Night of the Jabberwock Page 7

  I was only half a block, now, from Smiley’s and the Clarion. I broke into a trot. Even at my age, it wouldn’t wind me to trot that far. It had probably been less than half an hour since I’d left home, but with the things that had happened en route, it seemed like days. Well, anyway, nothing could happen to me between here and Smiley’s. And nothing did.

  I could see through the glass that there weren’t any customers at the bar and that Smiley was alone behind it. Polishing glasses, as always; I think he must polish the same glasses a dozen times over when there’s nothing else for him to do.

  I burst in and headed for the telephone. I said, “Smiley, hell’s popping tonight. There’s an escaped lunatic, and something’s happened to Carl Trenholm, and a couple of wanted bank robbers drove through here fifteen or twenty minutes ago and I got to——”

  I was back by the telephone by the time I’d said all that and I was reaching up for the receiver. But I never quite touched it.

  A voice behind me said, “Take it easy, Buster.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.

  “There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.

  The further off from England the nearer is to France –

  Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.”

  I TURNED around slowly. They’d been sitting at the table around the el of the tavern, the one table that can’t be seen through the glass of the door or the windows. They’d probably picked it for that reason. The beer glasses in front of them were empty. But I didn’t think the guns in their hands would be.

  One of the guns—the one in the hand of Bat Masters’ companion—was aimed at Smiley. And Smiley, not smiling, was keeping his hands very still, not moving a muscle.

  The gun in Masters’ hand was aimed at me.

  He said, “So you knew us, huh, Buster?”

  There wasn’t any use denying it; I’d said too much already. I said, “You’re Bat Masters.” I looked at the other man, whom I hadn’t seen clearly before, when he’d been in the car. He was squat and stocky, with a bullet head and little pig eyes. He looked like a caricature of a German army officer. I said, “I’m sorry; I don’t know your friend.”

  Masters laughed. He said, “See, George, I’m famous and you’re not. How’d you like that?”

  George kept his eyes on Smiley. He said, “I think you better come around this side of the bar. You just might have a gun back there and take a notion to dive for it.”

  “Come on over and sit with us,” Masters said. “Both of you. Let’s make it a party, huh, George?”

  George said, “Shut up,” which changed my opinion of George quite a bit. I personally wouldn’t have cared to tell Bat Masters to shut up, and in that tone of voice. True I had been fresh with him about twenty minutes before, but I hadn’t known who he was. I hadn’t even seen how big he was.

  Smiley was coming around the end of the bar. I caught his eye, and gave him what was probably a pretty sickly grin. I said, “I’m sorry, Smiley. Looks like I put our foot in it this time.”

  His face was completely impassive. He said, “Not your fault, Doc.”

  I wasn’t too sure of that myself. I was just remembering that I’d vaguely noticed a car parked in front of Smiley’s place. If my brains had been in the proper end of my anatomy I’d have had the sense to take a quick look at that car. And if I’d had that much sense, I’d have had the further sense to go across to the Clarion office instead of barging nitwittedly into Smiley’s and into the arms of Bat Masters and George.

  And if the state police had come before they’d left Smiley’s, the Clarion would have had a really good story. This way, it might be a good story too, but who would write it?

  Smiley and I were standing close together now, and Masters must have figured that one gun was enough for both of us. He stuck his into a shoulder holster and looked at George. “Well?” he said.

  That proved again that George was the boss, or at least was on equal status with Masters. And as I studied George’s face, I could see why. Masters was big and probably had plenty of brass and courage, but George was the one of the two who had the more brains.

  George said, “Guess we’ll have to take ’em along, Bat.”

  I knew what that meant. I said, “Listen, there’s a back room. Can’t you just tie us up? If we’re found a few hours from now, what does it matter? You’ll be clear.”

  “And you might be found in a few minutes. And you probably noticed what kind of car we got, and you know which way we’re heading.” He shook his head, and it was definite.

  He said, “We’re not sticking around, either, till somebody comes in. Bat, go look outside.”

  Masters got up and started toward the front; then he hesitated and went back of the bar instead. He took two pint bottles of whisky and put one in either coat pocket. And he punched “No Sale” on the register and took out the bills; he didn’t bother with the change. He folded the bills and stuck them in his trouser pocket. Then he came back around the bar and started for the door.

  Sometimes I think people are crazy. Smiley stuck out his hand. He said, “Five bucks. Two-fifty apiece for those pints.”

  He could have got shot for it, then and there, but for some reason Masters liked it. He grinned and took the wadded paper out of his pocket, peeled a five loose and put it in Smiley’s hand.

  George said, “Bat, cut the horseplay. Look outside.” I noticed that he watched very carefully and kept the gun trained smack in the middle of Smiley’s chest while Smiley stuck the five-dollar bill into his pocket.

  Masters opened the door and stepped outside, looked around casually and beckoned to us. Meanwhile George had stood up and walked around behind us, sliding his gun into a coat pocket out of sight but keeping his hand on it.

  He said, “All right, boys, get going.”

  It was all very friendly. In a way.

  We went out the door into the cool pleasant evening that wasn’t going to last much longer, the way things looked now. Yes, the Buick was parked right in front of Smiley’s. If I’d only glanced at it before I went in, the whole mess wouldn’t have happened.

  The Buick was a four-door sedan. George said, “Get in back,” and we got in back. George got in front but sat sidewise, turned around facing us over the seat.

  Masters got in behind the wheel and started the engine. He said over his shoulder, “Well, Buster, where to?”

  I said, “About five miles out there are woods. If you take us back in them and tie us up, there isn’t a chance on earth we’d be found before tomorrow.”

  I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want Smiley to die, and that idea was such a good one that for a moment I hoped. Then Masters said, “What town is this, Buster?” and I knew there wasn’t any chance. Just because I’d given him a fresh answer to a fresh question half an hour ago, there wasn’t any chance.

  The car pulled out from the kerb and headed north.

  I was scared and sober. There didn’t seem to be any reason why I had to be both. I said, “How about a drink?”

  George reached into Masters’ coat pocket and handed one of the pint bottles over the back of the seat. My hands shook a little while I got the cellophane off with my thumb nail and unscrewed the cap. I handed it to Smiley first and he took a short drink and passed it back. I took a long one and it put a warm spot where a very cold one had been. I don’t meant to say it made me happy, but I felt a little better. I wondered what Smiley was thinking about and I remembered that he had a wife and three kids and I wished I hadn’t remembered that.

  I handed him back the bottle and he took another quick nip. I said, “I’m sorry, Smiley,” and he said. “That’s all right, Doc.” And he laughed. “One bad thing, Doc. There’ll be a swell story for your Clarion, but can Pete write it?”

  I found myself wondering that, quite seriously. Pete’s one of the best all-round printers in Illinois, but what kind of a job
would he make of things tonight and tomorrow morning? He’d get the paper out all right, but he’d never done any news writing—at least as long as he’d worked for me—and handling all the news he was going to have tomorrow would be plenty tough. An escaped maniac, whatever had happened to Carl, and whatever—as if I really wondered—was going to happen to Smiley and me. I wondered if our bodies would be found in time to make the paper, or if it would be merely a double disappearance. We’d both be missed fairly soon. Smiley because his tavern was still open but no one behind the bar. I because I was due to meet Pete at the Clarion and about an hour from now, when I hadn’t shown up yet, he’d start checking.

  We were just leaving town by then, and I noticed that we’d got off the main street which was part of the main highway. Burgoyne Street, which we were on, was turning into a road.

  Masters stopped the car as we came to a fork and turned around. “Where do these roads go?” he asked.

  “They both go to Watertown,” I told him. “The one to the left goes along the river and the other one cuts through the hills; it’s shorter, but it’s trickier driving.”

  Apparently Masters didn’t mind tricky driving. He swung right and we started up into the hills. I wouldn’t have done it myself, if I’d been driving. The hills are pretty hilly and the road through them is narrow and does plenty of winding, with a drop-off on one side or the other most of the time. Not the long precipitous drop-off you find on real mountain roads, but enough to wreck a car that goes over the edge, and enough to bother my touch of acrophobia.

  Phobias are ridiculous things, past reasoning. I felt mine coming back the moment there was that slight drop-off at the side of the road as we started up the first hill. Actually, I was for the moment more afraid of that than of George’s gun. Yes, phobias are funny things. Mine, fear of heights, is one of the commonest. Carl is afraid of cats. Al Grainger is a pyrophobiac, morbidly afraid of fire.

  Smiley said, “You know, Doc?”

  “What?” I asked him.

  “I was thinking of Pete having to write that newspaper. Whyn’t you come back and help him. Ain’t there such things as ghost writers?”

  I groaned. After all these years, Smiley had picked a time like this to come up with the only funny thing I’d ever heard him say.

  We were up high now, about as high as the road went; ahead was a hairpin turn as it started downhill again. Masters stopped the car. “Okay, you mugs,” he said. “Get out and start walking back.”

  Start, he’d said; he hadn’t made any mention of finishing. The tail lights of the car would give them enough illumination to shoot us down by. And he’d probably picked this spot because it would be easy to roll our bodies off the edge of the road, down the slope, so they wouldn’t be found right away. Both of them were already getting out of the car.

  Smiley’s big hand gave my arm a quick squeeze; I didn’t know whether it was a farewell gesture or a signal. He said, “Go ahead, Doc,” as calmly as though he was collecting for drinks back of his bar.

  I opened the door on my side, but I was afraid to step out. Not because I knew I was going to be shot—that would happen anyway, even if I didn’t get out. They’d either drag me out or else shoot me where I sat and bloody up the back seat of their car. No, I was afraid to get out because the car was on the outside edge of the road and the slope started only a yard from the open door of the car. My damned acrophobia. It was dark out there and I could see the edge of the road and no farther and I pictured a precipice beyond. I hesitated, half in the door and half out of it.

  Smiley said again, “Go ahead, Doc,” and I heard him moving behind me.

  Then suddenly there was a click—and complete and utter darkness. Smiley had reached a long arm across the back of the seat to the dashboard and had turned the light switch off. All the car lights went out.

  There was a shove in the middle of my back that sent me out of that car door like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle; I don’t think my feet touched that yard-wide strip of road at all. As I went over the edge into darkness and the unknown I heard swearing and a shot behind me. I was so scared of falling that I’d gladly have been back up on the road trying to outrun a bullet back toward town. At least I’d have been dead before they rolled me over the edge.

  I hit and fell and rolled. It wasn’t really steep, after all; it was about a forty-five degree slope, and it was grassy. I flattened a couple of bushes before one stopped me. I could hear Smiley coming after me, sliding, and I scrambled on as fast as I could. All of my arms and legs seemed to be working, so I couldn’t be seriously hurt.

  And I could see a little now that my eyes were getting used to the darkness. I could see trees ahead, and I scrambled toward them down the slope, sometimes running, sometimes sliding and sometimes simply falling, which is the simplest if not the most comfortable way to go down a hill.

  I made the trees, and heard Smiley make them, just as the lights of the car flashed on, on the road above us. Some shots snapped our way, and then I heard George say, “Don’t waste it. Let’s get going,” and Bat’s, “You mean we’re gonna——”

  George growled, “Hell, yes. That’s woods down there. We could waste an hour playing hide and seek. Let’s get going.”

  They were the sweetest words I’d heard in a long time.

  I heard car doors slam, and the car started.

  Smiley’s voice, about two yards to my left, said, “Doc? You okay?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Smart work, Smiley, Thanks.”

  He came around a tree toward me and I could see him now. He said, “Save it, Doc. Come on quick. We got a chance—a little chance, anyway—of stopping them.”

  “Stopping them?” I said. My voice went shrill and sounded strange to me. I wondered if Smiley had gone crazy. I couldn’t think of anything in the whole wide world that I wanted to do less than stop Bat Masters and George.

  But he had hold of my arm and was starting downhill, through the dimly seen trees and away from the road, taking me with him.

  He said, “Listen, Doc, I know this country like the palm of my foot. I’ve hunted here often.”

  “For bank robbers?” I asked him.

  “Listen, that road makes a hairpin and goes by right below us, not forty yards from here. If we can get just above the road before they get there and if I can find a big boulder to roll down as the car goes by——”

  I wasn’t crazy about it, but he was pulling me along and we were through the trees already. My eyes were used to the darkness by now and I could see the road dimly, a dozen yards ahead and a dozen yards below. In the distance, around a curve, I could hear the sound of the car; I couldn’t see it yet. It was a long way off, but coming fast.

  Smiley said, “Look for a boulder, Doc. If you don’t find one big enough to roll, then something we can throw. If we can hit their windshield or something——”

  He was bending over, groping around. I did the same, but the bank was smooth and grassy. If there were stones, I couldn’t find any.

  Apparently Smiley wasn’t having any luck either. He swore. He said. “If I only had a gun——”

  I remembered something. “I’ve got one,” I said.

  He straightened up and looked at me—and I’m glad it was dark enough that he couldn’t see my face and that I couldn’t see his.

  I handed him the gun. The headlights of the car were coming in sight now around the curve. Smiley pushed me back into the trees and stood behind one himself, leaning out to expose only his head and his gun hand.

  The car came like a bat out of hell, but Smiley took aim calmly. He fired his first shot when the car was about forty yards away, the second when it was only twenty. The first shot went into the radiator—I don’t mean we could tell that then, but that’s where it was found afterwards. The second went through the windshield, almost dead centre, but, of course, at an angle. It ploughed a furrow along the side of Masters’ neck. The car careened and then went off the road on the downhill side, a
way from us. It turned over once, end for end, the headlight beams stabbing the night with drunken arcs, and then it banged into a tree with a noise like the end of the world and stopped.

  For just a second after all that noise there was a silence that was almost deafening. And then the gas tank exploded.

  The car caught fire and there was plenty of light. We saw, as we ran toward it, that one of the men had been thrown clear; when we got close enough we could see that it was Masters. George was still in the car, but we couldn’t do a thing for him. And in that roaring inferno there wasn’t a chance on earth that he could have lived even the minute it took us to get to the scene of the wreck.

  We dragged Masters farther away from the fire before we checked to see whether or not he was alive. Amazingly, he was. His face looked as though he’d held it in a meat grinder and both of his arms were broken. Whether there was anything wrong with him beyond that we couldn’t tell, but he was still breathing and his heart was still beating.

  Smiley was staring at the flaming wreck. He said, “A perfectly good Buick shot to hell. A fifty model at that.” He shook his head sadly and then jumped back, as I did, when there was another explosion in the car; it must have been the cartridges in George’s pistol going off all at once.

  I told Smiley, “One of us will have to walk back. One had better stay here, on account of Masters’ still being alive.”

  “I guess so,” he said. “Don’t know what either of us can do for him, but we can’t both walk off and leave him. Say, look, that’s a car coming.”

  I looked where he was pointing, toward the upper stretch of road where we’d got out of the car before it made the hairpin turn, and there were the headlights of a coming car all right.

  We got out on the road ready to hail it, but it would have stopped anyway. It was a state police car with two coppers in it. Luckily, I knew one of them—Willie Feeble—and Smiley knew the other one, so they took our word for what had happened. Especially as Feeble knew about Masters and was able to identify him in spite of the way his face was cut up.