# The Whisper on the Stair/Chapter 4

A quick search revealed the fact that nothing else had been taken by the ghostly marauder. Even the ten thousand dollar bill had been left on the bedside table where Val had dropped it after a due examination the night before. Perhaps the burglar had not seen the bill—he had worked with a flashlight, probably, or perhaps no light at all.
They found the marks of a jimmy on the catch of the airshaft window—a living room window only about twelve feet above the street and easy of access to an active man—or easier if there were two men.
By the time the search was completed Val’s headache had gone. His eye was brighter than it had been for many a day. He was interested. Life was beginning to pick up again—there were things happening. At breakfast he conducted one of his usual one-sided conversations with his man.
“Eddie,” he queried, “copper colored hair is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“For them as likes copper colored hair, sir.”
“When you meet the best looking girl in all the world and points adjacent, Eddie, and she carries mystery written all over her—with an appearance of wealth which she belies by accepting two dollars and thirteen cents for two dozen books, and when you take ​one of those bundles of books home and find that her name is, probably, Jessica Pomeroy, and that there is a ten thousand dollar bill in one of those books which, of course, it will be up to your respected—so to speak—employer to return if he can find the girl, thus making it the basis for a firm and lasting—er—friendship, and lastly, when some visitor oozes in during the wee sma’ hours, perfumes your palpitating bean with chloroform and other pleasing odors, and abstracts aforesaid books, would you say that Life was beginning to be worth living once more?”
“Yes, sir. Another cup of coffee, sir?” replied Eddie, brightly.
“Yes. And Eddie, the name of Jessica Pomeroy is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. A very tasteful name for a young female person, if I may say so, sir,” came back Eddie. Val looked at him thoughtfully, speculatively.
“Have you ever been in love, Eddie?” he asked at length.
“No, sir. The reason I look as I do, sir, is because I never did quite get all that gas out of my system—you know, that time when we took Neuve Ste. Jean. I⸺”
“Old vaudeville stuff, Eddie. What do you know of the more delicate passions anyway. I want you to drive for me this morning—order the car, will you. I’ll be starting right after breakfast.”
Val attacked another slice of toast with great gusto. Things were beginning to look up—midnight attacks, beautiful girls, ten thousand dollar bills, mystery, love, everything. Perhaps life was not such a dull proposition after all. Who knows, maybe to-day he would be lucky enough to have some one make an attack on ​his life—or perhaps he would rescue Jessica Pomeroy from some horrible danger that threatened her, or perhaps . . .
He smiled and finished his breakfast. As long as there was a bit of beauty and a bit of fighting left in the world, he would reconsider his determination to leave this old planet flat on its back and find another where things were livelier. And this began to look promising, too. Well, the first think to do was to locate Jessica Pomeroy.
The telephone book was not of much assistance. There was half a column of the name, and they ranged from authors to zither experts, but he found nothing that conjured up the name of Jessica for him. Some of them lived in the Bronx. That let them out, of course, because Jessica would not live in the Bronx. There were some in Brooklyn—they were dismissed for the same reason.
“Suppose I’ll have to visit them all,” sighed Val. He would visit every Pomeroy in the United States, if necessary. He would⸺”
“The car is here, sir,” announced Eddie.
“All right, Eddie. Coming.”
He lighted a cigarette as he made his way out, humming a gay little tune meanwhile. It was all about love and springtime, and all that sort of thing, and contained a reference to blue eyes and shining skies and moon and June and spoon and croon and all the world’s in tune. For the first time in many days Val was, in a manner of speaking, bubbling inside.
His limousine, a French car, with Eddie sedately and properly at the wheel, stood at the curb.
“To Masterson’s book shop, on Fourth Avenue, Eddie,” he commanded.
​“Yes, sir.”
The car, galvanized into sudden and vibrant life beneath him, slid out into the smooth roadway and hummed over the asphalt on its way downtown. Val gave himself up to pleasant meditations. Possibly she was already at the bookshop, having in some miraculous way discovered the loss of the money; maybe she was there with other books.
Surely one of the volumes in Mat’s possession would have her name and address. Of course, her name was Jessica Pomeroy—of that he was certain, though he was willing to admit freely that his grounds for belief in this were not impregnable. Yet, did not the name Jessica fit her so well that you might think that he, Val, had personally chosen it for her? It did! Well, then.
He lighted another cigarette. Just like a novel, he commented. It seemed to be a case of cherchez la femme, and he intended cherching the femme all over the bally town until he had her located. As to finding her, that ought not to be so hard. He was awakened from his reverie by the stopping of the car in front of Masterson’s bookshop.
“Wait, Eddie,” he threw back, jumping out and making his way to the store.
“Funny,” he commented to himself. “First time I ever knew Mat to be late.” The window shades were drawn down close to the bottom, shutting out all outside view, just as Mat left them every night.
A closer look convinced him, however, that the store was not closed. A streak of yellow gaslight showed at one end of the window, where the shade did not quite fit to the exact end of the glass. And now a shadow crossed the shade. ​Val descended the half a dozen steps that led to the store and turned the handle. It opened easily, and he let himself into the room—into the center of a group of five or six people, including two policemen.
“Hello, what’s up?” he asked, looking around for the bookseller. He did not see him, hut a personage of apparent importance stepped forward. They inspected each other closely, slowly.
“You’re Mr. Valentine Morley,” said the other.
Val looked at his feet. They were of a good, generous size. They were capable of supporting his great bulk in comfort, if not in style. From the official’s feet he looked up again to his face.
“I am, officer,” he replied. “Anything wrong here?”
The officer nodded his head. “Decidedly,” he replied, tersely. “I am Detective Sergeant Connolly,” he stated, showing a gold badge as he spoke. Val nodded in acknowledgment, waiting.
“Matthew Masterson is dead,” said the sergeant.
“Mat Masterson—is—dead!” repeated Val mechanically. He did not comprehend fully at first, it was too sudden. “Mat Masterson—is dead!” he repeated again, and Sergeant Connolly nodded his head briefly. There was a catch in Val’s voice as he repeated the second time—he had loved the lonely old man. And now he was gone. It was a pity.
“How⸺” he commenced.
“He was murdered last night,” said Sergeant Connolly drily.