by Fritz Leiber
“And now as a result of what we have done this evening with your help, the soul of Mrs. Carr is once more in the body of Mrs. Carr, and the soul of Tansy Saylor is in the body of Tansy Saylor. My body. Good night, Evelyn. Good night, Hulda. Good night, Flora, dear.”
The six-paneled door closed behind them. The pebbly path crunched under their feet.
“How did you know?” was Tansy’s first question. “‘When I stood there in the doorway, blinking through those awful spectacles, gasping after the way I’d hurried with only the blind thought of finding you — how did you know?”
“Partly,” he said reflectively, “because she gave herself away towards the end. She began to emphasize words in that exaggerated way of hers. But that wouldn’t have been enough in itself. She was too good an actress. She must have been studying your mannerisms for years. And after seeing how well you played her part tonight, with hardly any preparation, I wonder I ever did see through her.”
“Then how did you?”
“It was partly the way you hurried up the walk — it didn’t sound like Mrs. Carr. And partly something about the way you held yourself. But mainly it was that headshake you gave, that quick, triple headshake. I couldn’t fail to recognize it. After that, I realized all the other things.”
“Do you think,” said Tansy softly, “that after this you’ll ever begin to wonder if I am really I?”
“I suppose I will,” he said seriously. “But I believe I’ll always be able to conquer my doubts.”
There were footsteps, then a friendly greeting from the shadows ahead.
“Hello, you two,” called Mr. Gunnison. “Bridge game over? I thought I’d walk back with Linthicum and then drive home with Hulda. Say, Norman, Pollard dropped in to speak to me after the paper had been read. He’s had a sudden change of heart on that matter we were talking about. On his advice the trustees have cancelled their meeting.”
“It was a very interesting paper,” Mr. Carr informed them, “and I had the satisfaction of asking the speaker a very tricky question. Which I am happy to say he answered excellently, after I’d cleared up a couple of minor points. But I’m sorry I missed the bridge. Oh well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever notice any difference.”
“And the funny thing,” Tansy told Norman after they had walked on, “is that he really won’t.” And she laughed, the intoxicating, mischievous laugh of utter relief.
“Oh, my darling,” she said, “do you honestly believe all this, or are you once more just pretending to believe for my sake. Do you believe that tonight you rescued your wife’s soul from another woman’s body? Or has your scientific mind already explained to you that you’ve been spending the last week pretending to believe in witchcraft to cure your wife and three other psychotic old ladies of the delusion of being each other and Heaven knows what else?”
“I don’t know,” said Norman softly and as seriously as before. “I don’t really know.”