The Valley of Ghosts Read Online

Talks too fluently; everybody does in Beverley."

    To emphasise this local weakness he went on, without stopping, to give the history of Beverley and its people. Presently he spoke of the Hall.

    "Yes, it's a beautiful little place, but the estate is a very expensive one to keep up. I've not been able to do what I should have done, if—"

    He looked quickly away, as though he feared his visitor could read his thoughts. It was some time before he spoke again. "Have you ever associated with the devil, Mr Macleod?"

    He was not joking. The look he shot at Andy was straight and stern.

    "I have associated with a number of minor devils," smiled Andy, "but I cannot lay claim to knowing the father of them."

    The eyes of Mr Salter did not waver. They fixed Andy absently, it is true, but steadfastly, for fully thirty seconds.

    "There is a man in London called Abraham Selim," he said, speaking slowly, "who is a devil. I am not telling you this as a police officer. I don't know why I am telling you at all. I think it comes of a natural association of ideas. I have had to sign many orders of arrest, but never once have I put pen to paper without thinking of this greatest of criminals. He is a murderer—a murderer!"

    Andy, startled, moved in his chair.

    "He has killed men; broken their hearts; ground them into the earth. He had a friend of mine like that!" He clasped his hand tight until the knuckles showed white.

    "Abraham Selim?" Andy could think of nothing else to say, and his host nodded.

    "If, as I believe, he will one day make a slip and fall into your hands, send me word. No, no, I don't mean that; he will never be trapped!"

    "Is he Semitic—or Turkish? His name suggests both origins."

    Boyd Salter shook his head.

    "I've never seen him. I've not met anybody who has," he said surprisingly. "Now off you go, Mr Macleod. What is your rank, by the way?"

    "I've been trying to discover for years," said Andy. "I'm by way of being a medical."

    "A doctor?"

    Andy nodded.

    "I do a lot of analytical work. I'm a sort of assistant pathologist."

    Boyd Salter smiled.

    "Then I should have called you 'Doctor'," he said. "Edinburgh, of course."

    Andy agreed.

    "I've a weakness for doctors. My nerves are—terrible. Is there any cure?"

    "Psycho-analysis," said Andy promptly. "It enables you to take out your inhibited worries and stare 'em out of countenance. Goodbye, sir."

    There was no more effectual way of giving Andy Macleod his conge than to talk medicines with him.

    "Goodbye-er—Doctor. You look very young for such a position—thirty or thirty-one?"

    "You suggested midway, sir," laughed Andy, and went out.

    Stella Nelson left the post office in a panic. Though she did not turn her head, she was conscious that the good-looking, strong-faced man she had seen in the telephone box was looking after her. What would he think, he, a man to whom, in all probability, the flicker of an eyelash had significance? She had nearly swooned at the shock of that word 'detective', and he had seen her sway and turn pale, and must have wondered what was the cause.

    She wanted to run, and it required all her reserve of will to keep her from increasing her already hurried pace. She went rapidly down the declivity to the railway station and found she had half an hour to wait, and only then remembered that when she had left the house she had given herself time to order a number of commodities that were required for the kitchen. Should she go back? Dare she face the grave scrutiny which had so terrified her?

    Eventually she did go back. The spur of self-contempt urged her, yet she was relieved to discover that the blue car had gone.