CHAPTER 7 WHISPERING WALLS

“Antón!” Lorinda exclaimed in disapproval. “Why were you listening?”

The servant, a man of perhaps forty whose well-cut livery was worn in a sloppy manner, stared at her almost insolently and without the least embarrassment.

“Hear jungle drum,” he said.

“I was showing the Zudi to Miss Parker,” Lorinda replied stiffly.

“You keep him in wall safe?” inquired Antón.

Lorinda bit her lip with annoyance. She made no answer.

“Now that master gone, maybe much better you get rid of Zudi drum,” Antón advised.

“Why do you say that?”

“Zudi drum bring trouble. Antón tell master so when he bring it to this country.”

“And what do you suggest we do with the drum?”

“Antón take care of it,” the servant offered eagerly. “Sink it deep in river.”

Lorinda smiled and shook her head. “The Zudi drum is my stepfather’s most cherished possession. He never would forgive me if I disposed of it while he’s gone.”

“Maybe master never come back.”

“Antón!” Lorinda reproved. “You’re not to make such remarks!”

“Yes’m,” the man muttered, but as he retreated from the library doorway Penny fancied she saw him smile as if well pleased with himself.

After the servant had gone, Lorinda remarked in a whisper: “I wish he hadn’t seen me put the drum away. Somehow I’ve never trusted Antón although he’s always been devoted to my stepfather. Sometimes I feel that he hates me.”

“You say he didn’t know until just now where the drum was kept?”

“No, he may have suspected, but he never was certain. Antón always has been deeply interested in that drum, which as I understand, belonged to another tribe—sworn enemies of Antón’s group. He and Celeste helped my stepfather obtain the drum, or rather they told him about its existence, so I suppose it’s natural that they remain interested.”

“Antón seemed to believe the drum might bring trouble on the household.”

“Just stupid superstition! He’s never worried about it before.” Lorinda was thoughtful a moment, then added: “Of course, there is a possibility members of the Zudi tribe may have traced my stepfather here and intend to avenge themselves. But that hardly seems likely.”

“What of the serpent drawing found in your stepfather’s desk?” Penny reminded her. “And the words, ‘This Shall be the End?’”

“I’d not venture an opinion until I have seen the handwriting,” Lorinda returned.

As the girls were leaving the library, Penny heard an automobile rattle up to the front of the mansion. Peering from a window, she saw Salt Sommers climbing out of the car, camera and flashbulbs in his hand.

His arrival reminded her that she was here to get a story for the Star.

“The police aren’t here?” Lorinda inquired tensely, moving to the window.

“No, it’s one of our photographers. He’ll need a picture of you and your mother. It will only take a minute.”

Lorinda, who had been growing more and more friendly, now became cold and aloof.

“No picture,” she said firmly. “I thought you understood. My mother and I wish no publicity whatsoever.”

“But—”

“I am afraid I must ask you to leave now,” Lorinda said.

Deeply chagrined by her failure to obtain a picture, Penny followed the Rhett girl to the front door.

“I’m sorry,” Lorinda said, observing the proud tilt of Penny’s chin. “It’s nothing personal. I really like you very much and would like to help you—but I can’t.”

She opened the door and Penny went out. As the latch clicked behind her, Salt, a tall young man with an aggressive walk, came toward the porch.

“Hi, Penny!” he greeted her casually. “Sorry to be late, but I got tied up in a traffic jam at Fulton Bridge. Everything lined up for the pictures?”

Penny told him the bad news.

“Now see here, they can’t do that to us,” Salt said, knocking on the door of the old mansion. “I’ll catch the dickens from DeWitt if I go back to the office without a picture. How about the story?”

“Not much we can use. I talked to Mrs. Rhett and her daughter, but they didn’t give me any real information. Mr. Rhett’s disappearance seems to be as puzzling to them as anyone else.”

“You can hook your story onto that angle then. But me—I’ve got to come up with a picture.” Salt knocked again on the door. “Say, are they all deaf in there?”

“It’s no use,” Penny said. “I doubt if anyone will answer.”

Salt pounded a few more times, and then was forced to admit that he was only wasting his energy. “I might take a shot of the house,” he said. “Gloomy old morgue, isn’t it?”

“That’s about all you can do under the circumstances.”

“A picture of a house,” Salt groaned. “DeWitt’ll go for it like a ton o’ brick. He’ll probably throw a typewriter at me!”

“There’s another place on the grounds that might be more interesting. It’s a sort of thatched roof cottage.”

Salt immediately brightened. “Let’s have a look-see,” he proposed. “Maybe we can round up a gardener or someone who’ll pose.”

Circling the house, Penny led the way down the graveled path. Salt took such long strides it was hard to keep up with him. He’d had a tough day, he told her. As if taking shots of society women at the Country Club hadn’t been bad enough, right on top of it he’d been sent to the airport to catch a couple of prominent state officials. And then, before he’d had a chance to get the pictures printed, DeWitt had ordered him to the mansion.

“It’s just one thing after another,” he muttered. “I wish someone would tell me why I don’t quit newspaper photography.”

“Because, no matter what you say, you like the excitement,” Penny supplied. “Remember those shots you took of the Governor that were printed in the rotogravure section?”

“Sure,” grinned Salt, his good humor returning. “I also remember the time I was sent to a furniture store to take some pictures for the advertising department, and without me knowing it, the store closed for the night. I telephoned DeWitt I was locked in, and what did the old crow do? ‘Just sit down and wait,’ he says. ‘I’ll get hold of a watchman, and we’ll have you right out of there.’”

Penny had heard the story several times but did not ruin the photographer’s pleasure by saying so.

“DeWitt didn’t do a doggone thing!” Salt went on. “He just told everyone in the office. I cooled my heels in that place until nine o’clock at night! A fire broke out across town then, and DeWitt needed another photographer, so finally he got me out!”

“Mr. DeWitt has a queer sense of humor,” Penny acknowledged. “But he is a good editor.”

“Best there is,” Salt agreed loyally. “But wow! He’s going to tear me apart limb from limb when I come in with nothing but a picture of a thatched roof cottage!”

Penny was tempted to tell the photographer of Lorinda’s strange action in warning her not to approach the building. However, she felt sure he would make light of the entire matter, so she remained silent.

“Is that the place?” Glimpsing the thatched roof cottage through the trees, Salt paused to stare at it. “Looks like a jungle hut.”

“A reproduction of one, I imagine,” Penny said, “but it might be the genuine product. Mr. Rhett, I’ve been told, was a world traveler and brought home many relics and souvenirs of jungle and cult life.”

They approached closer and Salt stopped again, this time to take two shots.

“What’s inside?” he asked. “Let’s take a look.”

Penny was curious to see the interior of the cottage despite Lorinda’s warning. However, as she trotted along at Salt’s heels, she experienced a strange, uneasy feeling, as if she were intruding upon forbidden ground.

The photographer was troubled by no such misgivings. Boldly he went to the door and tried to thrust it open. It was locked and would not budge.

Thwarted, he examined the painted plumed serpent which decorated the door.

“What’s this thing?” he muttered.

Penny told him about the similar design which had been found on a paper in Mr. Rhett’s office.

“I’ll take a close-up of the door then,” Salt decided. “It will tie in with your story, if you build up the mystery angle.”

While the photographer took two pictures of the door, Penny wandered around to the back of the tiny cottage. Only one small window provided light. It had been cut in the wall high toward the sloping thatched roof, and to peer into the dark interior, Penny had to stand on tiptoe.

Inside the room, a spot of light and flame drew her gaze. And at the same instant, something jabbed her ribs from behind. With a startled cry, she whirled around.

Then she laughed, for it was Salt who had come up quietly.

“You frightened me out of a year’s growth!” she exclaimed. “Don’t ever do that again!”

“What do you see? Anything interesting?”

“It looks as if a lamp is burning inside. But the cottage must be deserted!”

Salt peeped through the window. “It is a light—an oil flame!” he exclaimed. “But there’s no one in the room.”

“Let’s go,” said Penny with a shiver. “It’s getting late and we’re due back at the office.”

“Not scared, are you?” the photographer teased.

“Of course not! But the door is locked, and we’re not supposed to be here.”

Salt tested the window. Surprisingly, it raised easily.

“Here, I’ll boost you in,” he offered. “Up you go! Then you can unlock the door and let me in.”

“Oh, Salt, should we?”

“Why not?” he argued. “We were sent to get a story and pictures, weren’t we? Well, maybe what we’re after is right here.”

Only half convinced, Penny permitted herself to be boosted through the window. She dropped lightly onto a wooden floor. The interior of the cottage was gloomy, brightened only by a flickering flame which came from a floating wick in a cocoanut shell filled with oil.

The atmosphere of the room, was sombre, almost terrifying. Taking no time to look about, Penny scurried to unlock the door. She felt more at ease as Salt sauntered in.

“Well, this is a queer layout,” he observed. “A regular jungle hut.”

The room was bare of furniture except for a low wooden table upon which the cocoanut oil lamp burned. On one wall hung two black and red flags with serpentine symbols sewn with metallic beads.

Across the room, above the deep fireplace, two crossed machetes dangled from cords attached to the wall. Beneath the table was a small, crude wooden chest, and lying upon it was a rattle made from pebbles placed in a painted canister.

Salt shook the rattle several times. In the stillness of the room, the clatter of the pebbles seemed almost deafening to Penny’s sensitive ears.

“Oh, please!” she pleaded.

“Don’t you like it?” he teased.

Penny shook her head. With fascinated gaze, she stared at the flickering oil light.

“Do you suppose that thing burns all the time, Salt, or has someone just been here?”

“It couldn’t burn very long, unless someone keeps refilling the shell with oil. Wonder what’s in this chest?”

Salt stooped to raise the lid. As he did so, Penny, who stood close beside him, suddenly clutched his arm. At his look of surprise, she mumbled:

“I thought I heard something just then—like the rustling of silk!”

Salt listened a moment and chuckled. “That old imagination of yours is working overtime, Penny! Relax!”

“But I did hear a rustling sound as if someone were moving along the wall. Listen! There it is again!”

“No one could—” Salt began, and broke off. The queer look that came over his face told Penny that he too had heard the sound.

Then whispering began, and seemed to issue from the very cottage walls. At first the stunned pair could not distinguish a word. But gradually the words whispered in a throaty voice became audible.

“Go!” the warning voice commanded. “All is forbidden!”