Authors: Franklin Gregory
RETURNING home that night, Dr. Justin Hardt found himself in a strangely contradictory position. For the first time in his life he could not believe what his own eyes showed him.
Man of science, he had trained himself to believe nothing that was not proved by one or a combination of his five senses. Now, facing a critical test of this lifelong tenet, he had refused to accept his own criterion for truth.
The result was a gradual realization that the foundations upon which he had built his life were shaken. He was logical enough to admit that from the type of forceful personality that had regarded his own word as the final law, he might—possibly—be relegated to the class of an intellectually lazy agnostic who could only mouth:
“I do not know.”
There was, moreover, another element in Dr. Hardt’s personal problem. This was that some years before, purely out of curiosity, he had begun a study of witchcraft. He had penetrated the subject to some depth. He had accumulated a considerable library on magic, demonology and related matter.
In the light of what he knew, he could not drop the matter of Sara's lack of shadow by shrugging his huge round shoulders and observing that it was something beyond his knowledge.
Nor did the problem rest there. He might have felt much greater mental ease, despite what his eyes had shown him, had he been able to diagnose Sara’s trouble. He hadn’t. And he was honest about that.
Hardt was, in fact, so greatly troubled that when he finally reached his expensive rooms at the Racquet Club he removed from their shelves several books on the general subject of witchcraft. Then, robed and slippered and settled in his easy chair with the reading lamp adjusted at the exact angle, he began to thumb through them.
First troubling question to present itself was the fact of Sara’s womanhood. He could not recall having heard of a female werewolf. Yet, when he had opened his copy of de Plancy’s
Dictionnaire Infernal
, he discovered just such a case:
The year was 1588; the scene, the mountains of Auvergne. A friend of the husband of a woman who had shot off the right forepaw of a wolf and had kept the paw in a bag as a trophy. But when he opened the bag to exhibit his prize to the husband, to his horror he drew out a human hand. And on one finger was a ring which the husband recognized as his wife’s.
There was that—and Hardt could not but remember Sara’s swollen fingers and the story of Mary Heath.
On the surface, Dr. Hardt knew, there was a bond of sympathy between the so-called authenticated cases of werewolfery and insanity. In either instance, there was a dissatisfaction with self. Madness for the insane was release. So, with the warlock. There must be desires that can be satisfied in no other manner.
This, Dr. Hardt conceded, was reasonable. But he was still too skeptical to admit the possibility of winning the ability to satisfy a lust for blood by sale of one’s soul to so improbable a character as Satan.
And here was another problem:
Was it not generally conceded that there could be no belief in metamorphosis into any particular animal in a locality where that animal had ceased to exist? Without the belief, what became of the alleged fact? And how long had it been since wolves were seen in this region?
The answer in this case, Dr. Hardt finally decided, would be the old curse on the family which—curses being taken at their face value —would not be expected to trouble itself too much about geography.
And then Dr. Hardt sat up!
“But, of course! There is the answer. Lycanthropy. Wolf madness.”
He got up and walked back to his shelves and switched on a lamp.
“How long since I’ve heard of a case like that?”
It would be the reason, he knew—or, rather, theorized—that he hadn’t recognized Sara's symptoms.
A natural form of insanity . . . rare nowadays . . . the patient became obsessed with the idea he was a wolf . . . went barking about . . . attacking people . . . .
‘‘Yes. Here’s that case. At Pavia, 1541”
It was the case of a lycanthrope who, when captured in human form, maintained he was a wolf none the less; with a single difference, that his fur grew within him. Curious, some of his captors opened wounds in the body to find out.
And still, when Dr. Hardt had poured for an hour over the symptoms which physicians long before his time had recorded, he was not satisfied. Not that the symptoms for what was known as lycanthropy did not, at some points, fit Sara. What struck him time after time was the fact of those animal prints beside the dead body of the Tilson child; the fact that men had seen a wolf. . . .
He put down his books finally, strode into his dressing room.
“One thing certain. The girl must be placed in an institution. I will recommend commitment tomorrow. . . .”
The words bounced back.
He’d
recommend!
And
what
would he recommend?
Good Lord! he could see the headlines:
FAMED PSYCHIATRIST OFFERS CASE OF LYCANTHROPY!
The thing would ruin him.
Well, then, he could say it was something else. Make out she was a manic-depressive. That would come about as close to it as anything.
But no. There would be the other doctors. They would know differently.
He considered the angles. And the more he mulled over each phase, the uglier under professional scrutiny his predicament became.
If there was an ounce of truth in the case, what an opportunity was presented to hinland his hands were tied!
PIERRE, after his guests departed, sat for a long time staring moodily into the dying fire. His mind clearing, he was inclined to disapprove of himself for overindulgence. Yet, drinking had given him a cushion for shock; and now that he had gained perspective, he would not need it any more.
He had particularly avoided meeting Sara immediately after his discovery the day previous. Indeed, he had been in no condition to dine. He had not seen her that day, save for the moment that evening when Trent and Hardt were present. He dreaded meeting her alone.
He dreaded it.
And yet he did not feel fear of her. Rather, he felt overwhelming pity. And that pity, he knew, was the substance of his love. He knew that now there was only one pressing question, and that everything else—his business, his zest for life, his companions—must give way before it. The question was: How was he to save Sara from herself?
Ah, but it wasn't possible she was beyond salvation. Was she woman or devil or some creature halfway between and still capable of being pulled in one direction or the other? If only a person knew!
Exorcism!
He would try it, of course—if he could find a priest to take on the task. He’d not the faith himself. But where find a priest?
He would leave the Church out just so long as he could.
Too, there was another problem: he must find some means to protect his neighbors. Hmm. That would be difficult—plenty difficult.
He was standing by the French doors, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes on the wood along the creek. Suddenly, he started. Something white down there. Something white, close to the ground, moving slowly. It disappeared.
He stared at the place. Shortly from a little to the left, two figures emerged from the wood. And when they approached the house, Pierre—his breath in short gasps—identified them.
A moment later he heard David say good night to Sara at the front door; heard the door open, heard retreating footfalls on the gravel. He heard the door close. Better permit her to go to her room. Didn’t want to see her, anyhow. But he walked to the door and called her.
She entered quietly, yet with the listlessness with which she had left completely gone. Indeed, there was a certain vibrancy in her step; a flush in her lips; an actual bloom on her cheeks.
“God knows what she’s been doing!” Pierre thought. He could not keep his eyes from the floor where no shadow fell. He thought, “Maybe she doesn’t know.” He said, then: “Hello, pet. Have a nice walk?”
She said, “Why . . . I suppose so.”
“Thought I heard David out there.”
“Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Where did you go?”
She glanced down at her hands, thoughtfully. Her brows were drawn in wonder. “Why, really, I don’t—quite remember.” Pierre’s heart leaped. Thank God; thank God! She still doesn’t know.”
Manning Trent, too, remained up long after he reached home. But he was in no condition to sit in one place and think things through. He paced his study, then prowled about the house restlessly.
Julia was in bed. Good. He probably looked like a ghost—if he looked the way . he felt.
David was still out. Dammit. Didn’t used to stay out so late. He looked at his watch. One o’clock. Even love should have some limits.
He switched on a light in the long dining room and removed the stopper from a decanter. He poured himself a drink, held the glass, to the light(and watched the . lambent amber. Then he put the drink down.
Might just have been the trouble over there, he thought. Might have been one drink too many plus suggestion. Pierre certainly had his fill. Himself, he’d stay off—till Dave came in, anyway. He started prowling about the house again.
He’d talk it over with David. Utter rot, of course. He’d get David to stay away trom her. She was mad. And that was that. Otherwise Hardt wouldn’t be about. No matter how much you like a man, you couldn’t have your son marrying his daughter if she were a raving lunatic. He’d talk to Dave.
He was in the drawing room, off the main hall, when he heard David come in.
“That you, David?”
“Hello, Dad. Still up? Want something?” He entered the room, big, comfortable looking, hatless, his white hair tousled. Trent gazed at him with admiring fondness. But then, as if drawn by some power beyond himself, his eyes lowered—to the hands—to the knees—to the feet—and there, on the floor, they sought for something they could not find.
“No, David. I didn’t want anything.”
WHILE this was happening, wiry Red Crane, crack photographer of Trent’s
Herald
, leaned on the bar at the Well and sipped a Scotch and soda.
There were other newspapermen in the room—reporters and photographers from the New York and Philadelphia papers. They sat at the rickety tables, lounged over the bar. A pin-ball machine maintained a chatter of steel balls against pegs and ringing bells.
The usually placid, low-voiced John Craven, busier behind the bar than he had been in years, appeared somewhat flushed and excited by the sudden fame cast upon his establishment. He said:
“Ye-ss—ye-ss.”
Just as he always had. But there was sometimes a catch in his breath.
The pay-station phone on the wall rang, and Painter of the
Times
, the most fastidiously dressed man of the lot, took down the receiver.
Then he turned to the room at large: “
Mirror
’s calling Doyle. Anybody seen Doyle?”
Doyle, in extravagant slow motion, detached himself from his beer and ambled to the phone.
“Yeh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Okay.”
When he returned to the bar he loosed an oath.
“Calling me in, dammit. Claim the yarn’s washed up.”
Somebody consoled, “What the hell! Don’t wanta die down here, do you?”
“Half-baked idea in the first place,” another said.
“Nice while it lasted,” Doyle observed. “Overtime’ll pay my drinks for a month.”
Allan Kane, photographer for the
Herald-
Tribune
, lunged through the swinging doors, black leather camera case swung over his shoulder. He approached the bar.
“Hi, Red.”
Tom Summers.
Herald
reporter, came in from the night. Sleepy-eyed, he took the place at the bar Kane vacated. He ordered a beer and stood looking at.it. He said quietly:
“Gonna try again tonight, Red?”
Red Crane nodded.
“When?”
Crane held the underside of his left wrist up and glanced at his watch.
“Ten minutes or so.”
“I need sleep,” groused Summers.
“Don't I?” retorted Crane. Then, “No kid- din’, I think we got something. I was down there again this afternoon. Fresh tracks, right along the bank. Comin’?”
Summers said, “I suppose. But if we have to wait up all the damned night again, I’m bringing a bottle. We'd better leave separately. These mugs’d spike your tires if they figured we were pulling a fast one.”
Summers drank up and left. A few minutes later Crane picked up his case, hung it on his shoulder and followed.
It was nine-thirty when Summers and Red Crane parked their car in a seldom-used lane in the woods west of the State Highway. Summers said:
“Boss’s land, isn’t it?”
“Trent’s?” Crane’s laugh was short. “I dun- no. His place is over in that direction.” He nodded to the east. “That perfume feller lives over there. South, I guess it is.”
Both would have been surprised to know that, at that moment, Manning Trent, who paid their salaries each and every Friday, was in earnest conversation with not only “that perfume feller” but with one of Philadelphia’s leading psychiatrists. And they would have been thunderstruck by the nature of the conversation.