Fredrick Brown - Night of the Jabberwock

His eyes lighted. "The Roman candle department. That's marvelous. The Roman candle department."

You see what I mean.

We had a drink to the Roman candle department, and then it happened that neither of us said anything right away and it was so quiet that I jumped when the phone rang.

I picked it up and said into it, "This is the Roman candle department."

"Doc?" It was the voice of Pete Corey, my printer. It sounded tense. "I've got bad news."

Pete doesn't get excited easily. I sobered up a little and asked, "What, Pete?"

"Listen, Doc. Remember just a couple of hours ago you were saying you wished a murder or something would happen so you'd have a story for the paper — and remember how I asked you if you'd like one even if it happened to a friend of yours?"

Of course I remembered; he'd mentioned my best friend, Carl Trenholm. I took a tighter grip on the phone. I said, "Cut out breaking it gently, Pete. Has something happened to Carl?"

"Yes, Doc."

"For God's sake, what? Cut the build-up. Is he dead?"

"That's what I heard. He was found out on the pike; I don't know if he was hit by a car or what."

"Where is he now?"

"Being brought in. I guess. All I know is that Hank called me—" Hank is Pete's brother-in-law and a deputy sheriff. "— and said they got a call from someone who found him alongside the road out there. Even Hank had it third-hand — Rance Kates phoned him and said to come down and take care of the office while he went out there. And Hank knows Kates doesn't like you and wouldn't give you the tip, so Hank called me. But don't get Hank in trouble with his boss by telling anybody where the tip came from."

"Did you call the hospital?" I asked. "If Carl's just hurt—"

"Wouldn't be time for them to get him there yet — or to wherever they do take him. Hank just phoned me from his own place before he started for the sheriff's office, and Kates had just called him from the office and was just leaving there."

"Okay, Pete," I said. "Thanks. I'm going back downtown; I'll call the hospital from the Clarion office. You call me there if you hear anything more."

"Hell, Doc, I'm coming down too."

I told him he didn't have to, but he said the hell with having to; he wanted to. I didn't argue with him.

I cradled the phone and found that I was already standing up. I said, "Sorry, but something important's come up — an accident to a friend of mine." I headed for the closet to get my coat. "Do you want to wait here, or—"

"If you don't mind," he said. "That is, if you think you won't be gone very long."

"I don't know that, but I'll phone here and let you know as soon as I can. If the phone rings answer it; it'll be me. And help yourself to whisky and books."

He nodded. "I'll get along fine. Hope your friend isn't seriously hurt."

That was all I was worrying about myself. I put on my hat and hurried out, again, and this time seriously, cussing those two flat tires on my car and the fact that I hadn't taken time to fix them that morning. Nine blocks isn't far to walk when you're not in any hurry, but it's a hell of a distance when you're anxious to get there quickly.

I walked fast, so fast, in fact, that I winded myself in the first two blocks and had to slow down.

I kept thinking the same thing Pete had obviously thought — what a hell of a coincidence it was that we'd mentioned the possibility of Carl's being—

But we'd been talking about murder. Had Carl been murdered? Of course not; things like that didn't happen in Carmel City. It must have been an accident, a hit-run driver. No one would have the slightest reason for killing, of all people, Carl Trenholm. No one but a—

Finishing that thought made me stop walking suddenly. No one but a maniac would have the slightest reason for killing Carl Trenholm. But there was an escaped maniac at large tonight and — unless he'd left instead of waiting for me — he was sitting right in my living room. I'd thought he was harmless — even though I'd taken the precaution of putting that gun in my pocket — but how could I be sure? I'm no psychiatrist; where did I get the bright idea that I could tell the difference between a harmless nut and a homicidal maniac?

I started to turn back and then realized that going back was useless and foolish. He would either have left as soon as I was out of sight around the corner, or he hadn't guessed that I suspected him and would wait as I'd told him to, until he heard from me. So all I had to do was to phone the asylum as soon as I could and they'd send guards to close in on my house and take him if he was still there.

I started walking again. Yes, it would be ridiculous for me to go back alone, even though I still had that gun in my pocket. He might resist, and I wouldn't want to have to use the gun, especially as I hadn't any real reason to believe he'd killed Carl. It could have been an auto accident just as easily; I couldn't even form an intelligent opinion on that until I learned what Carl's injuries were. I kept walking, as fast as I could without winding myself again.

Suddenly I thought of that newspaper clipping — "MAN SLAIN BY UNKNOWN BEAST." A prickle went down my spine — what if Carl's body showed—

And then the horrible thought pyramided. What if the unknown beast who had killed the man near Bridgeport and the escaped maniac were one and the same. What if he had escaped before at the time of the killing at Bridgeport — or, for that matter, hadn't been committed to the asylum until after that killing, whether or not he was suspected of it.

I thought of lycanthropy, and shivered. What might I have been talking about Jabberwocks and unknown beasts with?

Suddenly the gun I'd put in my pocket felt comforting there. I looked around over my shoulder to be sure that nothing was coming after me. The street behind was empty, but I started walking a little faster just the same.

Suddenly the street lights weren't bright enough and the night, which had been a pleasant June evening, was a frightful, menacing thing. I was really scared. Maybe it's as well that I didn't guess that things hadn't even started to happen.

I felt glad that I was passing the courthouse — with a light on in the window of the sheriff's office. I even considered going in. Probably Hank would be there by now and Rance Kates would still be gone. But no, I was this far now and I'd carry on to the Clarion office and start my phoning from there. Besides, if Kates found out I'd been in his office talking to Hank, Hank would be in trouble.

So I kept on going. The corner of Oak Street, and I turned, now only a block and a half from the Clarion. But it was going to take me quite a while to make that block and a half.

A big, dark blue Buick sedan suddenly pulled near the curb and slowed down alongside me. There were two men in the front seat and the one who was driving stuck his head out of the window and said, "Hey, Buster, what town is this?"

It had been a long time since anyone had called me "Buster," and I didn't particularly like it. I didn't like the looks of the men, either, or the tone of voice the question had been asked in. A minute ago, I'd thought I'd be glad of any company short of that of the escaped maniac; now I decided differently.

I'm not often rude, but I can be when someone else starts it. I said, "Sorry, pal, I'm a stranger here myself." And I kept on walking.

I heard the man behind the wheel of the Buick say something to the other, and then they passed me and swung in to the curb just ahead. The driver got out and walked toward me.