Night of the Jabberwock

by Fredric Brown

  There wasn’t even time to turn and run. His left hand came out and caught the front of my coat and pulled me toward him, almost lifting me off the sidewalk.

  He said, “Listen, Pop, I don’t want any lip. I asked you a question.”

  “Carmel City,” I said. “Carmel City, Illinois.”

  The voice of the other man, still in the car, came back to us.

  “Hey, Bill, don’t hurt the guy. We don’t want to——” He didn’t finish the sentence, of course; to say you don’t want to attract attention is the best way of drawing it.

  Masters looked past me—right over my head—to see if anybody or anything was coming that way and then, still keeping his grip on the front of my coat, turned and looked the other way. He wasn’t afraid of my swinging at him enough to bother keeping his eyes on me, and I didn’t blame him for feeling that way about it.

  A car was coming now, about a block away. And two men came out of the drugstore on the opposite side of the street, only a few buildings down. Then behind me I could hear the sound of another car turning into Oak Street.

  Masters turned back to me and let go, so we were just two men standing there face to face if anyone noticed us. He said, “Okay, Pop. Next time somebody asks you a question, don’t be so God damn fresh.”

  He still glared at me as though he hadn’t yet completely given up the idea of giving me something to remember him by—maybe just a light open-handed slap that wouldn’t do anything worse than crack my jawbone and drive my dentures down my throat.

  I said, “Sure, sorry,” and let my voice sound afraid, but tried not to sound quite as afraid as I really was—because if he even remotely suspected that I might have recognized him, I wasn’t going to get out of it at all.

  He swung around and walked back to the car, got in and drove off. I suppose I should have got the licence number, but it would have been a stolen car anyway—and besides I didn’t think of it. I didn’t even watch the car as it drove away; if either of them looked back I didn’t want them to think I was giving them what criminals call the big-eye. I didn’t want to give them any possible reason to change their minds about going on.

  I started walking again, keeping to the middle of the sidewalk and trying to look like a man minding his own business. Also trying to keep my knees from shaking so hard that I couldn’t walk at all.

  It had been a narrow squeak all right. If the street had been completely empty——

  I could have notified the sheriffs office about a minute quicker by turning around and going back that way, but I didn’t take the chance. If someone was watching me out of the back window of the car, a change in direction wouldn’t be a good idea. There was a difference of only a block anyway; I was half a block past the courthouse and a block and a half away from Smiley’s and the Clarion office across the street from it. From either one I could phone in the big news that Bat Masters and a companion had just driven through Carmel City heading north, probably toward Chicago. And Hank Ganzer, in the sheriffs office, would relay the story to the state police and there was probably better than an even chance that they’d be caught within an hour or two.

  And if they were, I might even get a slice of the reward for giving the tip—but I didn’t care as much about that as about the story I was going to have. Why, it was a story, even if they weren’t caught, and if they were, it would be a really big one. And a local story—if the tip came from Carmel City—even if they were actually caught several counties north. Maybe there’d even be a gun battle—from my all too close look at Masters I had a hunch that there would be.

  Perfect timing, too, I thought. For once something was happening on a Thursday night. For once I’d beat the Chicago papers. They’d have the story, too, of course, and a lot of Carmel City people take Chicago dailies, but they don’t come in until the late afternoon train and the Clarion would be out hours before that.

  Yes, for once I was going to have a newspaper with news in it. Even if Masters and his pal weren’t caught, the fact that they’d passed through town made a story. And besides that, there was the escaped maniac, and Carl Trenholm——

  Thinking about Carl again made me walk faster. It was safe by now; I’d gone a quarter of a block since the Buick had driven off. It wasn’t anywhere in sight and again the street was quiet; thank God it hadn’t been this quiet while Masters had been making up his mind whether or not to slug me.

  I was past Deak’s Music Store, dark. Past the super-market, ditto. The bank——

  I had passed the bank, too, when I stopped as suddenly as though I’d run into a wall. The bank had been dark too. And it shouldn’t have been; there’s a small night light that always burns over the safe. I’d passed the bank thousands of times after dark and never before had the light been off.

  For a moment the wild thought went through my head that Bat and his companion must have just burglarized the bank—although robbery, not burglary, was Masters’ trade—and then I saw how ridiculous that thought had been. They’d been driving toward the bank and a quarter of a block away from it when they’d stopped to ask me what town they were in. True, they could have burglarized the bank and then circled the block in their car, but if they had they’d have been intent on their getaway. Criminals do pretty silly things, sometimes, but not quite so silly as to stop a getaway car within spitting distance of the scene of the crime to ask what town they’re in, and then to top it by getting out of the car to slug a random pedestrian because they don’t like his answers to their question.

  No, Masters and company couldn’t have robbed the bank. And they wouldn’t be burglarizing it now, either. Their car had gone on past; I hadn’t watched it, but my ears had told me that it had kept on going. And even if it hadn’t, I had. My encounter with them had been only seconds ago; there wasn’t possibly time for them to have broken in there, even if they’d stopped.

  I went back a few steps and looked into the window of the bank.

  At first I saw nothing except the vague silhouette of a window at the back—the top half of the window, that is, which was visible above the counter. Then the silhouette became less vague and I could see that the window had been opened; the top bar of the lower sash showed clearly, only a few inches from the top of the frame.

  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 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 ha
dn’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 the 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 recognised her voice? I’d thought I had. I said, “Is that 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 favour, 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 Andrew’s 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 sheriffs 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. 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 sheriffs office—it sounded like one of the deputies, not Mr. Kates—said they’d come right around.”

  I said, “Thanks, Milly. Thanks a lot.”

  A car was pulling up at the kerb outside; I could see it through the window. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the men getting out of it as Clyde Andrews and the doctor.

  I switched on the lights inside while Clyde was unlocking the front door. I told him quickly about the call that had been made to the sheriff’s office while I was leading them back to where Harvey Andrews was lying. We moved him slightly to a point where neither he nor Dr. Minton, bending over him, could be seen from the front of the bank, and we did it just in time. Hank was rapping on the door.

  I stayed out of sight, too, to avoid having to explain what I was doing there. I heard Clyde Andrews open the door for Hank and explain that everything was all right, that someone had phoned him, too, that the night light was out and that he’d just got here to check up and that the bulb had merely burned out.

  When Hank left, Clyde came back, his face a bit white. Dr. Minton said, “He’s going to be all right, Clyde. Starting to come out of it. Soon as he can walk between us, we’ll get him to the hospital for a checkup and be sure.”

  I said, “Clyde, I’ve got to run. There’s a lot popping tonight. But as soon as you’re sure the boy’s all right will you let me know? I’ll probably be at the Clarion, but I might be at Smiley’s—or if it’s a long time from now, I might be home.”

  “Sure, Doc,” He put his hand on my shoulder. “And thanks a lot for—calling me instead of the sheriffs office.”

  “That’s all right,” I told him. “And, Clyde, I didn’t know who it was before I hit. He was coming out of the back window and I thought——”

  Clyde said, “I looked in his room after you phoned. He’d packed. I—I can’t understand it, Doc. He’s only fifteen. Why he’d do a thing like——” He shook his head. “He’s always been headstrong and he’s got into little troubles a few times, but—I don’t understand this.” He looked at me ve
ry earnestly. “Do you?”

  I thought maybe I did understand a little of it, but I was remembering about Bat Masters and the fact that he was getting farther away every minute and that I’d better get the state police notified pretty quickly.

  So I said, “Can I talk to you about it tomorrow, Clyde? Get the boy’s side of it when he can talk—and just try to keep your mind open until then. I think—it may not be as bad as you think right now.”

  I left him still looking like a man who’s just taken an almost mortal blow, and went out.

  I headed down the street thinking what a damn fool I’d been to do what I’d done. But then, where had I missed a chance to do something wrong anywhere down the line tonight? And then, on second thought, this one thing might not have been wrong. If I’d called Hank, the boy just might have been shot instead of knocked out. And in any case he’d have been arrested.

  That would have been bad. This way, there was a chance he could be straightened out before it was too late. Maybe a psychiatrist could help him. The only thing was, Clyde Andrews would have to realize that he, too, would have to take advice from the psychiatrist. He was a good man, but a hard father. You can’t expect the things of a fifteen-year-old boy that Clyde expected of Harvey, and not have something go wrong somewhere down the line. But burglarizing a bank, even his own father’s bank—I couldn’t make up my mind whether that made it better or worse—was certainly something I hadn’t looked for. It appalled me, a bit. Harvey’s running away from home wouldn’t have surprised me at all; I don’t know that I’d even have blamed him.

  A man can be too good a man and too conscientious and strict a father for his son ever to be able to love him. If Clyde Andrews would only get drunk—good and stinking drunk—just once in his life, he might get an entirely different perspective on things, even if he never again took another drink. But he’d never taken a drink yet, not one in his whole life. I don’t think he’d ever smoked a cigarette or said a naughty word.

  I liked him anyway; I’m pretty tolerant, I guess. But I’m glad I hadn’t had a father like him. In my books, the man in town who was the best father was Carl Trenholm. Trenholm—and I hadn’t found out yet whether he was dead or only injured!