THE MAN WHO CRIED “WEREWOLF” by William P. McGivern

Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, March 1943.

I was sitting at the bar of the Drakes’ club enjoying a reflective scotch and soda when I happened to glance up and see Marmaduke van Milton standing in the doorway.

I lowered my eyes and hoped fervently that he would go away without seeing me. There is nothing essentially wrong with Marmaduke, but he has a quality of vacant cheerfulness about him that I find very depressing. Also, if he has a brain, it is not of the normal type. Marmaduke is one of those amiable, pointless, disjointed souls that wander through life without rhyme or reason, equipped with an elfin innocence that, strangely enough, is frequently more effective than the most cynical shrewdness.

I risked another glance in the mirror and saw that he was still standing in the doorway with a vague look on his face, as if he were wondering how he had gotten there. Marmaduke is tall and pale with mild blue eyes and yellow hair. The habitually vacant expression on his face would be difficult to classify, so I won’t try.

Suddenly his eyes met mine in the mirror. He waved a limp hand at me and started slowly across the floor, a bright smile on his face.

“Simply wonderful to see you again,” he said, climbing onto a stool beside me. “Where have you been hiding?”

I had had dinner with him the evening before, but apparently he had forgotten.

“I’ve been around. Have a drink?” I asked without enthusiasm.

“Glad to, glad to,” Marmaduke said heartily.

The bartender set him up a scotch and soda which Marmaduke drank in one long breath. He ordered another.

“Fine to see you again,” he said, between drinks.

“Then take a good look,” I said. “I’m going into the air corps in two weeks.”

“Are you, now?” Marmaduke cried, apparently delighted at the news.

“How wonderful!”

He lifted his drink to his lips and then set it down. There was a troubled look on his face. He regarded me soberly.

“But old fellow,” he said, “you can’t fly one of those things, can you?”

“No, but they’ll teach me.”

“Oh,” he said. His frown cleared and a smile broke through. “They teach you, do they?”

“Yes,” I said patiently. “They figured it’d be more interesting for the boys if they knew how to fly when they took the planes up.”

“Shrewd of them,” Marmaduke said, nodding his head thoughtfully. “I mean, if a fellow’s going to go dashing around the clouds in a plane, he’d be in a bad way not knowing how to fly.” Marmaduke pronounced this deliberate judgment as if it were the last conclusion of the Einstein theory.

I began to experience the desperate trapped feeling that too much of Marmaduke’s company inevitably brought about.

“Lots of the old crowd going into the service,” Marmaduke said, as if that were some deep mystery. He glanced moodily about the deserted bar. “Won’t be any of the chaps left at this rate.” He swallowed another sip of scotch and shook his head. “Have a devil of time finding a badminton partner these days. Can’t tell where it’s all going to end.”

I looked sidewise at him. “Well, that’s war,” I said.

I didn’t ask him how he stood in the draft, for I was certain that would unloose a deluge of vacant, rambling remarks which would leave me completely bewildered. I wasn’t interested anyway. When and if the army gets Marmaduke I don’t want to know about it. It won’t help my morale any. “As you say, that’s war,” Marmaduke echoed hollowly. You’d think from his doleful voice that the British fleet had just been destroyed and sunk.

“Pretty grim, isn’t it?” I said. “Dashed grim,” Marmaduke said, sipping his drink thoughtfully.

“Well,” I said philosophically, “there won’t be much doing around here anyway, with the crowd gone. We’re about the last left, as it is. Danny Malloy left and so have Buckets and Stoop and Billy Pointdexter—”

“Pointdexter hasn’t gone,” Marmaduke said unexpectedly.

“No? I haven’t seen him around for a couple of months. Where is he?”

“Dashed if I know,” Marmaduke said. “He was rejected by the Army. Took it pretty hard too. But I don’t know where the blighter is now.”

“This is news to me,” I said. Marmaduke ordered another drink. “Saw him about a month ago.” He frowned and looked down at the bar. “Might’ve been longer than that though. Never did have much of a head for dates. He was in a bad way. I tried to help him out, but I wasn’t much good, I guess. Anyway I smashed all of his deuced apparatus. That was the only way I could think to get him out into the fresh air.”

“What are you babbling about?” I demanded.

Marmaduke looked surprised. “Didn’t I tell you about Pointdexter? Really, the whole thing is quite mysterious. I thought I told you. But maybe it was my Uncle Freddie.”

“Organize that thing you call a mind and start making sense, will you?” I said irritably. “You haven’t said a word to me about Pointdexter.”

“Well,” Marmaduke said, “I shall tell you the whole story immediately. It’s really frightfully interesting.”

“Well get on with it,” I said. “Righto.”

He finished his drink and set the glass down on the bar.

“Do you know anything about werewolves?” he asked.

I started slightly. This sudden and silly digression was typical of Marmaduke but his casual tone was disturbing.

“No I don’t,” I snapped.

“Well never mind,” Marmaduke said, smiling. “But it is an interesting subject.”

“Get on with Pointdexter,” I said.

“Righto,” he said. He waved to the bartender for another round of drinks and twisted around to face me, his long horsy features beaming vacantly.

IT ALL started (Marmaduke said cheerfully) about two or three months ago when I bumped into Billy Pointdexter when he was leaving the club, rather latish one evening.

He looked decidedly glum. There was a bitter scowl on his dark face and a very unsociable gleam in his eyes. If ever a man appeared to need a bit of the old cheering up it was Pointdexter that night.

As a true-blue friend and fellow club member I felt that the job was one I couldn’t shirk.

“What ho!” I said, by way of greeting.

He looked at me with disgust.

“Please go away,” he said.

I laughed heartily. Pointdexter’s sense of humor always rolls me in the aisle.

“Why the gloomy phiz?” I asked. “You look as if you’ve lost your last lump of sugar.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered gloomily.

We were standing in front of the club and it was raining nastily. He was waiting for a cab. I was just waiting.

“That’s not the right spirit,” I said. I could see he was in a bad way. He was staring darkly at the wet pavement and he seemed oblivious to the crowds hurrying past. Occasionally he would glance up and look wearily at the traffic for a cab.

“Please go away, Marmaduke,” he said. “I am not in the mood for company.”

“Now look here old fellow,” I said, taking his arm. “If you think I’m going to walk out, on you, you’ve got another guess coming. I’m not going to desert you, so cheer up.”

He looked at me with despair in his eyes.

“No,” he said bitterly, “you wouldn’t desert me. The way my luck’s running that would be too much to hope for.”

“That’s the way to look at it,” I said, slapping him on the back. I could see already that I was helping him out of the doldrums. “What say we have a quick drink?” I suggested. “You can tell me all about it. What’s her name?”

“It’s not a ‘her’,” he said. “Something serious, then?” I said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yes, it’s serious,” he said, shaking my hand from his shoulder, “and for God’s sake I wish you’d let me die in peace. Good bye.”

A cab had pulled up and before I could say another word he was opening the door and shouting an address to the driver. I was still standing there with my mouth open when the cab shot away from the curb and disappeared around the corner.

“Poor chap must be in a hurry,” I thought.

I realized then that I was getting wet. I couldn’t remember right off the bat why I’d left the club, so I turned around and went back in. I had a few drinks but I couldn’t get poor Pointdexter off my mind.

The chap had really been in a stew. I shook my head sadly. I knew how he felt. When a man’s in a mess of trouble himself, he can sympathize with another bloke’s hard luck.

Of course I was in real trouble. For the past week I’d been trying to find a good badminton racket, but there just weren’t any available. And the club tournament was only a month or so away. It was a simply hellish spot to be in but I’d been carrying on as well as I could, keeping the old top lip stiff and smiling when it hurt.

That’s why I was able to understand poor Pointdexter’s condition.

And I decided that I simply couldn’t forsake the chap. I’d look him up, find out what was troubling him and give him a good old-fashioned fight talk.

But I didn’t get around to it for a couple of weeks. I had worries of my own and it wasn’t until I found a decent racket that I was able to put my mind to anything. Then, of course, I thought of Pointdexter right away.

A couple of weeks had passed and he hadn’t been at the club in that time. No one had seen him around at any of his old haunts, so one morning I grabbed a cab and drove out to his home, which is one of those big rambling brownstone mansions on the Lake Shore Drive.

The butler opened the door.

“What say?” I said, tossing him my hat.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. He was a white haired old fellow, named Mudkins. He opened the door hesitantly. “Won’t you come in?”

The hallway was gloomy and dark and there was a peculiar odor in the air. From the hallway I could see the vast drawing room to my right, with its heavy black furniture and through the high archway of this room the library was visible, looking just too deuced intellectual for my taste, with its dusty old leather-bound books reaching from floor to ceiling.

I never liked Pointdexter’s home. I couldn’t figure out why he lived in the creepy old place, when he could afford a snappy penthouse overlooking the Lake.

Mudkins was looking at me rather nervously.

“Is the old boy at home?” I asked.

“Yes, Master William is in his room,” Mudkins said, “but he hasn’t been seeing anyone for the past few weeks. I’m not sure—”

“He’ll see me,” I said, slipping out of my topcoat. “I just won’t stand for any nonsense. What does he mean shutting himself away from his friends like this? It’s not healthy. I’ll drag him down to the club for a bit of a work-out. Do him good.”

“I do hope you can,” Mudkins said worriedly. “I’ll go up and tell him you’re here.”

“Don’t bother, I know my way around.”

I trotted up the wide steps to the second floor. The hall was dark and gloomy and the framed ancestors of the Pointdexter clan frowned down on me from the wall as I strode along to Billy’s room. The funny odor was stronger now and I didn’t like it. I decided Mudkins must be having liver and onions for breakfast.

I reached Pointdexter’s room and rapped briskly on the solid oak door. There was no sound from inside for several minutes. Then his voice sounded irritably.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, old fellow,” I called out. “You’re in for a pleasant surprise. It’s Marmaduke.”

He evidently didn’t catch my name for he shouted, “for God’s sake go away!”

“Tut! Tut!” I said reprovingly.

“Where are the gracious old Pointdexter manners?” I rapped again.

Finally I heard his footsteps and then the door was jerked open.

“What do you want?” he cried.

I was slightly startled at his appearance. He was wearing an old stained smoking jacket and his shirt looked as if he hadn’t changed it in days. There was a three or four day growth of beard on his face and his hair was hanging in his eyes. And I didn’t like the light in his eye. Too feverish.

“Greetings,” I said. “You look a mess, old chap. If you’re trying to look picturesque you’re overdoing it.”

He glared at me.

“What difference does it make what I look like?”

I shook my head sadly. Pointdexter had once been the nattiest member of our group. We were always trying to steal his ties. This breakdown was disillusioning.

“Come, come now,” I said, “one can’t just let one’s self go to seed, can one? One has one’s appearance to think of, hasn’t one? One must—”

“For God’s sake,” Pointdexter cried, “stop babbling about ‘one’ this and ‘one’ that. What do you want, anyway?”

His tone was a bit sharp. I decided I would have to deal firmly with him. After all it was for his good.

“I want to talk to you,” I said, fixing him with a cool steady gaze.

He misinterpreted my expression. “Stop goggling like a fish and go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Yes you do,” I said. “You just don’t know your own bind.”

He stared warily at me for an instant and then he ran a hand distractedly through his hair. His shoulders slumped wearily.

“Come on in,” he muttered and opened the door wide.

I walked into his room. The shutters were drawn and the only light was streaming from a pair of wall sockets. There was a huge desk in one corner piled high with thick books bound in black leather. And then I saw what was causing the unpleasant odor. There was a bunsen burner on the desk and above it hung a cauldron from which a murky yellow smoke streamed upward.

The smoke was harsh, bitter and sulphurous. It hung about the room in gloomy clouds. I coughed and peered at Pointdexter.

“Why don’t you open a window?” I asked.

“If you find it unpleasant here you can always leave,” he said.

That was true and it made me feel better.

I glanced around. Against one wall there was a lab bench covered with sheets of paper on which were scrawled strange characters and designs. Another bunsen burner was blazing brightly there under a small porcelain beaker filled with a burbling green mess. The whole set-up was gloomy and mysterious.

I waved a hand at the books and chemical apparatus.

“What goes?” I asked. “Are you studying to be a mad scientist?”

Pointdexter had slumped down in a deep chair and he was lighting a stubby black pipe. He stared at me through the swirling drifts of smoke.

“Perhaps I am,” he said quietly. There was a queer look in his eyes.

“Pull yourself together, old chap,” I said sharply. “You’re letting yourself go to pot. It won’t do at all. What you need is a good dose of sunshine and fresh air. After all,” I said cheerfully, “things are never as black as they look. Supposing you tell your Uncle Marmaduke all about this trouble of yours.”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” he said moodily. He blew smoke around for a while and then he said, “I suppose you know I was rejected by the army.”

“Hadn’t heard a thing about it,” I said. “People keep things from me. What’s the trouble?”

“Bad heart,” Pointdexter said. “It’s all right if I take things easy, but it wouldn’t stand much excitement.” His face was bitter. “So I can sit around and grow old while everybody else is out fighting and dying for their country.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. I couldn’t see just why it was bad, but after all, Pointdexter obviously looked at things differently than I did.

“Too bad,” he muttered, staring at me. “You haven’t the faintest idea how damn bad it is. You can’t understand how I feel. They’ll probably grab you in a minute.”

“Yes,” I said, running a finger about the inside of my collar, “I guess they will.”

I lit a cigarette nervously. Hang it all, I’m ready to go when they call me, but I don’t sit around dwelling on the idea. There’s something morbid about getting up at an hour when the roosters are just turning over for another snooze. The mere thought brings out a nervous sweat on my forehead.

“You’re healthy,” Pointdexter continued gloomily, “you’re just the kind they want. You’ll be able to get out with the rest of them and blow those devils to hell.” He laughed harshly. “But I’m only good for sitting around and reading communiques. God!” he cried suddenly, “it’s enough to drive a man out of his mind.”

I suddenly realized what Pointdexter’s trouble was. With a truly brilliant flash of intuition I knew that he was brooding because he couldn’t get into the army. He had taken his rejection pretty seriously and he was letting it warp his entire existence. I felt pleased with myself for figuring this out.

“Now look, old fellow,” I said, “you don’t want to let this thing ruin your life.” I waved my hand at the pile of ancient books and the bubbling beakers that were stinking up the room. “What’s the point in locking yourself away with this junk? You’ll ruin your health cooped up in this room. Dash it, it’s not right. What do you expect to get out of all this studying? You’re no kid in a University anymore. You’re liable to hurt yourself using your brain at your age. Leave that stuff to the youngsters who have the stamina and strength to stand it.”

“Well,” Pointdexter said, “it takes my mind off myself. It helps me to forget. I feel that if the army doesn’t want me I’m no good to anyone and it doesn’t matter what I do with myself. So I am forsaking this modern life completely. My studies and experiments are following the line of thought that was developed in the Middle Ages. And in that line I’m making definite progress. I’ve come across some very fascinating information.”

“That’s all very well,” I said, “but you can’t burn the candle at both ends. Why don’t you leave this stuff alone for a while and go out and get some fresh air?”

Pointdexter looked at me strangely.

“That seems to be your cure for everything,” he said dryly. “I can’t just walk out of here now. I’ve gone too far. I’ve got to see my experiments through.”

“Well maybe I could help you,” I said, making a big gesture. “I took freshman chemistry at college. It’d probably all come back to me with a little practice. What the devil kind of experiments are you doing anyway?”

Poindexter stood up and lit his dead pipe. His hand was trembling slightly as he tossed the match away with a quick nervous gesture.

“Did you ever hear of the science of demonology?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “and from the sound of the word I’ll make a quick guess that I wouldn’t be intrigued. Has it got something to do with demons?” Pointdexter smiled slowly.

“Yes,” he murmured, “you might say that it has quite a lot to do with demons. There are many legends which today are derided as superstition, but which actually have a firm basis in fact. Take the common story of the werewolf.”

“You take it,” I said, “and jolly well keep it.”

Pointdexter picked up a heavy black book from his desk.

“This interesting volume,” he said, “contains a complete and exhaustive summary of all of the common varieties of werewolves. Also it has a thorough presentation of the methods used to change people from their human form into the forms of beasts. There is a chart of all the charms to be used against these human beasts and also the means of restoring them to their human forms. Quite thorough, isn’t it?”

I nodded thoughtfully, impressed in spite of myself. The book did seem to cover the ground pretty well. Of course, why such unpleasant ground had to be covered at all, was another question.

“Seems to be quite complete,” I said. “Who wrote it?”

“A mad monk in the twelfth century,” Pointdexter answered.

“He must have been a jolly soul,” I muttered.

Pointdexter smiled. “You don’t seem particularly impressed with my little hobby.”

“Hang it all,” I said, “it’s all right for a hobby, but you shouldn’t go loony over a thing like this. Werewolves, I dare say, are fine enough in moderate doses but a steady diet can’t be good for a bloke.”

“It doesn’t make any difference what happens to me,” he said morosely. “I have the feeling that my life is over anyway. If I could have died in the service of my country I should have been quite happy. But since I can’t do that nothing makes much difference. I’ll bury myself in these tomes of forgotten lore and if I gain an atom of peace and forgetfulness through my experiments I shall be well repaid.”

“You’re just talking nonsense,” I said with considerable heat. “If you must shut yourself away and study why don’t you study something worthwhile? Music or art. What good will all this poking about in demonology do you? What would you do with a werewolf if you had one? I’ll be darned if I’d let you pass it off on me.”

Pointdexter smiled slowly and opened the heavy book which he still held in his hands.

“What would I do with a werewolf?” he murmured. “That’s an extremely interesting question.”

“Your darn right it is,” I said triumphantly. “Never thought of that did you?”

“Marmaduke,” Pointdexter said, “will you do me a favor?”

“Righto. Anything you ask.”

“Please go away.”

“Righto,” I said. I figured it was the least I could do for the chap.

“Thank you, Marmaduke,” he said with such relief in his voice that I was touched. I felt I’d taken a load off his mind.

And so I went away.

* * * *

Now the average chap might have figured at this point that his duty was done and with a clear conscience gone on about his own business. But there is sterner stuff in me, and I resolved to continue my good work.

My first visit to Pointdexter had undoubtedly done much good but I decided that I would stick to the job until I had, so to speak, effected a complete recovery.

But the best laid plans sometimes go wherever best laid plans go when they aren’t the best laid plans, and what with one thing and another I didn’t get around to see Pointdexter for several weeks.

Mudkins answered my ring and he looked relieved to see me.

“Won’t you please come in,” he said nervously.

“Righto. How’s your Simon Legree these days?”

I gave him my hat and stick and glanced without enthusiasm about the gloomy house.

“Is he still pottering around in his room?”

“Oh yes sir, and I am becoming very worried about his health,” Mudkins said. “He hasn’t left the house since that day you were here except for a few walks after dark.”

“Ha!” I said, “that’s an encouraging sign. Nothing like a draft of night air to cure what ails you. Is he upstairs now?”

Mudkins looked more worried than ever.

“I—I don’t think so, sir. He didn’t return last night from his walk. He left the back door open and it was still open this morning. And there’s no one in his room. The door, however, seems to be locked. I’ve called several times but he doesn’t answer. Really, sir, I don’t know quite what to make of it.

“I’ll go up and have a look,” I said.

I trotted up the stairs and knocked loudly on Pointdexter’s door. There was no answer. I tried the handle and the door gave when I applied a little weight. It wasn’t locked, just stuck.

There was a light burning on the desk, but the rest of the room was in shadow. Obviously Pointdexter had left the light on, intending to return, but something had delayed him.

I walked to the desk, picked up one of the heavy books and began leafing through it. I wondered if Pointdexter was still hopped up on that silly demonology business.

There were several paragraphs underlined in heavy pencil, but as I started to read them, I heard a low growl from one of the darkened corners of the room.

I jumped about six inches and the book fell from my hands. Turning around I saw two red eyes staring at me from the darkness. The growl sounded again. I am not a connoisseur of growls, but there was a certain cheery warmth lacking in this particular effort. In fact the growl could only be described as definitely antagonistic.

“Nice doggy,” I said weakly.

That was only a guess but it turned out to be a good one. For as I spoke the shadows moved and a huge bristling dog padded slowly from the corner and regarded me with large gleaming eyes. He was a big dog and his coat was a rough gray. There was something about his long flat head and the huge fangs visible in his open mouth that made me suddenly wish that I had come equipped with a suit of armor and an elephant gun.

“Nice doggy,” I said again, as it made no move to approach, but continued to regard me solemnly.

My composure returned somewhat. After all, a dog is a dog, and if one adopts an intelligent attitude toward them, there is nothing to be worried about.

I wondered briefly how this big brute had gotten up here in Pointdexter’s room. Of course it was none of my business, but I still wondered. If Pointdexter wanted to keep a slavering creature like this in his rooms that was his privilege.

Since Pointdexter obviously wasn’t home and since I had no desire to linger in the company of this solemn dog, I decided to leave at once.

I left the room and went downstairs.

Mudkins met me in the hall.

“He’s not there, is he?”

“Nope, he’s still A.W.O.L. But where did he get that big brute of a dog?” I asked.

“Dog?” Mudkin’s voice was puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

I was opening my mouth to tell him when a voice from upstairs called my name. With some surprise I recognized the voice as Pointdexter’s.

“Marmaduke,” he called again, “please come up, will you?”

“There’s the Master now,” Mudkins said, smiling with relief. “He must have been up there all the time, because he couldn’t have come in without my knowing.”

SO I went back upstairs. Pointdexter was standing in the door of his room. He was dressed as he had been the first time I saw him but he looked seedier than ever and his face was pale and drawn. There was a wild light in his eyes, which I noticed with alarm. Too much studying was telling on the chap, I felt.

He took me by the arm and practically jerked me into his room. He closed the door quickly and locked it.

I looked about the room cautiously.

“Be careful,” I said, “there’s a big dog up here. I wouldn’t want to step on him. He didn’t look as if he had a tolerant mind.”

But the dog was gone. I glanced everywhere but I didn’t see him. To tell the truth I was relieved.

“You say you saw a dog here in my rooms?” Pointdexter asked. I noticed that he was staring at me strangely. I straightened my tie boldly. It was one of his but I felt I might bluff my way through if he made any charges. But he seemed concerned with other things.

“Are you sure you saw a dog?” he asked again.

“Well, I might have been mistaken,” I said. I thought for a minute, putting everything I had into it. Then I shook my head. “No, I couldn’t be mistaken. I did see a dog here.”

“Really now,” Pointdexter said, laughing weakly, “that’s a rather wild story. Whom do you expect to believe that?”

I thought this over and then I laughed too. The whole thing was perfectly silly. A big dog in Pointdexter’s room! How ridiculous!

When I stopped laughing, I said, “But I did see the brute, you know.”

Pointdexter twisted his hands together and began pacing.

“I shouldn’t tell you this Marmaduke,” he said, “but—” he stopped pacing and faced me squarely. “There was a dog here.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. I felt relieved at having my opinion vindicated.

“But it wasn’t an ordinary dog,” Pointdexter said, watching me closely.

“I’ll say it wasn’t,” I said with considerable feeling. “If he were the norm for dogs they would never have crept into the hearts of man as they have done.”

“I want to ask you something, Marmaduke,” Pointdexter said. “I want you to promise me never to mention seeing that dog here.”

“Righto,” I said. “I’ll be very happy to forget that that particular dog ever existed.”

“You see,” Pointdexter went on, “that dog is—er—a prize dog and I don’t want anyone to know about him until he’s ready for show. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course. No word shall pass my lips. But what class are you going to enter him in? Wolfhound?”

Pointdexter winced and turned away from me.

I was afraid that I had hurt his feelings.

“Just a gag,” I said. “I’m sure he’s a fine dog, whatever his class.”

I looked at my watch.

“I’ve got to rim,” I said. “Big badminton match this afternoon. Wish me luck.”

I stopped at the door.

“How’s the black magic coming along?”

Pointdexter turned to me and his face was in the shadow.

“About as I expected,” he said. His voice sounded terribly tired and sad.

Well, what could you expect? Study and research are fine things without a doubt, but they can become depressing.

I left him then but, frankly, I was worried about the chap. Obviously his studies were doing him no good and he was ruining his health living in that airless, sunless room, breathing sulphur fumes all the day.

I felt that I had done him a great deal of good, but the job wasn’t done yet. And I asked myself: Can you desert the bloke while he still needs you?

Obviously I couldn’t.

What to do? I stewed over this for some time. My badminton game suffered because of my concentration on this problem, but I was prepared to make any sacrifice.

And finally, as the old brain got steaming on the job, I figured out what I would have to do.

It was a very simple plan but, as far as I could see, it was foolproof. And that, after all, is what counted.

Briefly, I reasoned, the cause of Pointdexter’s sad plight was his preoccupation with all of the paraphernalia that he had collected about him in his room.

Having reached this conclusion after a week of grim thought, I proceeded to the next step. The solution to this dilemma was obviously to remove from Pointdexter these things which were ruining his health and glooming up his mind.

That meant that a bit of the old stealth was in order. I would have to sneak into the chap’s room, cart away and destroy all of his books and chemical apparatus without his knowledge. That would take a bit of doing, I realized, but the results would be worth all of my labor.

I wondered briefly how Pointdexter would take it. Well, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it. The thing would be done, would be a fait accompli, before he became aware of my little plan.

I felt very pleased with this reasoning. And there was a certain Machiavellian stealth required in the undertaking, that gratified me considerably.

One morning, cheery and bright, I punched the bell at Pointdexter’s.

Mudkins opened the door, invited me in, and looked at me with considerable surprise.

“Whatever is the matter, sir?”

I was wearing baggy disreputable clothes and a false mustache. I couldn’t just barge into this bit of larceny and housebreaking as Marmaduke van Milton, could I?

“It’s all right, Mudkin,” I said. “This is just a disguise.”

“Pardon sir, but what is that thing on your lip?”

I reached up and discovered that my mustache had slipped up to a perpendicular position. Probably looked rather odd that way.

“Ha, ha!” I laughed, “sharp old dog, aren’t you?”

Mudkins seemed to shudder slightly. “Sorry, sir, but the word ‘dog’ has a most unhappy effect on me lately.”

“Ah!” I said, “you’ve seen Pointdexter’s mastiff, I take it.”

“Yes, I have, sir, and a most frightening animal it is. The Master keeps it locked in the room with him all the time. I am becoming desperately worried. There’s something going on here that isn’t just right. I know, sir. I’ve got eyes and ears.”

“Tut, tut,” I said, “you’re letting your nerves get the best of you. Too much protein in your diet, probably. Is the mad genius at home?”

“No, sir, he isn’t. He went out last night for his usual late walk and he hasn’t returned.”

“Excellent,” I said.

This was a choice bit of luck. My little job would have to be done while Pointdexter was away. I had dropped in on the chance that he might be out. But there was another little thing on my mind.

“How about the dog?” I asked.

“The dog is evidently with the Master. It is certainly not in the house.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m going up to Pointdexter’s room. Be a good chap and give me the high sign if he pops back in unexpectedly.”

“But, sir,” Mudkins protested, “the Master gave me explicit instructions to allow no one in his room while he was away. He was most emphatic about it.”

“This is for his own good,” I said determinedly.

“Mark my words, he’ll thank us both for this some day.”

* * * *

And so I went upstairs to Pointdexter’s room. The door was open and I entered. One glance convinced me that things hadn’t improved in my absence. The same general air of gloom prevailed, and both Bunsen burners were going full blast under beakers of smoking yellow liquids. Books were piled everywhere and the floor was littered with sheets of paper, covered with Pointdexter’s feverish scrawl.

I took off my coat and rolled up my sleeves. My first official act was to open both windows wide, pull back the shutters and let the strong sun splash into the room. Things began to look better immediately.

I turned off the Bunsen burners and dumped the contents of the beakers into the wash bowl. The steaming sulphurous liquid hissed and sizzled as I turned on the cold water faucet and let the clean water flush it down the drain. And that did away with the smoke problem.

The clear keen autumn air whipped through the room driving out the rank aroma of the smoking fumes. I took a deep relieved breath. Pointdexter would be a new man after spending a few hours in this glorious smoke-free atmosphere.

The books were next. I felt like a literary Carrie Nation as I bundled them up and carried them into the hallway to dump down the incinerator chute. Pointdexter would have trouble retrieving them, I thought cheerfully, for a roaring fire was blazing in the furnace, and when the books fell into the chute they were on their way to being embers.

There must have been fifty or sixty of the heavy leather bound books to dispose of, but when I finished the job I felt a vast sense of relief. That, I felt, was that.

When I returned to Pointdexter’s room I noticed the sheets of paper on the floor, marked with his scrawled writing. They were arranged on the floor in what seemed to be a deliberate design, as if someone had left them for a child to read as it crawled about the floor.

Just another indication of Pointdexter’s general squirreliness.

I scooped them up and, with the last remaining books, dumped them down the incinerator. I smiled happily as I returned and examined Pointdexter’s room. There was certainly a vast improvement over what it had been a half hour before.

All the books were gone, his own feverish notes were consigned forever to oblivion and the mess he had been cooking under the Bunsen burners would no longer be filling the room with its choking vapors.

I felt cheerfully contented. The job was done, thoroughly and completely and I felt that Pointdexter would be a new man from henceforth onward.

At that point I heard a howling, full-throated bark from the downstairs region of the house; and a moment later the great gray dog of Pointdexter’s charged wildly into the room.

It glared at me with red-rimmed eyes and then swung its head about the room, as if it were looking for something. When it completed its inspection it started loping about the room, raising its head occasionally to howl mournfully.

Frankly I was puzzled. I had never seen a dog act quite this way before. It paid no attention to me at all, for which I was humbly grateful. The big brute just continued to lope about the place rather desperately, and when it passed the spot on the floor where Pointdexter’s papers had been arranged, it lifted its long snout and howled pitifully.

Mudkins appeared at the open door.

“What do you suppose is wrong with him sir,” he asked worriedly. “I’ve never heard him howl like this before.”

“Probably disappointed in love,” I hazarded. “Has Pointdexter come in yet?”

“No, sir, he hasn’t. He’s never stayed out this long before and it has me worried.”

The dog had stopped howling for which I was glad. It was stretched out on the floor with its nose buried in its paws. Occasionally it lifted its head and stared at me with the damnedest look—as if it were accusing me of something.

The brute’s stare made me feel rather uncomfortable and, since there wasn’t any point in my hanging around any longer, I said goodbye to Mudkins and toddled off.

And that’s that. Queer business, wasn’t it?

* * * *

Marmaduke finished this much of his story and turned to me with a bright cheerful smile.

“I said, odd business what?” he repeated. “What do you make of it?”

I ordered another drink and my hand was trembling as I raised it to my lips. My collar felt uncomfortably tight and there was a damp sweat on my forehead.

I didn’t know what to say or think. Marmaduke’s story was so fantastic and its implications were so horrible, that my mind just seemed numb.

“Have you heard from Pointdexter since then?” I finally managed to ask.

Marmaduke shook his head.

“Not a word, the bloke just disappeared. I dropped in on Mudkins several times but there’s been no sign of Pointdexter around there since then.”

I ordered another drink. I felt I was going to need it.

“And what about the dog?”

“The dog?” Marmaduke looked puzzled. “Oh yes, Pointdexter’s dog. Well Mudkins and I talked that situation over and did the only possible thing under the circumstances. You see, the brute hung around Pointdexter’s room ever since that day I burned all of Pointdexter’s papers and books. Wouldn’t budge out of there, just howled and moaned and lay on the floor, refusing to eat. So we had to take stern measures.”

The glass in my hand crashed to the floor.

“My God, you didn’t kill him?” I cried.

Marmaduke took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped away a few flecks of the drink from his trousers. Then he put the handkerchief away and waved to the bartender for another drink.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Did you kill Pointdexter’s dog?” I asked, and the words almost strangled me coming out.

“Oh, no,” Marmaduke said cheerfully. “We wouldn’t do that. Mudkins and I crated him up one day and shipped him off to the WAGS.”

“The WAGS?”

“Yes. The Army dog corps. We figured Pointdexter would like to have his dog serving, as long as he wasn’t able to.”

Marmaduke picked up his drink and sipped it reflectively.

“Funny thing,” he murmured, “the dog seemed to know what we were doing. As a matter of fact it seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing. Interesting, what?” He put his drink back on the bar and shook his head. “But I’d still like to know what happened to old Pointdexter.”

So would I.