19 Tales of Terror

by Whit Burnett

  careful.

  "All right," she said. "Let's go back to the beginning. Let's

  start from the beginning. It is as before. You are not in pain.

  The drug is working. You have been just fine. For a whole

  month."

  He didn't speak or look at her until he said, "There's the last

  hour we've had together. I've got that."

  "I don't understand it," she said. "I was going to stay with

  you. We were going to work it out."

  "You were beginning to leave me. Today, all day."

  "No, I wasn't. I was going to stay. I was going to help us

  live together. The way we should."

  "No, today all day you were leaving me. At the party, you

  saw another man. Everybody, even the old men, noticed you,

  in that straw hat. That young man �II want you to come

  away with him. A fishing trip. And then other dates. And then

  he'll ask you to come away with him. If not this man, then some

  other. You would finally leave me. I am well now, you can

  202 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  leave me. I told a lie. But you fell for it. You wanted to fall for

  it. For one whole hour you loved me. You loved me! And you

  know it!"

  She got up from her chair, but she stood beside the chair

  staring across at him, not moving any nearer. He lay on his

  back, his eyes closed, his arms thrown out and his hands, palms

  upward, limp as though no longer able to make a fist or hold

  onto anything. It was the magician who at last says, See? These

  are all my tricks, you have seen them all now, shabby and poor.

  But I have cheated you because I am starving, dying, ready to

  die of hunger. ·And I had to cheat you to live and eat. For one

  hour you were enchanted and held by the light and golden

  magic. And yet I am giving you your money back, every cent

  of it.

  She felt the terrible truth of this, and did not dare go near

  him. She imagined herself going there to the bed, lying down

  with him, having his arms come around her, with the magic

  strength of helplessness and defeat. The same way his arms bad

  been around her an hour ago. And she would re-experience this

  compelling love, this sense of being bottomlessly possessed.

  And she would give him everything, her heart and her bones

  and her blood and her mind.

  This is why I married him, she thought. This is what I

  wanted.

  He opened his eyes and said, "I suppose I could have a cigarette."

  She went over to him, handed him the cigarette and matches

  and returned to her chair. "I am going back to Cleveland," she

  said.

  She looked right at him; he did not look at her, he was

  smoking, looking at the lamp.

  She hesitated, choosing the next thing to say. "I won't take

  alimony," she said. "I'll take a job. I'll send the car back from

  Tampa. I'll leave it in a garage, and have them drive it back."

  He smoked, looking at the wall.

  "I'll pack up what I need now," she said. "I don't know how

  or when I'll get my other things. But it doesn't matter."

  He propped himself on one elbow and looked at her.

  "You do not dare stay in this house," he said. "You do not

  dare spend another night in this house with me." He said it in

  triumph and surprise, like a lover, who has just won new words

  of love, who has just kissed his girl, and heard her vows-and

  who stretches out his arms at last, to enfold her forever.

  And these were the last words she ever heard him say. For

  when she hurried out of the house like someone desperate who

  bas no time to lose, he was still in his room, still in his bed.

  LOU IS CLYDE STOU M EN

  THE BLO N D DOG

  MY Essex bad a leak in its water pump and I

  wasn't ten minutes out of Hollywood before the radiator started

  to steam. Up in Laurel Canyon there are no gas stations. Since

  I couldn't afford a better car than the Essex, I couldn't afford

  a cracked block. The car needed water fast.

  As soon as I topped the rise I shifted into neutral, coasted on

  the downgrade, and turned the wheels into · the first private

  driveway I saw. It was narrow, curving road of smooth tarvia,

  enclosed on both sides by vine-covered stone walls at least six

  feet high. Momentum carried me rapidly around the curve toward a house.

  I still don't understand where the dog came from. He couldn't

  have come through the stone walls, and I doubt he came over

  them. I didn't see him come down the drive ahead of me. There

  was a flash of white, and he was under my wheels before I knew

  it, screaming like a hurt woman.

  The emergency brake threw me bard against the steering

  wheel, but I was out of the car before it stopped rocking.

  The dog was a large Russian wolfhound, a beautiful silkyhaired blond animal. He had been hit in the hindquarters, perhaps had his spine crushed, and now be struggled grotesquely five feet back of my car. He tried to get to his feet, but his hind

  legs and haunches lay limp and broken on the roadway, and he

  managed only to raise his great racer's chest onto his forelegs

  and to point to the sky his long blond snout in a soprano scream

  of agony.

  ·

  The dog's terrible cry bounced from green wall to green

  wall in the narrow roadway, like a .fire siren in a phone booth.

  Hitting somebody's dog with my car was unpleasant enough,

  but the sudden sound of his pain was terrifying. I trembled so

  my legs could hardly hold me up. And as the sound continued, I

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  rushed about the road searching for a club or a stone to put the

  animal out of his misery. There was nothing.

  I couldn't bear the dog's writhing and the sound of his

  screams. I jumped into the Essex and lunged it backward over

  the hurt animal. There was a soft bump under a rear wheel

  and then under a front wheel, and the pitch of the dog's

  scream lowered with each impact. I drove forward over the

  body once more. The cry stopped as if a blaring radio had been

  switched off.

  I braked the car and my fingers were barely able to find the

  ignition key and turn it off.

  Through the windshield I saw a woman come running up the

  driveway from the house. She was dressed in white play clothes,

  and her long blonde hair flashed in the sun. She ran like a professional sprinter-so fast that she banked on the tum.

  "I saw you!" she shouted. She was hysterical. "I saw you purposely drive over my dog!"

  Before I could answer, she flung open the door of the car

  and, with a strength surprising in one so young and slight, took

  my arm and pulled me from my seat out onto the driveway.

  She slapped my face on one side then the other, and I stood

  there weak and shaken and took it. As she swung for the third

  time, I raised my arm to protect my face and took the blow on

  the back of my hand. The woman had long fingernails, and I

  felt them rip over my skin. I turned the hand and saw blood.

  Then the woman was crying, and all the strength was gone

  out of her. Her shoulder
s hunched up and her hands covered

  her face and she sobbed, "Poor Prince Igor! Poor, happy,

  lovely dog!"

  She raised her face to me again and said low in her throat,

  more as accusation than question, "Why did you do it?''

  I explained about the Essex needing water, and how it had

  been an accident, and why I had run the car over the dog again.

  She looked at me through tears, only half believing, then

  took two steps toward the back of the car and looked at the

  remains of the dog.

  Her body trembled, and I saw her sway. I reached out and

  took her about the waist. She didn't faint, but she let me hold

  her and pat her shoulder, and she buried her face on my chest,

  sobbing again, uncontrollaby, like a child. I turned her about

  and walked her toward the house, still patting her shoulder

  comfortingly through its sheath of loose blonde hair.

  It was a low one-story house of modem design. I noticed an

  entire wall of glass, some cement surfaces, and the use of redwood for the roof and doorway.

  Inside, I sat her down on a fat chartreuse chair. She sank into

  ne Blond Doc

  2011

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  it limply, sobbing into her hands. I walked back through the

  house looking for someone to take care of her.

  Two bedrooms, a library, a kitchen, two bathrooms, an open

  dining patio and an attached garage housing a new station

  wagon were all empty. Off the patio was a small swimming

  pool, and beyond that a bungalow that might have been servants' quarters.

  I called, "Anybody home?'' There was no answer.

  When I got back to the living room the woman was herself

  again. She stood cool and lovely, only a little red-eyed from

  crying, by a black lacquer cabinet. She wore a white play skirt

  and a white bra, and she was pouring something from a silver

  decanter into two goblets of purple glass.

  It was then I recognized her. I had seen her often on the

  screen. The long silver-blonde hair that waterfalled about her

  shoulders was her film trade-mark. I had admired her performances for some years.

  She extended one of the purple goblets and I took it.

  "Thanks," I said. "You know, I just recognized you. You're

  Lucy Wamer-I've been a fan of yours for years!"

  "Not too many years, I hope," she shrugged. "I loved Prince

  Igor. I've had him since he was a puppy. But I understand now

  how it happened. He was such a friendly dog, always running

  up the driveway to welcome anyone who drove in."

  I lifted my glass to her, then drank. Scotch.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  I fished a card from my wallet and passed it to her.

  GRANT WILKINSON

  Pretty Pictures

  732'/2 El C11ribDo Drive

  Hollywood 38

  HO 9.2722

  That "Pretty Pictures" pitch was my wife's idea. She t.h.inks

  it's cute and helps me get trade. I think it stinks.

  "A photographer?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "What sort of work do you do?"

  "Anything I can get. Babies, weddings, portraits, store

  fronts. I was just on my way now to deliver some architectural

  prints to a customer down the canyon. Pictures of his house."

  I told her the name and she knew it.

  We chatted about ten minutes and each had a second drink.

  I told her how much I had enjoyed her work in pictures, and

  she liked that.

  206 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  "About the dog," I said, "how much . . . "

  "Never mind that. Prince Igor can't be replaced with

  money."

  "Well, how about letting me bury him?"

  "Thank you. But don't bother about that either. My gardener

  is due here later this afternoon. He'll do it. You've had enough

  unpleasantness for one day."

  "I'm terribly sorry it happened," I said. "You've been swell

  about it all." I got up to go.

  "Don't you want some water for the carT'

  "Well," I said, "it can wait till-"

  "It's no trouble. You'll want to leave by the other gate any-

  ·

  way. Bring the car to the door."

  Whert I drove up, she was standing by the door holding a

  yellow oversize ceramic pitcher gracefully in both hands.

  I took the pitcher from her, set it down, opened the Essex'

  hood and started to pour.

  "Those pictures I mentioned are on the front seat if you

  care to look," I said. "Open the camera case. They're in an envelope on top of the camera."

  She got the envelope, took out the 8 by lOs, and shuffled

  through them. "Oh, I like these," she said. "Such clean dramatic work."

  "Thanks."

  "You know, I'd like you to make some like these of my

  house."

  "Sure. Anytime you say."

  "The sun is fine now," she said. "If you feel like working after

  what happened."

  I put down the hood. "OK," I said.

  My fingers were still a little shaky. But I set the Graphic on a

  tripod and used a cable release.

  The house was the most interesting I'd ever photographed.

  Large spacious rooms, with a view from each room. Clean lowslung lines. She told me it was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

  I shot both sides of six holders as she stood by, watching and

  interested. In four of the shots I posed her in doorways and

  window areas.

  "You've been very kind," I said when I was finished. "I'll

  mail you the prints by the end of the week." I jotted down her

  house number in my notebook.

  She offered me her hand, and when I took it she smiled and

  wrinkled up the comers of her eyes in that friendly way she

  does sometimes on the screen. A lock of her blonde hair fell

  over her forehead. I drove out the other gate and delivered the

  architectural prints to my customer.

  About two o'clock that morning my doorbell rang. I wasn't

  The Blond Dog • 201

  asleep. I couldn't sleep that night. I eased quietly out of bed,

  trying not to wake Maria, and threw a robe over my pajamas.

  At the door were two policemen . .

  "You Grant Wilkinson?" one of them asked.

  "Yes."

  "Go put on your clothes. You're under arrest."

  "You must be looking for someone else," I said. "I haven't

  done anything. What's the charge?"

  "You ought to know."

  "I don't know, officer."

  "Quit your stalling, Wilkinson," said the second cop. "You're

  wanted on suspicion of murder." He named her name. I almost

  fell over.

  "Listen," I managed to say, "I was at her house this afternoon, but-"

  "Save it," the first cop put in. "You'll have time to talk."

  They didn't let me out of their sight. They followed me right

  into the bedroom and watched me get dressed.

  "We're sorry, ma'am," one of the cops said to Maria. "Excuse us. Line of duty." Maria cringed in the bed, the blanket up to her black wide eyes.

  "It's nothing," I told her. ''There must be some other Grant

  Wilkinson in this town. You stay right here in bed; aod, as soon

  as I set everything straight, I'll phone you."

  When we moved to go, Maria hopped out of bed, with a little

  cry,
and ran to me, not bothering to throw a robe over her

  night dress in front of the cops. She held on to me, and I had to

  pull away to follow the cops.

  At the Hollywood station house on Wilcox Avenue they unlocked the handcuffs, took my fingerprints, and booked me for murder. Nobody there had any ears when I insisted they were

  making a mistake.

  Handcuffs again and back into the radio car.

  "Where are we going?" I asked the man I was chained to.

  "You'll find out."

  ''It's all a mistake. There was a dog-"

  "You'll have time to talk," he interrupted. "You're probably

  the only guy's made a mistake."

  They drove around to the back of City Hall and took me inside. We went up in an elevator. Behind the door marked Homicide Bureau a soft-spoken detective in plain clothes told me the best I could do for myself was to tell the whole story and tell it

  straight.

  I said that was exactly what I wanted to do. I told the whole

  story, truthfully just as I am now. A lieutenant in uniform

  listened in. A third cop took down everything I said on a small

  quiet black machine.

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  ol Terror

  "Fine," said the plain-clothes man when I'd finished. "Only

  one thing wrong with your story. That big white dog is still the

  picture of health. But the dame is dead. The gardener found

  her body in the driveway, run over two or three times just like

  you said. A mess. The dog was nuzzling the body and whining."

  For a moment I couldn't find words. 1 could hardly breathe.

  Then the words came in a rush.

  "I can't believe it," I said. "There must have been a pair of

  those Russian dogs. I know I killed a dog, but you don't charge

  a man with murder for killing a dog. Someone else must have

  driven a car down that driveway later and struck her down by

  accident, the same way I struck the dog. That's it! She was out

  in the driveway looking at the dog's body again, and that's when

  someone else struck her down. That driveway is blind! It isn't

  safe! I know-"

  ''Why did you kill her?"

  "I didn't! I-"

  "This your card?" He unwrapped it carefully from a white

  handkerchief.

  "Yes. Like I told you, I gave it to her when-''

  "Beautiful woman, wasn't she?"

  "She was alive when I-"

  "What did you bang her on the head with before you canied