger. Keep her guarded every
minute. Her life isn't worth two cents. Remember the
little window."
"You're great," he whispered and gave my arm a
squeeze. I bruise easily and he hurt, but I didn't mind.
It was a heartfelt compliment to an old woman who
had probably been a nuisance all day.


XVII
We went to the St. Regis, where I could get what I
wanted. Charlie suggested that new place in Rocke-
feller Center overlooking the fountain, but I just
couldn't bear the thought of that.
We settled down and I had two side-cars. A silly
name for a drink, but they do work fast. Perhaps some
wag did name them after those bathtub contraptions I
occasionally see people riding in. I should think a
motorcycle was bad enough, but one of those things—
ugh! It makes me ill to think of them.
We had a good dinner. Charlie attended to that. We
were all hungry and had very little to say until we
trifled over our dessert. I had had all I wanted of mine
and sat back and demanded,
"Why did you hide this afternoon?"
"I wondered when you would ask that question." He
grinned at me, with the crinkling of his eyes which I
adore. I tell you right now if I were younger that grin
of Charlie's would make me act like a fool.
"Out with it." I rummaged in my bag for cigarettes.
I like to smoke, but never during a meal, because I hate
to spoil the flavor of good food with tobacco fumes.
"It was really my fault," Beth spoke up.
"So the woman tempted you," I accused Charlie.
"I'd hardly call it that," he answered.
224


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 227
"Herbert Hastings may be a fool. I've always thought
so, but he's not as big a fool as you seem to think. If
he was mixed up with that Sutton girl, it is reason
enough for anything that has happened to-day."
"Then you suspect Herbert."
"If Herbert is the murderer he has more gumption
than I credit him with. On the other hand it is quite
likely that he has been a tool in the hands of some
smart crook. Don't you see the Sutton girl was prob-
ably the club which has been held over his head all
along?"
"Just what are you driving at?"
"Pay the check. I'll tell you as we drive back to the
store." I stood up and a waiter came toward us slowly,
never once forgetting the dignity which should be his
within the sacred portals of that old hotel.
On the way down the Avenue Charlie asked, "Are
you thinking of Banter?"
"He's the personnel man, isn't he?" I replied. "He's
the one man who could hire, fire and shift the help
about in the store. What has he been doing all day?
Why was that Sutton girl so afraid? We've been blind.
We've had the reason right under our noses and have
been too busy running from one murder to another to
see it. I want to see Peter Conklin. Oh, how I wish we
■ had had that store meeting this morning!" I didn't stop
talking as we climbed into a cab.
"We wouldn't have had the information we have


228 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
now," he reminded me. "We know what we know be-
cause of Miss Oliver."
"I'm not trying to slight Miss Oliver's importance to
us. We'd have been put on the right track and could
have unearthed the information." I turned to Beth then
and asked, "Do you think Carl Briggs was an honest
man?"
"I don't know."
"You were married to him, weren't you?"
"He wasn't honest with me."
I wanted to ask her why she had ever married him,
but didn't. I went on with the business at hand.
"Don't you see it?" I asked them both. "Briggs was
one of the men they used to carry merchandise out of
the store. He was known. He could come in and out
of the store any time he pleased. He knew the girls.
He took them out. He talked to them. They passed
stolen goods over to him and he got rid of it for them.
Mrs. Briggs must have found it out in some way." I
turned to Beth. "This theory will explain the package
of jewels left at the hotel for you. Briggs wanted to be
rid of them. Don't you think I'm right?"
Before she could answer, Charlie asked, "How did
Mrs. Briggs discover the truth?"
"I don't know; only I'm sure I'm right. It all fits to-
gether. Carl Briggs probably hated everything connected
with the name of Doane. When he threatened to sue
the store or whatever it was he was going to do, they
found a perfect tool for their plan."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 229
"Who?" Charlie insisted.
I was annoyed with him. I was so excited. My mind
was racing ahead trying to put the pieces together
and he asked me stupid questions. "Banter, Herbert,
any one," I snapped back at him and went on. "Briggs
wasn't working and yet he had money, which made
his mother suspicious." I turned to Beth. "These girls
who were transferred from your department, were they
friends of Briggs?"
"Some of them were," she admitted; "but I don't see
where Eva Sutton enters the picture."
"She was probably the liaison officer between a man
higher up in the store and Briggs. If she was interested
in Herbert, how else can we explain her connections
with Carl Briggs? Do you think he was in love with
her?" I asked.
"He wasn't in love with any one. I don't know any-
thing about his relationship with Eva Sutton. It may
have been purely business. They were friendly when I
first knew him, but nothing more."
"These other girls," I asked with more brutality than
was necessary, "were they platonic friendships, too?"
"I don't believe so. His interest in other women was
one of my reasons for giving him a free hand."
"Did Mrs. Briggs ever visit your apartment?" I asked
her.
"When we left the store last night she said she was
going there," Beth replied. "But that was because I had
left him. She was furious and wanted to see him."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 231
up to the sixth floor and then go home, and for heaven's
sake, take care of yourself."
"If you think I'm going home you're crazy. I
wouldn't miss this night for anything." He steered us
toward the door.
"What could happen?" I asked sharply.
"Anything. I won't leave you here alone."
"I won't be alone. Peter and the police will be here.
I'm going to sit with a sick woman who has been
dragged into this mess because of an idea of mine."
"And I'm going to watch a friend of mine who was
dragged into the mess because she bought some of my
stock. Come along." He took us each by an arm and
piloted us through the door, where a glum-faced police-
man was standing guard. «
As we stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor
it presented a gloomy appearance. One light burned in
front of the elevators. The rest of the floor was in dark-
ness except for the lights in the infirmary and a few
still burning in the executive offices.
I saw Peter sitting on the divan in the aisle just out-
side the infirmary. I wanted to talk to him. Leaving the
others behind I barged on ahead. Mrs. Doyle's daughter,
poised and dignified, was sitting there beside Peter.
"How is she?" I asked.
"Sleeping. The doctor says she's reacting beautifully,"
Peter answered. »
"Is any one watching her?" I asked.
"The doctor is in there. She's all right."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 233
her. Herbert is either guilty himself or in danger. We
can take no chances. I'm afraid."
"Want to quit?"
"Certainly not. I've never been known to quit," I
boasted.
"Better get a little rest," he suggested. "I don't think
things will happen until later in the night."
"Have they left?"
"Who?"
"Herbert, Kramer and Grover?"
"No; they're still here."
He led me back toward the divan. Charlie came up
to me and said, "I'm going down and have a look at
some records. I'll be back later."
I sat beside Miss Doyle and after some rambling hit-
and-miss conversation we got down to cases and the
thing which was on both our minds.
"Has your mother ever had one of these attacks be-
fore?" I asked.
"Two," the girl answered. "As you may have guessed,
she is quite headstrong."
"I rather thought she had a mind of her own," I
replied.
"Very definitely."
"I feel responsible for your mother," I told the girl.
"I may have caused her all this trouble for nothing.
Terrible things have happened, more may follow. I do
hope she won't be seriously affected."
"She has strong recuperative powers," the girl as-


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 235
promised. She reached into a bag, produced a long flan-
nelette gown, in which Mrs. Doyle encased herself
without protest.
The fight gone out of her, Mrs. Doyle lay back and
permitted herself to be covered again.
"Did you give Denny his supper?" she asked after a
minute.
"Yes."
Mrs. Doyle turned to me. "He's the youngest. Works
nights he does."
She was quiet for a long time, her eyes closed. I
thought she had gone to sleep and decided to leave
her alone, forgetting for the moment my concern over
her safety. I stood up and made motions of leaving to
the daughter.
Mrs. Doyle opened her eyes and said, "Don't go."
After a few moments of quiet she turned to me and
asked, "When am I going to look at the men? They
may change their clothes to-morrow."
"The doctor will let us know. We don't want you
to exert yourself for a little while." I was talking to fill
in time.
"I think I'll know him." She was thoughtful for a
minute or two and then said reminiscently. "I was
fighting mad. If there's anything in the world I hate
it's being bumped into with never a word of beggin'
your pardon or the like. He was in a good bit of a
hurry and went out by the door which I had entered.
If I'd of had a brick I'd have fired it at him I was that


238 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
The doctor was standing beside Mrs. Doyle. I knew
I was not needed there. I had rather imagined we were
safe in the infirmary, but since we were not, I decided
to see why. If I had stopped to think I probably would
not have been as brave as I was. Lack of thought and
ignorance are often mistaken for courage. Probably
Peter's hunt for the culprit outside made me forget that
the man might very well be concealed somewhere in
the infirmary. As I started my investigation I was in-
terested in only one thing. How did the man get in-
side without some one seeing him?
The infirmary was walled off from the balance of
the sixth floor by a ceiling-high partition. The hospital
itself on the inside was partitioned to a height of prob-
ably eight feet. The person who had thrown that thing
had been in the infirmary all the time or had entered
it through some door we didn't know existed.
I went on a tour of inspection while the doctor and
her daughter tried to soothe Mrs. Doyle. The room we
had been in was on a corridor which led away from the
reception room. I opened doors as I moved along. I
was most interested in the room next to ours. It was
a diet kitchen—at least, I believe that's what they are
called. At any rate, there was a large electric icebox,
an electric stove and in one corner a drinking fountain
which held a five-gallon bottle of spring water. The
drip stand was empty.
I was satisfied that that was the spot from which
the missile had come. I went on down the little corridor,


XIX
After an hour of waiting I was restless. There is
nothing that wears you down like waiting for some-
thing to happen. The breathless calm before the storm
has never been exaggerated, in my estimation. There
was an air of expectancy about all of us on that floor
except Davis, who with his glasses pushed up on his
forehead snored spasmodically. Even Sandy, who dozed
in a chair, seemed to possess the alert awareness of a
sleeping cat. Charlie and Beth were sitting on a divan
engrossed in nothing but themselves, so it seemed, but
. at the slightest sound they looked up quickly. Peter
was buried in a big chair looking at some reports.
Smith seemed uncomfortable sitting erect in a ladder-
backed chair beside a grandfather's clock which, praise
be, was not running.
I selected the chair next to Peter's and with a sigh
settled down. He looked up for a second and went back
to his reports, paying no further attention to me until
he folded the papers and replaced them in his pocket.
"The hairs?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Anything definite?"
"Two suspects."
"Who?"
My eagerness and interest were ignored. "I can't tell
you now," was all he said.
245


246 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
I was going to press him for the information, when
the door of the infirmary opened and Mrs. Doyle's
daughter came out and said, "She's ready."
"Is she going home?" I asked. I hated being left in
the dark.
"No, she's coming out here," Peter said.
"What for?"
"To watch. I want her to spot our man for us."
"Peter, you can't do this. She may be killed," I pro-
tested vehemently.
"She'll be all right," he assured me.
"She wasn't safe a few minutes ago," I argued. "You're
making a target out of her. It isn't fair. Herbert's roam-
ing about this floor like a cat stalking its prey. He's
carrying a gun. What's to prevent his shooting the
woman?"
"Your nerves are going back on you. You'd better
get some rest before your time on duty. I'll call you
about one o'clock."
With that he left me, to reappear a few minutes later
walking beside Mrs. Doyle, who was settled into a
chair away from the lights. She was completely in the
shadow, but the area near the infirmary door was well
lit by the clever arrangement of bridge lamps which
Peter had fixed with Mrs. Doyle's resting-place in
mind.
"She'll be all right," he assured. "No one knows she's
there but us."
"Where's Herbert?" I asked.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 247
"He went back into his office a few minutes ago."
"And what is Mrs. Doyle supposed to do?" I asked.
"Just watch. She assured you she knew the man's
back. I want her proof. That and the evidence of the
hairs should tighten the noose about our man's neck."
"I'll never forgive myself or you if anything happens
to her," I warned him.
"I wish you'd get some rest," he answered. "I'm de-
pending on you later. You're to do duty with Davis.
He's making sure of getting his sleep." A snore from
Davis gave me ample proof of that.
Charlie and Beth were deeply engrossed in each
other. Sandy still dozed. I didn't want to attract atten-
tion to Mrs. Doyle by talking to her. Peter was right.
I was tired, dog tired, and the more I thought of it the
more I wanted to rest. All the comfortable and available
furniture near the infirmary was in use. I remembered
a bed in one of the displays in the galleries. It was at
the end of the aisle which ran across the building in
front of the infirmary.
"I'm going over here," I said to Peter and started on
my way.
"Where?" he asked.
"At the end of this aisle," I replied. "There are beds
there all made up. I'll use one."
He grinned at me. I made no further explanation.
If any one at any time had ever told me that I would
relish a nap on a department store bed in one of their
display galleries I would have been most contemptuous.


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 249 *
of a clear conscience. That may be true, but I think a
well-trained imagination is of much more importance.
I don't know exactly how long I slept. I can remem-
ber thinking that a mattress was a little hard without a
pad over it, because I was conscious of the buttons on
the face of the mattress. I was thinking that perhaps I'd
have button marks on me somewhere and remembered
nothing more.
My sleep was not restful, because I began to dream.
It was like looking into a kaleidoscope wherein the
weird events of the day were jumbled in wild disorder.
Faces, flashes of scenes, thoughts, reasons and motives
swirled, taking shape clearly and distinctly for a mo-
ment and then vanishing just as quickly. It was like
being caught in a wild raging torrent that mercilessly
carried me with it. I fought trying to connect the faces
and the scenes. I clutched at ideas, reasons and mo-
tives. I became frantic as I tried to fit the pieces together
and unravel the tangled threads. The tempo increased,
the movement became faster and faster until I was com-
pletely caught and rushed headlong toward some ter-
rible and horrible pending disaster. I wanted to strug-
gle because I was aware of my danger. I knew I was
trying to call, but my throat was dry and no sound
would come from my lips. There was no escape for
me. I was going as all the others had gone that day.
Resignation to a fate which I could not control para-
lyzed me. For a moment I seemed to be sinking and
then suddenly, I knew I was no longer dreaming. I


2jo THE WHISPERING WINDOW
became wide awake, the resignation of my dream gone.
Cold terror held me, enveloping me like an icy mold.
My eyes opened to a pitch-blackness charged with
danger. Have you ever been unaccountably afraid? Do
you know the terror of unexplainable fear? Have you
ever been so terrified that you didn't dare blink an eye-
lash? I had known that fear before, but that is another
story.
It wasn't because I was half awake or anything like
that. I was wide awake when I opened my eyes to the
impenetrable blackness. I knew I'd be able to see some
reflection or glow from the lights in front of the in-
firmary if they were lit. There was no glow, neither
was there the slightest sound. Where were the others?
Why were they so quiet? What had happened to
them all?
From somewhere out on the river I heard the dull
throaty blast of a tugboat whistle. It is one of the noc-
turnal sounds of New York I've always loved. It re-
assured me and with that new assurance came other
rational thoughts. Perhaps Peter had come quietly to
waken me. I wanted more comfort than my thoughts.
I wanted to hear my own voice. I was on the verge of
calling softly when the words froze in my throat.
There was a movement beside my bed, a soft, barely
perceptible movement of a foot sliding over a carpet.
Instinctively I knew it was not Peter. Who was it and
what did the person want?
I know I was as stiff as an icicle when an unseen hand


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 251
took hold of the coverlet and pulled it away from me.
My sense of humor helped me through that dreadful
moment as I discarded the possibility of rape. This was
no Sextus seeking a Lucretia. Most women have a
strange pleasurable horror of being seized by bold
predatory hands. It's natural that we should. It bucks
up our vanity to think that we might be wanted that
much.
There was a slight, barely audible grunt as my visitor
leaned forward which made me visualize a paunch. I
could feel hands on the mattress rather than hear them
and knew what was going to happen. I was to be lifted
from that bed and carried away. Why?
As the hands worked their way under me my
thoughts raced. I didn't dare scream for fear I'd be
strangled at once. There was no reason why any one
should want this frayed, wrinkled, loose-skinned body
of mine unless— The terror of my dream returned. I
knew too much. It was to be my end. Whoever it was
who had crept upon me knew I was there. My mouth
and throat were just as dry as they had been in the
dream. I was wishing for the blessing of free-flowing
saliva when reason came. Suddenly it dawned on me.
This man—I knew it was a man because of the stale
smell of cigar smoke—had come for the body of Eva
Sutton! In the darkness he had made a natural mistake.
It took every atom of control I possessed to keep
from shuddering. It was exactly what Peter had pre-
dicted would happen. Why hadn't we discovered the


252 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
body in one of the beds? Why had no one thought of
that, unless the murderer had cleverly taken the gal-
leries as his part of the search.
A new fear gripped me as I thought of Peter's ques-
tion about the incinerator. Was that to be my end? Was
the store equipped with chutes leading to the furnace
similar to those seen in apartment houses? Was Peter
watching? Would he save me? If I managed to cry
out or struggle would I be killed for my effort and
would the mysterious killer go free again?
I didn't know what to do. I'd heard different things
about rigor mortis. Did the man know as much as I
thought I did? I racked my memory and was sure that
somewhere in my reading I had come across the in-
formation that a body stiffens after death and then
becomes relaxed again. If Eva Sutton had been dead
for several hours she should have passed through the
stiffening process.
As the hands under me lifted there was another
low grunt. I relaxed as much as I could. My head felt
damned uncomfortable dangling down, as did the one
arm which flopped over my side. I came within an
ace of doing a stupid thing. I very nearly reached for
my handbag as I felt my body leaving the bed. That's
» something a good corpse would not do. I stopped the
impulse just in time.
As my bearer turned, my foot slapped against some
piece of furniture which very nearly made me cry
out. As it was, I had a black and blue bruise there for


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 253
weeks. With my head dangling I tried to see the por-
tion of the floor which was exposed to my view. I
could make out the outlines of windows on one side
of the building and through one, way off in the dis-
tance, I could see an electric sign blinking on and off
like some pulse of the night.
I had a bad jounce as the man stepped off the plat-
form of the gallery and moved away. I'd have given
anything in the world if I had known in which direc-
tion we were going. Where was Peter? Why didn't he
do something? I was terrorized by a picture of seething
hot flames. I gritted my teeth, which doesn't give you
much satisfaction when you wear plates. It just hurts
your gums a little.
As I was cautiously carried along an aisle a new fear
took possession of me. Peter hadn't told me of his
plans. Would he shoot at the man? There was no
reason why he should not. You can't hurt a person
who is already dead and he wouldn't know that I was
not Eva Sutton.
He didn't know where the body had been hidden.
There was no reason why he should be watching the
galleries. I was in a dangerous position from any angle.
Peter might shoot at the man and hit me or the man
might drop me anywhere.
Since I have no desire to be cremated after I'm dead
I decided then and there that I certainly wouldn't be
burned alive. I'd wait until we were well out on the
floor and then begin a scratching party to free myself.


254THE WHISPERING WINDOW
I had an inward chuckle as I thought of the surprise
my unknown carrier would feel when he discovered
that he had crept upon and carried away something of
live flesh and blood.
We stopped suddenly and I listened to determine
why. I could feel the arms which held me tighten. I
knew the man was listening, as I was, straining his
ears for a sound.
Then I heard the voice. It wasn't a voice really; it
was an audible breath which said, "So it's you."
It was Herbert speaking, I knew that, but if my life
depended on my being sure, and it more or less did, I
couldn't tell whether or not the voice came from the
man who carried me.
"Don't be a fool," a second voice just as quiet said,
freighted with warning.
I wanted to scream or laugh or both. There were two
men hissing like tomcats over me.
My bearer took a step to the side and it was that, I
believe, which saved my life, for the next minute there
was a most peculiar sound. A hissing and crackling
going on under me. I have heard the children call
them "son-of-a-guns." Anyhow, they are a sort of
torpedo which cracks with minute explosions when
they are stepped on. A variation of the old-style torpedo.
The sound startled both of us. I squirmed. I don't
know what the man thought, but it must have been
an awful shock, because he dropped me, right out of
his arms, and I hit the floor with a nice flat flop on top


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 255
of the snapping son-of-a-guns. I rolled over. The next
instant there was the report and flash of a gun. I kept
rolling and wound up under a day bed. During my
rolling progress, there was a second gun-flash.
It all happened quicker than it takes to tell it. With
my immediate danger over and feeling safe under the
day bed I had a moment of uncontrolled hysteria and
started to scream, long and loud; but my shrill voice
was stilled by the sudden rush of lights which made me
blink. I was looking upward and for a fraction of a
second I saw the amazed distorted face of Herbert
Hastings twisted in pain before it melted away from
me.
I'm sure I fainted for at least thirty seconds. My next
recollection was hearing excited voices calling from
different parts of the store and the rushing of hurrying
feet and the snapping of what seemed like hundreds
of the son-of-a-guns. All the sounds were converging
to the spot where I lay hidden under the day bed. I
began to crawl out from under, sickened by what I
saw. Herbert and John Grover were prone on the floor.
I felt ill at the sight and was struggling up from my
hands and knees when the others arrived. Charlie and
Beth helped me to my feet and lowered me to a chair
and then stood in front of me to save me from the
horror which I had already seen. I pushed them aside
so I could see what was going on.
The doctor was bending over Grover. Peter was
-


i56 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
kneeling beside Herbert. One of them was guilty, but
which one?
"He's in a bad way," the doctor said, looking up.
Then he set about stopping the flow of blood. He had
a pair of shears which he used to cut Grover's coat away
from his body. He pressed a pad over the wound and
then said, "Carry him to the infirmary. Be careful."
He crossed to Herbert.
Herbert's condition, too, was serious. The doctor
shook his head doubtfully, while we watched, awed by
the things which had happened.
"Is he dead?" Peter asked.
"No," the doctor replied. "We'll have to take him to
the infirmary, too."
We all trailed along behind the body of Herbert,
which Kramer and Sandy were carrying gingerly, pass-
ing Mrs. Doyle, who, tagged by her daughter, came
toward us, a flannel ghost in that voluminous night-
gown of hers.


XX
Beth went in to help the doctor and was followed by
Charlie.
"Well," Peter said. "It looks as if we have come to
the end of the trail. How did you get mixed up in it?"
When I had explained my part in the drama he said,
"You think Herbert or Grover thought you were the
dead woman?"
I nodded.
"Then her body is still in one of those beds." He
turned to Smith. "You and McLeod take a look."
Smith was back in a few minutes. The body was in
the gallery next beyond the one I had used. Since they
did use wax figures for display purposes it was an un-
derstandable reason for our not finding Eva when we
looked for her.
"Which one of them carried you?" Peter asked.
"I don't know," I replied.
"Then we don't know yet," he said irritably. "I hope
he confesses before he dies."
"Who?" I asked.
"Hastings," he answered.
"You're wrong," I snapped.
"Who told you?" he snapped back querulously.
"Nobody told me. I've been doing some thinking."
"Good. Then suppose you tell me why I'm wrong."
257


THE WHISPERING WINDOW^
or understand is why, since the murderer knew that
Eva Sutton had seen him, he allowed her to live all
day. We do know now, however, why she was afraid."
"And so?" Peter prompted me.
"The murderer knew he would have to eliminate
dangerous witnesses, hence the doing away of Willie
and the shooting of Carl Briggs. The man, as you said
sometime before, knew all there was to know about the
store. He watched for Carl Briggs. He stood in the
whispering window and when he felt certain that Carl
was about to expose him the shot was fired. There was
only one person left who could closely identify him
with the murder of Mrs. Briggs and that person was
Eva Sutton. For some reason which we may,never
know, he felt sure of her.
"When I returned this afternoon with Mrs. Doyle,
our murderer was listening at the window. He heard
her talk about the gray suit. He was afraid of her iden-
tification and resorted to that crude attack on her life.
He had heard the doctor say her heart was bad and he
undoubtedly thought that a shock would be her finish."
"How about the dart in Mr. Doane's seat?" Peter
asked seriously.
I knew exactly what he meant, but it did sound funny
the way he said it.
"Our murderer wanted Mr. Doane out of the way
so that the store meeting we were to have would be
postponed temporarily if not indefinitely. Why, I don't


26oTHE WHISPERING WINDOW
*
know, but that will be the raison d'etre of the whole
mad business.
"We know," I hurried on because I didn't want to
be interrupted again, "that Eva Sutton came up here to
see Herbert Hastings immediately after the store closed.
That's why I feel our conversation signed her death-
warrant." •
"I tell you it had nothing to do with it," Peter in-
sisted. It was very sweet of him to take that stand.
I went on. "The murderer had two things to worry
about after having heard that conversation. Eva Sutton
and the gray suit he was wearing."
"But after you went off to take your nap, all of the
men passed Mrs. Doyle and she was unable to recognize
any of them," Peter broke in.
"Naturally," I said, "because the murderer changed
his suit."
"I'll be damned!" Peter muttered. I felt very smug,
because I was sure he hadn't thought of that.
"Charlie Doane and Beth Oliver were hiding at the
time I returned. Herbert Hastings was in his office talk-
ing to Eva Sutton. We know nothing of the where-
abouts of Mr. Banter, Kramer or John Grover." I could
see both Banter and Kramer squirm uncomfortably as
eyes were turned in their direction.
"Which one is guilty?" Peter asked.
"John Grover," I replied, "and I'll tell you why I
think so."


i6z THE WHISPERING WINDOW
in Grover's office or perhaps in the men's clothing de^
partment."
"The cut coat is here," Smith said, and handed it to
Peter, who took the parts of it and held it gingerly
because it was wet. Sure enough, on the inside of the
collar there was the evidence of a tag having been hastily
removed.
"I hand it to you," Peter said with admiration.
"If Herbert Hastings hadabeen at the lisRning win-
dow he would have changed his suit," I said. "That's
why I was sure it was not Herbert, but I knew it might
have been either Mr. Banter or Grover."
Banter wiped his face and neck with evident relief.
"How did those torpedoes get out there on the floor?"
I asked Peter.
"I put them there hoping they would betray any one
. who tried to prowl about," he explained.
"I believe they saved my life," I said.
"Praise God, you're safe!" Mrs. Doyle said with genu-
ine feeling.
The doctor came to the door and beckoned to Peter,
who, followed by Davis, entered the infirmary.
The others plied me with questions. We none of us
could figure why Grover made the mistake he did. I
will always believe that Grover dropped the silk rope
in front of the gallery which held Eva's body so he
could find it without a light. When he went groping
his way through the dark he came to the rope which I
had dropped to the floor when I bumped into it and


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 263
♦elievjrig that I was Eva, he lifted me and carried me
off.
I don't know how long Peter was gone, because we
talked and rehashed the events of the day, but when
he came out and joined us he was very, very solemn.
"How are they?" I asked.
"Grover's dead. You were right."
"Then he confessed?"
"Enough. It's a bit garbled. Davis took it down.
Grover wanted to get control of the store. He cultivated
Hastings to get himself in here and then planted Eva
Sutton as a vamp to get something on Hastings.
Hastings fell for the girl and Grover then had him
where he wanted him. Hastings didn't know all that
was going on, Grover saw to that. Grover kept getting
more and more power. He hoped to get the store in
•such shape that he could eventually buy it for next to
nothing. Banter and Kramer were his chief aides. They
had an elaborate thieving system which was controlled
by Banter as personnel manager and Kramer as head
of the store detectives. The thieving went on steadily.
That was one of Grover's ways of keeping the profits
down. The merchandise taken from the store was re-
sold or stored until such time as Grover could use it
at a handsome profit back here in the store. Grover put
in a new system of bookkeeping and juggled figures.
He didn't want public accountants called in, because
his whole plot would be exposed. Hastings feared any


264 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
scandal and as long as Grover could keep him quiet he
felt reasonably safe.
"Mr. Doane's unexpected arrival complicated things,
which explains the use of the dart Grover believed to
be poisoned.
"When Grover heard of the suit which Carl Briggs
threatened to bring against the store he had very little
trouble making a lieutenant out of Briggs. Carl Briggs
was one of the men who carried goods out of the store.
"When Mrs. Briggs called on her son last night her
unexpected arrival threw a wrench in the works. She
may have been suspicious, we'll never know about that,
but she found jewelry in Carl's apartment which she
knew should have been in the store. Mrs. Briggs threat-
ened to spill the story this morning. Carl was panicked
and telephoned Grover, who tried to reason with Mrs.
Briggs this morning. He said he didn't mean to kill
her. He wanted to put the fear of God, or the Devil, into
her, I don't know which. He said he stepped behind
her and seeing a loop of wire he put it about her throat
and pulled. She gave just one convulsed jerk, that's
when she broke the rosary, and died. The bottle of
metal polish gave him the idea of making it look like
suicide.
"He left through that little side door. He didn't re-
member what he did with the piece of wire."
"And I had it around me leg all day," Mrs. Doyle
said, "and it had been used to kill a woman and all!
The Saints preserve us!"


268 THE WHISPERING WINDOW
out of them I had nothing but my interest in the store
and my failure to make myself as good as or equal to
a Doane. A man has to have something to cherish. It
sort of keeps him warm. I had nothing. Failures are
cold things."
I had never thought of Herbert as a sensitive or a
thoughtful person. As I stood there hearing his con-
fession I knew how much I had misjudged him. There
he lay, opening his heart to me with a freedom I was
sure he'd regret if he lived. I wanted to stop him, but I
did not dare. If he did die I'd be haunted by the
memory of refusing him confession.
"I can talk to you," he went on, making me glad I
had said nothing. "You've been around and done things.
You're the only human one of the lot except Charlie
and we never were able to get together. You're not a
Doane, though; they think you're better than they
are."
"That's absurd," I scoffed.
"Not to them," he insisted. "Family is important to
them. They talk about you, don't quite approve of the
things you do but they laugh them off because they
don't dare say a thing, not even about what, in the
bosom of the family, they called your scandalous es-
capades. I'm telling you this because I want somebody
to understand about the girl. I loved her and I think
she loved me."
"She did," I assured him. "She died because she loved
you."


THE WHISPERING WINDOW 271
honeymoon, delayed a little until the affairs of the
store could be straightened out. I gave Beth my share
of Charlie's stock as a wedding-present and it really is
a Doane store again.
I advanced Charlie enough money to tide the store
over the first bad days. At first he didn't want to accept
it, but when I told him he'd get my money eventually
since I made him my chief heir years ago, he agreed.
They were very happy and when I left them at the
boat on the eve of their departure, he told me he'd name
his daughter after me.
"What if it's a boy?" I asked.
He answered me in less than a minute. "If it's a boy
I'll call him Ethelbert," he grinned impishly.
"And if you do that," I flung back over my shoulder
as I left them at the rail, "I'll disinherit all of you."
THE END
t