Whispers at Dawn; Or, The Eye

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XXI CHRISTMAS EVE

  The dawn of the day before Christmas arrived and with it, in GraceKrowl's tiny parlor, came the hoarse whisper of the mysterious one:

  "Tonight," it insisted, "you will not fail me. It is for the good of all.You owe us more than you know. It is we who beautified your livingquarters. Your coming disturbed our plans. But if you do this thing forus you shall be forgiven."

  "Plans." It was her turn to whisper. "What plans?" She wanted to know.

  A half hour later, when she descended to the street she found Drew Lanestanding by the store door.

  "Saw a small leather bag through the window," he explained. "Think I'dlike it."

  With some irrelevance Grace said quickly:

  "Drew Lane, how could anyone see you a mile away?"

  "Powerful telescope, perhaps." He gave her a strange look.

  "But in your room, with the shade half drawn?"

  "No, not possible. Television, possibly that." His voice dropped to anear whisper. "They do strange things with that, I'm told.

  "What is it?" He looked her squarely in the eye. "That Whisperer again?"

  "Yes."

  "And does he claim to see you as well as talk to you?"

  "He does see me. I'm sure of it."

  "That's strange!" Drew Lane did not appear to be shamming.

  "Can it be," she asked herself, "that this young man is not theWhisperer, and that he knows nothing about it?"

  As for Drew, he stood there considering the advisability of inviting thisgirl to the Captain's Christmas party. He left without having arrived ata definite decision. Some hours later he was to be devoutly thankful thathe had not given the invitation.

  Christmas Eve came. By nine o'clock the tracks of two large automobilesmight have been seen winding through the freshly fallen snow before theCaptain's boyhood home, and from there away to the shed serving as agarage at the right of the house.

  From the windows there stole a mellow light. Caught and flung high, curlsof blue wood smoke rose from the chimneys.

  The guests were seated in the tiny parlor of their beloved Captain's oldhome. There were two young detectives, Drew Lane and Tom Howe, with theiryouthful understudies, Johnny Thompson and Spider. Madame LeClare wasthere too with Alice, her daughter, and Joyce Mills. Quite a jolly partythey were on this Christmas Eve. Only one thought marred theirpleasure--the Captain was not with them.

  "It's tough," he had said to them at the last moment. "Something big justbroke. I've got to get on the trail while it's hot. But you folks goright along out. Hang your stockings up behind the old stove like goodlittle children, and maybe you'll catch me filling them when you get upin the morning. And if you don't--may that Christmas turkey be tender!"

  Those had been his words. Now, as Johnny sat dreaming beside the crackedstove that, despite its age, sent forth a cheering glow, he imagined theCaptain skulking down some dark alley in quest of those who would disturbthe tranquillity of Christmas Eve.

  "Almost wish I were with him," he thought. "And yet--"

  There was a sharp wind blowing. The snow was drifting. Outside, close tothe road, a windmill stood on its tall, steel tower. From time to timethe wind, giving this mill a twist, caused it to send forth a sharp,grating scream that seemed a human cry of pain.

  "Boo!" Johnny whispered. "There's something spooky about a lonely countryplace at night."

  A moment more and his thoughts were back with the Captain. "The wind," hethought, "will be whistling about the corners of skyscrapers tonight. Thesnow will go scooting and whirling away and away just as it does amongthe crags of the Rockies. Cities are like that. Wonder where the Captainis now?"

  Then again he seemed to hear the Captain's rumbling voice as in this veryroom he told of his boyhood days.

  "That is the very stove--" He spoke aloud now. Pretty Alice LeClareturned her shining black eyes upon him. "It's the very stove that burnedhere many years ago when the Captain was a boy. He found it in the barnloft.

  "And these chairs," he went on, "are the very chairs on which he hung hisstockings so long ago. He found them in the attic, bottoms gone, somebroken. He had them restored. Seems--" His voice went husky. "Seemsalmost a sacred place."

  "It _is_ sacred," Alice whispered back. "The boyhood home of a good man,the things he loved, are _always_ sacred."

  Johnny could have loved the little French Canadian for that speech.

  "And what a privilege," Alice murmured low, "just for one night to liveas he lived, so simple, so plain, so true. To hang up our stockings,feeling that they will be filled, not by lavish hands, but by lovingones, with the simple things that only real love can find."

  "But listen!" Johnny touched her arm. "How that windmill screams! Itseems a--a sort of warning. Perhaps our night will not be so serene afterall. Per--"

  He broke short off. From the wall where the broad reflector stood facingthe open window there had come a sound.

  "Like a whisper," Johnny thought. Whisper or not, it made no sense. Soagain the room fell into silence. Only the crackle of the fire, theracing tick-tock, tick-tock of the little clock on the mantel told thatthis little gray house was still the habitation of man.

  * * * * * * * *

  That night, over a cup of tea in Grace Krowl's parlor, with the Whispererlooking on "from his tower a mile away" Nida McFay told her story. It wasa strange story filled with smiles and tears.

  For three glorious years she had worked in the book department of one ofAmerica's most beautiful stores. Surrounded by books, with congenialfellow workers and cultured customers, she had learned what it meant totruly live.

  "And then--" The little book seller looked away. "Then a man, a verylittle, wistful old man who lived in my rooming house, brought me somebooks from his library; anyway, he said they were from his library. Heasked me to sell them for him at a second-hand store.

  "They were valuable books. I--I sold them."

  She paused to sit for a time staring into her tea cup. It was as if shesensed the fact that someone was looking in upon them from afar, and thatshe dreaded to go on.

  From the reflector in the corner came a strange sound. "Like someonestifling a cough," Grace thought with a shudder.

  "The books--they had been stolen from our store," Nida went on after atime. "A detective was put on my trail. The little old man disappeared.A--a house detective, with eyes like steel blades, accused me of stealingthe books!"

  "I think I know him," Grace broke in. "He looked into Frank Morrow's shopone night."

  "Yes--yes, that was the man! He calls himself J. Templeton Semp." Nida'seyes were wild for an instant.

  "He made me sign a paper," she went on. "I learned later it was aconfession. They discharged me. I went to other places and asked forwork, many places. Everywhere the answer was the same:

  "'You worked at K----'s. We cannot employ you.'

  "You see--" Her voice broke. "I had been put on the black list. I--Iwouldn't do that to anyone!

  "Well," she sighed at last, "that's all. Good old Frank Morrow took me inspite of the list. And here I am." She forced a smile.

  Five minutes later Nida was gone. Grace sat staring at the curiousreflector on the wall. "That," she whispered, "is Nida's story. And allthe time she was talking someone was looking, listening. I am sure ofthat. I wonder how? Television? I wonder what that really is?"

  Finding herself enshrouded in a cloud of gloom, she drew on her coat and,taking up a basket filled with small boxes, she went out on MaxwellStreet.

  Moving along from door to door, she made brief Christmas Eve calls on thesimple, kindly people she had learned to love. The small boxes containedhomemade candy. She left one at every door.

  She found Mamma Lebed busy decorating a tiny tree for her two dark-hairedlittle ones. "It's not much we can give them," she beamed. "But the dearones, how they will dance and prattle when morning comes!" She brushed atear from her br
oad cheek.

  "Merry Christmas!" Grace whispered.

  "Same to you!" Mamma Lebed gripped her hand hard.

  Grossmuter Schmalgemeire was filling stockings. There was no fireplace inher tiny home back of the shop, but a straight-backed chair did as well.

  "He said a mouse would come in through the hole in the toe, Hans did,"she laughed. "But I told him an orange would fill it up. And so it shall.I found one in the street that is not too bad."

  And so Grace found them, these friends, on every hand. Poor, but makingmuch of the little they had, and all filled to overflowing with thespirit of Christmas.

  When she returned to her rooms, her cheeks were glowing. "Tonight," shewhispered, "I am like the moon, filled with light. The light ofhappiness. It is reflected happiness, but happiness all the same."

  And then, into her mind there flashed questions that had grown old, butwere ever new: "Who is the Whisperer? Where is he? Why does he wantNida's story?"