by Jerry
On the desk was the stack of paper, blank but for the initials in the corner. I picked up the top sheet; rolled it into the machine. Then I turned to Charneel, and I wondered just how to go about talking to a dog.
“Charneel”—and I phrased it like a question—“you heard what he said?”
Charneel looked up. “No,” he said. “I heard the master talking to you, but I could not understand his words.”
“But you understand me. So, tell me, Charneel. What about Habel?”
At the word “Habel,” Charneel’s fangs bared, his ruff bristling.
“Habel is dead!” he said. “As he should be!”
So we talked, Charneel and I. And, gradually, I began to get straight in my own mind what had happened, and why. And soon even I was hating Habel, just as Charneel did. This Habel; he was a man. But not like the master. Always Habel had been cruel. Charneel’s first memory of him was as a killer, and never had he forgotten that moment when he and his sister Tolei, two helpless puppies nursing in the woods, had heard the blast of a gun and seen their mother drop in her tracks. Habel was the one who had fired that gun, and Habel was the one who had come up and savagely kicked the little she-puppy into the stream to drown.
I guess I must have been in that room two full hours talking to Charneel. Of course it wasn’t straight talking all the time, and asking questions. For there would come moments, baffling moments, when I couldn’t quite seem to get what Charneel was saying. He’d be speaking, and suddenly the whole thought would seem to fade out, and I wouldn’t get it. Then I’d wait a few minutes, concentrating, and presently ask him again. These interruptions, they bothered me; for Dr. Wilson wanted Charneel’s whole story—that’s what he’d said.
Just exactly who Habel was, I was never quite sure, but I gathered he must have been a servant in a wealthy home. For Charneel spoke of the little house to which Habel had taken him and where Habel lived, and of the big house where the two kind men lived. One of these men was young and his name was Buddy, said Charneel; and the other, the older man, they called the judge. And it was only because of Buddy that Charneel would stay on the same property with Habel.
But always Charneel drew away from Habel, avoided him, and Habel hated him more and more. One day, Charneel knew, he and Habel would fight, and only one would live. But that would have to wait until his muscles were strong and his teeth long and sharp. Habel knew how Charneel felt, for he would strike out at him, hit him. And finally, when Charneel was half grown, Habel struck for the last time. He’d used a chain, too; a heavy one. Charneel had not picked that fight, but Habel was trying to corner him, cripple him. So he had fought back. “And but for Buddy’s coming,” said Charneel, “I would have killed him.”
“But the master, Dr. Wilson,” I said, reminding Charneel.
The fight with Habel had changed things, Charneel went on. For after this fight, after Habel had been bandaged up, a man came, and Charneel went off to live with him. “It was the master,” said Charneel.
Now I began to get a picture of Dr. Wilson and Charneel, of the team the two of them made, how closely knit they had become. For Charneel told me of long walks with the master, with the roaster talking to him—talking and talking—trying desperately hard to teach him his language. And Charneel had learned a few words: “Guard, stand, heel”—words like that; commands which, when spoken by the master, could never be disobeyed.
“And when I learned to obey,” said Charneel, “never did I wear a leash again, and we went farther and farther into the fields and woods.”
Too, Charneel told me of something even the master did not know: he told me of Tolei. For Charneel’s little sister Tolei had not drowned; she had lived, and the woods were her home, and often in his ranging Charneel came across her. But there was something about Tolei that puzzled Charneel—she distrusted all men, even the master.
“I have learned of men from Habel,” Tolei had said. And she had warned Charneel, “Habel often is in the woods, Charneel; I hear often the report of his gun. But I run not as other animals,” she had boasted. “That is foolish,” Charneel had counseled.
“No, Charneel; it is wise; very wise,” Tolei had replied. “No, Tolei shall never bleed! For Tolei runs to the noise, not away from it; and stalks the hunter, keeping him ever in sight, herself ever unseen.”
And then, the evening Habel died. The air was crisp that late afternoon, and Charneel and the master had ranged far. It was almost time to turn back. One more little foray and they’d set their steps toward home. Dr. Wilson had led the way, parting the strands of the fence bordering the road, and began skirting the low stone wall that separated the woods from the field. Now and then he would pause to glance around, for to him all life was beautiful, but wild life, sleek of coat and lithe of muscle, was lovely beyond words. The flick of a bunny’s heels, the rising whir of a partridge, the wheeling blur of a young fox—“These,” said Charneel, “were the sights the master loved.”
It was natural for the doctor to pause at the opening in the wall where the stones had fallen away, and to gaze down that narrow trail leading into the woods. No doubt it looked inviting. Dr. Wilson lifted a foot to step over; then paused, foot still in mid-air. Charneel had snarled.
The doctor had looked down at Charneel. Again Charneel’s warning had sounded, low and deep-throated. For Habel had just walked that path—Habel and Buddy—and Charneel could smell death in the air.
Evidently the master had but half understood Charneel. For he stooped and picked up a broken branch, testing it for strength. “Quiet!” he had ordered. Then: “Heel!”
Slowly he led the way; and I could picture them; Charneel crowding his every step, a bristling, steeled dynamo of restraint. They reached the bend in the narrow trail, paused, bore on toward the clearing dimly ahead. Then it came! The blast of a gun . . . the choked human cry . . . and that awful silence.
My fingers moved faster and faster. This was unbelievable.
Finally I was through typing. I stepped to the door and spoke to the sergeant. “Will you call Dr. Wilson?” I said.
Dr. Wilson came straight across to the desk. He leaned over, glanced at the top sheet, then picked it up, eagerly reading it. Then the second sheet, the third. Ten full minutes he stood there, scanning page after page. Finally he straightened to his full height, and the nod he threw me had an edge of triumph. There was an odd smile on his face.
“You did it!” He was pleased—very pleased. “Man, you did it!”
I drew a breath of relief. “Yes, Doctor,” I said. “But don’t ever count on my doing it again.” And I was telling him of those bad moments I had had with Charneel. There had been more than one, too, and the going had been tough at times.
“You know, Doctor, this queer ability of mine,” I said, “came on me all of a sudden, and I guess it could go the same way it came.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Dr. Wilson put his hand on my shoulder, and he said a strange thing, something I could not follow at all. He said, “Captain, I guess we might just as well clear up your end of the line first.”
Then he had the sergeant step across and get a large envelope cut of the desk, place the pages in it and seal it. I thought I was beginning to get an idea of what the doctor had in mind when he said to the sergeant, “All right, Sergeant; that’s in your possession now. Hang onto it; don’t let it out of your hands one minute.”
But when we finally headed back toward the hospital, we had two large envelopes instead of just the one. The second we picked up at the coroner’s office. There’d been a little difficulty about that, but only momentarily. At the coroner’s office, the clerk had balked at first, but Dr. Wilson made a quick phone call, and a moment later we were sitting back while a stenographer got busy making a copy of some testimony the doctor had asked for.
Back at Green Mills I began to get a measure of Dr. Wilson’s true stature. Evidently he wasn’t a man to do any fooling around anywhere with anybody. I’d expected to be led ri
ght to my cell. But no: they didn’t do that. They marched me through the corridor, all right, but instead of turning left, we turned right and headed straight into a large bare room.
Instantly I knew where I was. It was a dead giveaway—that long table and those few chairs. This was the hearing room. Evidently things were going to happen, and fast. Just inside the door, standing stiffly at attention, were the two nurses who had let Dr. Wilson into my cell that morning; alongside them, the two guards who had taken the trip with us.
In a moment I could hear feet in the corridor. The door opened and a colonel stepped in. But he wasn’t alone, for behind him were four other medical officers. They filed straight to the table and seated themselves.
And so, because of a doctor and a dog, I stood facing these five Army doctors, my case reopened.
The colonel said, “Let the patient be seated.”
At a time like that, somehow every little detail seems to stamp itself indelibly on your mind. I just couldn’t get myself away from that word, “patient.” He’d said, “Let the patient be seated.” That’s what I was, and that’s what I’d stay. I had a cornered feeling as I scanned the faces of my examiners. They were set; those doctors’ minds were already made up. They’d know no man could talk to a dog, and nothing Dr. Wilson would say could possibly matter. They’d sit there; they’d listen; then send me back to my cell.
Of course, I was keyed up. And I kept wondering, What type of questions will Dr. Wilson ask me? What type those five examiners?
Well, they didn’t ask me one. I guess it was about the strangest sanity hearing ever held in that room.
The colonel said, “We are ready to hear you, Doctor, and we will listen to you with extreme interest.”
Dr. Wilson’s gesture included the four other doctors as well as the colonel. “I want to thank you, Colonel Brownleigh,” he said, “and the members of your staff.” Then he got down to business, “Gentlemen, this man here, this patient, Captain Blanchard, is in Green Mills for one reason—because he claims he can talk to animals. There is no question that he could be suffering from a mental aberration. But this much is true, as I believe you gentlemen will agree: If Captain Blanchard can definitely be proved to have talked to an animal, and the proof is irrefutable, then indeed the captain may possess an unusual power, but its possession does not mean that he is not sane.”
“Proceed,” said Colonel Brownleigh. But a mask had come over his face, and his eyes were fixed on the table. His hands on the chair arms were as still as death.
Dr. Wilson had the two men nurses step forward, and then put to them a few questions about his visit in my room that morning. Quickly he established that in his conversation with me no place had been mentioned other than Coast Hospital, and certainly the names of no men.
Next he had Sergeant Cates step forward, lay his sealed envelope on the table and tell what had taken place in the doctor’s office. Cates had an excellent memory, and when he came to the one name the doctor had mentioned, he quoted Dr. Wilson almost verbatim. He said, “Dr. Wilson told the captain, ‘I will now give you one key word: Habel.’ ”
As the sergeant was stepping back, Colonel Brownleigh put in, “Just a moment, Sergeant! In this—er—ah—conversation between the patient and the clog, did the patient bark like a dog or the dog talk like a man?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Captain Blanchard had us get out of the room before he started.”
“I see,” said the colonel, and no one could have missed the glance he threw to the officer at his right.
Dr. Wilson’s jaw squared. “Colonel Brownleigh”—and he sounded quite vigorous—“may I be permitted to call you as a witness?”
The colonel’s eyebrows shot up. Somehow I got a thrill. These men might be majors and colonels and captains, but they certainly weren’t going to jerk Dr. Wilson around.
“Colonel, when my friend, Senator Denning,” Doctor Wilson went on, “made possible my visit to Green Mills this morning, wasn’t that the first time I ever set foot in this hospital or ever saw this patient?”
“We’ll assume that’s true, Doctor.”
“And in the ten weeks Captain Blanchard has been here, he has seen no newspapers, received no mail, talked to no visitors?”
i think we can go along with you there, Doctor. The patient’s malady is such that no disturbing influences would be permitted.”
Dr. Wilson took a step closer to the table. “Eight days ago, gentlemen,” he said, “young Richard Holmhurst, junior, the son of a dear friend of mine, was shot and severely wounded by the family chauffeur. A few minutes later the man who shot him, Habel Twilling, was dead. This occurred on the Holmhurst estate in Lambert County, seventy-six miles from this hospital. Now, Colonel Brownleigh, from what you have just said, it would have been utterly impossible for Captain Blanchard to know even one detail of this. Would you agree with me, Colonel?”
“Doctor, will you please come to the point?” Colonel Brownleigh stirred impatiently in his chair. “What on earth has a shooting eighty miles from here to do with this patient’s sanity?”
“Colonel Brownleigh,” Dr. Wilson spoke quietly, “let me assure you, I will not present one word this afternoon which is not entirely pertinent.” He held up a large envelope. “This envelope,” he continued, “came from the Lambert County Courthouse—the coroner’s office. It contains testimony offered by me in regard to the tragedy just mentioned. Colonel, would you read it, please?”
The doctor certainly meant for it to be read aloud. But the colonel didn’t do that. Instead, he picked up the sheaf of papers, and for the next several minutes there was silence as he thumbed them through. “This testimony,” he finally said, for the benefit of his colleagues, “brings out that the Habel Twilling the doctor mentioned was killed by a dog, and that there was no question whatsoever in the coroner’s mind as to the identity of the dog.”
“Is that all, Colonel?”
“No, Dr. Wilson, it isn’t. The coroner thoroughly believed it was your dog and consistently refused to accept your story about a wild dog. For I note here”—and he referred to a particular page—“in his opening question he reminds you that fellow townsmen of yours, men who had often hunted in that area, already had testified that never once had they laid eyes on a dog running wild in those woods. Anyway, Doctor”—and the colonel smiled faintly—“even we find it hard to believe that any dog would be shot for saving his master’s life.”
Dr. Wilson raised his shoulders. “Write it off to politics,” he said. “It’s just a case of some swampland that wasn’t bought for a county hospital, and this is the first chance a certain county official has had to get back at me, his first opportunity to discredit my word in the community. That, Colonel, I can take. But I can’t take my dog being shot simply because I stepped on a politician’s pocketbook. I will say this, though, gentlemen: if my dog, Charneel, could have had the power of speech and could have followed me on that witness stand, substantiating my testimony, there would have been no court order issued.” Dr. Wilson paused and rested his hand on the hearing table. “Right here and now,” he said, “my dog, my dog Charneel, through Captain Blanchard, is going to tell you what happened in those woods.”
He reached out for the envelope lying on the table, opened it and fanned the sheets out, calling attention to the initials at the top of each. “In these pages—” he began.
“Dr. Wilson,” Colonel Brownleigh interrupted, “is this the so-called interview the patient had with your dog?”
“It is,” Dr. Wilson said crisply.
“I’m afraid, Doctor, it cannot be considered as relevant.” Colonel Brownleigh was just as brusque. “No man can talk to an animal.”
“But I have permission to read?”
“Will it take long?”
Dr. Wilson shook his head.
“Let’s get on with it then!” And the colonel shifted his chair impatiently.
So Dr. Wilson began reading aloud what Cha
rneel had told to me.
I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the faces of those five men. My judges were sitting in different attitudes, but there was one attitude that could not be mistaken. Nothing Dr. Wilson could possibly say would make the slightest difference for me.
But the first time the doctor came across the name “Buddy,” he paused. “I want you to note, gentlemen,” he said, “here is a brand-new name, a name the patient had never heard before. And I will tell you that it is the nickname of R. J. Holmhurst, Junior. Captain Blanchard is describing in exact detail people and places he has never seen or visited.” It had its impact.
Presently Dr. Wilson came to the tragedy itself, to the point where he and Charneel had just stepped through the gap in the low stone wail bordering the woods. He read of Charneel’s warning growl, of himself picking up a club, and of their proceeding down a path in the woods. He read of the blast of the gun, and then the two of them, Dr. Wilson and Charneel, racing for the clearing.
A change was coming over Colonel Brownleigh. For while the doctor was reading, I noticed the colonel had picked up the papers lying on the table before him—the ones he’d skimmed through so casually but a few moments ago. But this wasn’t casualness now; he seemed intent on them, almost as if he were comparing what was before him with what Dr. Wilson was reading aloud.
“No, Doctor, wait!” he interrupted suddenly. “Wait!” And Colonel Brownleigh asked both the sergeant and the private, my guards, to step forward. He said to the sergeant, “You were outside the door of the doctor’s office, Sergeant. Did you leave that post even once?”
“No, sir.”
He turned to Private Howard. “You were on the lawn, looking through those windows. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you be willing to go on oath that while the patient and the dog were in that office, not once did the patient lift the telephone receiver from its cradle?”
