THE WHITE WOLF (6 page)

Meanwhile, Sara, three times in every seven days, appeared at the house on Ninth Street. Finally, there came an afternoon:

She sat, with the absorbing rigidity of a yogi, on a chair in that room where that man sat at his table. She was more aware, as each minute passed, of a serenity that flowed into her being. She was now beyond any resistance. In this state she yielded to the forces that played upon her. The time that previously had been but momentary in its flashes of understanding now lengthened into a vista of dry- point detail. In that vista she saw herself and the things that, more than life, she desired. Obscure longing was at last defined.

When she finally arose to go, the man nodded to her. He said nothing, but the understanding between them was as complete as if he had said:

“The next time is the end.”

She was not impatient during the two days that intervened. Once during that time David called and found her complaisant. Even the scorn in her eyes was veiled. She agreed to ride to a neighboring farm. But on the way over and the way back she seemed absorbed with her own thoughts. And David did not press her to talk.

He, too, sensed the approach of a crest in her life.

The day came. . . .

Had you seen her, walking south on Broad Street, you would have seen only a smart young woman with whom you wouldn’t mind becoming acquainted. She wore her clothes with feminine distinction. You were perfectly aware that she was a woman. But if you had more proximate traffic with her than a passing glance, you might have feared the avidity of her eyes.

She passed South Street and turned east on Fitzwater until she reached a maze of narrow streets and ugly alleys. Blindly, she turned first into one and then another, her eyes searching the scene ahead of her. Here? Not here. She walked on. And then, out of a twisted lane she emerged in a deserted intersection where, bravely snuggling the great wall of an abandoned factory, stood a tiny neighborhood grocery. In front of the grocery stood a rickety coach; in the coach a fat-faced darkeyed baby slept quietly.

Sara braked her pace. Her breath caught. She glanced to the right, to the left. She glanced behind her. Her sharp eyes peered through the dirty glass of the store’s front. Then, with one movement, she swooped like a hawk, gathered the child into her arms, and walked on.

She found her way to Ninth Street. She walked north. The child slept.

It was five hours later. Sara stood, doubtful, as if she had just emerged from a bad dream into the reality of daylight, in front of the house on Ninth Street. Her back was turned to it. She no longer held the child. There was hardly memory.

Or, if there was memory, it was more in the ragged form of those same lightning flashes which first had illuminated her mind when she began visiting that house. The man—the fat baby, the Pole and the fatter woman; and the odor of burning fat. A pot with a black, fatty ointment.

Sara convulsed with shudders. It couldn’t be! It was a nightmare. These things could not happen! Thank God for that! Thank God! And then her glance lowered to her hands. There was a black, greasy filth beneath the nails, clinging to the skin.

Wondering, she examined them more minutely. But suddenly, like ice water drenching her, she became conscious of the raucous screaming of a newsboy across the street:

“Woman Kidnaps Baby!”

He screamed it again and again.

“Readallaboutit!”

Now memory flooded her senses. Irresolute, then trembling, then appalled, she stared about her. Her hands clutched. But where was her purse? She turned back to the house. She hesitated. Go back there? There? Limply, she walked back up the steps. She put her hand to the knob of the door. She turned the knob and the door swung in and she entered.

There was something wrong. She could not know, in her fright, that it was only the mustiness of age. But as she advanced along the silent corridor, she was struck by something else: the depth of undisturbed dust upon the floor.

PIERRE sat—stout, comfortable and satisfied—in his favorite chair in front of the fire. He had an excellent book on his lap. On the footstool at his feet the cat was curled. And, since there would be no blending for the next ten days, he was stealing the luxury of a pipe.

A pipe was a good thing. You tamp the tobacco to just the right hardness and you smoke it slowly, without heating up the bowl too much. And damn the perfume business, anyway!

Still, all in all, the fact he was rarely able to smoke might add to the ultimate luxury.

It did not take much to make Pierre happy. Sara, for instance. She really had improved, he thought. He’d noticed it tonight for the first time. The girl seemed actually to possess more animation. She hadn’t sat, as she usually did when they ate alone, like a dolt. She had talked almost eagerly. Pierre, not one to search for deceptions, did not consider that she might have been seeking escape.

It was then that Manning Trent barged in. There was never much formality between the two men. Usually Trent merely walked in, picked out a soft chair and slumped into it— his long, thin legs stretched out and his cynical eyes darting about the room. But tonight he didn’t sit. He confronted Pierre with an unfolded copy of the early edition of his
Herald
.

“You hear about this?” he demanded.

Reluctantly, Pierre put his book aside and glanced at the bannerline—eight columns of 12 point boldface type.

“Read “about it hours ago in the
Bulletin
,” he said with what he hoped was the proper note of disparagement. He was more interested in observing that Sara had entered the room and had seated herself quietly in a corner chair.

Trent, whose cynicism was interlarded with streaks of excitability, exclaimed, “Yes, sure! But you didn’t hear they found the baby’s head!”

Pierre sat upright.

“How’s that?”

“You heard me well enough. They found the baby’s head. Damned strange thing! Makes your blood boil. Found it in an alley between Eighth and Ninth near South.”

Pierre heard a faint “oh-h” from the comer. He sucked at his pipe and became, after the first shock, more judicial. He said:

“H’m-m.”

He scratched an ear.

“What fiend would do a thing like that?” Trent demanded. And when Pierre did not reply, Trent exclaimed, “A perfect outrage! Know what I’ve done? I’ve offered five thousand dollars for the capture of the baby's kidnaper.”

There was a pause, and then Pierre said, “You mean your paper has.”

“The woman was young,” Trent said. “Somebody—lounger or somebody—saw her pick the baby up. Didn't think anything of it at the moment. Natural enough to pick up your own baby and go into a store. Not that he saw her go in.”

“That’s so. But this head.’’

Trent was unwrapping the cellophane from a cigar.

“Checks. Wasn’t so badly battered up it couldn't be identified. But, godamighty, where’s the torso?”

Pierre’s eyes were on the corner of the room. The picture he saw there was that of a young woman of fashion who was disinterested in the conversation of men. Sara was examining her fingernails with the critical look of a female about to change her manicurist. Pierre said:

“Not being either the kidnaper or a clairvoyant, I couldn’t say. Did the fellow get a good description?”

He thought, with satisfaction, that Sara was beginning to take an interest in the talk. She seemed to lean forward slightly, and then to settle back when Trent said:

“So-so. Young, pretty, blonde. But you know how those things go. Get a dozen witnesses to the same thing and you’ll get a dozen different reports.’’

Sara got up and walked out of the room. She was walking across the lawn, a light throw over her shoulders, when she heard David’s voice behind her.

She halted, and her shoulders sagged in resignation.

“ ’Lo, Dave.”

“Just drove over to get dad.” David explained. “He’s awfully upset tonight.”

Sara replied:

“I noticed.”

“Is he still in there?”

“Yes.’’

“Still—talking about that baby?”

Sara said. “Really, I didn’t notice what they were talking about.”

David thought he caught a false note. He became, quite suddenly, angry.

“That’s a lie!” he exclaimed.

Sara stepped away from him. The mere movement forced him to plead:

“Please, that was a lousy thing to say. I’m awfully sorry. Guess I’m upset, too.”

She remained aloof. But she was feminine enough to goad David on.

“I don’t have the reputation of telling lies,” she said icily. She realized instantly she had gone too far. David stepped forward and grabbed her by her shoulders. He shook her, “And that’s a lie!” he said. He said it between his teeth and this time he knew there would be no retreat. “Do you know where that child’s head was found? Back of that house, that's where!”

He thought that she shuddered under the touch of his strong hands; then he felt the muscles of her shoulders stiffen.

“But, David,” she asked, “why this? What does this have to do with me?”

He felt himself weakening. But a cloud that had obscured the moon passed over and he could look down into Sara's changed face.

“I think—plenty,” he said. “What were you doing there?”

“Where?”

“That house.”

Sara whispered, “Are you insane?”

David released his grip. And then he was aware that she had turned and was walking down toward the creek—a rather defiant figure, checkered by the shadows from the branches overhead.

The autumn was long that year. And down along the Neshaminy the woods retained their rich coloring far into November. In the clearings and in the fields, the amber corn stood in the shock; and pumpkin and squash lay between the shocks.

It had been a good year. There had been rains, and the Neshaminy was full. It raced joyously between the moss-clad rocks and grassy banks still green. And thwarted here or there by a small boulder, a current would explode into a silver shower of spray, and then race with abandon around the boulder.

Occasionally you would see a brace of gaily feathered pheasants strut into the open from a thicket. They would pause and listen warily, for men in hunting clothes were now about. You could hear their guns, now distant, now near.

Or you might see a rabbit hop through the field of shocked corn and disappear. And if you were lucky, and quiet, you might come upon a woodchuck sitting on its haunches, its forepaws—almost like human hands—tightly clutching some tidbit.

Pierre looked for these things. Each Saturday afternoon he tramped or rode through the woods and fields. He was not negligent of the beauty of the scene. And more than once he drew to a halt and watched the gray squirrels playing tag among the branches of the swamp maples.

He was aware of the earthy perfumes, of the fresh smell of the wet grass along the stream banks, of the bitter exhilarating smell of burning leaves. The crackle of dry leaves underfoot and the distant baying of a dog were good things to hear. Yet, over and above all this, and even shadowing his obnoxious optimism, Pierre found his thoughts reverting again and again to Sara.

The change in her was now so definite. She had settled into a cycle. The nocturnal walks, once casual, were now nightly occurrences. They began shortly after dinner—a dinner at which she ate so little that Pierre wondered how she retained her strength.

The walks lasted longer than before. Often Pierre would be in bed when he heard her footsteps in the upper hall and the sound of her closing door. If, by some chance of a good book, he remained up until one or two in the morning, he might see her. But he was up and away the next day long before she was up. And Freda,, serving his breakfast on one occasion said:

“The
Fraulein
in the day sleeps. Is ill the
Fraulein
?”

A man, Pierre thought, could have too good a nature. He should put it up to her: “You’ll have to change your ways, Sara. Your life’s become simply abnormal.-’ And yet each time he shrank from it.

He knew that she no longer went into the city. She had dropped completely from the social orbit in which she had moved. She did not trouble to reply to invitations. She issued none. Her work with the Junior League was history. And, finally, David stopped coming.

Pierre himself did not change the manner of his life. Twice a week, regularly, he remained in the city. One of these nights he spent at the club; the other, either at the Academy of Music or at the theater. Yet something of the flavor of other seasons was lacking.

Ahead of him, as he walked this afternoon, his prize flock of white ducks waddled in their military formation across the path. They seemed hurried. They seemed excited. But they kept their formation and they kept close together as if for protection. They waddled a few feet along the path and then they turned into the wood and disappeared.

A little farther on, Pierre stopped. White feathers littered the ground. Some of them bore crimson stains. To one side, between the open roots of a tree, he found a mangled duck. It was half eaten. In the soft earth, leading off into the tangled brush, he saw doglike footprints.

The prints were large. Immediately Pierre pictured Heinrich's big Newfoundland and he became angry. It was one thing about which Pierre, usually so easy going, was adamant. A dog must be either a good dog—or no good at all'.

He turned back along the path to look for Heinrich. The path led through the woods along the Neshaminy, crossed the creek on a narrow wooden bridge, and led up to the lawn.

He walked around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen door and into the expansive kitchen. Freda, at the large sink, was washing each of the thirty-two pieces of the small cream separator.

Pierre paused for a moment. To voice an angry word here was like breaking into a pleasing concerto. And Pierre was too sensitive to speak until he had absorbed the color: the strings of drying red peppers and the half dozen smoked hams hanging from the ceiling beams, the rows of apple jelly sparkling where the sun struck them, the Mason jars purple with grape juice, the small crock of rich yellow butter.

Finally: “Where's Heinrich?”

Freda, in slow motion, turned around and wiped her red hands on her checked apron.

“In the barn perhaps you find him. maybe.”

She stared at him questioningly, her hands akimbo on her wide hips.

“That dog of his. He’s killed one of my ducks.” Pierre said.

She shook her head unbelievingly.

“Nein. The duck Fritz would not kill.” Then she muttered something that Pierre, turning to go, did not quite catch. Had he still been looking at her, he would have seen a curious sight; Freda making a sign familiar to any Pennsylvania Dutch believer in hexerei —the sign of the horned fingers.

Pierre walked the two hundred feet across the back lawn to the barn. The barn, screened Irom the house by large oaks, was of a later date than the house. It had been built by a German immigrant, and was of an architecture distinct from the English Colonial of Fountain Head. It was of stone and frame and it was fronted by a large portico.

Under the eaves, visible to Pierre as he approached, two odd symbols enclosed by a circle were painted on the wood. Casual observation might lead one to think they were mere decorations. But a study would have shown that there was no balance; that there were no such symbols on the other side of the barn. Had you asked Heinrich what they were, he would have shrugged:

“Just for nice.”

But Pierre, regarding them, knew that they were gruttafoos—the toad’s foot—and that they kept the livestock from harm by evil spirits. He mused:

“Wish they’d keep my ducks from Fritz.” He added, “Silly idea.”

His thoughts reverted with amusement to that night at the club when he hail made out such a good case for the' supernatural. “Too good a case,” he considered. Still, all in all, queer things did happen in the world. What was Hardt, anyway, but a modern warlock- poking about with the greatest mystery of all, the mind?

Heinrich appeared from the barn, a rake in his hand. Pierre walked up to him and shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“That dog of yours,” he began.

Heinrich, gaunt and tall in blue denim overalls that were faded by many washings, leaned on the rake.

“When I let you bring him here, you promised there wouldn’t be any trouble. Well, he's killed one of my ducks.”

Heinrich looked at Pierre sorrowfully.

“Fritz killed a duck?”

“That’s what I said.”

Heinrich shook his head with wondering slowness.

“It can’t be so. Mr. Pierre. Fritz—too much I know Fritz. Gentle is Frit. Old is Fritz. Good I feed Fritz. I make out it don’t make sense. Mr. Pierre.”

There was actual alarm in his brown lace. He leaned more heavily on the rake. He stared down at the rake’s teeth.

“Look. Mr. Pierre. Mandel’s dog there is. That is Bryn over at the village near. In the township made Mandel Bryn keep. But loose again is Bryn.”

Pierre said with determination, “Get Fritz.”