Fredrick Brown - Night of the Jabberwock

That was the means of entry all right — but was the burglar still in there, or had he left, and left the window open behind him?

I strained my eyes against the blackness to the left of the window, where the safe was. And suddenly a dim light flickered briefly, as though a match had been struck but had gone out before the phosphorus had ignited the wood. I could see only the brief light of it, as it was below the level of the counter; I couldn't see whoever had lighted it.

The burglar was still there.

And suddenly I was running on tiptoe back through the areaway between the bank and the post office.

Good God, don't ask me why. Sure, I had money in the bank, but the bank had insurance against burglary and it wasn't any skin off my backside if the bank was robbed. I wasn't even thinking that it would be a better story for the Clarion if I got the burglar — or if he got me. I just wasn't thinking at all. I was running back alongside the bank toward that window that he'd left open for his getaway.

I think it must have been reaction from the cowardice I'd shown and felt only a minute before. I must have been a bit punch drunk from Jabberwocks and Vorpal Blades and homicidal maniacs with lycanthropy and bank bandits and a bank burglar — or maybe I thought I'd suddenly been promoted to the Roman candle department.

Maybe I was drunk, maybe I was a little mentally unbalanced — use any maybe you want, but there I was running tiptoe through the areaway. Running, that is, as far as the light from the street would let me; then I groped along the side of the building until I came to the alley. There was dim light there, enough for me to be able to see the window.

It was still open.

I stood there looking at it and vaguely beginning to realize how crazy I'd been. Why hadn't I run to the sheriff's office for Hank? The burglar — or, for all I knew, burglars — might be just starting his work on the safe in there. He might be in a long time, long enough for Hank to get here and collar him. If he came out now, what was I going to do about it? Shoot him? That was ridiculous; I'd rather let him get away with robbing the bank than do that.

And then it was too late because suddenly there was a soft shuffling sound from the window and a hand appeared on the sill. He was coming out, and there wasn't a chance that I could get away without his hearing me. What would happen then, I didn't know. I would just as 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."