"So refreshing/' he explained; "a custom of the Romans, Mr. Searles. It is a very warm day."
I admitted that this was so.
"My daughter Isis," continued Klaw, "has taken
advantage of the alterations and decorations to run over so far as Paris/'
I made some commonplace remark, and we drifted into a conversation upon a daring robbery which at that time was flooding the press with copy. We were so engaged when, to my great surprise (for I had thought him at least a thousand miles away), Shan Haufmann was announced. As my old American friend entered, Moris Klaw modestly arose to depart. But I detained him and made the two acquainted.
Haufmann hailed Klaw cordially, exhibiting none of the ill-bred surprise which so often greeted my eccentric acquaintance of singular aspect. Haufmann had all that bonhomie which overlooks the clothes and welcomes the man. He glanced apologetically at his right hand which hung in a sling.
"Can't shake, Mr. Klaw," said the big American, a good-humoured smile on his tanned, clean-shaven face. "I stopped some lead awhile back and my right is still off duty."
Naturally I was anxious at once to know how he had come by the hurt; and he briefly explained that in the discharge of certain official duties he had run foul of a bad gang, two of whom he had been instrumental in convicting of murder, whilst the third had shot him in the arm and escaped.
"Three dagoes," he explained, in his crisply picturesque fashion, "—been wanted for years.
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Helped themselves to a bunch of my colts this fall; killed one of the boys and left another for dead. So I went after them hot and strong. We rounded them up on the Mexican border and got two— Schwart Sam and one of the Costas; but the younger Costa—we call him Corpus Chris—broke away and found me in the elbow with a lump of lead!"
"So you've come for a holiday?"
"Mostly," replied Haufmann. "Greta hustled me here. She got real ill when I said I wouldn't come. So we came! I'm centring in London for six months. Brought the girls over for a look round. I'm not stopping at a hotel. We've rented a house a bit outside; it's Lai's idea. Settled yesterday. All fixed. Expect you to dinner to-night! You, too, Mr. Klaw! Is it a bet?"
Moris Klaw was commencing some sort of a reply, but what it was never transpired, for Haufmann, waving his sound hand cheerily, quitted the office as rapidly as he had entered, calling back:
"Dine seven-thirty. Girls expecting you!"
That was his way; but so infectious was his real geniality that few could fail to respond to it.
"He is a good fellow, that Mr. Haufmann," rumbled Moris Klaw. "Yes, I love such natures. But he has forgotten to tell us where he lives!"
It was so! Haufmann in his hurry and impetuosity had overlooked that important matter; but I thought it probable that he would recall the oversight
and communicate, so prevailed upon Klaw to remain. At last, however, I glanced at my watch, and found it to be nearly six o'clock, whereupon I looked blankly at Moris Klaw. That eccentric shrugged his shoulders and took up the caped coat. Then the 'phone bell rang. It was Haufmann.
I was glad to hear his familiar accent as he laughingly apologized for his oversight. Rapidly he acquainted me with the whereabouts of The Grove— for so the house was called.
"Come now," he said. "Don't stop to dress; you've only just got time," and rang off.
I thought Moris Klaw stared oddly through his pince-nez when I told him the address, but concluded, as he made no comment, that I had been mistaken. There was just time to catch our train, and from the station where we alighted it was only a short drive to the house. Haufmann's car was waiting for us, and in less than three quarters of an hour from our quitting the Strand, we were driving up to The Grove, through the most magnificent avenue of poplars I had ever seen.
"By Jove!" I cried, "what fine trees!"
Moris Klaw nodded and looked around at the towering trunks with a peculiar expression, which I was wholly at a loss to account for. However, ere I had leisure to think much about the matter, we found ourselves in the hall, where Haufmann and his two fascinating daughters were waiting to greet us.
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I do not know which of the girls looked the more charming: Lilian with her bright mass of curls and blue eyes dancing with vivacity, or Greta in her dark and rather mystic beauty. At any rate, they were dangerous acquaintances for a susceptible man. Even old Moris Klaw showed unmistakably that his mind was not so wholly filled with obscure sciences as to be incapable of appreciating the society of a pretty woman.
Greta I noticed looking thoughtfully at him, and during dinner she suddenly asked him if he had read a book called "Psychic Angles."
Rather unwillingly, as it seemed to me, Klaw admitted that he had, and the girl displayed an immediate and marked interest in psychical matters. Klaw, however, though usually but too willing to discuss this, his pet subject, foiled her attempt to draw him into a technical discussion and rather obviously steered the conversation into a more general channel.
"Don't let her get away on the bogey tack, Mr. Klaw," said Haufmann, approvingly. "She's a perfect demon for haunted chambers and so on."
Laughingly the girl pleaded guilty to an interest in ghostly subjects. "But I'm not frightened about them!" she added, in pretended indignation. "I should just love to see a ghost."
"Oh, Greta!" cried her sister. "What a horrid idea.
"You have perhaps investigated cases yourself, Mr. Klaw?" asked Greta.
"Yes," rumbled Klaw, "perhaps so. Who knows?"
Since he thus clearly showed his wish to drop the subject, the girl made a little humorously wry face, whereat her father laughed boisterously; and no more was said during the evening about ghosts. I could not well avoid noticing two things, however, in regard to Moris Klaw: one, his evident interest in Greta; and the other, a certain preoccupation which claimed him every now and again.
We left at about ten o'clock, declining the offer of the car, as we had ample time to walk to the station. Haufmann wanted to come along, but we dissuaded him, with the assurance that we could find the way without any difficulty. Klaw, especially, was very insistent on the point, and when at last we swung sharply down the avenue and, rounding the bend, lost sight of the house, he pulled up and said:
"For this opportunity, Mr. Searles, I have been waiting. It may not, of course, matter, but this house where the good Haufmann resides was formerly known as The Park."
"What of that?" I asked, turning on him sharply.
"It is," he replied, "celebrated as what foolish people call a haunted house. No doubt that is the reason why the name has been changed. As The
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Park it has been dealt with many times in the psychical journals."
"The Park," I mused. "Is it not included in that extraordinary work on the occult— ' Psychic Angles'—of which Miss Haufmann spoke to-night— the place where the monk was supposed to have been murdered, where an old antiquary died, and some young girl, too, if I remember rightly ?"
"Yes," replied Moris Klaw, "yes. I will tell you a secret. * Psychic Angles' is a little book of my own, and so, of course, I know about this place."
His words surprised me greatly, for the book was being generally talked about. He peered around him into the shadows and seemed to sniff the air suspiciously.
"Setting aside the question of any supernatural menace," I said, "directly the servants find out, as they are sure to do from others in the neighbourhood, they will leave en bloc. It is a pleasant way servants have in such cases."
"We must certainly tell him, the good Haufmann," agreed Klaw, "and he will perhaps arrange to quit the place without letting the ladies to know of its reputation. That Miss Greta she has the sympathetic mind"—he tapped his forehead—"the plate so sensitive, the photo film so delicate! For her it is dangerous to remain. There is such a thing, Mr. Searles, as sympathetic suicide! That girl she is mediumistic. From The Park
she must be removed."
"There is no time to lose," I said. "We must decide what to do to-night. Suppose you come along to my place?"
Moris Klaw agreed, and we resumed our walk through the poplar grove.
Although the night was very still, an eerie whispering went on without pause or cessation along the whole length of the avenue. Against the star-spangled sky the tall trees reared their shapes in a manner curiously suggestive of dead things. Or this fancy may have had birth in the associations of the place. It was a fatally easy matter mentally to fashion one of the poplars into the gaunt form of a monk; and no one, however unimaginative, being acquainted with the history of The Grove, could fail to find, in the soft and ceaseless voices of the trees, something akin to a woman's broken sighs. In short, I was not sorry when the gate was passed, and we came out upon the high road.
Later, seated in my study, we discussed the business thoroughly. From my bookcase I took down "Psychic Angles" and passed it to Moris Klaw.
"There we are," he rumbled, turning over the leaves. I read: "On August 8, 1858, a Fra Giulimo, of a peculiar religious brotherhood who occupied this house from 1851 to 1858, was found strangled at the foot of a poplar close by the entrance gate." "I could never find out much about them, this brotherhood," he added, looking up; "but they were, I
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"believe, decent people. They left the place almost immediately after the crime. No arrest was ever made. Then"—referring to the book—"'about the end of February or early in the March of 1863, a Mr. B J took the house. He was an antiquarian of European repute and a man of retired habits. With only two servants—an old soldier and his wife—he occupied The Park'—that is The Grove—'from the spring of '63 to the autumn of '65.' Then follow verbatim reports by the well-known Pepley of interviews with people who had heard Mr. J declare that a hushed voice sometimes called upon him by name in the night, from the poplar grove. Also, an interview with his manservant and with wife of latter, corroborating other statements. Mr. B J was found one September morning dead in the grove. Cause of death never properly established. The house next enters upon a period of neglect. It is empty; it is shunned. From '65 right up to '88 it stood so empty. It was
then taken by a Mr. K ; but he only occupied it
for two months, this K . Three other tenants
subsequently rented the place. Only one of them actually occupied it—for a week; the other, hearing, we presume, of its evil repute, never entered into residence. Seventeen years ago the last tragedy connected with the unpleasant Grove took place. An eccentric old bachelor took the house, and, in the summer of '03, had a niece there to stay with him.
The evidence clearly indicates to me that this unhappy one was highly neurotic—oh, clearly; so that the tragedy explains itself. She fell, or sprang, from her bedroom window to the drive one night in June, and was picked up quite dead at the foot of the first poplar in the grove. Sacre ! it is a morgue, that house!"
He returned the book and sat watching me in silence for some moments.
"Did you spend any time in the house, yourself?" I asked.
"On four different occasions, Mr. Searles! It is only from certain of the rooms that the whispering is audible, and then only if the windows are open. You will notice, though, that all the tragedies occurred in the warm months when the windows would be so open."
"Did you note anything supernormal in this whispering?"
"Nothing. You have read my explanation."
ii
Haufmann looked rather blank when we told him.
"Just my luck!" he commented. "Greta's read your book, Mr. Klaw, and if she hasn't fixed it yet she's sure to come to it that The Park and The Grove are one and the same. It was largely because of her I arranged this trip," he added. "The trouble I've told you about got on her nerves and she had the idea some guy was tracking her around. The medicos
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said it was a common enough symptom and ordered a change. Anyhow, I quitted, to give her a chance to tone up. Confound this business!"
He ultimately left quite determined to change his place of residence. But so averse was his practical mind from the idea of inconveniencing oneself on such ghostly grounds, that two weeks slipped by, and still the Haufmanns occupied The Grove. The decoration of Moris Klaw's establishment being presumably still in progress, Klaw accompanied me on more than one other occasion to visit Shan Haufmann and the girls. At last, one afternoon, Greta asked him point-blank if he thought the house to be that dealt with in "Psychic Angles."
Of course, he had to admit that it was so; but far from exhibiting any signs of alarm, the girl appeared to be delighted.
"How dense I have been!" she cried. "I should have known it from the description! As a matter of fact, I might never have found out, but this morning the servants resigned unanimously!"
Klaw looked at me significantly. All was befalling as we had foreseen.
"They told you, then!" he said. "Yes? No?"
"They said the house was haunted," she replied, "but they didn't seem to know much more about it. That simple fact was enough for them!"
Haufmann came in and in answer to our queries declared himself helpless.
"Lai and Greta won't quit/' he declared; "so what's to do? I've cabled for servants from home. Meanwhile, we're at the mercy of day girls and charwomen!"
The concern evinced by Moris Klaw was very great. He seized an early opportunity of taking Haufmann aside and questioning him relative to the situation of the rooms occupied by the family.
"My room overlooks the avenue," replied Haufmann, "and so does Greta's. Lai's is on the opposite side. Come up and see them!"
Klaw and I accompanied him. It was a beautiful clear day, and from his window we gazed along the majestic ranks of poplars, motionless as a giant guard, in the still summer air. It was difficult to conjure up a glamour of the uncanny, with the bright sunlight pouring gladness upon trees, flowers, shrubs, and lawn.
"This is the room from which the whisper is the most clearly audible!" said Moris Klaw. "I could tell you—ah! I spent several nights here!"
"The devil you did," rapped Haufmann. "I must sleep pretty soundly. I've never heard a thing. Greta's room is next on the right. She has said nothing."
Klaw looked troubled.
"There is no sound unusual to hear," he answered. "I quite convinced myself of that. But it is the tradition that speaks, Mr. Haufmann! In those
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silent watches, even so insensible an old fool as I can imagine almost anything, aided by such gruesome memories. Excepting the monk, who probably fell foul of a prowler thief, the tragedies are easily to be explained. The old antiquarian died of syncope, and the poor girl, in all probability, fell from the balcony in her sleep. She had a tremendously neurotic temperament."
"It's bad, now Greta knows," mused Haufmann. "Her nerves are all unstrung. It's just the thing I wanted to avoid!"
"Can't you induce her at any rate to change her room?" I suggested.
"No! She's as obstinate as a pony! Her poor mother was the same. It's the Irish blood!"
Such was the situation when we left. No development took place for a couple of days or so, then that befell which we had feared and half expected.
Haufmann walked into my office with:
"It's started! Greta says she hears it every night!"
Prepared though I had been for the news, his harshly spoken words sent a cold shudder through
me. «
Haufmann!" I said, sternly. "There must be no more of this. Get the girls away at once. On top of her previous nerve trouble this morbid imagining may affect her mind."
"You haven't heard me out," he went on, more
slowly than was his wont. "You talk of morbid imagining. What about this: Vve heard it!"
I stared at him blankly.
"That's one on you!" he said, with a certain grim triumph. "After Greta said there was som
ething came in the night that wasn't trees rustling, I sat up and smoked. First night I read and nothing happened. Next night I sat in the dark. There was no breeze and I heard nothing for my pains. Third night I stayed in the dark again, and about twelve o'clock a breeze came along. All mixed up with the rustling and sighing of the leaves I heard a voice calling as plain as I ever heard anything in my life! And it called me!"
"Haufmann!"
"It blame-well called me! I'd take my oath before a jury on it!"
"This is almost incredible!" I said. "I wish Moris Klaw were here."
"Where is he?"
"He is in Paris. He will be away over the weekend."
"I met a man curiously enough," continued Haufmann, "just outside the Charing Cross Tube, on my way here, who's coming down to have a look into the business—a hot man on mysteries." He mentioned the name of a celebrated American detective agency. "I'm afraid it's right outside his radius,
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but he volunteered and I was glad to have him. I'd like Klaw down though."
"What about the girls?"
"I was going to tell you. They're at Brighton for a while. Greta didn't want to quit, but poor Lai was dead scared! Anyway, I got them off."
The uncanny business claimed entire possession of my mind, and further work was out of the question. I accordingly accompanied Haufmann to the hotel where the detective was lodged and made the acquaintance of Mr. J. Shorter Ottley. He was a typical New Yorker, clean-shaven and sallow com-plexioned with good gray eyes and an inflexible mouth.
"We don't deal in ghosts!" he said, smilingly; "I never met a ghost that couldn't stop a bullet if it came his way!"
"I'll make a confession to you," remarked Haufmann. "When I heard that soft voice calling, I hadn't the sand to go and look out! How's that for funk?"
"Not funk at all," replied Ottley, quietly. "Maybe it was wisdom!"
"How do you mean?"
The dream detective: being some account of the methods of Moris Klaw Page 12