The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  “Mr. Squires,” he said, all patience gone, “Marty Reston was found only thirty minutes ago. He was lying in the trees on the comer of the Pike and Centre Street.” He paused; Squires seemed completely uninterested. “He was brutally murdered, sir.”

  “As I understand it,” the banker said, staring at the glowing cigar tip, “Reston was scarcely the kind of man who made friends of decent people. Intimations of highway robbery and things like that.”

  “Marty was a thief, yes,” he agreed. “But he wasn’t all that bad as thieves go. He never hurt anyone in his life, but someone certainly hurt him.”

  “A falling-out,” Squires suggested, squirming on the couch. “I hear that’s always happening to these fellows.”

  “Marty worked alone, sir, he always did. But even if he didn’t, I don’t think he’d have a partner who’d murder him like that.”

  “Like what, for god’s sake,” Squires exploded.

  “Like tearing out his throat and leaving him to bleed dry in the snow!”

  In the shadows behind the sofa, Pamela gasped and clamped her hands to her lips.

  There was a moment’s grim silence before Squires cleared his throat and said, “I see.”

  “No, sir, you don’t,” Ned said, ignoring the frantic look Pamela gave him.

  “Really?”

  “Really. You see, just before I received word of Marty’s killing, I was out at the train station. I don’t suppose you know Horace Bartlett.”

  Before Squires could answer, Pamela lay a hand on his shoulder and leaned into the light. “He’s the driver, Father. He has the livery in the Village. On High Street, across from the park.”

  “That’s right,” Ned said.

  “Very nice,” Squires said. “But I have my own drivers, thank you. This … Bartlett means nothing to me.”

  “No, sir. But he means something to his wife, and she came into the station worried about him. It seems … ” He hesitated, turning his hat over and over in his hands. “It seems he was dispatched to the depot by your daughter, to pick someone up on the eleven o’clock train.”

  Again Pamela forestalled him with a cautious touch to his shoulder. “That’s right, Father. I sent him to fetch Saundra.”

  “I believe,” the man said coldly, “that’s why I have Timmons, my dear. To handle things like that.”

  “But you know Timmons is busy,” she said reasonably. Then she looked up to Ned, her eyes wide and fearful. “Saundra-”

  “Yes, Mr. Stockton,” Squires said sharply, ignoring the startled look his daughter gave her. “What about Saundra. That is, Miss Chambers.”

  “I don’t know,” Ned told him. “There was no one there when I arrived, and no sign of any baggage. Unfortunately, however, I did find old Jubal. He was shoved under the platform, in the same condition as we found Marty.”

  There was a moment’s pause before Squires lurched to his feet and lumbered across the room. Ned thought he was going to leave, but the banker abruptly reversed direction and stalked back to him, stopping only when there was barely a hand’s breadth between them. His breath smelled of wine and tobacco, and Ned could see the broken veins laced across the man’s cheeks and nose.

  “I don’t like gossip, Mr. Stockton,” he said.

  “Father!”

  “And I don’t like murder,” Ned replied calmly. “It seems there’s someone out there tonight who’s gone mad with the cold. I came here not only to talk to Mrs. Reston, but also warn you.”

  Squires reared back. “Warn … me?”

  “Sir, you said it yourself — you have half the village in your home tonight, and they’re the most important people we have here, some of the most important in the state. I don’t expect you to cause a panic by making a formal announcement, but I would think you’d want to caution them about their trips home.”

  Squires inhaled slowly, and Ned braced himself, so convinced was he that the man was going to strike him. Pamela came quickly around the sofa and stood between them, though slightly to one side.

  “Father?”

  “The man is presumptuous,” he said as if Ned weren’t there. “I appreciate his bringing me this terrible news, but I do have a brain, you know. I know what to say.”

  He turned on his heel, then, and marched stiffly from the room, the door slamming behind him. But before Ned could say anything the door opened again, and Squires was back, his cigar pointing like a lance.

  “And see to it, sir, you do not speak to anyone but Mrs. Reston. I’ll not have my staff disturbed and upset when there’s still food and drink to be served. And while you’re at it, you might keep your eye out for Miss Chambers. She is certainly more important than some slimy little thief.”

  The door slammed again.

  Pamela took hold of his arm, and felt it trembling. “Ned — ”

  But the door opened a second time, and as she turned to snap at her father the words caught in her throat. It was only Timmons, his dark face impassive.

  “Mr. Squires wishes Mr. Stockton to conduct his … business in the kitchen,” he announced flatly. “And there is someone waiting for you in the hall, Miss.”

  “Jack Foxworth, I suppose,” she said just as flatly, looking to Ned and rolling her eyes heavenward.

  “No, Miss,” the butler said. “It’s a young woman.”

  “Oh Lord,” she said and started to run for the door, stopped halfway and looked back to Ned.

  “Ned, you know the way, don’t you? I … it’s been years … it’s Saundra and — ”

  He laughed and waved her on. “It’s all right, Pam,” he said. “I can find the kitchen well enough.”

  She vanished, and Ned walked slowly after her, pulled the door to and had turned toward the staircase when Timmons came up beside him.

  “Mr. Stockton,” he said without looking straight at him, “Mr. Squires also trusts that you’ll be discrete.”

  “The police are always discrete, Mr. Timmons,” he said.

  “Very good, sir,” Timmons said without a trace of emotion. “That’s very good indeed.”

  The butler quickened his stately pace, and Ned glared at his back. Though the ageless retainer worked superhuman hours under considerably unpleasant conditions, he was almost as much a snob as his employer. Getting him to break the solemn mask he wore had become one of Ned’s passions, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was so devoted to Pamela, he would have gladly popped him with a snowball just to see the reaction.

  He took the staircase thoughtfully, reached the open landing and had turned to descend the back steps when he heard Timmons say, “Please, madam, come in.” He looked down into the foyer. Grandon Squires was standing off to one side, paying no attention to the guests milling around him. Pamela was there too, beaming, laughing, and holding the gloved hands of a woman who was just throwing off the hood of her cloak, both their feet momentarily encased in a dense swirl of sparkling fog that slipped serpentine and slowly into the gallery’s shadow, and was gone. Neither seemed to notice, so intent were they in greeting each other. Then Ned’s right hand clenched involuntarily into a fist. He had never seen the woman before, but something about the way she slowly turned her face toward him as if she’d known he was watching … slowly parted her blood-red lips in a deliberate mirthless smile and raised a delicate black eyebrow … something in the manner and in the contrast with Pamela sent a chill walking up and down his spine.

  He nodded to her politely.

  She nodded back, and turned away.

  Good lord, he thought, and shrugged his shoulders in a deliberate shudder before hurrying down into the dimly lighted hall. Once out of view, he paused to wonder why the woman had affected him that way, could find no reason and moved on toward the kitchen.

  He hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when he saw a tall dark-clad man enter the greenhouse porch’s side entrance. He caught barely a glimpse, but it was enough to know he hadn’t seen him before.

  The man stopped. turned his head an
d fixed Ned with a stare.

  A minute later, a young serving maid bumped into him, making him blink rapidly and wonder what the hell he was doing here, standing like an idiot in the middle of the hall. Then he looked to his right hand — it was grasped around the bolt that held the chandelier’s chain to the crank-and-drum on the wall. A shock of cold air swept through him, and he snatched his hand back as if it had been scorched. God, he thought, and swallowed hard; if he had pulled the bolt free and released the chain without grabbing hold of the crank, crystal, candles, and all that iron would have … My god, he thought, Pamela would have been crushed.

  4

  The guest apartment was on the third floor, the balcony of the sitting room overlooking the tinted roof of the greenhouse below. The French doors were closed now, curtains and draperies pulled snugly over the windows; the bed was turned down and one of the maids had already set a low fire in the grate. The room was silent except for the flames sparking above the pine logs, and for the wind now beginning to thrum in the eaves. The snow that had only been flurries on Ned’s arrival was blowing strongly, tiny hard crystals striking the panes like tiny hard claws scrabbling to get in.

  Saundra Chambers sat on a green brocaded velvet loveseat. Though she was well back in one comer, she sat stiffly, almost rigidly, in her right hand a full glass of sherry while her left nervously adjusted the folds of her deep brown skirt. Her narrow lovely face was pale, her thin lips deep red, and they were both made darker by the depth of raven black hair brushed away from her cheeks to perch on her shoulders. At her throat was a red velvet choker centered with a pearl.

  Pamela sat opposite her, in a wing-back Queen Anne pulled away from the hearthside. She was excited, her cheeks flushed and her eyes constantly shifting — from the fire to Saundra’s hair, from the rippling drapes to Saundra’s mouth. Finally, she could stand the silence no longer.

  “Saundra, did you really … I mean, I know I sound like a schoolgirl, but did you really meet the new President?”

  Saundra looked up from her lap. She nodded.

  “But … but what was it like?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “Saundra, for heaven’s sake, it isn’t every day someone I know is presented to Mr. Garfield, even if he is a rather … good Lord, I’d’ve thought you couldn’t wait to tell me all the details!” She rose and crossed to the hearth, reached up to the mantel to adjust a translucent white vase that held a single rose. “Unless, of course,” she added with a barely suppressed giggle, “you’re secretly a Democrat.”

  Saundra shifted. “No,” she said. “No, I’m not.”

  Pamela sighed relief; her friend could still talk after all.

  “Listen, darling,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist, “I don’t want you to think I’m nosey or anything, but … ” She frowned concern as she hesitated. She did not know exactly how to proceed, how to ask the next question without seeming rude. She supposed the best thing would be to get right to it, but Saundra didn’t look as if she were ready for anything but a full week’s sleep. “Saundra, why did you come back?”

  Saundra placed her glass on the sidetable at her right hand. The short, milk-glass lamp beside it set the facets afire.

  “I told you,” she said quietly. “I told you.”

  “I know what you told me,” Pamela said, unable to keep the worry from her voice. “But I’ve known you far too long, haven’t I. I know when you’re saying things right out, and when you’re hiding something. I mean, that’s the way we got through Holyoke without getting into trouble, remember?” She hurried to her friend’s side, sat and lay a concerned hand gently on her knee. “Darling, please, I haven’t seen you in over three years, and I don’t want to start our visit with — ”

  Saundra inhaled sharply and held her breath. Her lower lip trembled, and a tic pulled a dozen times at one eye before it faded.

  “Oh my god,” Pamela whispered, one hand to her cheek as she shook her head. “Oh my god, I’m so stupid.”

  Saundra smiled wanly.

  “All this traveling, and then that horrid murder at the depot and … oh, Saundra, please forgive me.”

  For the first time that night, Saundra smiled, and her hand covered Pamela’s warmly. “I’m really sorry to be such poor company. Pam. But you’re right, I’m so very tired, and I really didn’t expect to be greeted at the station by the police.”

  “The police?” Pamela frowned. “But didn’t … wasn’t there a … Saundra, I sent a carriage round for you.”

  Saundra politely covered a yawn with her palm, grinned and put a hand to Pamela’s cheek. “There was no carriage, dear. And now,” she said quickly, as Pamela made to interrupt, “would you mind terribly if I … ” She glanced over her shoulder, to the open door by the fireplace and the bedroom beyond.

  Pamela got to her feet hastily, babbling apologies as she was led to the hall door. After extracting a promise for an early breakfast, she kissed her friend goodnight and headed for the stairs.

  She stopped only once, with a perplexed frown on her brow. Odd, she thought, glancing back at the door; very odd indeed. The police couldn’t have given Saundra a ride to the house. Ned had come first, by a good half an hour. She tugged at an earlobe, cocked her head and wondered, but she had no time to consider the problem further; when she reached the bottom step, Jack Foxworth was waiting, demanding she give him the evening’s last dance in compensation for her desertion.

  “And where is your friend?” he asked, looking up toward the landing.

  “Tired,” Pamela said. “She had an awfully long journey. Her ship docked in Philadelphia only last week. Then she was down in Washington, and then the long train ride here … well, I’d be exhausted myself.”

  “Well,” he told her, “since I’m sure she doesn’t remember my winsome face, you’ll have to introduce me, won’t you. If you don’t, my dear, I’m going to be awfully crushed, you know.”

  “Jack, are you trying to make me jealous?”

  His face darkened briefly, and he brushed a finger across his mustache. “I wish I could,” he pouted.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You and I grew up together, didn’t we? We’ve been through all this a hundred times.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, leading her through the living room to the ballroom behind. “But you can’t blame a fellow for trying, can you?”

  “Well, you certainly are trying, Jack.”

  He laughed and squeezed her hand. “While you’re at it, my dear, you might also introduce me to that foreign gentleman, don’t you think?”

  “Foreign gentleman?” She frowned and looked around the room. “What foreign gentleman?”

  Jack looked surprised. “The tall one, Pamela. Gregor … Something. You must know him — aloof, terribly aristocratic and all that.”

  “Jack,” she said with a tolerant smile. “I haven’t the slightest idea who you’re talking about.” Then she grinned. “How is the champagne?”

  “Pamela … ” He tried to look stem, failed, and shrugged as if the man’s identity meant nothing to him. “A friend of your father’s, no doubt.” He would have said something more, but the orchestra once again filled the room with a waltz. He bowed and took her hand. “As long as you don’t throw me over for that policeman.”

  “No chance of that,” she assured him without a single pang of conscience. Foxworth preened visibly, and she laughed. slipped into his arms and allowed him to whirl her across the parquetted floor, through the last glow of candlelight, the last notes of the waltz. But despite Jack’s presence. his strong hand on her back, whenever she closed her eyes, she thought of Ned Stockton.

  The police station was a century-old clapboard building on the comer of Centre Street and Chancellor Avenue. It was small but well-kept, its front room large enough for several benches along the wall, and a massive desk looming on a platform behind a low wooden railing; its four cells were ranged across the back behin
d a stout oak door with a barred Judas window, and there were two offices off to the right. One was for the chief. the other for Ned Stockton, one of three detectives the force carried full time.

  He was in his chair, feet propped on his desk. Rumpled collar unbuttoned, knotted black scarf yanked down and away. He was scratching through his hair when someone knocked lightly on the open door’s frame.

  “Come on,” he said wearily. “I think I’m still alive.”

  Rick Driscoll hurried in and grabbed the only other chair in the room, dragging it noisily across the floor until he was almost sitting on the desk. “Well?” he said anxiously. nearly jumping in his seat.

  “Well what’?”

  “Oh, come on, Ned.”

  He groaned loudly for the effect and cupped his hands behind his head. He was only two years over thirty, not really so far from Driscoll’s twenty-three, yet more often than not lately he found himself wondering if he too been so damnably enthusiastic at that age. He hoped not. If he had been, he must have driven the other men crazy. Then he groaned again and closed his eyes, shutting out the chipped plaster ceiling, the dirt-grey white walls and the posters that lined them. But he couldn’t banish the young man’s face: an earnest blond mustache, earnest blue eyes, aquiline nose and solidly square chin. A ladies’ man, no question about it, and all the more glamorous for the profession he’d chosen.

  “Ned, c’mon!”

  “Nothing,” he said at last. “Not a damned thing.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “Well, it is. You were out to the Pike. You saw it. Same as at the depot. No tracks, no signs of struggle, no weapons, nothing left behind.”

  “But the ground was frozen; there wouldn’t be tracks anyway. And if you’re right about the dog — ”

  “I am right,” he said, “and you know it. You saw what Marty looked like. There isn’t a madman in the world who’d do something like that to a man.”

  “But we didn’t see any dogs!”

  He sighed, opened his eyes and dropped his feet to the floor. “Rick, you’re a good man, but you’re so damned tired you’re not thinking straight. Do you really think a mad dog like that would stick around so we could take off its head with a shotgun?”