Authors: Franklin Gregory
Trent took hold of himself.
“Where’s Crane now?” he demanded.
He stayed at the inn last night,” Summers said. “It was too late to make edition after we reached the village. He left about half an hour ago for town, after getting the Lamberton pictures. He wants to develop that plate himself.”
“I want a print,” Trent ordered. “Have a boy bring one out. Right away.”
It was a more composed Pierre who that afternoon tramped over to Trent Farms under the winter sun. His tread was still heavy and slow, but it possessed purpose. And when he met David in the south pasture, he could greet him with some semblance of cheer.
They chatted a few minutes. Once Pierre glanced at the ground, and knew that his 'suspicions, as far as David was concerned, were justified.
‘David appeared unhappy. He appeared nervous. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As much to fabricate conversation as anything, Pierre asked about the Ayrshires. David’s reply was distant. And it was a curious reply.
“The Ayrshires? I don’t know. Thinking it over today. Think I’ll get rid of them. I never did like cattle.”
Pierre glanced at him sharply.
“Why—” he Began. Why. . . .”
And then he understood.
Trent said, when Pierre had seated himself in Manning's library, “All right. I saw it— when David came home last night. I mean, that it wasn’t there. And I still don’t believe it wasn’t there.”
“I'm not going to argue,” Pierre said.
“And besides,” said Trent, selecting a cigar from the humidor, “one of my lads got a picture of these animals last night. Back in the canyon. I’m waiting for the print now.”
“Which proves—”
“I don’t know what it’ll prove. Dog, wolf or anything, it’ll give us something to go on— and might prove an alibi.”
Pierre shook his head.
“I just saw David. Manning, he doesn't have it. Don’t you believe your own senses?” Trent said roughly, “No. But I believe photographs. And this one will show nothing but two animals.”
Pierre was silent. Then:
“I'm not going to argue. We’re faced with something where argument doesn’t help. You can shout your head off that something can’t happen. But when it happens, words lose their meaning and you have to figure out what to do.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I didn’t think so. I didn’t, either. A soul’s never meant anything to me. Until I saw the change in Sara. And then I discovered that when you lose that, you lose everything.”
“Are you sure,” Trent asked, “that it is soul?”
Pierre shrugged.
“Call it anything. Character, personality, spirit. But it’s something so vitally a part of you that when it changes or goes away, you change, too. It’s like reason. Has any scientist ever seen, weighed, touched reason? Of course not. But when it goes, it leaves a person mad.”
Trent bit viciously at his cigar.
“Damn it! I wish you’d stop talking like this. When that picture comes. . . .”
He got up and began pacing the floor. “Manning, look here!” Pierre implored. “We’re friends. That’s why I can’t help talking like this. Whatever this picture shows, it won’t help Sara. That’s what is driving me crazy. She’s changed so terribly.” He added slowly, “And so has David. Did you know he wants to get rid of his Ayrshires?”
Trent, at the other end of the room, turner abruptly.
“What's that? He loves those cattle!” Pierre nodded.
“That,” he said, “is what is so terrible.” He added with apparent irrelevance, “Heinrich was telling me this morning how milk production is dropping.”
Trent thought that over.
“Always does this time of year.”
“That’s what I told Heinrich; And he said that Buttercup Dairy's cattle hadn’t produced a quart for the last week.”
“I've said it before,” Manning growled, “and I say it again: I don’t trust Heinrich.”
“I didn’t either.” Pierre sighed. “So I called Jason at Buttercup. It’s true.”
Trent passed his handkerchief across his hot forehead and sat down again.
“I know what you mean,” he said finally. “That werewolves, witches, vampires go for cattle. Well?”
“And perhaps bear an antipathy for them?” Trent frowned.
“Eh? Oh, you mean David. That is queer, his change.”
“I won’t argue,” Pierre said. “I’m only interested in two things: souls—and little kids like Elsie Lamberton. I said it last night. . . I say it again. I'm convinced Sara’s soul is gone. I’m convinced she is possessed. And that means we must give it back to her.”
Trent’s jaw was set.
“And—David?”
“I WOULDN’T know,” Pierre said. He added, with calculation: “I should think that a person would have to believe in a malady before setting out to cure it.”
“You’re bitter, Pierre.”
“I’m bitter. And I don’t know—and I doubt the Church knows—if the soul is lost when the change occurs through contagion. Rut the job’s cut out. We’ve got to make those youngsters well again.”
“I was reading,” Manning said, and his voice was tired and his words were slow, “the theory of werewolfery. I was reading here in the encyclopedia this afternoon. Remy and Guazzo and some others claim the metamorphosis is only true in appearance, but not in essential fact; that the appearance is caused only by a glamour created by Satan. If that is true, it’s nothing but an illusion on the spectator’s part. Which is—madness. Which isn’t to be worried about.”
Pierre’s nod was slow and heavy.
“I’ve heard that theory. The alternative is that the Devil himself created an actual change. That there is no glamour. If that’s true, and if we make no attempt to save Sara, her soul will be damned.” He paused. “Do we dare take the chance that Remy is right? No, I can’t see it.”
Manning tapped the arm of his chair nervously.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going,” said Pierre slowly, “to lock Sara in her room every night. We can’t do anything else. Hardt refuses to have her committed. Won’t touch die case. Well—I’m just as glad. She’ll be home—and, maybe, I can do something.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed.
Pierre nodded.
“Exorcism.”
“I should think, Manning, you’d be as interested in that as I. Manning, we can’t let those two continue prowling. We can’t, morally, permit any more. . . .”
Trent got up again. He walked to a window. He walked across the room. He returned to the window, which afforded a view of the state highway. He looked at his watch.
“Three o’clock,” he said. “That print should have been up an hour ago.”
He called the
Herald
, asked for the art department; and when he had that connection, he asked for Red Crane.
“Went out at noon, Mr. Trent,” said the voice. “Hasn’t returned.”
Trent explained carefully.
“That’s right, Mr. Trent. He was in the dark room. I think he was developing. What happened to the picture I don’t know. Will you hold on while I look or shall I call you?” Trent held on. Finally:
“Mr. Trent? Nothing in his tank. Nothing on his rack except the Lamberton pictures. No picture of wolves, Mr, Trent. Canyon background? No. No picture like that.” Trent swore.
“Switch me to Mr. Morrison, please,” he ordered. And in a moment he was talking to his managing editor. Again he explained carefully.
“Find Crane,” he commanded, “Take a dozen men if you have to. Try all the hangouts. I must have that picture. And bring Crane out!”
They found Red Crane in a Broad Street bar often and happily frequented by
Herald
men. He was drunk. He sat at a table and lingered a negative. He kept holding it up to the light. In front of him lay the print, stained with whiskey.
They bundled him into a car. They drove at top speed.
“Whazallabout?” he kept asking dazedly. Ray Holt sat beside him, rubbing his neck and back.
“Snap out of it, Red. The boss wants ya.”
“Whazallabout? Fire me?”
“Hell, no. Some picture you took last night.”
“Ugh. . . .” Then, with dim comprehension: “Wolf pishur.” And he began laughing hysterically.
Holt and the others didn’t know what it was all about. Boss got a crazy idea. They hopped. He was the boss. It took an hour and five minutes to reach Trent Farms, half of it through thick traffic. When they drove between the high stone pillars from the state highway, Crane was in slightly better shape.
Trent himself met the party at the door.
“I’ll see Crane alone,” he said. He led him into the library where Pierre was still seated. When he realized the photographer’s condition, he poured him a drink—with much water and a little whiskey. Crane gulped it.
“You took a picture last night, Red.”
“ ’Sright. Summers tell you?”
“I talked with him this morning.”
Crane sat limply. He stared at the carpet.
“Tellaboutwolf?” he asked, without looking up.
“He did.”
Crane began to laugh crazily. The laugh ended with a brief sob. He began fumbling in his pockets.
“Saw wolf,” he said. “Swear saw wolf. So Summers. Waited. Saw wolf. Two wolf.”
Still he fumbled in his pockets.
“Thiz it,” he said and, produced the print.
Trent snatched at it. Pierre looked over his shoulder. Both men gasped.
It was a flashlight photograph, against a background of overhanging rocks, of Sara and David!
THEY were finished with theory, with argument. They did not even attempt to explain the magic of the photograph. Trent surrendered with obvious horror.
“I'll go along.” he said. And he said, “Good God! What else can I do?”
But even as he said this, Pierre insensibly felt that Trent was drawing mental reservations; that he still sought somewhere a naturalistic key. Pierre had this feeling when Trent answered his question; “What about this fellow Crane?”
“Won’t dare talk,” Trent said. “That’s why he got drunk. People would think he was crazy.”
“But if Summers confirmed it?”
“He’d be just as crazy. And besides,” Trent added slowly, “I don’t think they want to lose their jobs.”
And again Pierre had the feeling when Trent said:
“We’ll have to keep them apart, of course. Seems that’s when they're at their worst. That’s why I can’t see any reason for locking -up David, as long as Sara is locked up. He’ll do nothing without her.”
Pierre said, “That’s your responsibility. But if he’s running loose, and somebody notices. . . .”
“Lord! Do you think anyone has already?” Pierre asked, “How would I know? It gets worse all the time^ There’s so damn many angles. We’ll have to go slow. We’ll have to be cautious with our inquiries. Hardt may help—and he’ll keep his mouth shut. I hate to think what would happen if the people around here found out—that is, if they’re anything like Freda and Heinrich.”
Trent agreed. It was substantially what Summers had said.
“That’s something,” he said. “Freda and Heinrich. If they found out—”
Pierre bit his nether lip.
“I’ll see you,” he said. And he got up and left.
When he returned to Fountain Head, Sara was sitting in the library. She wore a velvet dress of rich deep emerald. It accentuated the curves of her body, gave her animal grace to a startling degree.
A magazine lay in her lap, but she did not look at it. She stared pensively, instead, out of the window. Shafts of dull yellow light from the lowering sun streamed through the window and fell on Sara. From the door, Pierre regarded her.
Waiting for the sun to go down, he thought miserably. She must spend, her days waiting for that.
But tonight, he thought, would do her little good.
He entered the library and sat down. She did not look up. He stirred' the log in the fireplace, and then he looked long and steadily toward her. He shook his head. He glanced down at his shadow; He thought, You never trouble about them. You take them tor granted. Like air. They’re part of you. But when they’re gone, what a ghastly difference!
The evening paper had arrived. He picked it up and read. He read about the murder of Elsie Lamberton.
Dinner, by candlelight, found Sara's pensiveness gone. Pierre could see the animation rise in her. She smiled. Her eyes glistened. There was anticipation in her eyes.
Once, Pierre observed, she reached out and pushed a silver candelabrum farther from her. She reached hesitantly, as if she could not quite make up her mind; as if, Pierre considered, she feared the flame. Changes such as that, such trifling changes, in Sara’s mannerisms and habits and character, gave Pierre his greatest fear.
She talked little; then, only in answer to his questioning:
““Do anything this afternoon, dear?”
“No.” She thought it over. “No. I just read.”
And again.
“I saw David today. He wants to sell his Ayrshires.”