“I don’t care a damn what you say, I’m going out to look for her!” Maxwell declared as he rose from his seat and strode to the library table, from the drawer of which he took a heavy pistol. “You shot him once and wounded him, so I know he’s vulnerable to bullets, and when I find him—”
“But certainly,” the Frenchman interrupted. “We heartily agree with you, my friend. But let us first go to Doctor Trowbridge’s house where we, too, may secure weapons. Then we shall be delighted to accompany you upon your hunt.”
As we started for my place he whispered in my ear: “Prepare the knock-out drops as soon as we are there, Friend Trowbridge. It would be suicide for him to seek that monster now. He can not hit a barn-side with a pistol, can not even draw it quickly from his pocket. His chances are not one in a million if he meets the wolf, and if we let him go we shall be playing right into the adversary’s hands.”
I nodded agreement as we drove along, and when I’d parked the car, I turned to Maxwell. “Better come in and have a drink before we start,” I invited. “It’s cold tonight, and we may not get back soon.”
“All right,” agreed the unsuspecting youth. “But make it quick, I’m itching to catch sight of that damned fiend. When I meet him he won’t get off as easily as he did in his brush with Doctor de Grandin.”
Hastily I concocted a punch of Jamaica rum, hot water, lemon juice and sugar, adding fifteen grains of chloral hydrate to John Maxwell’s, and hoping the sugar and lemon would disguise its taste while the pungent rum would hide its odor. “To our successful quest,” de Grandin proposed, raising his steaming glass and looking questioningly at me for assurance that the young man’s drink was drugged.
Maxwell raised his goblet, but ere he set it to his lips there came a sudden interruption. An oddly whining, whimpering noise it was, accompanied by a scratching at the door, as though a dog were outside in the night and importuning for admission.
“Ah?” de Grandin put his glass down on the hall table and reached beneath his left armpit where the small but deadly Belgian automatic pistol nestled in its shoulder-holster. “Ah-ha? We have a visitor, it seems.” To me he bade:
“Open the door, wide and quickly, Friend Trowbridge; then stand away, for I shall likely shoot with haste, and it is not your estimable self that I desire to kill.”
I followed his instructions, but instead of the gray horror I had expected at the door, I saw a slender canine form with hair so silver-gray that it was almost white, which bent its head and wagged its tail, and fairly fawned upon us as it slipped quickly through the opening then looked at each of us in turn with great, expressive topaz eyes.
“Ah, mon Dieu,” exclaimed the Frenchman, sheathing his weapon and starting forward, “it is Madame Sarah!”
“Sallie?” cried John Maxwell incredulously, and at his voice the beast leaped toward him, rubbed against his knees, then rose upon its hind feet and strove to lick his face.
“Ohé, quel dommage!” de Grandin looked at them with tear-filled eyes; then:
“Your pardon, Madame Sarah, but I do not think you came to us without a reason. Can you lead us to the place where he abides? If so we promise you shall be avenged within the hour.”
The silver wolf dropped to all fours again, and nodded its sleek head in answer to his question; then, as he hesitated, came slowly up to him, took the cuff of his evening coat gently in its teeth and drew him toward the door.
“Bravo, ma chère, lead on, we follow!” he exclaimed; then, as we donned our coats, he thrust a pistol in my hand and cautioned: “Watch well, my friend, she seems all amiable, but wolves are treacherous, man-wolves a thousand times more so; it may be he has sent her to lead us to a trap. Should anything untoward transpire, shoot first and ask your foolish questions afterward. That way you shall increase your chances of dying peacefully in bed.”
The white beast trotting before us, we hastened down the quiet, moonlit street. After forty minutes’ rapid walk, we stopped before a small apartment house. As we paused to gaze, the little wolf once more seized Jules de Grandin’s sleeve between her teeth and drew him forward.
It was a little house, only three floors high, and its front was zigzagged with iron fire escapes. No lights burned in any of the flats, and the whole place had in air of vacancy, but our lupine guide led us through the entrance way and down the ground floor hall until we paused before the door of a rear apartment.
De Grandin tried the knob cautiously, found the lock made fast, and after a moment dropped to his knees, drew out a ringful of fine steel instruments and began picking the fastening as methodically as though he were a professional burglar. The lock was “burglar-proof” but its makers had not reckoned with the skill of Jules de Grandin. Before five minutes had elapsed he rose with a pleased exclamation, turned the knob and thrust the door back.
“Hold her, Friend Jean,” he bade John Maxwell, for the wolf was trembling with a nervous quiver, and straining to rush into the apartment. To me he added: “Have your gun ready, good Friend Trowbridge, and keep by me. He shall not take us unawares.”
Shoulder to shoulder we entered the dark doorway of the flat, John Maxwell and the wolf behind us. For a moment we paused while de Grandin felt along the wall, then click; the snapping of a wall-switch sounded, and the dark room blazed with sudden light.
The wolf-man’s human hours were passed in pleasant circumstances. Every item of the room proclaimed it the abode of one whose wealth and tastes were well matched. The walls were hung with light gray paper, the floor was covered with a Persian rug and wide, low chairs upholstered in long-napped mohair invited the visitor to rest. Beneath the arch of a marble mantelpiece a wood fire had been laid, ready for the match, while upon the shelf a tiny French-gilt clock beat off the minutes with sharp, musical clicks. Pictures in profusion lined the walls, a landscape by an apt pupil of Corot, an excellent imitation of Botticelli, and, above the mantel, a single life-sized portrait done in oils.
Every item of the portrait was portrayed with photographic fidelity, and we looked with interest at the subject, a man in early middle life, or late youth, dressed in the uniform of a captain of Greek cavalry. His cloak was thrown back from his braided shoulders, displaying several military decorations, but it was the face which captured the attention instantly, making all the added detail of no consequence. The hair was light, worn rather long, and brushed straight back from a high, wide forehead. The eyes were blue, and touched with an expression of gentle melancholy. The features were markedly Oriental in cast, but neither coarse nor sensual. In vivid contrast to the hair and eyes was the pointed beard upon the chin; for it was black as coal, yet by some quaint combination of the artist’s pigments it seemed to hide blue lights within its sable depths. Looking from the blue-black beard to the sad blue eyes it seemed to me I saw a hint, the merest faint suggestion, of wolfish cruelty in the face.
“It is undoubtlessly he,” de Grandin murmured as he gazed upon the portrait. “He fits poor Madame Sarah’s description to a nicety. But where is he in person? We can not fight his picture; no, of course not.”
Motioning us to wait, he snapped the light off and drew a pocket flashlight from his waistcoat. He tiptoed through the door, exploring the farther room by the beam of his searchlight, then rejoined us with a gesture of negation.
“He is not here,” he announced softly; “but come with me, my friends, I would show you something.”
He led the way to the adjoining chamber, which, in any other dwelling, would have been the bedroom. It was bare, utterly unfurnished, and as he flashed his light around the walls we saw, some three or four feet from the floor, a row of paw-prints, as though a beast had stood upon its hind legs and pressed its forefeet to the walls. And the prints were marked in reddish smears—blood.
“You see?” he asked, as though the answer to his question were apparent. “He has no bed; he needs none, for at night he is a wolf, and sleeps denned down upon the floor. Also, you observe, he has not lacked for provender
—le bon Dieu grant it was the blood of animals that stained his claws!”
“But where is he?” asked Maxwell, fingering his pistol.
“S-s-sh!” warned the Frenchman. “I do not think that he is far away. The window, you observe her?”
“Well?”
“Précisément. She is a scant four feet from the ground, and overlooks the alley. Also, though she was once fitted with bars, they have been removed. Also, again, the sash is ready-raised. Is it not all perfect?”
“Perfect? For what?”
“For him, parbleu! For the werewolf’s entrances and exits. He comes running down the alley, leaps agilely through the open window, and voilà, he is here. Or leaps out into the alleyway with a single bound, and goes upon his nightly hunts. He may return at any moment; it is well that we await him here.”
The waiting minutes stretched interminably. The dark room where we crouched was lighted from time to time, then cast again into shadow, as the racing clouds obscured or unveiled the full moon’s visage. At length, when I felt I could no longer stand the strain, a low, harsh growl from our four-footed companion brought us sharply to attention. In another moment we heard the soft patter-patter, scratch-scratch of a long-clawed beast running lightly on the pavement of the alleyway outside, and in a second more a dark form bulked against the window’s opening and something landed upon the floor.
For a moment there was breathless silence; then: “Bon soir, Monsieur Loup-garou,” de Grandin greeted in a pleasant voice. “You have unexpected visitors.
“Do not move,” he added threateningly as a hardly audible growl sounded from the farther corner of the room and we heard the scraping of long nails upon the floor as the wolf-thing gathered for a spring; “there are three of us, and each one is armed. Your reign of terror draws to a close, Monsieur.”
A narrow, dazzling shaft of light shot from his pocket torch, clove through the gloom and picked the crouching wolf-thing’s form out of the darkness. Fangs bared, black lips drawn back in bestial fury, the gaunt, gray thing was backed into the corner, and from its open jaws we saw a thin trickle of slabber mixed with blood. It had been feeding, so much was obvious. “But what had been its food?” I wondered with a shudder.
“It is your shot, Friend Jean,” the little Frenchman spoke. “Take careful aim and do not jerk the pistol when you fire.” He held his flashlight steadily upon the beast, and a second later came the roar of Maxwell’s pistol.
The acrid smoke stung in our nostrils, the reverberation of the detonation almost deafened us, and—a little fleck of plaster fell down from the wall where Maxwell’s bullet was harmlessly embedded.
“Ten thousand stinking camels!” Jules de Grandin cried, but got no further, for with a maddened, murderous growl the wolf-man sprang, his lithe body describing a graceful arc as it hurtled through the air, his cruel, white fangs flashing terribly as he leaped upon John Maxwell and bore him to the floor before he could fire a second shot.
“Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!” de Grandin swore, playing his flashlight upon the struggling man and brute and leaping forward, seeking for a chance to use his pistol.
But to shoot the wolf would have meant that he must shoot the man, as well; for the furry body lay upon the struggling Maxwell, and as they thrashed and wrestled on the floor it was impossible to tell, at times, in the uncertain light, which one was man and which was beast.
Then came a deep, low growl of pent-up, savage fury, almost an articulate curse, it seemed to me, and like a streak of silver-plated vengeance the little she-wolf leaped upon the gray-brown brute which growled and worried at the young man’s throat.
We saw the white teeth bared, we saw them flesh themselves in the wolf-thing’s shoulder, we saw her loose her hold, and leap back, avoiding the great wolf’s counter-stroke, then close with it again, sinking needle-fangs in the furry ruff about its throat.
The great wolf shook her to and fro, battered her against the walls and floor as a vicious terrier mistreats a luckless rat, but she held on savagely, though we saw her left forepaw go limp and knew the bone was broken.
De Grandin watched his chance, crept closer, closer, till he almost straddled the contending beasts; then, darting forth his hand he put his pistol to the tawny-gray wolf’s ear, squeezed the trigger and leaped back.
A wild, despairing wail went up, the great, gray form seemed suddenly to stiffen, to grow longer, heavier, to shed its fur and thicken in limbs and body-structure. In a moment, as we watched the horrid transformation, we beheld a human form stretched out upon the floor; the body of a handsome man with fair hair and black beard, at the throat of which a slender silver-gray she-wolf was worrying.
“It is over, finished, little brave one,” de Grandin announced, reaching out a hand to stroke the little wolf’s pale fur. “Right nobly have you borne yourself this night; but we have much to do before our work is finished.”
The she-wolf backed away, but the hair upon her shoulders was still bristling, and her topaz eyes were jewel-bright with the light of combat. Once or twice, despite de Grandin’s hand upon her neck, she gave vent to throaty growls and started toward the still form which lay upon the floor in a pool of moonlight, another pool fast gathering beneath its head where de Grandin’s bullet had crashed through its skull and brain.
John Maxwell moved and moaned a tortured moan, and instantly the little wolf was by his side, licking his cheeks with her pink tongue, emitting little pleading whines, almost like the whimpers of a child in pain.
When Maxwell regained consciousness it was pathetic to see the joy the wolf showed as he sat up and feebly put a groping hand against his throat.
“Not dead, my friend, you are not nearly dead, thanks to the bravery of your noble lady,” de Grandin told him with a laugh. Then, to me:
“Do you go home with them, Friend Trowbridge. I must remain to dispose of this”—he prodded the inert form with his foot—“and will be with you shortly.
“Be of good cheer, ma pauvre,” he told the she-wolf, “you shall be soon released from the spell which binds you; I swear it; though never need you be ashamed of what you did this night, whatever form you might have had while doing it.”
John Maxwell sat upon the divan, head in hands, the wolf crouched at his feet, her broken paw dangling pitifully, her topaz eyes intent upon his face. I paced restlessly before the fire. De Grandin had declared he knew how to release her from the spell—but what if he should fail? I shuddered at the thought. What booted it that we had killed the man-wolf if Sarah must be bound in wolfish form henceforth?
“Tiens my friends,” de Grandin announced himself at the library door, “he took a lot of disposing of, that one. First I had to clean the blood from off his bedroom floor, then I must lug his filthy carcass out into the alley and dispose of it as though it had been flung there from a racing motor. Tomorrow I doubt not the papers will make much of the mysterious murder. ‘A gangster put upon the spot by other gangsters,’ they will say. And shall we point out their mistake? I damn think no.”
He paused with a self-satisfied chuckle; then: “Friend Jean, will you be good enough to go and fetch a negligee for Madame Sarah?” he asked. “Hurry, mon vieux, she will have need of it anon.”
As the young man left us: “Quick, my friends,” he ordered. “You, Madame Sarah, lie upon the floor before the fire, thus. Bien.
“Friend Trowbridge, prepare bandages and splints for her poor arm. We can not set it now, but later we must do so. Certainly.
“Now, my little brave one,” he addressed the wolf again, “this will hurt you sorely, but only for a moment.”
Drawing a small flask from his pocket he pulled the cork and poured its contents over her.
“It’s holy water,” he explained as she whined and shivered as the liquid soaked into her fur. “I had to stop to steal it from a church.”
A knife gleamed in the firelight, and he drove the gleaming blade into her head, drew it forth and shook it toward the fire,
so that a drop of blood fell hissing in the leaping flames. Twice more he cut her with the knife, and twice more dropped her blood into the fire; then, holding the knife lightly by the handle, he struck her with the flat of the blade between the ears three times in quick succession, crying as he did so: “Sarah Maxwell, I command that you once more assume your native form in the name of the Most Holy Trinity!”
A shudder passed through the wolf’s frame. From nose to tail-tip she trembled, as though she lay in her death agony; then suddenly her outlines seemed to blur. Pale fur gave way to paler flesh, her dainty lupine paws became dainty human hands and feet, her body was no more that of a wolf, but of a soft, sweet woman.
But life seemed to have gone from her. She lay flaccid on the hearth rug, her mouth a little open, eyes closed, no movement of her breast perceptible. I looked at her with growing consternation, but:
“Quickly, my friends, the splints, the bandages!” de Grandin ordered.
I set the broken arm as quickly as I could, and as I finished young John Maxwell rushed into the room.
“Sallie, beloved!” he fell beside his wife’s unconscious form, tears streaming down his face.
“Is she—is she—” he began, but could not force himself to finish, as he looked imploringly at Jules de Grandin.
“Dead?” the little man supplied. “By no means; not at all, my friend. She is alive and healthy. A broken arm mends quickly, and she has youth and stamina. Put on her robe and bear her up to bed. She will do excellently when she has had some sleep.
“But first observe this, if you please,” he added, pointing to her side. Where the cicatrix with its tuft of wolf-hair had marred her skin, there was now only smooth, unspotted flesh. “The curse is wholly lifted,” he declared delightedly. “You need no more regard it, except as an unpleasant memory.”
“John, dear,” we heard the young wife murmur as her husband bore her from the room, “I’ve had such a terrible dream. I dreamed that I’d been turned into a wolf, and—”
The Best of Jules de Grandin Page 46
