soon not find out.
     A moment before, just as I'd  reached the place beside the window where
I now stood, I'd stepped on a piece of  wood, a one-by-two stick of it about
a foot  long. That was  a  weapon I could  understand.  I  reached  down and
grabbed it and swung, just in time, as a head came through the window.
     Thank God  I  didn't swing too hard. At the  last second, even  in that
faint light, I'd thought-
     The head  and the hand weren't in the window any more and there was the
soft thud of a body  falling inside. There wasn't  any sound or movement for
seconds.  Long seconds, and then  there was  the  sound of my stick  of wood
hitting the dirt of the alley and I knew I'd dropped it.
     If it hadn't been  for what I'd thought  I'd seen in that last fraction
of a second before it  was  too late to stop the  blow, I could have run now
for the sheriff's office. But-
     Maybe here went my head, but I had to chance it. The sill of the window
wasn't much over waist high. I leaned across  it and struck a match, and I'd
been right.
     I climbed  in the window and felt for his  heart and it was beating all
right. He seemed to  be breathing normally. I ran my hands very  gently over
his head and then held them in the open window to look at them; there wasn't
any blood. There could be, then, nothing worse than a concussion.
     I lowered the window so nobody would notice that it was open and then I
felt  my  way  carefully  toward  the nearest desk -  I'd been in  the  bank
thousands of times; I knew  its layout -  and groped for a telephone until I
found  one. The  operator's voice said,  "Number, please?" and I started  to
give  it and  then remembered; she'd know where the call came  from and that
the bank was closed.  Naturally,  she'd listen in. Maybe she'd even call the
sheriff's office to tell them someone was using the telephone in the bank.
     Had I recognized her voice? I'd thought I had. I said, "Is this Milly?"
     "Yes. Is this - Mr. Stoeger?"
     "Right,"  I said. I was glad she'd known my  voice. "Listen, Milly, I'm
calling from the bank, but it's all right. You don't need to worry about it.
And - do me a favor, will you? Please don't listen in."
     "All right, Mr. Stoeger. Sure. What number do you want?"
     I  gave it; the number of Clyde Andrews, president of  the  bank. As  I
heard the ringing of the phone at the other end, I thought how lucky it  was
that I'd known Milly all her life and that we liked one another. I knew that
she'd be burning with curiosity but that she wouldn't listen in.
     Clyde Andrews' voice answered. I was still careful  about what  I  said
because I didn't know offhand whether he was on a party line.
     I said, "This is Doc  Stoeger, Clyde. I'm down  at  the  bank. Get down
here right away. Hurry."
     "Huh? Doc, are you drunk or something?  What would you be doing  at the
bank. It's closed."
     I said, "Somebody was inside here. I hit him over the head with a piece
of wood when he started back out of the window, and he's unconscious but not
hurt  bad. But  just to be sure, pick  up  Doc  Minton on your way here. And
hurry."
     "Sure," he said. "Are you phoning the sheriff or shall I?"
     "Neither  of us.  Don't phone  anybody.  Just  get Minton and  get here
quick."
     "But - I don't get it. Why not phone the sheriff? Is this a gag?"
     I said, "No, Clyde. Listen  - you'll  want to see the burglar first. He
isn't badly hurt, but for God's sake quit arguing and get down here with Dr.
Minton. Do you understand?"
     His  tone  of voice was  different  when he  said, "I'll be there. Five
minutes."
     I  put the receiver back  on  the phone and then lifted  it again.  The
"Number,  please"  was  Milly's  voice  again and I  asked  her  if she knew
anything about Carl Trenholm.
     She didn't; she hadn't known anything  had happened at all. When I told
her  what little I  knew  she said yes,  that  she'd  routed a  call  from a
farmhouse out on the pike to the sheriff's office about half an hour before,
but she'd had several other calls  around the same time and  hadn't listened
in on it.
     I decided  that I'd better wait until  I  was  somewhere else, before I
called to report  either  Bat  Masters' passing through or about the escaped
maniac at  my  own house. It wouldn't be  safe to risk making  the call from
here, and a few more minutes wouldn't matter a lot.
     I  went  back, groping my way through the dark toward the dim square of
the  window, and  bent down  again  by  the  boy,  Clyde  Andrews' son.  His
breathing and his heart  were  still okay and he moved a little and muttered
something  as  though he was  coming out of it. I don't know anything  about
concussion, but I thought  that was  a good sign  and felt better. It  would
have  been  terrible if  I'd  swung a little  harder and had killed  him  or
injured him seriously.
     I sat down on the floor so my head would be out of the line of sight if
anyone looked  in the  front  window, as  I had  a few minutes  before,  and
waited.
     So much had been happening that I felt a little numb. There was so much
to think about that I guess I didn't think about any of it. I just sat there
in the dark.
     When the phone rang I jumped about two feet.
     I groped to it and  answered  it. Milly's  voice  said, "Mr. Stoeger, I
thought  I'd  better tell  you  if you're  still  there.  Somebody  from the
drugstore  across the street just  phoned the sheriff's office and said  the
night light in the bank is out, and whoever answered at the sheriff's office
- it sounded like one  of  the deputies,  not  Mr. Kates - said  they'd come
right around."
     I said, "Thanks, Milly. Thanks a lot."
     A car was  pulling up at the  curb outside; I could  see it through the
window. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the men getting out of
it as Clyde Andrews and the doctor.
     I  switched  on the lights inside while Clyde was  unlocking the  front
door. I told him  quickly about the call that had been made to the sheriff's
office while  I was leading them back to where Harvey Andrews  was lying. We
moved him slightly to a point where neither he  nor Dr. Minton, bending over
him,  could be seen from the front of the bank, and we did it  just in time.
Hank was rapping on the door.
     I stayed out of sight, too, to avoid having to explain what I was doing
there.  I heard  Clyde Andrews  open  the  door for  Hank  and explain  that
everything was all right, that someone had phoned  him,  too, that the night
light  was out and that he'd just got here to check up and that the bulb had
merely burned out.
     When Hank  left, Clyde  came back,  his  face,  a bit white. Dr. Minton
said,  "He's going to be all right, Clyde. Starting to come  out of it. Soon
as he can walk between us,  we'll get him to the hospital for a  checkup and
be sure."
     I said, "Clyde, I've got to run. There's a  lot popping tonight. But as
soon as you're sure the boy's all right will you let me know? I'll  probably
be at the Clarion, but I might be at Smiley's - or if it's  a long time from
now, I might be home."
     "Sure, Doc." He  put his hand on  my shoulder. "And  thanks a lot for -
calling me instead of the sheriff's office."
     "That's all  right," I told him. "And, Clyde, I didn't know who it  was
before I hit. He was coming out of the back window and I thought-"
     Clyde said, "I looked in his room after you  phoned. He'd packed. I - I
can't  understand it, Doc. He's only fifteen. Why he'd do  a thing like-" He
shook his  head.  "He's  always  been headstrong and he's  got  into  little
troubles a few times, but - I don't  understand this."  He looked at me very
earnestly. "Do you?"
     I thought maybe I did understand  a little of it, but I was remembering
about Bat Masters and the fact that he was getting farther away every minute
and that I'd better get the state police notified pretty quickly.
     So I said, "Can I talk to you about  it tomorrow, Clyde? Get  the boy's
side  of it when he can  talk - and just try  to  keep  your mind open until
then. I think - it may not be as bad as you think right now."
     I left him still looking like a man  who's just taken an almost  mortal
blow, and went out.
     I headed down the street thinking what a damn fool I'd been  to do what
I'd  done.  But then, where  had I  missed a  chance to do  something  wrong
anywhere down the line tonight? And then, on second thought, this one  thing
might not have  been wrong. If I'd called Hank, the boy just might have been
shot instead of knocked out. And in any case he'd have been arrested.
     That  would have been bad.  This  way, there was a  chance he could  be
straightened  out before it was too  late. Maybe a  psychiatrist could  help
him. The only thing  was, Clyde  Andrews would have to realize that he, too,
would  have  to take advice from the  psychiatrist. He was a good man, but a
hard father.  You  can't  expect  the  things of a fifteen year-old boy that
Clyde expected of Harvey, and not have something go wrong somewhere down the
line. But burglarizing a bank,  even his own father's bank - I couldn't make
up my mind whether  that  made it better  or worse was certainly something I
hadn't looked for. It appalled me,  a bit. Harvey's running away  from  home
wouldn't have surprised me at all;  I don't know  that I'd even have  blamed
him.
     A man can be  too good a man and  too conscientious and strict a father
for his son ever to  be able to love him.  If Clyde Andrews would  only  get
drunk - good  and stinking drunk - just once in  his  life, he  might get an
entirely  different  perspective  on things,  even  if he  never again  took
another drink. But he'd  never taken a drink yet, nor one in his whole life.
I don't think he'd ever smoked a cigarette or said a naughty word.
     I liked him anyway; I'm pretty tolerant, I guess. But I'm glad I hadn't
had a  father like him. In my books, the man in town who was the best father
was Carl Trenholm. Trenholm - and I hadn't found out yet whether he was dead
or only injured!
     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.
  "The further off from England the nearer is to France.
There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
  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 at least
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 a 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 money 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 curb 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 thumbnail 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 mean 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-around 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 down-hill, 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 can'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 center but, of course, at an
angle. It plowed a  furrow along the side of Masters' neck. The car careened
and then went off the road  on the downhill  side, away  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  just 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 Peeble - and Smiley knew the other  one, so they  took
our word for what had happened. Especially  as Peeble knew about Masters and
was able to identify him in spite of the way his face was cut up.
     Masters was still alive and his heartbeat and breathing were as good as
they'd been when we'd got to him. Peeble decided he'd better not try to move
him.  He went back to the police car and used the two-way  radio to  get  an
ambulance  started  our  way  and  to report  in  to headquarters  what  had
happened.
     Peeble  came back and said, "We'll give you and your friend a lift into
town as soon as  the  ambulance gets  here.  You'll have  to  make and  sign
statements and stuff,  but the chief says you can do that tomorrow; he knows
both of you and says it's all right that way."
     "That's swell," I said. "I've got to get back  to the office as soon as
I can. And as for Smiley here, his place  is open and nobody there." I had a
sudden thought and said, "Say, Smiley,  you don't by  any chance  still have
that pint we had a nip out of in the car, do you?"
     He  shook  his head. "What with turning off the lights  and pushing you
out and getting out myself-"
     I sighed at the waste  of good liquor. The  other pint bottle, the  one
that had been in Bat Masters' left coat pocket,  hadn't survived the  crash.
Still,  Smiley had saved our  lives, so I  had to forgive him for abandoning
the bottle he'd been holding.
     The fire was dying down now, and  I was getting  a little  sick  at the
barbecue odor and  wished the ambulance would come so we could get away from
there.
     I suddenly remembered Carl and asked Peeble if there'd  been any report
on  the police radio  about a Carl Trenholm.  He  shook  his head.  He said,
"There was a looney loose, though. Escaped from the  county asylum.  Must've
been caught, though; we had a cancellation on it later."
     That was good news, in a way. It meant that  Yehudi hadn't waited at my
place  after  all. And somehow I'd hated the thought  of having  to sick the
guards on him while he was  there. Insane or not,  it didn't seem like  real
hospitality to a guest.
     And  the fact that nothing had been on  the police radio about  Carl at
least wasn't discouraging.
     A car came along  from  the opposite  direction  and  stopped when  its
driver saw the smoldering wreckage and  the state police car. It turned  out
to be a break for Smiley and me.  The driver was a Watertown man whom Willie
Peeble knew and who was on his way to Carmel City. When Peeble introduced us
and vouched for  us, he said he'd be glad to take Smiley and  me into Carmel
City with him.
     I didn't believe it  at  first  when  I  saw  by the  clock dial on the
instrument panel of the car that it was only a few minutes after ten o'clock
as we entered Carmel City; it seemed incredible that so much had happened in
the few hours - less than four - since I'd left the Clarion. But we passed a
lighted  clock  in a store window and I saw that  the clock  in  the car was
right  after all, within a  few minutes, anyway. It was only a quarter after
ten.
     We were let off in front of Smiley's.  Across the  street I  could  see
lights were on at the Clarion, so Pete would be there. I  thought I'd take a
quick drink with Smiley, though, before I went to the  office, so  I went in
with him.
     The place  was as we'd left it.  If any customer had come  in, he'd got
tired of waiting and bad left.
     Smiley went around back of the bar and poured us drinks while I went to
the phone. I was going to call the hospital to find out about Carl Trenholm;
then I decided to  call Pete instead. He'd  surely  have called the hospital
already. So I gave the Clarion number.
     When Pete recognized my voice, he  said, "Doc, where  the hell have you
been?"
     "Tell you in a minute, Pete. First, have you got anything about Carl?"
     "He's  all  right. I  don't  know yet what  happened, but  he's okay. I
called the hospital and they said he'd been treated and released. I tried to
find out what  the injuries had been and how they'd happened,  but they said
they couldn't  give out that information. I tried  his  home, but I guess he
hadn't got there yet; nobody answered."
     "Thanks, Pete," I  said.  "That's swell.  Listen,  there's going  to be
plenty to write up. Carl's accident, when we get in touch with him, and  the
escape  and capture of the lunatic, and - something even  bigger than either
of those. So I guess we might as well do it tonight, if that's okay by you."
     "Sure, Doc. I'd rather get it over with tonight. Where are you?"
     "Over at Smiley's. Come on  over  for a quick one - to celebrate Carl's
being okay. He can't even be badly hurt if they released him that quickly."
     "Okay,  Doc, I'll  have one.  But  where were you? And Smiley, too, for
that matter? I looked  in  there  on my way to  the office - saw  the lights
weren't on here, so I knew you  weren't here yet - and you  and Smiley  were
both  gone. I waited five or ten minutes and then I  decided I'd better come
across here in  case of any phone calls and to start melting  metal  in  the
Linotype."
     I said, "Smiley and I had a little ride. I'll tell you about it."
     "Okay, Doc. See you in a couple of minutes."
     I  went back  to the  bar and when  I  reached for  the shot Smiley had
poured for me, my hand was shaking.
     Smiley grinned and said, "Me too,  Doc." He held out his hand and I saw
it wasn't much steadier than mine.
     "Well," he  said,  "you  got  your story, Doc. What  you were squawking
about.  Say,  here's   your  gun  back."  He  took  out  the  short-barreled
thirty-eight and put  it on the bar. "Good as  new, except two  bullets gone
out of it. How'd you happen to have it with you, Doc?"
     For some reason I didn't want to tell  him, or anyone, that the escaped
lunatic had  made such a sap out of me and  had been a guest at my house. So
I, said, "I had to walk down here,  and Pete had  just phoned me there was a
lunatic loose, so I stuck that in my pocket. Jittery, I guess."
     He looked at me and shook his head slowly. I know he was thinking about
my having had that gun in  my pocket  all along, during what  we thought was
our  last  ride,  and never having  even tried to use it. I'd been so scared
that  I'd  completely forgotten  about it until Smiley had said he wished he
had a gun.
     I grinned and said, "Smiley, you're right in what you're thinking. I've
got no more business with a gun  than  a  snake has with roller skates. Keep
it."
     "Huh? You mean it, Doc? I've  been thinking  about getting one to  keep
under the bar."
     "Sure,  I mean  it," I told him. "I'm afraid of the damn things and I'm
safer without one."
     He hefted it appraisingly. "Nice gun. It's worth something."
     I said, "So's my life, Smiley. To me, anyway. And you saved it when you
pushed me out of that car and over the edge tonight."
     "Forget it, Doc.  I couldn't have  got out that door  myself  with  you
asleep  in it. And  getting out of the  other side of the  car wouldn't have
been such a hot idea. Well, if you really mean it, thanks for the gun."
     He put it out  of  sight under the bar and then poured us each a second
drink. "Make it short," I told him. "I've got a lot of work to do."
     He  glanced at his clock  and  it was  only ten thirty. He said, "Hell,
Doc, the evenin's only a pup."
     I thought, but didn't say, what a pup!
     I wonder what I'd have thought if I'd even guessed that the  pup hadn't
even been weaned yet.
     Pete came in.

        CHAPTER SEVEN

          "It seems a shame," the Walrus said
                 "To play them such a trick.
          After we've brought them out so far,
                 And made them trot so quick!"

     Neither Smiley nor I had touched,  as yet, the second drink he'd poured
us, so there was time for Pete Corey to get in on the round; Smiley poured a
drink for him.
     He said, "Okay, Doc, now what's this gag about Smiley and you going for
a ride? You told me your car was laid up and Smiley doesn't drive one."
     "Pete," I said, "Smiley doesn't have to be able to drive a  car. He's a
gentleman of  genius. He  kills  or captures killers.  That's what  we  were
doing. Anyway, that's what Smiley  was doing.  I went  along,  just for  the
ride."
     "Doc, you're kidding me."
     I said, "If you don't believe me, read tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of
Bat Masters?"
     Pete shook his head. He reached for his drink.
     "You will," I told him. "In tomorrow's Clarion. Ever hear of George?"
     "George Who?"
     I opened my mouth to say I didn't know, but Smiley beat me to the punch
by saying, "George Kramer."
     I stared at Smiley. "How'd you know his last name?"
     "Saw  it in a  fact  detective magazine. And his picture, too,  and Bat
Masters'. They're members of the Gene Kelley mob."
     I stared harder at Smiley.  "You recognized them? I mean, before I even
came in here?"
     "Sure,"  Smiley said. "But it  wouldn't have been a good idea to  phone
the cops while they  were here, so  I was going to wait till  they left, and
then  phone the state cops to  pick 'em up between here  and Chicago. That's
where they  were heading. I listened to what they said, and it wasn't  much,
but I did get that much out of it.  Chicago. They had a date  there tomorrow
afternoon."
     "You're not kidding, Smiley?" I asked him. "You really had them spotted
before I came in here?"
     "I'll show  you the magazine, Doc, with their pictures in it.  Pictures
of all the Gene Kelley mob."
     "Why didn't you tell me?"
     Smiley shrugged his big shoulders. "You didn't ask. Why didn't you tell
me you had a gun in your pocket? If you coulda  slipped it to me in the car,
we'd  have polished 'em off sooner. It would  have been a cinch;  it  was so
dark in that back  seat after we  got out of town, George Kramer wouldn't of
seen you pass it."
     He laughed as though he'd said something funny. Maybe he had.
     Pete was looking from one to the other of us. He said, "Listen, if this
is a gag, you guys are going a long way for it. What the hell happened?"
     Neither of us paid any  attention  to Pete. I  said, "Smiley,  where is
that fact detective magazine? Can you get it?"
     "Sure, it's upstairs. Why? Don't you believe me?"
     "Smiley," I  said, "I'd believe you if you told me  you were lying. No,
what I had in mind is  that that magazine will save me a lot of grief. It'll
have background  stuff  on the boys  we  were playing cops and  robbers with
tonight. I  thought  I'd have  to phone to Chicago and get it  from the cops
there. But  if there's  a whole article on the Gene Kelley mob  in that mag,
I'll have enough without that."
     "Get  it  right  away,  Doc."  Smiley went  through  the  door that led
upstairs.
     I took pity on Pete and gave him a  quick sketch of our experience with
the gangsters. It was fun to watch his mouth drop open and to think  that  a
lot  of other mouths in Carmel  City would do that same  thing tomorrow when
the Clarion was distributed.
     Smiley came back  down with the magazine and I put  it in my pocket and
went  to the  phone again. I still  had  to have the  details about what had
happened to Carl,  for the paper. I still wanted  it for my  own information
too, but that wasn't so important as long as he wasn't seriously hurt.
     I  tried the hospital first but they gave me  the same runaround they'd
given  Pete; sorry, but since Mr.  Trenholm had been  discharged, they could
give out no information. I thanked them. I tried Carl's own phone and got no
answer, so I went back to Pete and Smiley.
     Smiley  happened to be staring out the window.  He said, "Somebody just
went in your office, Doc. Looked like Clyde Andrews."
     Pete turned to look, too, but was too late. He said,  "Guess that's who
it must've been. Forgot to tell you, Doc; he phoned about twenty minutes ago
while I was waiting for  you  over at the office. I told  him I expected you
any minute."
     "You didn't lock the door, did you, Pete?" I asked. He shook his head.
     I waited a minute to give the banker time to get up the stairs and into
the office and  then I went back to the phone and called the Clarion number.
It rang  several  times while Clyde,  apparently,  was  making  up his  mind
whether to answer it or not. Finally he did.
     "This is Doc, Clyde," I said. "How's the boy?"
     "He's all right, Doc. He's fine. And I want to thank you again for what
you did  and - I want to talk to you about  something. Are  you  on your way
here?"
     "I'm across the street at Smiley's. How about dropping over here if you
want to talk?"
     He hesitated. "Can't you come here?" he asked.
     I grinned  to myself. Clyde  Andrews  is not only  a strict  temperance
advocate; he's head of a  local chapter  (a small  one,  thank God)  of  the
Anti-Saloon League. He'd probably never been in a tavern in his life.
     I said, "I'm afraid  I can't, Clyde."  I made my voice very grave. "I'm
afraid if you want to talk to me, it will have to be here at Smiley's."
     He got me, all right. He said stiffly, "I'll be there."
     I sauntered  back to  the bar. I said, "Clyde  Andrews is  coming here,
Smiley. Chalk up a first."
     Smiled stared at me. "I don't believe it," he said. He laughed.
     "Watch," I told him.
     Solemnly I went  around behind the bar and got a bottle and two glasses
and took them to a table - the one in the  far corner farthest from the bar.
I liked the way Pete and Smiley stared at me.
     I  filled  both the glasses and sat down.  Pete  and Smiley stared some
more. Then they  turned and stared the  other way  as Clyde came in, walking
stiffly. He said, "Good evening, Mr. Corey,"  to Pete and "Good evening, Mr.
Wheeler" to Smiley, and then came back to where I was sitting.
     I said, "Sit down, Clyde," and he sat down.
     I looked at him. I said sternly, "Clyde, I don't like -  in  advance  -
what you're going to ask me."
     "But, Doc," he said earnestly, almost pleadingly, "must you print  what
happened? Harvey didn't mean to-"
     "That's what I meant," I said. "What makes  you think I'd even think of
printing a word about it?"
     He looked at me and his face changed. "Doc! You're not going to?"
     "Of course not." I leaned forward. "Listen, Clyde, I'll make you a  bet
- or I would if you  were a betting man. I'll bet  I know exactly the amount
of money  the kid had  in his pocket when  he was leaving - and, no I didn't
look in his pockets. I'll  bet he had a savings  account - he's been working
summers several years now, hasn't he? - and he was running away. And he knew
damn well you wouldn't let  him draw his own money and that he couldn't draw
it without  your knowing it. Whether he  had twenty dollars  or  a thousand,
I'll bet you it was the exact amount of his own account."
     He took a deep  breath. "You're right. Exactly right. And -  thanks for
thinking that, before you knew it. I was going to tell you."
     "For a fifteen-year-old, Harvey's a good kid, Clyde. Now listen, you'll
admit I  did  the right  thing  tonight calling  you instead  of calling the
sheriff? And in keeping the story out of the paper?"
     "Yes."
     "You're in a  saloon, Clyde. A  den  of iniquity. You should  have said
`Hell, yes.' But  I don't suppose it would sound natural  if you did,  so  I
won't insist on it. But, Clyde, how much thinking have you been doing  about
why the boy was running away? Has he told you that yet?"
     He  shook his  head  slowly. "He's all  right now, in  bed, asleep. Dr.
Minton gave him a sedative, but told me Harvey had better not do any talking
till tomorrow."
     "I'll  tell  you  right  now,"  I said,  "that he  won't have  any very
coherent story about  it.  Maybe he'll say  he was running away to join  the
army or to go on  the stage  or -  or  almost anything. But it  won't be the
truth, even if he  thinks it  is. Clyde, whether he knows  it or not, he was
running away. Not toward."
     "Away from what?"
     "From you," I said.
     For  a second  I thought  he was going to get  angry  and I'm  glad  he
didn't, because then I might have got angry too and that  would have spoiled
the whole thing.
     Instead, he slumped a little. He said, "Go on, Doc.
     I hated to, then,  but I had to strike  while the striking was good.  I
said, "Listen, Clyde, get up and walk out any time you want to; I'm going to
give it to you straight. You've been a lousy father." At any other time he'd
have  walked out on me on that one. I could tell by his face that, even now,
he didn't like  it. But at any other time he wouldn't have been sitting at a
back table in Smiley's tavern, either.
     I said, "You're  a good man, Clyde, but you work at it too hard. You're
rigid, unyielding,  righteous.  Nobody  can love  a ramrod. There's  nothing
wrong  with  your being  religious,  if  you  want to.  Some  good  men  are
religious. But you've got to realize that everybody who doesn't think as you
do isn't necessarily wrong."
     I  said, "Take alcohol -  literally,  if you  wish; there's  a glass of
whisky in front of you. But take it figuratively, anyway. It's been a solace
to the human race, one of  the things that can make life  tolerable, since -
damn it, since before the human race was even human. True, there are  a  few
people  who can't  handle it - but that's no reason to try  to  legislate it
away  from the  people who can  handle it, and whose  enjoyment  of life  is
increased  by  its moderate use - or even by  its occasional immoderate use,
providing it doesn't make them pugnacious or otherwise objectionable.
     "But -  let's skip  alcohol. My point is that a man can  be  a good man
without trying to interfere with  his neighbor's life too much. Or  with his
son's. Boys are human,  Clyde. People in  general are human; people are more
human than anybody."
     He didn't say  anything,  and that was a hopeful sign. Maybe a tenth of
it was sinking in.
     I said,  "Tomorrow, when you can talk with the kid, Clyde, what are you
going to say?"
     "I - I don't know, Doc."
     I said, "Don't say anything. Above all, don't ask him any question. Not
a damn question. And let  him keep that money,  in cash, so he can run  away
any time he decides to.  Then maybe he won't.  If you change  your  attitude
toward him.
     "But, damn it,  Clyde, you can't  change your attitude toward  him, and
unbend,  without unbending in  general  toward the  human race.  The kid's a
human being,  too. And you could be, if you wanted to.  Maybe you  think  it
will cost you your immortal soul to be one - I don't think so, myself, and I
think  there are a great  many  truly  religious people who  don't  think so
either - but if you persist in not being one, then you're going to lose your
son."
     I decided that that was it. There wasn't anything more that I could say
that couldn't weaken my case. I decided I'd better shut up. I did shut up.
     It seemed  like  a  long,  long  time before he  said  anything. He was
staring at the wall over my head. When he answered what I'd  said, he  still
didn't say anything. He did better, a lot better.
     He picked up the whisky  in front of him.  I got mine picked up in time
to down it as he took a sip of his. He made a face.
     "Tastes horrible," he said. "Doc, do you really like this stuff?"
     "No," I told him. "I hate  the taste of it. You're right,  Clyde, it is
horrible."
     He  looked  at the glass  in his hand and shuddered  a  little. I said,
"Don't drink it. That sip you took proved  your point. And don't try to toss
it off; you'll probably choke."
     He said,  "I suppose  you  have to learn to like it. Doc, I've drunk  a
little wine a few times, not recently, but I  didn't  dislike it  too  much.
Does Mr. Wheeler have any wine?"
     "The name is Smiley," I said, "and he does." I stood  up. I clapped him
on the back, and it  was the first time in my life I'd ever done so. I said,
"Come on, Clyde, let's see what the boys in the back room will have."
     I took him over to the bar, to Pete and Smiley. I told Smiley, "We want
a  round, and it's on Clyde. Wine  for him, and I'll take a short  beer this
time; I've got to rewrite a paper tonight."
     I frowned at Smiley because of the utterly amazed look on his face, and
he got  the hint and straightened it out. He said, "Sure,  Mr. Andrews. What
kind of wine?"
     "Do you have sherry, Mr. Wheeler?"
     I said, "Clyde, meet Smiley. Smiley, Clyde."
     Smiley laughed, and Clyde smiled. The smile was a bit stiff, and  would
take  practice, but I knew and knew damned  well that Harvey Andrews  wasn't
going to run away from home again.
     He was going, henceforth,  to have a father who  was human. Oh, I don't
mean that I  expected  Clyde  suddenly  to turn into Smiley's best customer.
Maybe he'd  never  come back to Smiley's again. But by ordering one drink  -
even of wine  -  across a bar,  he'd crossed  a Rubicon.  He wasn't  perfect
anymore.
     I  was  beginning to feel  my own drinks again and I didn't really want
the one Clyde bought for me, but it was an Occasion, so I took it. But I was
getting  in a hurry to get back across the street to the Clarion and get  to
work on all the stories  I  had to  write, so I downed it fairly quickly and
Pete and I  left.  Clyde left when we  did, because he wanted to get back to
his son; I didn't blame him for that.
     At the Clarion, Pete checked the pot  on the Linotype and  found it hat
enough - while I pulled up the typewriter stand beside  my  desk and started
abusing  the ancient  Underwood. I figured that, with the dope in  the  fact
detective  magazine  Smiley had given me for background, I could run  it  to
three  or four columns, so I  had  a lot  of work ahead of  me.  The escaped
looney and Carl could wait - now that the former was captured and now that I
knew Carl was safe - until I got the main story done.
     I told  Pete, while he  was  waiting for the  first take, to hand set a
banner head, "TAVERNKEEPER CAPTURES WANTED KILLERS," to see if it would fit.
Oh, sure,  I was going to  put myself in the story, too, but I  was going to
make Smiley the hero of it, for one simple reason: he had been.
     Pete had the head set up - and it fitted - by the time I had a take for
him to start setting on the machine.
     In the middle of the second take I realized that I didn't know for sure
that  Bat Masters was still alive, although I'd put it that way in the lead.
I might as well find  out for sure that he really was, and what condition he
was in.
     I knew better than to call the hospital for anything more detailed than
whether  he was dead or not,  so  I picked up the phone and called the state
police office at Watertown. Willie Peeble answered.
     He said,  "Sure, Doc,  he's alive.  He's even been conscious and talked
some. Thinks he's dying, so he really opened up."
     "Is he dying?"
     "Sure, but  not the way he thinks. It'll cost the state some kilowatts.
And he can't beat the rap; they've got the whole gang  cold, once they catch
them. There  were  six people - two of 'em women  - killed in that bank  job
they pulled at Colby."
     "Was George in on that?"
     "Sure. He  was  the one that shot the women. One  was a  teller and the
other one was  a customer who was too  scared to move when they told  her to
lie flat."
     That made  me feel a  little better about  what had happened to George.
Not that it had worried me too much.
     I said, "Then I can put in the story that Bat Masters confesses?"
     "I dunno  about that, Doc. Captain Evans is at  the hospital talking to
him now,  and  we had one report here that  Masters is talking, but  not the
details. I  don't  think  the cap  would even  bother  asking him about that
stuff."
     "What would he ask him, then?"
     "The rest of the mob, where they are. There are two others besides Gene
Kelley, and it'd be a real break if the cap can get out of Masters something
that would  help  us  find the  others.  Especially Kelley.  The  two we got
tonight are peanuts compared to Kelley."
     I said, "Thanks a lot, Willie. Listen, if  anything more breaks  on the
story,  will  you give me a ring? I'll be  here at the Clarion  for a  while
yet."
     "Sure," he said. "So long."
     I hung up and went  back to the story.  It  went  sweetly. I was on the
fourth take  when  the phone  rang and  it  was Captain Evans  of  the state
police, calling from the  hospital where  they'd  taken Masters.  He'd  just
phoned Watertown and knew about my call there.
     He said, "Mr. Stoeger? You going to be  there another fifteen or twenty
minutes?"
     I was probably going to be working another several hours, I told him.
     "Fine," he said, "I'll drive right around."
     That was duck  soup; I'd have  my story about  his questioning  Masters
right  from the horse's mouth. So I didn't bother  asking him any  questions
over the phone.
     And I found myself, when I'd finished that take, up to the point in the
story where the questioning of Masters  should come, so I decided I might as
well wait until I'd talked to Evans, since he was going to be here so soon.
     Meanwhile I  might as  well  start checking on  the  other  two stories
again.  I called Carl  Trenholm, still got  no  answer. I called  the county
asylum.  Dr. Buchan,  the  superintendent, wasn't  there,  the girl  at  the
switchboard told  me; she asked if I  wanted to talk to his assistant and  I
said yes.
     She put him on and before I'd finished explaining who I was and what  I
wanted, he'd  interrupted  me. "He's  on his way  over  to see  you now, Mr.
Stoeger. You're at the Clarion office?"
     "Yes,"  I said, "I'm here now.  And you say Dr.  Buchan's  on  his way?
That's fine."
     My  stories were  coming to  me, I thought happily, as  I put the phone
back. Both Captain Evans and Dr. Buchan. Now if only  Carl would drop in too
and explain what had happened to him.
     He did. Not that exact second, but  only about  two minutes later.  I'd
wandered over to the stone and was looking  gloatingly at the horrible front
page with  no news on it  and thinking how lovely it  was going  to  look  a
couple of hours  from now  and listening with  pleasure to the click  of the
mats down the channels of the Linotype, when the door opened and Carl walked
in.
     His clothes were  a little dusty and disheveled; he had  a big patch of
adhesive tape on his forehead and  his eyes looked a little bleary. He had a
sheepish grin.
     He said, "Hi, Doc. How's everything?"
     "Wonderful," I told him. "What happened to you, Carl?"
     "That's  what I dropped  in  to tell you, Doc.  Thought you might get a
garbled version of it and be worried about me."
     "I couldn't even get a garbled version. No version at all; the hospital
wouldn't give. What happened?"
     "Got drunk. Went for a walk out the pike to sober up and got so woozy I
had to lie down a minute, so I headed for the grassy strip the other side of
the  ditch alongside the road and - well, my foot  slipped as I was stepping
across the ditch and the  ground, with a chunk  of rock in its hand, reached
up and slapped me in the face."
     "Who found you, Carl?" I asked him.
     He chuckled. "I don't  even know.  I woke up  -  or  came to  -  in the
sheriff's car on the way to the hospital. Tried to talk him out of taking me
there, but he insisted. They checked me for a concussion and let me go."
     "How do you feel now?"
     "Do you really want to know?"
     "Well," I said, "maybe not. Want a drink?"
     He  shuddered. I didn't insist.  Instead, I  asked  him where he'd been
since he'd left the hospital.
     "Drinking black  coffee at  the Greasy Spoon. Think I'm able to make it
home  by  now. In fact, I'm on my way. But I  knew you'd have heard about it
and thought you might as well have the - uh - facts straight in case - uh-"
     "Don't be  an ass, Carl," I told him. "You don't rate a  stick of type,
even if  you wanted  it. And, by the way, Smiley gave me  the inside dope on
Bonney's  divorce,  so I  cut  down the story to  essentials and cut out the
charges against Bonney."
     "That's swell of you, Doc."
     "Why didn't you  tell me  the truth about  it yourself?"  I  asked him.
"Afraid of interfering with the freedom of the press? Or of taking advantage
of a friendship?"
     "Well - somewhere in between, I guess. Anyway, thanks. Well, maybe I'll
see you tomorrow. If I live that long."
     He left and I  wandered back  to my desk. The Linotype was caught up to
the typewriter  by now, and I hoped Evans would show up soon - or Dr. Buchan
from the asylum - so I could get ahead with at least one of  the stories and
not keep Pete working any later than necessary.  For myself, I didn't give a
damn. I was too keyed up to have been able to sleep anyway.
     Well, there was one thing we could be doing to save time later. We went
over  to the stone and  started pulling all the filler items out of the back
pages so we  could move back the least important stories on page one to make
room  for the  two  big stories we still had coming. We'd need at least  two
full page one columns  - and more if we could manage it - for the capture of
the bank robbers and the escape of the maniac.
     We were just getting the pages unlocked, though, when Dr.  Buchan  came
in. An elderly lady - she looked vaguely familiar to me but I couldn't place
her - was with him.
     She smiled at me and said, "Do  you remember me, Mr. Stoeger?"  And the
smile did it;  I did remember her. She'd lived next door to  me when I was a
kid, forty-some years ago, and she'd given me  cookies. And I remembered now
that,  while I  was away at college, I'd heard that she had gone mildly, not
dangerously, insane  and had been taken to the asylum. That must have been -
Good Lord - thirty-some years ago. She must be well over seventy by now. And
her name was-
     "Certainly,  Mrs. Griswald," I told  her.  "I even remember the cookies
and candy you used to give me."
     And I smiled back at her. She looked  so happy  that one  couldn't help
smiling back at her. She said, "I'm so glad you remember, Mr. Stoeger.  want
you to do me a big favor - and I'm so glad  you remember those days, because
maybe you'll do it for me. Dr. Buchan - he's so wonderful - offered to bring
me here so I could ask you. I - I really wasn't running away this evening. I
was just confused. The door was open and  I forgot. I  was thinking that  it
was forty years ago and I wondered what I  was doing  there and why I wasn't
home with Otto, and so I  just  started  home, that's all. And by the time I
remembered  that Otto was dead for  so long  and that  I was-" The smile was
tremulous  now, and there were tears in her eyes. "Well, by that time I  was
lost and couldn't find my way back,  until they  found me.  I  even tried to
find my way back, once I remembered and knew where I was supposed to be."
     I glanced over her head at tall Dr. Buchan, and  he nodded to me. But I
still  didn't know what  it  was all about. I didn't see, so I said, "I see,
Mrs. Griswald."
     Her  smile was back. She nodded brightly. "Then you won't put it in the
paper? About my wandering away, I  mean? Because  I didn't really mean to do
it. And Clara,  my  daughter,  lives  in  Springfield  now,  but  she  still
subscribes to your paper for news from home, and if she reads in the Clarion
that I - escaped - she'll think I'm not happy there and it'll worry her. And
I am happy, Mr. Stoeger - Dr. Buchan is wonderful to me -  and I don't  want
to  make Clara unhappy or have  her worry about me, and - you won't write it
up, will you?"
     I patted her shoulder gently. I said, "Of course not, Mrs. Griswald."
     And  then  suddenly  she  was  against my  chest,  crying,  and  I  was
embarrassed as hell. Until Dr. Buchan pulled her gently away and started her
toward the door. He stepped back a second and said to me so quietly that she
couldn't hear, "It's straight, Stoeger. I mean, it  probably would worry her
daughter a lot and she really wasn't escaping -  she just wandered off.  And
her daughter really does read your paper."
     "Don't worry," I said. "I won't mention it."
     Past him,  I  could see  the door  open and Captain Evans  of the state
police was coming in. He left the door open and Mrs. Griswald  was wandering
through it.
     Dr. Buchan shook hands quickly. He said, "Thanks a lot, then. And on my
behalf as well as Mrs.  Griswald's. It  doesn't do an institution like  ours
any good to have publicity on escapes, of  course. Not that I'd  have  asked
you, myself,  to  suppress  the story on that account. But since our patient
had a really good, and legitimate, reason to ask you not to-"
     He happened to turn and see that his patient was  already  herding down
the  stairs. He hurried after her before she could again become confused and
wander into limbo.
     Another story  gone,  I thought, as  I  shook hands  with  Evans. Those
cookies  had  been expensive  - if worth it. I thought, suddenly, of all the
stories I'd had to kill  tonight. The  bank  burglary - for good and obvious
reasons.  Carl's accident  -  because it had  been  trivial after  all,  and
writing it up  would have hurt his reputation as a  lawyer. The  accident in
the Roman  candle department, because it might have lost Mrs. Carr's husband
a needed job. Ralph Bonney's divorce - well, not killed, exactly, but played
down from a  long,  important story  to a  short  news item. Mrs. Griswald's
escape  from the asylum -because she'd given me cookies once and because  it
would have worried her daughter. Even the auction sale at the Baptist Church
- for the most obvious reason of all, that it had been called off.
     But what the hell did any of  that matter  as  long as I had one really
big story  left, the biggest of  them  all? And there wasn't any conceivable
reason why I couldn't print that one.
     Captain Evans took the  seat  I pulled up for him by my desk and I sank
back  into the swivel chair and got a pencil ready for what  he was going to
tell me.
     "Thanks  a  hell of  a  lot for coming  here, Cap. Now what's the score
about what you got out of Masters?"
     He  pushed his  hat back on his head and frowned. He said,  "I'm sorry,
Doc. I'm  going to have to ask you - on orders from the top - not to run the
story at all."

        CHAPTER EIGHT

          He took his vorpal sword in hand:
                 Long time the manxome foe he sought-
          So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
                 And stood a while in thought.

     I don't know what my face looked like.  I know I dropped the pencil and
that I had to clear my throat when what I started  to say  wouldn't come out
the first time.
     The  second time,  it  came  out,  if a bit  querulously. "Cap,  you're
kidding me. You can't really mean it. The one big thing that's ever happened
here - Is this a gag?"
     He shook his head. "Nope, Doc. It's the McCoy.  It comes right from the
chief himself. I can't make you hold  back the story, naturally. But I  want
to tell you the facts and I hope you'll decide to." I breathed a little more
freely when he said he couldn't make me hold it back. It wouldn't hurt me to
listen politely.
     "Go ahead," I told him. "It had better be good."
     He leaned forward. "It's this way, Doc.  This Gene Kelley  mob is nasty
stuff. Real killers. I guess you  found that out tonight  about two of them.
And, by the way, you did a damn good job."
     "Smiley Wheeler did. I just went along for the ride."
     It was a  weak joke, but he laughed at it. Probably just to please  me.
He said, "If we can keep it quiet for about forty more hours - till Saturday
afternoon  -  we can break  up the gang  completely.  Including the big shot
himself, Gene Kelley."
     "Why Saturday afternoon?"
     "Masters and Kramer had a  date for  Saturday afternoon with Kelley and
the rest of  the mob.  At a hotel  in  Gary, Indiana. They've been separated
since their last job,  and they'd arranged that date to get together for the
next one, see? When Kelley and the others show up for that date, well, we've
got 'em.
     "That is, unless the news  gets out that Masters and Kramer are already
in the bag. Then Kelley and company won't show up."
     "Why can't we  twist one little thing in the story," I suggested. "Just
say Masters and Kramer were both dead?"
     He shook his head. "The other boys wouldn't take  any chances. Nope, if
they know our two boys  were either caught or killed, they'll stay away from
Gary in droves."
     I sighed. I knew it wouldn't work, but I said hopefully, "Maybe none of
the gang members reads the Carmel City Clarion."
     "You  know better  than  that, Doc. Other papers all  over the  country
would pick it up. The Saturday  morning papers would have it,  even  if  the
Friday evening editions didn't get it." He had a sudden  thought and  looked
startled. "Say,  Doc,  who represents the news services here?  Have they got
the story yet?"
     "I represent them," I said sadly. "But I hadn't wired either of them on
this yet. I was going to wait till my own paper  was out. They'd  have fired
me,  sure, and it would  have cost me a few bucks a year, but for once I was
going to  have a  big story  break in my own paper before I threw it to  the
wolves."
     He said, "I'm sorry, Doc. I guess this is a big thing for you. But now,
at least, you won't lose out with  the  news  services. You can say you held
the story at  the request of the police - until, say, midafternoon Saturday.
Then send it in to them and get credit for it."
     "Cash, you mean. I want the credit of breaking it in  the Clarion, damn
it."
     "But  will  you hold it up, Doc? Listen, those boys are killers. You'll
be  saving lives  if you let us  get them. Do you know anything  about  Gene
Kelley?"
     I nodded; I'd been reading  about him in  the magazine Smiley  had lent
me. He wasn't a very nice man. Evans was right in saying it would cost human
lives to print  that  story if the story kept Kelley  out of  the trap  he'd
otherwise walk into.
     I looked up  and Pete was standing there listening. I  tried  to  judge
from  his  face what  he thought  about it, but he  was keeping it carefully
blank.
     I  scowled at him and said; "Shut off  that God damn Linotype. I  can't
hear myself think."
     He went and shut it off.
     Evans  looked relieved. He said,  "Thanks, Doc." For no reason at all -
the evening was moderately cool - he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his
forehead. "What a break it was that Masters hated the rest of the mob enough
to turn them in for us when he figured he was done himself. And that  you're
willing to hold the story till we get 'em. Well, you can use it next week."
     There wasn't  any use telling him that I could also print  a chapter or
two of Caesar's Gallic Wars next week; it was ancient history too.
     So I  didn't say anything and after  a  few more seconds he  got up and
left.
     It seemed awfully quiet  without the Linotype running. Pete came  over.
He said, "Well, Doc, we still got that nine-inch hole in the front page that
you said  you'd find  some way of filling in the  morning. Maybe while we're
here anyway-"
     I ran my fingers through what is left of my hair. "Run it as is, Pete,"
I told him, "except with a black border around it."
     "Look, Doc, I can pull  forward that story on the Ladies'  Aid election
and if I reset it narrow measure to fit a box, it'll maybe run long enough."
     I couldn't think of anything  better. I said, "Sure, Pete," but when he
started toward the Linotype to  turn it  back on, I said,  "But not tonight,
Pete. In  the  morning. It's half  past  eleven. Get  home  to the wife  and
kiddies."
     "But I'd just as soon-"
     "Get  the hell out of  here," I said,  "before I bust out blubbering. I
don't want anybody to see me do it."
     He  grinned to show  he knew I didn't really mean  it and  said, "Sure,
Doc. I'll get down a little early, then. Seven- thirty.  You going  to stick
around a while now?"
     "A  few minutes," I said.  " `Night, Pete. Thanks for  coming down, and
everything."
     I kept  sitting at my  desk for a  minute after he'd left, and I didn't
blubber, but I wanted to all right. It didn't seem possible that so much had
happened and that  I couldn't get even a stick of type out of any of it. For
a  few minutes I wished that I was a son-of-a-bitch instead of a sucker so I
could go ahead and print it all.  Even if it let the Kelley  mob get away to
do  more killing, lost my housekeeper's husband her job, made a fool  out of
Carl Trenholm, worried  Mrs.  Griswald's daughter and ruined Harvey Andrews'
reputation by  telling  how he'd been caught robbing his father's bank while
running away from home. And while  I was at it, I might as well smear  Ralph
Bonney by listing the untrue charges brought against him in the divorce case
and write a humorous little  item about  the leader of  the local antisaloon
faction  setting  up a round for  the  boys  at Smiley's.  And even run  the
rummage sale story on the ground that the cancellation had been too late and
let a  few dozen citizens make a trip in vain. It would be wonderful to be a
son-of-a-bitch  instead of a sucker so I could do all that.  Sons-of-bitches
must  have more fun than  people. And  definitely  they get  out bigger  and
better newspapers.
     I wandered  over and looked at the front page lying there on the stone,
and for  something to  do I dropped the  filler items back in page four. The
ones we'd taken out to let us  move back  the present junk from page one  to
make room for all  the big  stories we were going to  break. I locked up the
page again.
     It was quiet as hell.
     I wondered why I didn't get out of there  and have another drink - or a
hell of a  lot of drinks  - at Smiley's. I wondered why I didn't want to get
stinking drunk. But I didn't.
     I wandered  over to  the window and  stood  staring down  at  the quiet
street. They hadn't rolled the sidewalks in yet  - closing time for  taverns
is midnight in Carmel City - but nobody was walking on them.
     A car  went  by and I  recognized  it as  Ralph  Bonney's  car, heading
probably, to pick up Miles Harrison and take him over to Neilsville  to pick
up  the night  side pay roll for  the fireworks  plant,  including the Roman
candle department. To which I had briefly-
     I decided I'd smoke one more cigarette and then go home. I reached into
my pocket and pulled  out the cigarette  package and something  fluttered to
the floor - a card.
     I picked it up and stared at it. It read.

                              Yehudi Smith

     Suddenly the  dead night was alive again. I'd  written off Yehudi Smith
when I'd heard that the escaped lunatic  had been  captured. I'd written him
off so completely that I'd forgotten  to write him on again  when Dr. Buchan
had brought in Mrs. Griswald to talk to me.
     Yehudi Smith wasn't the escaped lunatic.
     Suddenly I wanted to jump up into the air and click  my heels together,
I wanted to run, I wanted to yell.
     Then  I remembered how  long  I'd been gone  and I  almost ran  to  the
telephone on my  desk. I gave  my own number and  my heart  sank as it  rang
once, twice, thrice - and  then after the fourth ring Smith's voice answered
with a sleepy-sounding hello.
     I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Mr. Smith. I'm starting home now. Want to
apologize for having kept you waiting so long. Some things happened:"
     "Good. I mean, good that you're coming now. What time is it?"
     "About half past eleven. I'll  be there in fifteen  minutes. And thanks
for waiting."
     I hurried into my coat and grabbed my hat. I almost  forgot to turn out
the lights and lock the door.
     Smiley's first,  but not for  a drink; I  picked  up a  bottle  to take
along. The one at my house had  been  getting low when I left; only God knew
what had happened to it since.
     Leaving Smiley's with the bottle, I swore again at the fact that my car
was laid up with those flat tires. Not that  it's a long walk or that I mind
walking in the slightest  where I'm not  in a  hurry,  but  again I was in a
hurry. Last time  it had been because I  thought Carl Trenholm  was  dead or
seriously injured - and to get  away from Yehudi Smith. This  time it was to
get back to him.
     Past  the post  office, now  dark. The bank, this  time  with the night
light on and no  evidence of crime in sight. Past the spot where  the  Buick
had pulled up and a voice had asked someone named Buster what town this was.
There wasn't a  car in sight now,  friend or foe. Past  everything  that I'd
passed so  many thousand times, and off the main  street into  the friendly,
pleasant side streets no longer infested  with homicidal  maniacs  or  other
horrors. I didn't look behind me once, all the way home.
     I  felt  so good I  felt silly.  Best  of  all  I  was  cold-sobered by
everything that had  been happening, and I was ready  and in  the mood for a
few more drinks and some more screwy conversation.
     I still didn't completely believe he'd be there, but he was.
     And  he  looked  so  familiar sitting  there  that  I wondered why  I'd
doubted. I said  "Hi," and shied my hat at the hatrack and it hit a  peg and
stayed there. That was the  first time that had happened in months so I knew
from that that I was lucky tonight. As if I needed that to prove it.
     I took the seat across from him, just as we'd  been sitting before, and
I poured us each a drink - still from the first bottle; apparently he hadn't
drunk much while I'd been gone - and started to renew the apologies I'd made
over the phone for having been away so long.
     He waved  the apologies away with a casual gesture. "It doesn't  matter
at all, as long as you got back." He smiled. "I had a nice nap."
     We touched glasses and drank. He said, "Let's  see; just where were  we
when you got  that phone call - oh, which reminds me; you said it  was about
an accident to a friend. May I ask-?"
     "He's all right,"  I told him.  "Nothing  serious. It was - well, other
things kept coming up that kept me away so long."
     "Good.  Then - oh, yes, I remember. When the phone rang we were talking
about the Roman candle department. We'd just drunk to it."
     I remembered and nodded. "That's where I've been,  ever  since  I  left
here."
     "Seriously?"
     "Quite,"  I said. "They fired me half an hour ago, but it was fun while
it  lasted.  Wait; no, it  wasn't. I won't  lie to you. At  the time  it was
happening, it was pretty horrible."
     His  eyebrows went up  a little. "Then you're  serious.  Something  did
happen. You know, Doctor-"
     "Doc," I said.
     "You know, Doc, you're different. Changed, somehow."
     I  refilled our  glasses,  still from the first  bottle, although  that
round killed it.
     "It's temporary, I think. Yes, Mr. Smith, I had-"
     "Smitty," he said.
     "Yes, Smitty, I had a rather bad experience, while it  lasted, and  I'm
still in reaction  from  it, but the reaction won't last. I'm still  jittery
from it and I may be even more jittery tomorrow when I realize what a narrow
squeak I had, but I'm still the same  guy.  Doc Stoeger, fifty-three, genial
failure both as a hero and as an editor."
     Silence for a few seconds and then he said, "Doc,  I  like you. I think
you're a swell guy. I don't know what happened, and I don't suppose you want
to tell me, but I'll bet you one thing."
     "Thanks, Smitty,"  I said.  "And it's not that I don't want to tell you
what happened this evening; it's just  that I don't want to talk about it at
all, right now. Some other time I'll be  glad to  tell you, but right now  I
want to stop thinking about  it  - and start  thinking  about Lewis  Carroll
again. What's the one thing you want to bet me, though?"
     "That you're not a failure as an editor. As  a hero, maybe - damned few
of us  are  heroes.  But  I'll bet you said you were a  failure as an editor
because  you killed a story  - for  some good reason. And not a selfish one.
Would I win that bet?"
     "You would,"  I said.  I didn't tell him  he'd have  won  it five times
over. "But I'm not proud of  myself -  the only thing is that I'd have  been
ashamed of myself otherwise. This way, I'm going  to be ashamed of my paper.
All newspapermen, Smitty, should be sons-of-bitches."
     "Why?"  And before  I could answer  he  tossed off the drink  I'd  just
poured him -tossed it off as before with that fascinating trick of the glass
never really nearing  his  lips  -  and  answered  it  himself  with  a more
unanswerable question.  "So that  newspapers will be more entertaining? - at
the expense of human lives they might wreck or even destroy?"
     The  mood  was gone, or the mood was wrong. I shook  myself a little. I
said,  "Let's  get back to Jabberwocks. And  -  My God, every  time I get to
talking seriously  it sobers  me up.  I had such a nice  edge early  in  the
evening.  Let's have another - and to Lewis Carroll again. And then go  back
to  that  gobbledegook you were  giving  me,  the  stuff that  sounded  like
Einstein on a binge."
     He   grinned:   "Wonderful   word,  gobbledegook.  Carroll  might  have
originated it, except that there was less of it in his time. All right, Doc,
to Carroll."
     And  again his glass was  empty. It was a  trick I'd have to learn,  no
matter how much time it took  or  how much whisky it wasted. But, the  first
time, in private.
     I drank mine  and it was the third since I'd come home, fifteen minutes
ago; I was beginning to feel  them.  Not that I  feel three drinks, starting
from scratch, but these didn't start from scratch. I'd had quite a few early
in the evening, before the  fresh air of my little ride with Bat  and George
had cleared my head, and several at Smiley's thereafter.
     They were hitting me now. Not hard, but definitely.
     There was a mistiness about the room. We were talking about Carroll and
mathematics again, or Yehudi Smith was talking, anyway, and I was trying  to
concentrate on what he was saying. He seemed, for a moment, to blur a little
and to advance and recede as I looked at him. And his voice was a blur, too,
a blur of sines  and cosines. I shook my head to clear it a  bit and decided
I'd better lay off the bottle for a while.
     Then I  realized that  what he'd just said was a question  and I begged
his pardon.
     "The clock on your mantel," he repeated, "is it correct?"
     I managed to focus my eyes on it. Ten minutes to twelve.  I said, "Yes,
it's right. It's still  early. You're  not thinking of  going, surely. I'm a
little woozy at the moment, but-"
     "How long will it take us to get there from here? I have directions how
to reach it, of course,  but  you could probably estimate  the time it  will
take us better than I can."
     For a  second I stared  at him blankly,  wondering  what he was talking
about.
     Then I remembered.
     We were going to a haunted house to hunt a Jabberwock - or something.

        CHAPTER NINE

          "First, the fish must be caught."
                 That is easy: a baby, I think, could have caught it.
          "Next, the fish must be bought."
                 That is easy: a penny, I think, would have bought it.

     Maybe you won't believe that I could have forgotten that, but I had. So
much had happened between the time I'd left my house and the time I returned
that  it's a wonder, I suppose,  that I  still remembered my  own name,  and
Yehudi's.
     Ten  minutes before twelve  and we were  due  there, he'd said,  at one
o'clock.
     "You have a car?" I asked him.
     He nodded. "A few doors down. I got  out at the wrong place to look for
street numbers, but I was close enough that I didn't bother moving the car."
     "Then somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes will get us there," I
told him.
     "Fine, Doctor. Then we've got forty minutes yet  if we  allow  half  an
hour."
     The  woozy spell was  passing fast, but I refilled his glass this  time
without refilling  my own. I wanted to  sober up  a  bit  -  not completely,
because  if I were sober  I might  get  sensible and decide not to go, and I
didn't want to decide not to go.
     Smith had settled back in his chair, not looking at me, so  I looked at
him, and wondered what  I was  doing even to listen to the absurd story he'd
told me about Vorpal Blades and the old Wentworth house.
     He wasn't  the  escaped  lunatic, but that  didn't  mean  he  wasn't  a
screwball, and that I wasn't a  worse one. What the hell were we going to do
out  there?  Try to  fish a Bandersnatch out of  limbo?  Or break through  a
looking-glass  or dive  down  a rabbit hole to go hunting one  in its native
element?
     Well,  as long as I  didn't  get  sober enough to spoil things, it  was
wonderful. Crazy or not,  I  was having a marvelous  time. The best time I'd
had since the Halloween almost forty years ago when we- But never mind that;
it's a sign of  old age to reminisce about the  things you did when you were
young, and I'm not old yet. Not very, anyway.
     Yes, my eyes  were  focusing all right again now, but the mistiness  in
the room was still there, and I realized that it wasn't mistiness but smoke.
I looked across at  the window and wondered if I wanted it open badly enough
to get up and open it.
     The window. A black square framing the night.
     The midnight. Where were you  at midnight? With Yehudi. Who's Yehudi? A
little  man who wasn't there. But I  have the card. Let's see it, Doc. Hmmm.
What's your bug number? My bug number?
     And the black rook takes the white knight.
     The smoke was  definitely too thick,  and  so  was I.  I  walked to the
window and threw up  the bottom sash. The lights behind me made it a mirror.
There was my reflection. An insignificant little  man with graying hair, and
glasses, and a necktie badly askew.
     He grinned at me and  straightened his  necktie. I remembered the verse
from Carroll that Al Grainger had quoted at me early in the evening:

          "You are old, Father William," the young man said
          "And your hair has become very white
          And yet you incessantly stand on your head.
          Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

     And that  made me think of Al Grainger. I wondered  if  there was still
any chance of his showing up. I'd told him to come  around  any time  up  to
midnight and  it  was that  now. I wished  now that  he  would come. Not for
chess, as we'd planned, but so he could go along an our expedition. Not that
I was exactly afraid, but - well, I wished that Al Grainger would show up.
     It occurred to me that he might have come or phoned and that Yehudi had
failed to mention it. I asked him.
     He shook his head, "No, Doc.  Nobody came  and  the only phone call was
the one you yourself made just before you came home."
     So that was that, unless Al showed up in the next half hour or unless I
phoned  him.  And  I didn't want to  do that. I'd  been enough of  a  coward
earlier in the evening.
     Just the same I felt a little hollow-
     My  God,  I was  hollow. I'd had a sandwich late in the afternoon,  but
that  had been eight  hours ago and I hadn't eaten anything since. No wonder
the last couple of drinks had hit me.
     I suggested to  Yehudi that  we raid the icebox and  he said it sounded
like a wonderful idea  to him. And it must have been, for it turned out that
he was as hungry as I. Between us we killed a pound of boiled ham, most of a
loaf of rye and a medium-sized jar of pickles.
     It  was  almost half past-twelve  when we finished. There was just time
for a stirrup cup, and we had one.  With food in my stomach, it tasted  much
better and went down  much more smoothly than the last one had. It tasted so
good,  in fact, that I decided  to take the bottle - we'd started the second
one by then - along with us. We might, after all, run into a blizzard.
     "Ready to go?" Smith asked.
     I  decided I'd better put the window down. In its reflecting pane, over
my  shoulder I could  see Yehudi Smith standing by the door waiting for  me.
The reflection was clear and  sharp; it brought out  the bland  roundness of
his  face,  the  laughter-tracks around  his  mouth  and  eyes,  the  rotund
absurdity of his body.
     And  an impulse made me walk over and hold out my hand to him and shake
his hand when he put it into mine rather wonderingly. We hadn't shaken hands
when we'd introduced ourselves on the porch and something made me want to do
it now. I don't mean that I'm clairvoyant. I'm not, or I'd  never have gone.
No, I don't know why I shook hands with him.
     Just an impulse, but one I'm very glad I followed. Just as I'm glad I'd
given him  food and  drink  instead of  letting him  go to his strange death
sober or on an empty stomach.
     And I'm even gladder that I said, "Smitty, I like you."
     He looked pleased; but somehow embarrassed. He said, "Thanks, Doc," but
for the first time his eyes didn't quite meet mine.
     We went out and walked up the quiet street to where he'd left his  car,
and got in.
     It's odd how clearly you remember some things and how vague others are.
I recall that there was a push  button radio  on the dashboard  and that the
button for WBBM was  pushed in, and I  recall that the  gear shift knob  was
brightly polished onyx. But I don't recall whether the car  was a coupe or a
sedan, and haven't the vaguest idea what make or color it was. I recall that
the engine was quite noisy - my only clue as to whether it was an old car or
a new one, that and the fact that the gear shift was on the floor and not on
the steering wheel post.
     I remember that he drove well and carefully and talked little, probably
because of the noisiness of the motor.
     I directed him, but I don't recall now, not that it matters, what route
we took. I remember, though, that I didn't recognize the driveway of the old
Wentworth place - the house itself was set quite  far back from the road and
you  couldn't see  it  through  the  trees even  in daylight - but a  little
farther on I recognized the farm that an aunt and uncle of mine had lived in
many years ago and knew we'd passed our objective.
     He  turned back,  then, and  this time I  spotted the driveway  and  we
turned in  and followed  the drive back among the trees to the house itself.
We parked alongside it.
     "First ones  here," Smith said in the  sudden silence as he  turned off
the engine.
     I got  out of the car and - I don't know why;  or  do I? -  I took  the
bottle  with  me. It was  so dark outside that I couldn't  see the bottle in
front of my eyes as I tilted it upward.
     Smith had turned  out the headlights and was getting out of his side of
the car.  He had a flashlight in his hand and  I could see again as he  came
around to my side of  the car.  I held out the bottle to him and said, "Want
one?" and he  said, "You read my  mind,  Doc," and  took one.  My eyes  were
getting a little used to the dark now  and I could  see the outlines  of the
house, and I thought about it.
     God,  but  the place must be  old, I realized. I knew it well  from the
weeks in summer when, as a kid, I'd visited my aunt and uncle just down  the
road  for a taste of farm life  -  as  against the big city of Carmel  City,
Illinois.
     That  had been  over forty  years ago  and  it had been old  then,  and
untenanted. It had been lived in since, but for brief intervals. Why the few
people  who had tried  to live there had left,  I  didn't know. They'd never
complained -  publicly, at least - of its being  haunted. But none had  ever
stayed there for long. Perhaps it was merely the house itself; it really was
a depressing place. A year or more ago the Clarion had carried an ad for the
rental of it - and at a very reasonable price - but no one had taken it.
     I thought of Johnny Haskins,  who lived  on the farm between my uncle's
place and this one. He and I had explored the place  several times together,
in daylight. Johnny was dead  now. He'd been killed in  France in 1918, near
the end of the first  world  war. In daytime, I hope, for Johnny  had always
been afraid of the dark - just as I was afraid of heights and as Al Grainger
was afraid of fire and as everyone is afraid of something or other.
     Johnny had been afraid of  the  old  Wentworth place, too -  even  more
afraid than I was, although he was several years older than I. He'd believed
in  ghosts, a  little; at least he'd  been  afraid of them, although  not as
afraid as  he  was of the dark. And I'd picked up a little of that fear from
him and I'd kept it for quite a few years after I grew up.
     But not any more. The older you get the less afraid of ghosts you are -
whether  you  believe in them or not. By  the time you  pass the  fifty mark
you've known so  many people who are now dead that  ghosts, if there are any
such, aren't all strangers. Some of your best friends are ghosts; why should
you be afraid of  them? And it's not  too many years before you'll be on the
other side of the fence yourself.
     No, I wasn't afraid  of ghosts or the dark or of the haunted house, but
I was afraid of something. I wasn't afraid  of Yehudi Smith, I liked him too
well to be afraid of him. Undoubtedly, I  was a fool  to come here with him,
knowing nothing at all about  him. Yet I  would  have bet money at long odds
that he wasn't dangerous. A crackpot, maybe, but not a dangerous one.
     Smith opened the car door again and said, "I just remembered  I brought
candles; they told me  the electricity wouldn't  be on. And  there's another
flashlight in here, if you want one, Doc."
     Sure  I  wanted one. I  felt a little better, a  little less  afraid of
whatever I was afraid of once  I had  a flashlight of my own  and was  in no
sudden danger of being alone in darkness.
     I ran the  beam of the flashlight up on  the porch, and  the  house was
just  as I remembered it. It had been  lived in  just often enough for it to
have been kept in repair, or at least in fairly good shape.
     Yehudi Smith  said,  "Come on, Doc.  We might as well wait inside," and
led  the way up  the porch steps. They creaked as we walked up them but they
were solid.
     The front  door wasn't  locked. Smith must have known that it  wouldn't
be, from the confident way he opened it.
     We  went  in and  he  closed  the  door behind  us. The  beams  of  our
flashlights  danced ahead  of us down  the  long dimness of the  hallway.  I
noticed with surprise that the place was carpeted and furnished; it had been
empty and bare at the time I'd explored it as a kid. The most  recent tenant
or owner who had lived here, for whatever reason he had moved away, had left
the place furnished, possibly hoping to rent or sell it that way.
     We turned into a huge living room on the left of the hallway. There was
furniture there, too, white-sheeted. Covered  fairly recently, from the fact
that the sheets were not too dirty nor  was  there  a  great amount  of dust
anywhere.
     Something  made  the  back  of  my  neck  prickle.  Maybe  the  ghostly
appearance of that sheeted furniture.
     "Shall we wait here or go up in the attic?" Smith asked me.
     "The attic? Why the attic?"
     "Where the meeting is to be held."
     I  was  getting to like  this less and less. Was  there going  to  be a
meeting? Were others really coming here tonight?
     It was five minutes of one o'clock already.
     I looked around and wondered whether. I'd rather stay here or go  on up
into the attic. Either  alternative seemed crazy. Why didn't I go home?  Why
hadn't I stayed there?
     I didn't like that spectral white-covered  furniture. I said, "Let's go
on up into the attic. Might as well. I guess."
     Yes, I'd come this far. I might as  well see it through the rest of the
way. If there was a looking-glass up there in  the attic and he wanted us to
walk through it, I'd do that, too. Provided only that he went first.
     But  I wanted another short  nip out of  that  bottle I was carrying. I
offered it to Smith and he shook his  head so I went ahead and took the  nip
and it slightly warmed the  coldness  that  was  beginning to develop in  my
stomach.
     We went up the stairs to  the second floor and we didn't meet any ghost
or any snarks. We opened the door that led to the steps to the attic.
     We  walked  up them,  Smith in  the  lead  and  I following, his  plump
posterior just ahead of me.
     My  mind kept reminding me how ridiculous  this was. How utterly insane
it was for me to have come here at all.
     Where were you at one o'clock?  In a haunted house. Doing what? Waiting
for the Vorpal Blades to  come. What are  these Vorpal Blades? I don't know.
What were  they going to do? I don't know, I  tell you. Maybe  anything. Get
with child a mandrake root. Hold court to see who stole the tarts or put the
white knight back on his horse. Or maybe only read  the  minutes of the last
meeting  and  the  treasurer's report, by Benchley.  Who's  Benchley?  WHO'S
YEHUDI?
     Who's your little whoozis?
     Doc, I hate to say this, but-
     I'm afraid that-
     Very pitying,  and oh, so sensibly true. You were  drunk,  weren't you,
Doc? Well, not exactly, but-
     Yehudi  Smith's plump  posterior  ascending the attic stairs. A horse's
posterior ascending after him.
     We reached the top  and  Smith asked me to hold my  flashlight aimed at
the post of the stair railing until he got a candle lighted there. He took a
short, thick candle from his  pocket  -  one  that would  balance easily  by
itself without a holder - and got it lighted.
     There were  trunks and  a few  pieces of broken or  worn-out  furniture
scattered about the sides of the attic; the middle of it was clear. The only
window was at the back and it was boarded up from the inside.
     I  looked  around and, although the  furniture here  wasn't sheeted,  I
didn't like the place any better than I'd liked the big room downstairs. The
light of one candle  was far too dim to dispel the darkness, for one  thing,
in so large a space. And I didn't like  the flickering shadows it cast. They
might  have  been  Jabberwocks  or anything your imagination wanted to  name
them.  There ought to  be Rorschach tests with  flickering shadows; what the
mind would  make out of them ought to be a  lot more revealing than what the
mind makes out of ink blots.
     Yes, I  could have used more light, a lot more light. But Smith had put
his flashlight  in  his pocket and I did the same with the other one; it was
his, too, and I  didn't have any  excuse to wear  out the battery keeping it
on. And besides it didn't do much good in so large a room.
     "What do we do now?" I asked.
     "Wait for the others. What time is it, Doc?"
     I managed to read my watch by the light of the candle and told him that
it was seven minutes after one.
     He nodded.  "We'll give them until  a  quarter after. There's something
that I must  do then, at  that exact  time,  whether  they're  here  or not.
Listen, isn't that a car?"
     I  listened  and I thought it was. Way up here in the  attic, it wasn't
clearly  audible, but I thought I  heard  a car  that could have been coming
back from the main road to the house. I was pretty sure of it.
     I  uncorked the bottle again  and  offered it.  This time  Smith took a
drink, too. Mine was a fairly long pull. I was getting sober. I thought, and
this was no  time  or place to get  sober.  It was silly enough to  be here,
drunk.
     I couldn't hear the car any more, and then suddenly - as though it  had
stopped  and then started again  -  I could hear it, and louder than before.
But the sound seemed to diminish, as though the car had driven back from the
road, stopped  a minute,  and then headed for the main road again. The sound
died out.
     The shadows flickered. There was no sound from downstairs.
     I shivered a little.
     Smith said, "Help me look for something,  Doc. It's supposed to be here
somewhere, ready. A small table."
     "A table?"
     "Yes, but don't touch it if you find it."
     He had  his flashlight out again and was working his way along one wall
of  the attic,  and I  went  the  other  way, glad  of  a chance  to use  my
flashlight on those damned shadows. I wondered what the hell kind of a table
I was looking for. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence  of mine
enemies, I thought. But there weren't any of my enemies here, I hoped.
     I found it first. It was in the back corner of the attic.
     It  was a small, three-legged, glass-topped table,  and  there were two
small objects lying on it.
     I started laughing. Ghosts and shadows or not. I laughed  out loud. One
of the objects on the table  was a small key and the other was a  small vial
with a tag tied to it.
     The glass-topped table Alice had found in the hall at the bottom of the
rabbit hole -  the table on which had  been the  key that  opened the little
door to the  garden and the bottle with the paper label that said "DRINK ME"
tied around its neck.
     I'd  seen that table often - in the John Tenniel illustration  of it in
Alice in Wonderland.
     Smith's footsteps coming up behind me made me stop laughing. After all,
this ridiculous flummery might be something of a ritual to him. It was funny
to me, but I liked him and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.
     He wasn't even smiling. He said, "Yes,  that's it.  Is it one-  fifteen
yet?"
     "Almost on the head."
     "Good."  He picked up the key with  one  hand and the  bottle  with the
other. "The others  must be delayed, but we shall take the first step. This,
keep." He dropped the key into  my pocket. "And this, I  drink." He took the
cork out of the bottle. "I apologize for not being able to share it with you
- as you have so generously shared your drinks with me - but you understand,
until you have been fully initiated-"
     He  seemed  genuinely  embarrassed,  so  I   nodded  understanding  and
forgiveness.
     I  wasn't afraid any more, now. It had become  too ridiculous for fear.
What was that "drink me" bottle supposed to do? Oh, yes, he'd shrink in size
until he  was only a  few inches high - and then he'd have to find and use a
little box labeled - "EAT ME" and eat the cake inside and he'd suddenly grow
so big that-
     He lifted the bottle and said, "To Lewis Carroll."
     Since that was the toast,  I said, "Wait!" and got the cork quickly out
of the bottle  of whisky  I was  still carrying,  and raised  it, too. There
wasn't any reason why I couldn't  and shouldn't get in on that toast as long
as my lips, as a neophyte's, didn't defile whatever sacred elixir the "drink
me" bottle held.
     He  clinked the little  bottle lightly against  the big one I held, and
tossed it off - I could see from the corner  of my eye as I tilted my bottle
-  in  that strange conjuring trick again, the  bottle stopping  inches away
from his lips and the drink keeping on going without the loss of a drop.
     I was putting the cork into the whisky bottle when Yehudi Smith died.
     He dropped  the bottle labeled "DRINK ME" and started to clutch at  his
throat, but he died, I think, even before the bottle hit the floor. His face
was hideously contorted with pain, but  the pain couldn't have lasted over a
fraction of  a  second. His eyes, still  open, went  suddenly blank, utterly
blank.  And the thud of his fall  shook  the floor under my  feet, seemed to
shake the whole house.

        CHAPTER TEN

          And, as in uffish thought he stood,
                 The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
          Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
                 And burbled as it came!

     I think  I  must  have  done  nothing but  stand  there and  jitter for
seconds. Finally I was able to move.
     I'd seen his face and I'd seen  and heard him fall;  I didn't have  the
slightest  doubt that he was  dead. But I had to  be sure. I  got down on my
knees and groped my hand inside his coat and shirt, hunting for a heartbeat.
There wasn't any.
     I made even surer.  The flashlight he'd given me had a round flat lens;
I held it over his mouth and in front of his nostrils for a while and  there
was no slightest trace of moisture.
     The small empty bottle from which he'd drunk was of fairly heavy glass.
It hadn't broken  when he'd dropped it, and the tag tied around its neck had
kept it from rolling far. I didn't touch it, but I got on my hands and knees
and sniffed at the open end. The smell was the smell of good whisky, nothing
else that I could detect. No odor of bitter almonds, but if what had been in
that whisky hadn't been prussic acid, it had been some corrosive poison just
about as strong. Or  could  it have been prussic,  and would  the  smell  of
whisky have blanketed the bitter almond smell? I didn't know.
     I stood up again and f