by Otto Penzler
“Yes, I know,” said the conductor, his voice gentle. “He bought you tickets to the theater. But that is incidental to the story. Please continue.”
“Usually, I have to wait a few minutes for my train,” said Maria. “Not that night. It arrived exactly on schedule. When I reached the el platform, the conductor was signaling to close the doors. The next subway wasn’t for thirty minutes. So, I ran.”
Again, she paused. “I would have made it, too, if it wasn’t for my right heel.” She looked down at her shoes. “It caught in a crack in the cement. Wedged there so tight I couldn’t pull my foot loose. By the time I wrenched free, the train had already left.”
“Two weeks ago,” said Taine, comprehension dawning. “The day of the big subway crash in the Loop.”
“Correct,” said the conductor. “Four minutes after Mrs. Hernandez missed her train, it crashed headlong into another, stalled on the tracks ahead. Fourteen people died when several of the cars sandwiched together. Fifteen should have perished.”
“Fate,” said Taine.
“She was destined to die,” replied the conductor, as if explaining the obvious. “It was woven in the threads. A mistake was made somewhere. Her heel should have missed that crack. There was probably a knot in the twine. I assure you her name was on my passenger list. Maria was scheduled to ride the Midnight El.”
“So, when she didn’t, you decided to correct that mistake on your own,” said Taine, his temper rising. Mrs. Hernandez stood silent, as if frozen in place. Her story told, the conductor ignored her. “I thought a living person on board disturbed the dead?”
“With effort, the rules can be bent,” said the conductor. He sighed. “It grows so boring here, Taine. You cannot imagine how terribly boring. I desired company, someone to talk to. Someone alive, someone with feelings, emotions. The dead no longer care about anything. They are so dull.
“The Three Sisters had to unravel a whole section of the cloth. They needed to weave a new destiny for Mrs. Hernandez to cover up their mistake. Meanwhile, Maria should have been dead but was still alive. Her spirit belonged to neither plane of existence. It took no great effort to bring her on the train as a passenger. And here she will remain, for all eternity, neither living nor dead but in a state between the two. Immortal, undying, unchanging—exactly like me. Forever.”
Taine’s fist clenched in anger. “Who gave you the power to decide her fate? That’s not your job. You’re only the ferryman, nothing more. She doesn’t belong here. I won’t allow you to do this.”
“Your opinion means nothing to me, Mr. Taine,” said the conductor, his features hardening. His left hand rested on the stem of the pocket watch. “There is nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Like hell,” said the detective, and leaped forward.
A big, powerfully built man, he moved with astonishing speed. Once tonight he had caught the conductor by surprise. This time, he did not.
The phantom’s left hand shot out and caught Taine by the throat. Without effort, he raised the detective into the air, so that the man’s feet dangled inches off the floor.
“I am not fooled so easily a second time,” he declared.
Taine flailed wildly with both hands at the conductor. Not one of his punches connected. Desperately, the detective lashed out one foot, hitting the other in the chest. The phantom didn’t even flinch. He hardly seemed to notice Taine’s struggles.
“In my youth,” said the conductor, “I wrestled with Atlas and Hercules. Your efforts pale before theirs, Mr. Taine.”
The conductor’s attention focused entirely on the detective. Neither man nor spirit noticed Mrs. Hernandez cautiously reaching for the silver pocket watch the trainman held negligently in his other hand. Not until she suddenly grabbed it away.
“What!” bellowed the conductor, dropping Taine and whirling about. “You … you …”
“Just because I obeyed your commands,” said Mrs. Hernandez, “didn’t mean that I no longer possessed a will of my own. I was waiting for the right opportunity.” She gestured with her head at the crowds of the dead all around them. “I’m not like them. I’m alive.”
She held the pocket watch tightly, one hand on the stem. “If you try to take this away, I’ll break it. Don’t make me do that.”
Taine, his throat and neck burning with pain, staggered to Mrs. Hernandez’s side. “Let us go. Otherwise, we’ll remain here forever, frozen in time.”
“Nonsense,” said the conductor. “I told you the rules can only be bent so far. Sooner or later, the strain would become too great and snap this train back to the real world.”
“But if Maria breaks your watch,” said Taine, “what then? You admitted needing its powers. Think of the problems maintaining your schedule without it.”
“True enough,” admitted the conductor. He paused for a moment, as if in thought. “Listen, I am willing to offer this compromise. Maria cannot leave this train without my permission. The Fates will not spin her a new destiny as long as she remains on the El. Return the watch to me and I’ll give her a chance to return to her husband. And resume her life on Earth.”
“A chance?” said the detective, suspiciously. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“A gamble, a bet, a wager, Mr. Taine,” said the conductor. “Relieve my boredom. Ask me a question, any question. If I cannot answer, you and Mrs. Hernandez go free. If I guess correctly, then both of you remain here for all eternity—not dead but no longer among the living—on the Midnight El. It will take a great deal of effort, but I can manage. Take it or leave it. I refuse to bend any further.”
“Both of us?” said Taine. “You raised the stakes. And what about disturbing the dead? A little while ago you were anxious for me to leave.”
“As I stated before, the rules can be bent. After all, I am the ferryman. And,” continued Charon, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, “what better way to sharpen your wits, Mr. Taine, than to put your own future at peril?”
“But,” said the detective, “according to your earlier remarks, there’s nothing in the world you don’t know.”
“There is only one omniscient presence,” said the conductor. “Man or spirit, we are mere reflections of his glory. Still,” he added, almost in afterthought, “the universe holds few mysteries for me.”
Shadows gathered around the phantom. He extended one huge hand. “Make your decision. Now. Before I change my mind.” His eyes burned like two flaming coals. “No tricks, either. An answer must exist for your question.”
“Give him the watch,” Taine said to Maria Hernandez.
“Then you agree?” asked the conductor.
“I agree,” replied the detective, calmly.
Chuckling, the conductor twisted the stem of his great silver watch. Immediately, the scenery shifted and the subway car started shaking. They were back in the real world.
“We arrive at the next station in a few minutes,” Charon announced smugly. “You have until then to frame your question, Mr. Taine.”
Maria Hernandez gasped, raising her hands to her face. “But … but … that’s cheating.”
“Not true,” said the conductor. “I promised no specific length of time for our challenge.” He glanced down at his watch. “Your time is ticking by quickly. Better think fast.”
Taine took a deep breath. Not all questions depended on facts for their answer. He prayed that the ferryman would not renege on their bargain once he realized his mistake. “You trapped yourself,” said the detective. “I’m ready now.”
“You are?” said the conductor, frowning. He sounded surprised.
“Of course,” said Taine. “Are you prepared to accept defeat?”
“Impossible,” replied the conductor, bewildered. “I know the answer to every question.”
“Then tell me,” said Taine, “the answer to the question raised when I first boarded the train. When is the exact moment of my death?”
“You will perish …” began the conductor,
then stopped. He stood silent, mouth open in astonishment. Slowly, the fire left his eyes. The phantom shook his head in dismay. “Caught by my own words.”
Not exactly sure what the conductor meant, Maria Hernandez directed her attention to Taine. “I don’t understand. Caught? How?”
“The conductor bragged earlier that he knew the date of my death,” said Taine. “If he answers correctly, then he wins our bet.”
“And,” continued Maria, comprehension dawning, “by the terms of the agreement, you must remain on the Midnight El forever.”
“Thus making his prediction false,” finished Taine, “since I cannot die when he predicts. On the other hand, if he says that I will never die, then he does not know the date of my death. Which means he cannot answer the question. So, whatever he says, I am the winner. The bet is ours.”
With a sigh, the conductor pocketed his watch. “You would have made good company, Mr. Taine.” Metal screeched on metal as the Midnight El pulled into the next station. “This is your stop. Farewell.”
They were outside. Alone. On a deserted subway station. With a cold wind blowing, but neither of them noticed.
Tears filled Maria Hernandez’s eyes. “Are we free? Really free?”
Taine nodded, his thoughts drifting. Already, he searched for an explanation for Maria’s disappearance that would satisfy both the police and her husband.
“As free as any man or woman can be,” he answered somberly. “In the end, we all have a date to keep with the Midnight El.”
PUNCH AND JUDY
Frederick Cowles
ALTHOUGH HIS WORK HAS sometimes been accused of being derivative, perhaps owing too much to M. R. James, Frederick (Ignatius) Cowles (1900–1948) has, nonetheless, produced numerous classic works in the supernatural genre, including “The Vampire of Kaldenstein” (1938), “Princess of Darkness” (1993), and “The Horror of Abbot’s Grange” (1936). Born in Cambridge, England, he graduated from Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and worked for a time at the library of Trinity College, but then moved in 1927 to become chief librarian at Swinton and Pendlebury in Lancashire, a position he held until the end of his life. There, the bibliophilic Cowles edited the library Bulletin, for which he wrote occasional ghost stories. Two collections of supernatural stories were published during his lifetime, The Horror of Abbot’s Grange (1936), which contained his first published story, “The Headless Leper,” and The Night Wind Howls (1938).
The fact that his grandmother was a gypsy may help account for his many wanderings throughout the British Isles as he researched a series of travel books, including Dust of Years: Pilgrimages in Search of the Ancient Shrines of England (1933), ’Neath English Skies (1933), The Magic of Cornwall (1934), Not Far from the Smoke (1935), and Vagabond Pilgrimage (1948), all of which were illustrated by his talented wife, Doris. After World War II ended, he published his most famous book, This Is England (1946). He also wrote children’s books, including The Magic Map (1934) and one for his son, Michael in Bookland (1936).
“Punch and Judy” was originally published in book form in Star Book of Horror No. 1 (London, Star, 1975); it was first collected in Fear Walks the Night: The Complete Ghost Stories of Frederick Cowles (London, Ghost Story Press, 1993).
Punch and Judy
FREDERICK COWLES
I
I came upon him in a green lane near Lewes. My attention was attracted by a long, oblong affair, covered with a shabby waterproof sheet and mounted on a kind of two-wheeled trolley. On one side of this contraption was some faded lettering which, as I drew nearer, I made out to be: Prof. Jack Smith. The Oldest Show in the World. A crude painting of Punch confirmed that this was the set-up of a travelling Punch and Judy showman. Snores from under the hedge revealed the presence of the Professor, who was sprawled on the grass in a most inelegant attitude. An empty bottle by an outstretched hand indicated the source of the gentleman’s profound slumber.
Something urged me to hurry on, for there was an indefinable unpleasantness about the sleeping man. I caught a glimpse of a cruel mouth, the bristly stubble of an unshaven chin, and dirty, greying hair under a dilapidated felt hat. There was even something sinister, I felt, about that oblong article on wheels. Yet there is always an attraction about a Punch and Judy show and I suppose the glamour is shared, in some measure, by the man who operates the puppets. I hesitated just a moment too long. The Professor awakened, struggled into a sitting posture, and regarded me through bleary, bloodshot eyes which were set so close in his head that they gave him a foxy appearance.
“Good afternoon,” I said, feeling that the conventions must at least be satisfied.
“Good afternoon to you,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “Are yer making for Lewes?”
I told him I had just left the town and was out for a country walk.
“Too bloody ’ot fer walkin’,” he said. “I’m fagged out with wheelin’ that there barrer. The blarsted thing gets ’eavier with every mile. I’m gettin’ past this game.”
He dragged himself to his feet, picked up the empty bottle, regarded it ruefully, and threw it into the hedge. It was evident that he had once been a fine figure of a man. But the broad shoulders were stooped, there was an unhealthy look about his flabby limbs, and I fancied there was a hunted look in his eyes. He must have realised I was weighing him up for, as if following on his last remark, he shot out at me: “How old do yer think I am?”
I tried to be kind and hazarded a guess at fifty-six. “So that’s what yer think,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “Well you’re a long way out. Knock off ten an’ you’re still on the wrong side. I’m only forty-five, but I’ve ’ad enough worry these last few days to put me in me grave. It’s a poor case when the only way of gettin’ sleep is ter drink it out of a bottle. An’ with whisky the price it is an’ not so easy to git, there’s too many hours to a day an’ far too many to a night.”
I made sympathetic noises and, to change the subject, said something about the show.
“Aye,” he replied. “The oldest show on earth. All about a murder and a ’anging. It’s queer ’ow folks likes a murder, even if it’s only old Punch knocking Judy’s brains out with ’is stick.” He looked towards the barrow and quickly turned back to me. It was then I knew for certain that he was afraid. Stark naked fear lurked in those shifty, bloodshot eyes. His hand clutched my arm and he spoke in an urgent whisper. “Tell me, guv’ner. Tell me the truth as Gord’s yer maker. Can you see a little dorg—a little white dorg with a black marking on its left ear, a-sittin’ on that barrer?”
I looked in the direction indicated and replied sharply. “There’s no dog there. It must be the whisky making you see things.”
“Not this time it ain’t, guv’ner. It’s bin there fer three days now.” He began to babble something about a sailor, a dog, and a newspaper. I couldn’t make head or tail of what he was saying. Then, with a desperate effort, he seemed to pull himself together and spoke more rationally.
“They all likes the Punch and Judy show an’ that means they likes a good murder. You likes it, mister, an’ knows as it’s true ter life. I’m frightened, guv’ner, an’ that’s Gord’s truth. I’ve got ter tell someone about it else I shall go crackers.” He began babbling again and, convinced I had a madman to deal with, I decided it safer to humour him.
“Tell me what you like,” I said, “if it is going to help you at all. Only, for heaven’s sake, pull yourself together man, if you expect me to listen to you.”
He sat down again and I perched myself on a handy tree stump, ready to make off if he showed any signs of becoming violent. It isn’t an exactly pleasant sensation to know that you are alone in an unfrequented lane with a fellow who may be a dangerous maniac.
II
“Now all this ’appened over ten years ago,” began the Professor. “I was a bit better lookin’ in them days than wot I am now, an’ there was a girl. ’Er name was Daisy—Daisy Greening—an’ I met ’er at Maidstone. She liked the show an’ she lik
ed me, an’ so we became friendly an’ started walkin’ out tergether. I was makin’ good money an’ it wasn’t so long before we decided to get spliced. We got a cottage at Detling fer five bob a week, an’ furnished it with a few odds and ends as I picked up in me travels. It was to ’ave been a proper little love nest. But things don’t always turn out the way they are planned, an’ Daisy as a sweetheart an’ Daisy as a wife was two different things. I soon found out that she ’ad the temper of a bitch, an’ I set meself out to cure it, for I always did ’old as a man should be master in ’is own ’ouse. Well, ter make a long story short, within twelve months she took out a summons agin me fer cruelty, an’ the bleedin’ magistrates made a separation order under which I was ter pay ’er ten bob a week.
“I wasn’t the sort of chap to take all that lyin’ down, mister. Most of the time I was away with me show. But in betweens I was in Maidstone an’ I kept me eye on little Daisy who’d gorn back ter live with ’er dear mother. It wasn’t so long before I found out there was another chap in the offing—a sailor, name of Ted Richards. When ’e was on leaf they’d go orf into the country tergether just like a couple of love-birds, an me ’aving ter pay me ten bob into the Court every week.
“Well, I bided me time. I took good care they never ran into me ’cause I didn’t want ’im ter know what I looked like. I let it go on fer nearly a year, an’ I might ’ave let ’em carry on even longer but for the fact I discovered by accident as they was plannin’ ter set up ’ouse together when ’is next leaf come round. It didn’t matter much for, by then, I was ready ter put an end ter their love dreams. Wouldn’t you feel the same, guv’ner, if yer wife was carryin’ on with another man an’ you was still ’avin’ ter keep ’er out of yer ’ard-earned money?”
He gave me a nasty leer and I hurriedly agreed. I felt a physical repulsion for the man, but I dared not attempt to leave him.
