Whispers at Dawn; Or, The Eye

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XII THE WHISPERER RETURNS

  On the following morning at dawn the whisper returned to Grace Krowl'slittle parlor on Maxwell Street. She had just wakened and lay on hercomfortable bed staring at the faint tracings of beautiful forms on herunusual walls, when she heard it.

  "A pleasant day to you! Here I am again, talking to you down a beam oflight."

  Springing to her feet, she threw on a dressing gown and dashed into herparlor. She would trap the intruder. But she did not. As before, the roomwas empty.

  She took a seat by her table. "Ah! There you are!" There was a glad notein the whisper. "How beautiful is youth!" She flushed.

  "I have no message of importance for you today," the whisper went onsteadily. "But tomorrow--who knows?

  "One request: do not disturb any object in your room. To do so maydestroy the charm. And, in the end, you would regret it.

  "Let me assure you I am an honorable person. I am for the law--notagainst it. My motives are good. You may trust me. And you may believe mewhen I tell you I am more than a mile away."

  The girl started. There it was again. "More than a mile away. How couldanyone be seen through a mile of space--much less send a whisper overthat great distance?

  "A radio," she thought. A careful search revealed no sign of a radio.Only one object in her room was strange, the two foot reflector againstthe wall.

  "Dawn is passing," came once again in a whisper. "Like the fairies, Imust be on my way. Cheerio, and a good day to you!" The room wentsuddenly silent. It was silence such as Grace Krowl had seldomexperienced.

  Strangely enough, at the "House of Magic" in quite another section of thecity, Johnny Thompson heard that same whisper. What was stranger still,the words were not the same. From this it might surely be learned thatthis was, at least, not a radio broadcast.

  He had fallen asleep staring at that magic ceiling that had a way offalling silently. He awoke at dawn, still staring at that ceiling. To hisvast surprise, he found it now fully twenty feet above his head. "Wasthat way when I went to bed," he assured himself. "Must have dreamedit--must--"

  He broke short off to listen with all his ears. In a clear, distinctwhisper had come a greeting:

  "Good morning, Johnny Thompson!"

  "Good--good morning," he faltered. He was conscious of a feeling that hewas not heard. In this he was right.

  "We are glad you are back in the city, Johnny. You will tell your friendDrew Lane that we will soon have a definite message for him--one that hasto do with his present mission. We will whisper it to you some day atdawn. That is your room. You must keep it. No harm will befall you there.And now, may your day be a busy and profitable one." The whisper ended.

  We might say that, though Johnny failed to notice it at that time, therewas on the far side of his room a circular mirror or reflector, such aswe have seen in Grace Krowl's room, and that his window was open towardthe east.

  "A good day to you." Grace Krowl, the girl from Kansas, recalled thesewords, whispered to her "down a beam of light" many times during thetrying hours of that day.

  "Whispers," she repeated to herself, "whispers at dawn. What does itmean? And this whisperer? Is it a man or a woman? Could one tell by thequality of tone?"

  The Whisperer had given her little intimation of his purpose. She hadbeen assured that the purpose was honorable and kind. She had beenrequested to leave her room just as it was. This request had caused herto look at the strange oval reflector on the wall.

  At times she thought of telling her uncle all about it. "But no," shedecided in the end, "this shall be my own small secret. What harm cancome from a whisper? The Whisperer said that he would return. Well then,let him!" With that, for the time, she set the matter aside.

  After a hasty breakfast served by her uncle's aged housekeeper, she wentdown into the "store." "Look!" Her uncle pointed to a number of trunksstanding on end just inside the door. "Yesterday was express auction day.It comes always on Tuesday. I have bought these trunks. What is there inthem? How should I know? Probably wrags." Nicholas Fischer was veryGerman in his speech.

  "But you will be surprised." His faded eyes brightened. "We have veryswell customers on Wednesday. They come from the north side and from outby the University. They are curious. They want to see what they can buycheap. And they buy, right from the trunks. You shall see.

  "You will be very helpful," he went on. "You are young. They will like abright face. You shall wait on them. You will know them by their fineclothes, fur coats, all that. And I--" He looked over his cheap garments."I shall wait on the poor ones, the ones who buy a few towels or somevery poor dishes.

  "Yes, you wait on the fine ladies. Only--" he held up a finger, "always Imake the price."

  An artist looking in upon this bewhiskered, shabbily dressed keeper of asecond-hand store and his niece all pink and fresh in her spotless smock,would have found contrast to suit his taste.

  "See!" Nicholas Fischer spoke again, "I will break open the locks andlift the lids, but you must not unpack the trunks. Leave that to the fineladies. They will tell you they are 'exploring.'"

  "But supposing they find something truly valuable--a--a diamond orsomething!" Grace protested.

  "If they find a diamond, then I drop dead. What will it matter?" NicholasFischer laughed hoarsely.

  "But you keep watch." His shrewd eyes gleamed. "If you find a diamond,then you and I will buy us a Christmas present."

  "Good!" It was the girl's turn to laugh. "Christmas will soon be here.I'll find the diamond, you'll see, and a few stocks and bonds for goodmeasure."

  "Yes. Stocks and bonds." Seizing a hammer and chisel, Nicholas Fischerpried off the lock of a large, round-topped trunk. "The round-toppedones," he commented, "they come from the country. Sometimes there arevery fine wool blankets in these. Then we make a few dollars."

  While her uncle was prying away at the locks, the girl had an opportunityto study the trunks that, standing as they did, huddled in a group andtipped this way and that, reminded her of a picture she had seen of sixvery tipsy men awaiting the police wagon.

  "Trunks," she told herself, "are like people. They have character. Thereis a big wardrobe--a trifle shabby to be sure, but still standing on itsdignity. And there are three canvas covered ones, huddled together. Neverbeen anybody in particular and never will be. There's that one withbright orange stripes running around it, like a delicate lady. There'sthat good solid citizen, oak ribs and stout metal edges. And there--"

  Having moved a little, she had caught sight of a tiny brown trunk thatappeared to hide behind the "solid citizen."

  "Horsehair trunk," she whispered to herself. "Old as the hills. What mustit contain?"

  And then her uncle, chisel in hand, approached.

  "Please!" Her cry was one almost of pain. "Are there not enough others?This little one must not have much in it. Let me look at it--alonetonight."

  Nicholas Fischer, looking into her pleading eyes, shook his head. "I amafraid you will wreck my business. You are too soft." Nevertheless, hespared the little trunk.

  Dropping his chisel in the corner, he threw a ragged blanket over it ashe muttered, "Tomorrow will be time enough. But mind you, it must betomorrow."

  The "ladies" came, just as her uncle had promised they would. They camedressed in furs--mink, marten and Hudson seal--for it was a bleak,blustery day. They picked their way daintily between piles of usedbedding and soiled dresses, to pause at last before the open trunks.

  As they looked into the slim trunk with orange stripes about it, Gracewas reminded of a picture she had seen of three vultures sitting on arock peering into the distance.

  "Snoopers! How I hate them! Yet, I must serve them." Next moment she waswondering whether or not she was being quite fair to them. They had comewhere things were sold and had a right to inspect the wares.

  "But everything in that trunk belonged to a person who treasured it," shetold herself. "Why must such rude hand
s unpack it, after it was packedwith such care? Why must each one carry away the one treasure she mostdesires, while the rightful owner goes empty-handed?" To this questionshe could find no answer save one haunting verse she remembered from avery old book: "The destruction of the poor is their poverty."

  She summoned a friendly smile and assisted the "ladies" in emptying thistrunk which had belonged to a young lady. When, however, Grace came to adrawer of photographs, letters and personal papers, she dumped them allinto a card-board box and shoved them under the ragged quilt where thelittle horsehair trunk seemed to peek at her through the holes.

  The "ladies" turned from the next three trunks in disgust. Two men's, andone family trunk, they offered little more than dirty rags.

  "Why must people be so filthy," a fat "lady" in a mink coat complained."If they must lose their things you'd think they might at least wash thembefore packing."

  The wardrobe trunk offered gaudy finery that did not interest the"ladies" overmuch. But the big square trunk Grace had named the"substantial citizen"--this one it was that brought a fresh ache to thegirl's heart.

  It turned out to be a household trunk filled with bedding, linen and allsorts of fancy articles done by hand. Everything was scrupulously clean.And the bits of hand embroidery, the touches of lace, the glints of colorall done with the finest thread, seemed to say, "I belong to a home. Weall belong together. We rested beneath the lamp, above the fireplace in aroom some people called home."

  She tried to picture that home. There was a man, a woman, and theirchildren, a brother and a sister. The man read. The woman's fingers werebusy with thread and needle. The children played with the cat before thefire.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she thought, "All this is being destroyed.All that is best in our good, brave land, a home, has become a wreck."

  But the "ladies"! How they babbled and screamed. "Oh Clara! Look! Isn'tthis a scream? Only look at this piece! Isn't it exquisite?" "Mary, justtake a peek at this buffet runner. Two yards long! And all done by hand!It's a treasure. I'll offer the old man a half dollar for it. He'll takeit. What does he know?"

  Grace listened and set her lips tight. Life, she could see, was going tobe hard, but she would certainly see it through.

  She experienced a sense of contentment as she recalled the littlehorsehair trunk. Tonight she would spirit that away up to her room andthere she would find adventure looking inside it. There would be letters,she told herself, and photographs--and--and perhaps some real treasure.

  At that moment her eyes caught a second box of keepsakes. These too sheshoved away under the ragged quilt.

  "Tonight in my parlor," she told herself. She was rapidly coming to knowthat each trunk told the story of the owner. In her room she would readthat story.

  Her parlor. Her brow wrinkled. What a mysterious room! So perfect, and insuch a place. "And there's the concave mirror, and the whisper at dawn."She shuddered in spite of herself.

  Then she came out of her revery with a snap. The fat lady in the minkcoat was approaching her uncle. She would offer half a dollar for thebuffet runner. Gliding swiftly past, Grace whispered in her uncle's ear:

  "The price is three dollars."

  The "lady" gave her a suspicious glance. But the price _was_ threedollars. And in the end, three dollars the lady paid.

  "Is that all the trunks?" The fat lady turned a petulant, spoiled facetoward the girl. "Are there no other trunks?" She snatched at the raggedblanket, but Grace was too quick for her, her foot was on its edge.

  "There are no other trunks to be opened today."

  "Oh--ah!" The "lady" sighed. "This has been such fun!"

  Fun? Grace turned away. And in turning she found herself presenting atearful face to none other than Drew Lane her friend of the bus, who hadentered unnoticed.

  "Well," he smiled, pretending not to see her tears. "How's the big storein Chicago?"

  "Great! Great!" She managed a smile.

  "How--how are all the people you look af--after?" she asked a bitunsteadily.

  "Oh, they're all right." He laughed a low laugh. "In fact--" His voicedropped to a hoarse whisper--"I've got some of them locked up. Quite anumber. You see, I'm a city detective. This is part of my territory. I'llbe seeing you often, I hope."

  She started and stared. That whisper! When one spoke out loud his voicecould be recognized. She knew this. But a whisper? Could one trulyrecognize a whisper when he heard it the second time? It seemedincredible. And yet, Drew Lane's whisper was so like the one she hadheard at dawn.

  "Impossible! A mere fancy!" She tried to free herself from thisapparently unreasonable suspicion.

  "A penny for your thoughts," Drew Lane bantered.

  "No! No! Not for a dollar," was her quick reply.

  "All right," he laughed. "Anyway, I'll be seeing you. Got to hurry ondown the street." He was gone, leaving the girl's head in a whirl.

  "Whispers at dawn?" she murmured as she made her way toward the horsehairtrunk.

  "What about these?" She held the box of keepsakes from the big trunk upfor her uncle's inspection.

  "What?" He stared.

  "These? Letters? Pictures?"

  He made a wry face. "Baby books, maybe. Who would buy these? Throw themin the alley. Black children live in the next street. They carry themoff."

  "But look! Here is the croix de guerre. Some brave fellow fought to winthat," she protested.

  "Yes! But did he keep it? No! Let some black boy wear it."

  "Then I may keep them? All these?"

  "If you wish."

  She rewarded him with a smile. After the evening meal she would read thestories recorded here and she would explore the little horsehair trunk.