Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  Thoughts crowded my mind: ahead lay what? Happiness? Disaster? I shook my head to clear it for action, my chin bumped the end switch, and the tiny reels of the transistorized tape recorder in the huge concave chest of my suit revolved, and a deep bark sounded through the yard. Turning hastily toward it, I stuck out my tongue too soon, accidentally flipping on Tail-Wag and Mouth Op.—Cls.

  Huge mouth slowly opening and closing, tail wagging majestically, another bark sounded; panicked now, I lunged for Bark, tongue way out, striking Sigh and Ears Up simultaneously. Barking, sighing, wagging, mouth slowly opening and closing, ears lifting alertly, I forced an iron-willed concentration—the submarine commander undergoing a depth-charge attack—and rapidly flipped off switches one after another just as the front door opened and Custer looked out. He whistled, but I stayed behind my bushes, sweating, trembling, hoping. After a few long moments Custer went inside again.

  I wished I could postpone everything for several days, but knew I couldn’t. Trying to “think dog”—that was all-important, the man at the costume shop had said—I started toward the paper, doing my best to simulate an eager canine trot. I felt I was succeeding, and flipped Ears Up, then realized I’d forgotten to drop to all fours. Thinking fast, I raised my forearms, wrists limp, paws dangling, suggesting a dog who was practicing walking on his hind legs; at the same time I turned and trotted back to my bushes.

  A moment later I peeked out cautiously, looking both ways: no one in sight, no one had seen. I ambled out on all fours, leaned over the paper, flipped Mouth Op.—Cls., shoved down my muzzle, it closed over the paper, and I felt better. Walking up to the porch, trying to keep my rear end down, I was glad no one could see me; I could sense that I hadn’t quite yet got the hang of the coordinated four-footed walk.

  “Think dog,” I told myself, negotiating the steps, and I did pretty well, falling down only once. “Master . . . wants . . . paper. Him good. Ughh!” I said to myself, then realized this wasn’t dog but Indian. I was on the porch now, rear end sitting down. Ducking my head, I looked underneath my hind legs and saw my tail lying properly outspread behind me on the porch; I was as ready as I’d ever be, and, paper in my mouth, I scratched at the door.

  No one appeared. I scratched again, and waited. But still no Custer, and I knew that, involved in conversation with Swanson, he hadn’t heard. I had to get in, and quickly; that was vital. Desperate situations call for desperate remedies, so I stood up and rang the doorbell.

  Quickly squatting again, I checked my tail once more, then sat looking adoringly upward, paper clenched in my jaws. Custer opened the door, looking straight out, and saw no one; then he glanced down and said, “Oh, it’s you. Come on,” and he held the door open. As I ambled in I saw him frown, and glance from the doorbell to me and back again. But his mind was on two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, not minor mysteries or dogs, and he closed the door and hurried on down the hall. The less he saw me walking the better, and I prudently waited till Custer hurried past, then trotted along at his heels.

  Into the den we turned, Swanson glancing up from a typed sheet in his hand. I was still directly behind Custer, hidden as much as possible by his legs, and I squatted before Custer’s chair as fast as I could; instinctively I’d realized that this was my most canine pose. Swanson was sitting in a low leather-upholstered easy chair, a small table between him and Custer’s lounge chair, and he smiled as he saw the newspaper in my mouth. I felt pleased, and flipped Ears Up, cocking my head intelligently, and Swanson smiled a little more at that. “Pretty cute,” he said to Custer, who’d dropped onto the chaise lounge.

  Custer nodded, pleased at the compliment. Showing off his dog a little more, he said, “Here, boy,” reaching for the paper, and before I could flip Mouth Op.—Cls., he took hold of it. But my mouth was gripping it like a vise, and Custer tugged, then frowned, glancing at Swanson. My tongue shot out, and—I wished I’d had time to practice!—it flipped on Bark. The sound was pretty loud in the small study, and somewhat odd since my mouth stayed closed. Swanson jumped, and Custer looked mad. This time I successfully flicked on Mouth Op.—Cls., the huge jaws slowly opened, Custer reaching for the paper again, and just before his hand touched it—I’d forgotten to turn off Bark, damn it!—another tremendous wuff sounded, he snatched his hand away, and the paper dropped to the floor. I got Bark turned off, and Tail Wag on; Custer glared at me, then picked up the paper, sat frowning at me, and finally said, “Well!?”

  I didn’t know what he meant. I’d used up seventeen tail wags already, according to a little dial on the control panel, and was getting worried, but didn’t dare turn it off yet. I flipped Ears Up several times, causing my ears to rise and fall alertly, and cocked my head intelligently till it almost fell off. “My slippers, you idiot!” Custer said, and I nodded rapidly. Trotting to the corner of the room, I flicked off Tail Wag.

  Muzzle directly over the slippers, I carefully turned on Mouth Op.—Cls., and shoved down my muzzle. The big jaws closed, but slid right off the polished leather. Again I flicked the switch, and again the huge jaws opened, then closed, sort of nuzzling the slippers, moving them, but not getting hold of them. “Some of these big dogs aren’t really too well coordinated, actually,” Swanson said kindly, and I gave Tail Wag a flick, then turned it off to concentrate. This time when the jaws opened, I shoved my muzzle down hard, directly against the carpet on either side of the goddamned slippers, and they closed down tight, nearly biting them in half.

  I turned toward Custer’s chair so fast I stumbled, and fell sprawling in front of him, but got up quickly, snapped on Mouth Op.—Cls., and the slippers dropped to the floor just as Custer reached for them. Glaring at me, he picked them up, and I quickly got into the big basket beside his chair. Cus sat back then, smiling fixedly at Swanson, and—I was at the side of the lounge chair away from Swanson—Cus reached down and, pretending to pat me, gave me a hard judo cut behind the ears. I flipped Growl on and off, and lay flat, chin on the bottom of my basket, which smelled.

  They didn’t take long to transact their business. Swanson gave Custer the typed page; it was a release, he said, and Custer read it quickly, then signed it. Swanson tucked it carefully into a long black-leather wallet he carried in his inside suitcoat pocket, then rubbed his hands together, grinning. “And now for the piece dee resistance,” he said, and I considered biting him. The attaché case was lying on the table, and Swanson unlocked it and lifted the lid.

  I couldn’t help it; I stood up to look, too, remembering to cock my head to one side, ears rising alertly; I was “thinking dog” pretty good now. They didn’t notice; they were staring at the money, too, and the fact was, I saw, that two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundreds wasn’t too impressive a display. The money occupied only half the case, the rest being newspapers; there were only twenty-five packets of a hundred bills each, and Custer counted them quickly. Then he stood, money in hand, walked to a picture on the wall, and removed it, revealing the round door and combination lock of a small wall safe.

  This was the moment on which everything depended: the moment I’d planned and worked for. I had guessed correctly that Swanson would occupy the chair he did, and not Custer’s lounge chair. The safe was on the wall at Swanson’s right, and knowing Custer’s innate suspiciousness, I had also figured correctly that he would stand facing the safe at a slight angle to keep his back between Swanson and the dial. That would put my basket on a direct-line view as Custer worked the combination, shielding it from Swanson.

  I was ready. Slowly, soundlessly, I withdrew one arm from the front leg of my dog suit as Custer walked to the safe. Then, drawing my head back from the viewers, I took from my shirt pocket the small, three-inch, 9-power telescope I’d bought this morning, and fitted one end to my eye, then brought the other end to the viewer; there was just barely room inside the big head.

  Something was wrong! I saw Custer, all right, focused sharp and clear, but he seemed only an inch high and miles away! Quickly I reversed
the telescope, and Custer’s head and shoulders sprang into close-up, the safe big as a dinner plate, every number and line of the dial etched sharp and achingly clear as Custer began turning it; I was tempted to flip on Tail Wag.

  But then—I never seemed to learn!—a Custer Huppfelt is always a Custer Huppfelt! This one, suspicious to the rotted depths of his wizened soul, didn’t even trust his own dog! As he began twisting the dial, he stepped very close to the safe, the dial directly under his nose now, completely hiding it not only from Swanson but from me. All I could see was his back, and I wanted to run over and bite him! I wanted to run over to his pants leg and—but there was no switch for that. The little round safe door slammed shut. Custer twirled the combination knob and turned to face Swanson, rubbing his palms together, grinning happily, drooling slightly.

  With perfunctory politeness he invited Swanson to stay for a drink and join him for a swim, but Swanson was already standing, reaching for his hat and attaché case, speaking polite refusals as he glanced at his watch. Cus walked him to the door then, while I lay back in my basket, heartsick and desperate, growling occasionally, and—by flipping Mouth Op.—Cls. up and down very fast, I found I could speed up the action—snapping.

  What could I do? What could I DO!? Overpower Custer? Force him to give me the combination to the safe? It was my only hope, and was no hope at all; I simply wasn’t big enough, for one thing, and he’d recognize me anyway. I heard the front door close, heard Custer’s returning steps, saw him turn onto the staircase. Suddenly, in desperate inspiration, I knew what I had to try!

  My paws were thin fur-covered nylon with sponge-rubber pads, quite flexible, and I stood up on my hind legs and snatched a ball-point pen from Custer’s desk. Near it lay a clipboard with a blank sheet attached, and I thrust it under my right front leg and ran out the back door, careful not to let the screen door slam, then ran across the grass to the pool. Momentarily safe behind the fence that partially hid the pool from the house, I stood looking frantically around for something that would work; a garden hose would do! There was no hose, but I saw a pool skimmer: a thin flat net stretched on a wire hoop attached to the end of a ten-foot aluminum pole long enough to reach more than halfway across the pool.

  I grabbed up the net, yanked hard, the net loop pulled out of the aluminum handle, and I tossed it into some bushes. The other end was covered with a yellow plastic cap, which twisted right off, and now I had a ten-foot hollow aluminum tube, slightly curved at the end where the net had been. It was the work of a moment to firmly tie the straight end of the pole to the inside of a rubber inner tube floating near the pool ladder; the other end hung straight down into the water. Holding my breath, carrying my things, I climbed down the ladder to the bottom. It was deep, here at the diving-board end of the pool, and when I stood on the bottom, finally, I was glad to take the curving end of the hollow pole into my mouth and draw a breath.

  I waited no more than a minute or two, I suppose; then the water’s surface far overhead was shadowed momentarily, I heard the sudden jounce of the diving board, heard the tremendous splash, then Custer appeared, head down, arms outthrust, skimming along the bottom of the pool in a wild trail of bubbles and turbulent water, gliding rapidly toward the foot of the ladder, beside which I stood motionless in the shadows. Custer’s groping hands found and gripped the ladder, he set a foot on the first rung, and—click!—I snapped one ring of the handcuffs around his naked ankle, the other ring being already fastened to the ladder. The bubbles of his downward splash ascending, the water steadying and clearing, Custer stood, one foot on the bottom of the pool, the other held to the rung of the ladder, and now he saw me for the first time.

  There are a handful of pictures of the mind that I will always treasure: a mother I once saw gazing at the face of her newborn child; a little girl staring at her first Christmas tree; a small boy walking slowly toward his brand-new bicycle. But above them all I will forever treasure the sight of Custer’s face as he stood clipped to the bottom of his pool, wild-eyed, staring at, and realizing that, it was his own dog who had done it.

  There I stood, shaggy ears outspread and swaying in the last of the upward stream of bubbles, aluminum tube in my muzzle, clipboard in hand, rapidly writing, I want . . . $250,000 to let you go.

  I have to give Custer credit: he had grit! He had the courage of his lack of convictions! Though he was inexplicably held prisoner by his dog sixteen feet under water and was holding what might well be his last breath, Custer’s nature didn’t change. He gestured rapidly for clipboard and pen, I passed them to him carefully, keeping well out of his reach, and Custer frantically wrote, No, but all the bones you can eat—for life!

  I shook my head, took the clipboard, and wrote, I’ll buy my own—with the $250,000.

  Custer snatched pen and board, and scribbled, $100,000—that’s my top offer!

  Taking back clipboard and pen, I momentarily considered offering to split the difference, except that I had to have two hundred and fifty thousand, and it didn’t seem to me that Custer was really in any position to bargain. $250,000 or nothing! I wrote.

  I believe he actually considered both alternatives. Finally he took pen and board, and wrote, quite fast, All right. Is a check okay?

  Don’t be absurd. I want the combination to your safe.

  It was hard to believe even as I saw it, but Custer actually turned pale, there under the water. He thought for a moment, releasing a few more bubbles of air, then snatched the clipboard and rapidly printed, 53 left, clear around to right, stop at 14, left to 36. Now unlock these cuffs!

  I’m not that dumb! You stay here till I try the combination.

  Cus grabbed the clipboard, and changed the 53 to 71. I passed him the air tube then, which he accepted gratefully, and I dog-paddled to the surface.

  The safe opened at the first try; I was so excited I’d forgotten to take off my suit, and dripped on Custer’s rug, and had trouble manipulating the dial. But I got it open, scooped up the two hundred and fifty thousand, and trotted out with it clutched in my forepaws.

  On the lawn, behind the bushes, I unzipped the dog suit; it was a good suit, almost waterproof, and I was only slightly damp. The real St. Bernard was yawning, beginning to blink lazily. Carrying the money wrapped in the suit, I walked out to my car thinking of Custer. He’d be sitting down now on a rung of the ladder at the bottom of the pool, thinking who knows what bitter thoughts on the true nature of man’s best friend.

  Just before time for the ferry to leave, I phoned the Whipley police from a booth on the pier. I gave them Custer’s name and address, and said Cus was attempting suicide by handcuffing himself to the bottom of his pool; that he was insane and dangerous. I figured that by the time they got out to Custer’s place, the real St. Bernard would be up and dogging their footsteps. So when they asked who I was, I barked several times and hung up. I hated to do it—he was a nice old dog—but I felt certain he’d eventually be able to prove his innocence, and by that time I’d be in the clear.

  •

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  •

  A dozen yards from the southeast corner of Forty-second and Lex, I piled out of the cab, slapped several dollars into the cabbie’s hand, and began running toward Herman’s newsstand, glancing at my watch. Just short of the stand, I stopped dead, rammed my hand into my pocket, and brought out a nickel, a penny, and two dimes, and came as close as I’ve ever been since I was twelve years old to bursting into tears—they were both Woodrow Wilson, of course.

  I didn’t know what to do. I took a fast step in one direction, turned and walked rapidly in the other for a couple steps, stopped, and stood looking helplessly around me. Then I whirled, hurried to the corner ahead, and the instant the light flashed WALK, I ran, dodging between pedestrians, across to the drugstore in the Doc Pepper Building. With a snarl of hatred, Paul Newman gave me ten dimes for a dollar, and I stepped to one side, flicked through them with a flying forefinger, then tossed them over my shoulder and wa
lked out.

  This time I didn’t wait for the light, or even walk to the crosswalk. I ran through traffic, while horns blasted in rage, to Grand Central Station just across the street, got ten more dimes and a muttered malediction at a newsstand, fingered through them, then handed them to a small boy walking through the station with his mother. “Throw them away this instant!” she said to the boy. “There must be something wrong with them!” and he flung dimes down among the cigarette stubs in a sand-filled urn as though they were hot, cleverly palming half of them, I noticed. Passersby watching me suspiciously, I walked quickly around a corner, blushing with guilt.

  There was a row of a couple dozen phone booths here, and I moved quickly from one empty booth to another, feeling the coin-return slots, with no luck. An elderly woman stood watching me as I came out of the last booth. “You that hungry, son?” she said sadly. “Here.” And she gave me a Woodrow Wilson dime.

  It was an idea: I hurried outside, stood against the station wall, turned mouth corners down and coat collar up, sucked in my cheeks to look hungry, and held out a cupped hand. I got three W.W. dimes, a Canadian nickel, and a wadded-up gum wrapper before I saw a cop coming toward me and ducked back into the station.

  A porter leaned a two-wheeled hand truck against a wall, walked away, and three seconds later I was wheeling it in the opposite direction along the marble floor of the station, looking blank-faced and casual as though I had every right; no one even glanced at me. A minute later, the cart loaded now, I was down on the far less crowded lower level, in among several aisles of coin lockers, not another soul in sight. We never know to what depths necessity may take us; never in my life had I dreamed I could lower myself to robbing the poor. Yet I didn’t hesitate now—I blame society. Using the knife-sharp lifting bar of my handcart as a pry, I jimmied open the locked coin box at the rear of the friendly automated panhandler, and filled both coat pockets with dimes. In a washroom booth three minutes and several hundred dimes later, I found it: a thin, worn, absolutely marvelous-looking Roosevelt dime. Hurrying up the ramp toward the upper level again, I saw the kid and his mother, gave him a double handful of dimes in passing, and his mother swung at me with her handbag.