"Night court?” The officer arched one eyebrow, tipped back his cap, and eyed Bob dubiously. "Say, you sure you’re sober, buddy? Or maybe you got a concussion... There’s been nobody here. Not a soul; has there, Pop?”
"Nope.” The sexton lifted his lamp positively, causing shadows to dance weirdly over the otherwise empty chapel. A film of dust covered the pews, undisturbed save where Bob himself now sat. "Ain't been nary a soul here since the Wilkins funeral; that was Monday three weeks ago. My, you never saw the like o’ flowers...”
The Highway Patrolman gestured him to silence, peering at Bob once more. "What was that you said about another speed cop? There was no report tonight. What was his badge number? You happen to notice?” Bob shook his head vaguely; then dimly recalled numbers he had seen on a tarnished shield pinned to that shadowy uniform.
"Eight something... 84! That was it! And... and he had a kind of twisted set to his head...”
The officer scowled suddenly, hands on hips. "Sa-ay!” he said in a cold voice. "What’re you tryin’ to pull? Nobody’s worn Badge No. 84 since Sam Lacy got killed two years ago. Chasin ’a speed-crazy high school kid, who swerved and made him fall off his motor. Broke his neck!” He compressed his lips grimly. "You tryin’ to pull some kind of gag about that?”
"No! N-no... !” Bob rose shakily to his feet. "I... I... Maybe I just dreamed it all! That clonk on the head...” He laughed all at once, a wild sound, full of hysterical relief. "You’re positive there was no little girl pinned under my wheel? No... no signs of... ?”
He started toward the wide-flung doors of the chapel, reeling with laughter. But it had all seemed so real! Those nightmare faces, the whispering voices: that macabre trial for a traffic fatality that had never happened anywhere but in his own overwrought imagination... !
STILL laughing, he climbed into his convertible; found it undamaged by its dive into the ditch, and backed out onto the road again. He waved. Shrugging, grinning, the
Highway officer and the old sexton waved back, visible in a yellow circle of lantern-light.
Bob gunned his motor and roared away. A lone tourist, rounding a curve, swung sharply off the pavement to give him room as he swooped over on the wrong side of the yellow line. Bob blew his horn mockingly, and trod impatiently on the accelerator.
Marian must be tired of waiting! And the thought of holding her in his arms, laughing with her, telling her about that crazy dream-trial... Dead men! Trying him, the living, for the traffic-death of a child yet to be born! "The extreme penalty!” If not lynching, what would that be? He smiled, amused. Was anything that could happen to a man really "a fate worse than death... ?”
Bob’s smile froze.
Quite suddenly his foot eased up on the accelerator. His eyes widened, staring ahead at the dark highway illuminated by the twin glare of his headlights. Sweat popped out on his cool forehead all at once. Jerkily his hands yanked at the smooth plastic of the steering-wheel, pulling the convertible well over to the right side of the highway...
In that instant, Bob thought he knew where he had seen the hauntingly familiar features of that lovely little girl lying dead, crushed, under the wheel of his car. "The extreme penalty?” He shuddered, and slowed down, driving more carefully into the darkness ahead. The darkness of the future...
For, the child’s blond hair and long lashes, he knew with a swift chill of dread, had been a tiny replica of Marian’s... and the tip-tilted pixy eyes, closed in violent death, had borne a startling resemblance to his own.
The Monkey Spoons
The little shop seemed to have taken the musty, worm-eaten quality of furniture and relics it offered for sale. There was an all-pervasive odor of mildew and decaying wood. Dust motes whirled in a shaft of sunlight as the street door opened, with the hushed tinkle of a bell above the sedate gold letters:
JONATHAN SPROULL, ANTIQUES
The three young people who entered, arm in arm, looked as out of place in such a shop as three children at a board meeting. The girl, a vivacious brunette with a large diamond solitaire on her left hand, linked the two men together—one a tall, easygoing Norse blond, the other small, wiry, and dark, with sensitive features that resembled those of the girl. They stood for a moment, laughing and chattering together—but in lowered tones, somewhat subdued by the atmosphere of the old shop.
“No, no; not three rings, Bob. Rings are so trite,” the girl was protesting. “What we want is something unusual—eh, Alan? Something distinctive to link us three together always, like the Three Musketeers, and remind us of our undying…”
She broke off with a stifled gasp as a stooped, wrinkled gnome of a man, a hunchback, scuttled out from the shadowy recesses at the rear of the place. There was something spider-like about his appearance, until he smiled. Large luminous brown eyes beamed upon each of them in turn.
“I overheard,” he murmured in a mellow friendly voice that matched his eyes. “You are looking for some little memento?” His eyes drifted keenly to the girl. “Soon is your wedding day—yes?” he hazarded.
“And you and your…your brother?…and your fiance wish to buy some antique curio, in (revolting term!) triplicate? As a bond of love and remembrance?”
The trio glanced at one another, jaws dropping.
“Why—yes!” the girl laughed. “You must be psychic!”
“Observation, merely observation and deduction,” the old proprietor chuckled pleasantly. “I have very little trade here, worse luck, and much time to meditate!… Now, what did you have in mind? Three identical snuffboxes, perhaps? 17th Century? Or what about lockets, Renaissance Italian, with your pictures in each? I have some that fold open in three sections. Two of them could be worn as watchfobs, of course,” he smiled at the two utterly unlike but congenial young men.
They grinned back at him, wandering curiously among the cluttered displays of crow’s-nest tables, hammered brass fire-dogs, old spinning wheels, and a hundred other reminders of generations past. Idly they wandered over to a showcase of antique silverware—ornate gold-and-silver sugar shells, pickle forks with tiny demons on the handle, little salt spoons, and graceful kris-shaped butter knives. The girl strolled away by herself, poking about with quiet fascination. Presently her eyes fell on a small, worn, black velvet case pushed half out of sight on a shelf. She leaned to open it, and called out eagerly:
“Look! Oh, Alan—Bob, look! I found some monkey spoons!” She beckoned to her brother and fiance, then smiled across the shop at the old proprietor—whose sudden look of agitation she failed to notice. “These are monkey spoons, aren’t they, Mr. Sproull? I’ve never seen any with a drinking monkey perched on the knop—it’s always something stylized, a faun or a skull. These must be very old.”
The two men moved to her side, fondly amused at her excitement. The blond one, Bob, looked at the dark one, Alan, and spread his hands humorously.
“What on earth,” he drawled, “are monkey spoons? Alan, if we’re going to open that antique shop of ours, with my backing and Marcia’s and your experience, you’ll just have to brief me on these…”
The brother and sister started explaining, both at once, interrupting each other. They gave up, laughing. Then suddenly Mr. Sproull stepped forward, edging unobtrusively between the three young people and the black velvet box.
“Monkey spoons,” he explained diffidently, “were presented by the old Dutch patroons to honored guests and relatives, as late as the 17th Century. They were mementoes of some occasion—a funeral, most often. As you can see from these very fine specimens—” Skillfully, he steered the trio away to another showcase, shutting the black velvet box behind him with a furtive gesture. “These,” he pointed out one set of five, “are typical. Note the wide, shallow, fluted bowl of the spoon—very thin silver—bearing a hammered-out picture symbolic of funerals: a man on horseback delivering the invitations, with a churchyard in the background. These bear a likeness of St. Michael, weigher of souls on Judgment Day. This one has a picture of a mour
ner weeping over a cinerary urn…”
“Br-r! Cheerful little trinkets, aren’t they?” Bob laughed, resting one hand on Alan’s shoulder and sliding his other arm about his fiancee’s waist. “Mean to say they passed out these things at funerals, like flowers at a party?”
“Not exactly.” Mr. Sproull smiled. “They were hung around the rim of the punch bowl at the Dood Feest—‘dead feast.’ Something like the Irishman’s wake. A small silver lozenge, the seal, was always welded at the center of the handle, engraved with the name of the deceased, and the dates of his birth and death. The handles are quite slender, as you see. They curl backwards like the end of a violin to form the knop—on which is mounted a silver faun, or a skull, or…”
“Or a monkey?” the girl asked eagerly. “Why ‘monkey’ spoons, Mr. Sproull?” She drifted over to the black box again and picked up one spoon. “I’ve always wondered why they’re called that.”
“That,” the old dealer shrugged his humped shoulders, “is an enigma among antique experts. One theory is that the monkey was simply a symbolic invitation to come and be gay at the Dood Feest. ‘Eat, drink, and be merry,’ you know, ‘for tomorrow…’ Zuiging der monkey was an old Dutch expression meaning ‘to get drunk’…”
“Ugh!” Marcia’s delicate nose wrinkled in distaste. “I certainly wouldn’t want everybody getting soused at my funeral! They’ll just have to sit around and cry soberly, or they’ll get no monkey spoons from me! Remember that, now, Bob!” She laughed and planted a kiss on her fiance’s cheek.
“Hush!” Her brother, the more sensitive of the two men, shuddered visibly. “Marcia, don’t be so morbid! People shouldn’t joke about…”
“Who’s morbid?” the girl laughed more gaily, winking at Bob. “Oh, Alan, you’re a sissy! Do come and look at these darling monkey spoons over here. Those with the drinking monkey are very rare—aren’t they, Mr. Sproull? There are only three of these…”
Her face lighted, and she whirled about at a sudden idea.
“Oh! Why don’t we choose these for our keepsakes? I could have mine made into a scarf pin, Bob. Yours and Alan’s could be watch-fobs, or you could have them welded on silver cigarette cases! Some old Dutchman’s funeral spoons! Wouldn’t that be just too gruesome and clever? And,” she added eagerly, “we can call our antique shop The Three Spoons…and people will drop in by the droves just to ask us why!… Bob, darling, please buy them!”
Her fiance grinned at her fondly, winked at her discomforted brother, and reached for his checkbook with a light shrug.
“All right, my precious, all right! Anything your foolish little heart desires.… But, funeral spoons!” He roared with amusement. “What a gift from the groom to the bride! Mr. Sproull, how much are you asking for…?”
He broke off, caught by the expression on the face of the hunchbacked antique dealer. Mr. Sproull looked frightened. There was no mistaking that quiver about his mouth, or the agitation in his kindly old eyes.
“I…I… Wouldn’t you prefer something less expensive?” he blurted. “Those particular spoons are…almost a collector’s item. Besides,” he added in an oddly loud tone, “they are not mine to sell, really. They are not mine!”
He emphasized the words queerly, and glanced toward the dark rear of the shop as though he were speaking for the benefit of some skulking eavesdropper whom they could not see.
“The former owner,” he lowered his voice again in apology, “was a Mrs. Haversham, an elderly widow. Her heirs have not yet been located. She…she died intestate about a month ago, shortly after buying the set of four monkey spoons at an auction. She kept one spoon, and left three of them with me to sell for her at a profit. Merely as her agent,” he emphasized sharply, with another odd glance toward a particularly dark corner. “She kept a fourth spoon, not wanting to part with her entire collection. She…she was asphixiated in her garage,” he added with apparent irrelevance. “Carbon monoxide gas from her car. An accidental death, of course!” he said quickly, again with that nervous glance into the shadows.
The girl Marcia, her fiance Bob, and her brother Alan looked at one another significantly. The old hunchback was certainly peculiar, to say the least! A borderline mental case, Bob’s raised eyebrows suggested. With a glance at his fiancee’s disappointed expression, he became brisk and businesslike.
“Well—you have the legal right to sell the spoons, though. And collect your commission,” he pointed out shrewdly. “How much?”
“Ah…five hundred dollars,” Mr. Sproull murmured, then added with a manner of pleading: “That’s exorbitant, of course, and I can find you something much more attractive for the price!”
“Exorbitant—you can say that again! For three little spoons?” the blond young man whistled good-humoredly, but uncapped his fountain pen.
“Er…that’s five hundred dollars apiece.” Mr. Sproull said hurriedly. “For each spoon.… Now, I’m sure you wouldn’t care to pay so much for a…a whim! Let me just show you…”
Bob set his jaw stubbornly, giving the old dealer an oblique look.
“Mr. Sproull, don’t you want to make this sale? Look. If you’re trying to run up the price,” he snapped, “just because my fiancee has taken such a fancy to…” He broke off, grinned abruptly, and spread his hands in rueful defeat. “All right, you old pirate! Fifteen hundred it is!” He smiled indulgently at the girl beside him, who was shaking her head violently. “If it’s something you really want, darling, you shall have it.”
Old Mr. Sproull sighed deeply, with a tone of resignation rather than of satisfaction.
“The price,” he said heavily, “is five hundred for the set, if you insist on buying it… But I must tell you this, although I am sure you young people will laugh at me—or perhaps be even more intrigued by these…these devilish spoons! You see, they…” Mr. Sproull gulped. “They are supposed to be cursed.”
The two men did laugh, but the girl’s face lighted up. She clapped her hands, as pleased as a child with its first jack-o-lantern.
“Oh—a curse! How marvelous! Why didn’t you tell us before? Now I simply must have them!”
The old hunchback nodded, and shrugged. “As I predicted,” he murmured, then doggedly: “The spoons are mementoes of the funeral of an old Dutch patroon—Schuyler Van Grooten; you’ll see his name on the seals—who owned and tenant-farmed about half of the Connecticut Valley in the 1600s. Mrs. Haversham had an old Dutch diary written by one of his ancestors; I was able to translate only a few pages when I called at her home, but… It seems there were thirteen spoons originally. Rather a significant unlucky number, as the patroon was secretly murdered by friends and relatives who would inherit his estate. One by one, the story goes, he caused six guilty ones to die—exactly as he himself had died. The remaining owners of the monkey spoons became frightened finally and gave theirs away, thereby escaping his vengeance. But…”
“But anybody who owns the spoons inherits the curse? Is that it?” Marcia cried delightedy. “Alan, isn’t it exciting? Oh Bob, do give Mr. Sproull a check before somebody comes in and buys our haunted spoons right out from under our noses!”
The antique dealer looked at her, and sighed. He saw the girl’s brother bite his lips, frowning. But the blond young man grinned at his fiancee, and wrote out a check for the three monkey spoons. Opening the black velvet box, he presented one of the spoons to Marcia with an exaggerated bow. The second he gave to Alan, holding it over his wrist like a proffered rapier. The third spoon he thrust carelessly into the pocket of his tweed coat.
Then, laughing at his horse-play, Marcia offered an arm to each of the two young men, and they marched out together, whistling in harmony, into the sunlit street.
Behind them, old Mr. Sproull—although he was not a very devout Catholic—crossed himself. He ran a finger around under his collar and inhaled noisily, aware all at once of the extreme stuffiness of his little shop. It was unusually close in here today, he thought; almost stifling. He scurried to a window a
nd flung it open, gulping in lungfuls of cool autumn air…as if, for some reason, he found it terribly hard to breath.
It was almost closing time, about a week later, when the bell over his door tinkled again and two of the attractive young threesome walked into his shop. Mr. Sproull scuttled forward to meet them, beaming in recognition. But his smile faded at sight of the grim expression on the blond man’s face, and the stunned, swollen-eyed look of the pretty girl. She had been crying, the old dealer saw—and Bob, her fiance, was tight-lipped and cold with anger.
“Yes?” Mr. Sproull murmured hesitantly. “You…were not satisfied with your purchase?” An odd look of hope leaped into his eyes. “You wish to return the spoons, perhaps? Of course, I shall be glad to refund your…”
For answer, the blond young man thrust one of the delicate little monkey spoons under his nose, pointing to the tiny silver seal welded at the center of the handle.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” he snapped. The antique dealer blinked, and, putting on an old-fashioned pair of square lensed spectacles, peered at the spoon. The blood ebbed slowly from his face.
“I…I don’t understand,” he stammered. “When I sold them to you, the inscriptions read: Schuyler Van Grooten, Born August 3, 1586, Died June 8, 1631. But now…now it reads Alan Fentress, Born Sept. 14, 1924; Died Nov. 5, 1949… Why,” he broke off, “that’s yesterday!”
A sob burst from the girl, and she buried her face against her fiance’s shoulder, weeping wildly. Bob glared at Mr. Sproull.
“Yes!” he said harshly. “And Alan was drowned yesterday—November 3rd, 1949! The death-date engraved on that damned… How the devil did you get hold of Alan’s spoon?” He towered over the old cripple threateningly. “You…sadistic old…! You took that seal off, didn’t you? And welded the new one on, just to…to stir up some freak publicity and boom trade for your crummy little shop! But, Alan!” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Why did you have to pick on Alan? Because you knew he was moody and susceptible to suggestion? Because you knew he’d brood over your little hoax, not telling us? His painting wasn’t going well lately…so you thought it would be a cinch to drive him to suicide! Out there in the lake yesterday, he…he just stopped swimming and went under. When I got his clothes from the locker room, I found this damned spoon you changed! Like a death-sentence…!”
Half in Shadow Page 7
