by Gahan Wilson
Parkhurst glared into the street, not saying a word.
"Come on, Parkhurst, goddammit," Mancini shouted at him.
"You got to back me up on this! It's like the poor old shit was born that way, right?"
"Maybe he wad born that way, Mancini," said Nolan, after a pause. "Babies do get born without arms all the time, these days. It's the price of progress. What's your fucking point?"
Mancini swallowed, then blurted it out.
"That's just it, Inspector," he said, talking in a rush. "We know goddam well he wasn't born that way, Parkhurst and me, because just yesterday we damn near busted him for stealing a couple of pineapples offen the Greeks' vegetable stand down the street there. He run near half a block with those pineapples before we got him, and he was using arms to hold the goddam things, two of them, just like you and me got! Isn't that right, Parkhurst, goddammit?"
Parkhurst only screwed up his mouth a little tighter.
"This has got to be bullshit, Mancini," said Nolan.
"Ask my goddam statue partner, there, if it's bullshit!"
Parkhurst still never looked at us, but I could see his lips move. Then they moved again and we could make his voice out.
"Yeah, alright," he said. "Like Mancini says. He had arms."
Mancini heaved a big sigh of relief and then looked around, justified.
"Alright?" he said. "There it is. The man had arms. They wasn't much, okay? Just like the rest of him. But he had arms. So it means that all these other stories these bums been telling us, maybe they're true."
Nolan was hunched down, now, carefully patting the old man's greasy coat around its shoulders.
"Shit," he said, "there's not even any stumps."
The old man sniveled and stared at him with his eyes all round and bulging like a scared little boy's.
"I'm not going to hurt you, old timer," Nolan told him.
The old man studied the Inspector a little longer, then he pulled in a deep, wavering breath to get some air, and spoke.
"They took'm,'' he wheezed, and I could see Nolan fight not to turn his face from the stink pouring out of the old man's mouth. "They took m'arms!''
’’See?" hissed Mancini. ’’It's the same stuff all these people been telling us, I swear to God. Only it's so crazy we haven't been passing it on, see?"
Nolan sighed.
’’Who took your arms, old timer?''
The bum blinked and gaped around with his boiled eyes as if he were trying to spot the answer somewhere on the sidewalk.
"I dunno. I was asleep down there." He bobbed his head toward the nearby subway entrance. ’’Sleeping by the token booth where it's safe, you know? But it wasn't, 'cause I woke up and m'arms was gone, and it never even hurt. It don't even hurt now, mister."
He blinked and tears spurted out of him.
"Oh Jesus!" he wailed. "Oh Mommy! Was I bad? Is that why they done it? Is that why they took'm?"
’’It's just like the other stuff we've been hearing from these people," whispered Mancini, then turned and snapped up at his partner: "Isn't it, Parkhurst, goddammit?"
"Yeah," Parkhurst answered him, after a pause. ’’Fuck."
"See?" cried Mancini in triumph, backed for a second time. "It's always the same kind of shit, Inspector, but who could believe it?" .
Nolan stood, and I could see it was to get away from being that close to the crazy relief in Mancini's face.
"Who the hell could believe some bum telling him he's just missing some part of him, only there's no blood and no scars, for Chrissake?" Mancini asked us, talking a little wilder all the time. "Missing ears, goddam noses—all that. Who's going to believe this sort of shit?"
Parkhurst cleared his throat, still looking away from us.
"One man came up to our car and told us he didn't have his stomach no more," he muttered. "Then he died."
"You think we're going to pass that on to those creeps on the meat wagon?" Mancini asked us, standing. "Say, I tried that once when we picked up this old bag lady working her way right down the middle of Lexington Avenue in front of all the taxis and trucks, dropping her packages and whatever, and she's screaming they stole her eyes! I told them what she said and the son of a bitch really gave it to me, you know? 'She never had no eyes, asshole!' he tells me. Fuck that. Who's going to ask for that?"
Nolan dusted his coat off carefully even though it had never touched the sidewalk, then he turned to Parkhurst.
"You're backing this up, Parkhurst?" he asked.
Parkhurst finally looked over at us.
’’Once we came across what we figured was this nut case trying to play a busted guitar for quarters," he said. ’’He didn't have any fingers or thumbs. His hands was only a pair of little flippers, like a seal. He told us yesterday he could have played us anything we wanted. Another guy he didn't have no inside to his mouth at all. No teeth, no tongue, no nothing."
Nolan stared at him and sighed.
"Once you've got started you're kind of hard to stop, aren't you, Parkhurst?" he said.
"The worst one was this guy who wasn't missing anything at all, see? He had everything. Only the pieces didn't match up," Parkhurst said.
Nolan looked over at me, and I looked back at him, and we both moved in a little closer to Parkhurst, like we were walling him off from the street. Parkhurst didn't notice any of this, but Mancini did, and his eyes widened and he swallowed.
"Tell me about this one," Nolan said. "I really want to hear about this one." .
Mancini had gotten all shifty. He took hold of Parkhurst's arm.
"Forget that one," he told his partner. "We was wrong about that one."
"Oh, yeah?" Parkhurst said, jerking his arm away, really angry with Mancini. "The hell we was! You wanted me to tell them about it, so I'll tell them about it!"
He turned back to us.
"We saw him down to the far end of the uptown platform down there in the subway, right? The lower level, where the express trains stop. It was maybe around four in the morning. He was kind of waddling away from us, only he had to move at angles, first this way, then that way, on account of he was all lopsided."
"He's wrong about this," Mancini said, looking at us with a serious expression. "Look, I'll talk to him about this, I promise. I'll look after it."
"You shut up," Parkhurst said to him, and then he turned to us again. "He wouldn't answer to me, this guy, so I took hold of his shoulders, see? And it was awful, I can't tell you why, except one of his shoulders was big and the other was small, and it felt awful. When I got him turned around I saw he wasn't able to talk on account of his head didn't match his neck so the throat couldn't work right. He got enough air for breathing, see? but not enough for talking."
"Hey, fellows, just forget this," Mancini said.
He looked at the Inspector, then at me, then back at the Inspector.
Til take care of it," he said, stepping in front of his partner, trying to block him from us. "He hasn't caught on, he's a little slow, Parkhurst, but he's okay, he'll play along. I'll talk to him. It'll be alright."
Nolan had written an address on a slip of paper. He handed it carefully to Mancini.
"You two take the old man to this place," he said to Mancini. "The people there will know what to do. Don't leave the place, alright? That's an order, understand? You be sure to wait until we turn up. Don't go anywhere."
"Say, listen," Mancini said, looking sick. "We don't have to do any of this. We'll just leave the old bastard here where we found him, what the fuck? I mean, who gives a damn about someone like him anyways, right? I'll take care of Parkhurst, Inspector, I swear to God. There won't be any problem!"
It was too late for all that because we were back in the car, now, Nolan and me, and I'd already started the engine. Parkhurst, standing in back of Mancini, was looking confused. I started the car rolling and Mancini reached out like he wanted to take hold of it and stop it, but of course he knew that wouldn't help at all, and so when we drove off he wa
s just holding his hands up there in the air in front of him, touching nothing.
[spot]
The first time Reginald Archer saw the thing, it was, in its simplicity, absolute. It owned not the slightest complication or involvement. It lacked the tiniest, the remotest, the most insignificant trace of embellishment. It looked like this:
A spot. Nothing more. Black, as you see, somewhat lopsided, as you see—an unprepossessing, unpretentious spot.
It was located on Reginald Archer's dazzlingly white linen tablecloth, on his breakfast table, three and one half inches from the side of his egg cup. Reginald Archer was in the act of opening the egg in the egg cup when he saw the spot.
He paused and frowned. Reginald Archer was a bachelor, had been one for his full forty-three years, and he was fond of a smoothly running household. Things like black spots on table linens displeased him, perhaps beyond reason. He rang the bell to summon his butler, Faulks.
That worthy entered and, seeing the dark expression upon his master's face, approached his side with caution. He cleared his throat, bowed ever so slightly, just exactly the right amount of bow, and, following the direction of his master's thin, pale, pointing finger, observed, in his turn, the spot. .
’'What," asked Archer, "is this doing here?"
Faulks, after a moment's solemn consideration, owned he had no idea how the spot had come to be there, apologized profusely for its presence, and promised its imminent and permanent removal. Archer stood, the egg left untasted in its cup, his appetite quite gone, and left the room.
It was Archer's habit to retire every morning to his study and there tend to any little chores of correspondence and finance which had accumulated. His approach to this, as to everything else, was precise to the point of being ritualistic; he liked to arrange his days in reliable, predictable patterns. He had seated himself at his desk, a lovely affair of lustrous mahogany, and was reaching for the mail which had been tidily stacked for his perusal, when, on the green blotter which entirely covered the desk's working surface, he saw
He paled, I do not exaggerate, and rang once more for his butler. There was a pause, a longer pause than would usually have occurred, before the trustworthy Faulks responded to his master's summons. The butler's face bore a recognizable confusion.
"The spot, sir—" Faulks began, but Archer cut him short.
"Bother the spot," he snapped, indicating the offense on the blotter. "What is this?"
Faulks peered at the in bafflement.
"I do not know, sir," he said. "I have never seen anything quite like it."
"Nor have I," said Archer. "Nor do I wish to see its likes again. Have it removed."
Faulks began to carefully take away the blotter, sliding it out from the leather corner grips which held it to the desk, as Archer watched him icily. Then, for the first time, Archer noticed his elderly servant's very odd expression. He recalled Faulks' discontinued comment.
"What is it you were trying to tell me, then?" he asked.
The butler glanced up at him, hesitated, and then spoke.
"It's about the spot, sir," he said. "The one on the tablecloth. I went to look at it, after you had left, sir, and, I cannot understand it, sir—it was gone!"
"Gone?" asked Archer.
"Gone," said Faulks.
The butler glanced down at the blotter, which he now held before him, and started.
"And so is this, sir!" he gasped, and, turning round the blotter, revealed it to be innocent of the slightest trace of a
Conscious, now, that something very much out of the ordinary was afoot, Archer gazed thoughtfully into space. Faulks, watching, observed the gaze suddenly harden into focus.
"Look over there, Faulks," said Archer, in a quiet tone. "Over yonder, at the wall."
Faulks did as he was told, wondering at his master's instructions. Then comprehension dawned, for there, on the wallpaper, directly under an indifferent seascape, was
Archer stood, and the two men crossed the room.
"What can it be, sir?" asked Faulks.
"I can't imagine," said Archer.
He turned to speak, but when he saw his butler's eyes move to his, he looked quickly back at the wall. Too late—the was gone.
"It needs constant observation," Archer murmured, then, aloud: "Look for it, Faulks. Look for it. And when you see it, don't take your eyed from it for a second/"
They walked about the room in an intensive search. They had not been at it for more than a moment when Faulks gave an exclamation.
"Here, sir!" he cried. "On the window sill!"
Archer hurried to his side and saw
"Don't let it out of your sight!" he hissed.
As the butler stood, transfixed and gaping, his master chewed furiously at the knuckles of his left hand. Whatever the thing was, it must be taken care of, and promptly. He would not allow such continued disruption in his house.
But how to get rid of it? He shifted to the knuckles of his other hand and thought. The thing had, he hated to admit it, but there it was, supernatural overtones. Perhaps it was some beastly sort of ghost.
He shoved both hands, together with their attendant knuckles, into his pants pockets. It showed the extreme state of his agitation, for he loathed nothing more than unsightly bulges in a well-cut suit. Who would know about this sort of thing? Who could possibly handle it?
It came to him in a flash—Sir Harry Mandifer! Of course! He'd known Sir Harry back at school, only plain Harry, then, of course, and now they shared several clubs. Harry had taken to writing, made a good thing of it, and now, with piles of money to play with, he'd taken to spiritualism, become, perhaps, the top authority in the field. Sir Harry was just the man! If only he could persuade him.
His face set in grimly determined lines, Archer marched to his telephone and dialed Sir Harry's number. It was not so easy to get through to him as it had been in the old days. Now there were secretaries, suspicious and secretive. But he was known, that made all the difference, and soon he and Sir Harry were together on the line. After the customary greetings and small talk, Archer brought the conversation around to the business at hand. Crisply, economically, he described the morning's events. Could Sir Harry find it possible to come? He fancied that time might be an important factor. Sir Harry would! Archer thanked him with all the warmth his somewhat constricted personality would allow, and, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, put back the receiver.
He had barely done it when he heard Faulks give a small cry of despair. He turned to see the old fellow wringing his hands in abject misery.
"I just blinked, sir!" he quavered. "Only blinked!"
It had been enough. A fraction of a second unwatched, and the was gone from the sill.
Resignedly, they once again took up the search.
Sir Harry Mandifer settled back comfortably in the cushioned seat of his limousine and congratulated himself on settling the business of Marston Rectory the night before. It would not have done to leave that dangerous affair in the lurch, but the bones of the Mewing Nun had been found at last, and now she would rest peacefully in a consecrated grave. No more would headless children decorate the Cornish landscape, no more would the nights resound with mothers' lamentations. He had done his job, done it well, and now he was free to investigate what sounded a perfectly charming mystery.
Contentedly, the large man lit a cigar and watched the streets go sliding by. Delicious that a man as cautious and organized as poor old Archer should find himself confronted with something so outrageous. It only showed you that the tidiest lives have nothing but quicksand for a base. The snuggest haven's full of trap doors and sliding panels, unsuspected attics and suddenly discovered rooms. Why should the careful Archer find himself exempt? And he hadn't.
The limousine drifted to a gentle stop before Archer's house and Mandifer, emerging from his car, gazed up at the building with pleasure. It was a gracious Georgian structure which had been in Archer's family since the time of its construction. Mandifer m
ounted its steps and was about to apply himself to its knocker when the door flew open and he found himself facing a desperately agitated Faulks.
"Oh, sir," gasped the butler, speaking in piteous tones, "I'm so glad you could come! We don't know what to make of it, sir, and we can't hardly keep track of it, it moves so fast!"
"There, Faulks, there," rumbled Sir Harry, moving smoothly into the entrance with the unstoppable authority of a great clipper ship under full sail. "It can't be as bad as all that, now, can it?"
"Oh, it can, sir, it can," said Faulks, following in Mandifer's wake down the hall. "You just can't get a hold on it, sir, is what it is, and every time it's back, it's bigger, sir!"
"In the study, isn't it?" asked Sir Harry, opening the door of that room and gazing inside.
He stood stock still and his eyes widened a trifle because the sight before him, even for one so experienced in peculiar sights as he, was startling.
Imagine a beautiful room, exquisitely furnished, impeccably maintained. Imagine the occupant of that room to be a thin, tallish gentleman, dressed faultlessly, in the best possible taste. Conceive of the whole thing, man and room in combination, to be a flawless example of the sort of styled perfection that only large amounts of money, filtered through generations of confident privilege, can produce.
Now see that man on his hands and knees, in one of the room's corners, staring, bug-eyed, at the wall, and, on the wall, picture:
"Remarkable," said Sir Harry Mandifer.
"Isn't it, sir?" moaned Faulks. "Oh, isn't it?"
"I'm so glad you could come, Sir Harry," said Archer, from his crouched position in the corner. It was difficult to make out his words as he spoke them through clenched teeth. "Forgive me for not rising, but if I take my eyes off this thing, or even blink, the whole—oh, God damn it!"
Instantly, the
vanished from the wall. Archer gave out an explosive sigh, clapped his hands to his face, and sat back heavily on the floor.