The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  The idea of shooting their captive was promptly dropped. “We of course can’t shoot him,” the mayor quickly said. “That would be against the law.”

  “Well, what are you going to do with him?” the press demanded.

  “I’m just waitin’ for you mugs to try to do anything with me!” the devil shouted from his cell. “I got powers I ain’t been using yet. I’m waiting to see how far you will go. The minute you go too far, I’m going to start kicking this joint apart. There won’t be one stone left on top of another when I get through.”

  He emphasized this statement by kicking the bars of his cell. The bars, an inch in diameter, were made of honest steel. But with no apparent effort, using only his bare hoof, the devil kicked two of them out.

  “How do you like that?” he asked. “That’s only a sample of what I can do when I get really mad. And,” he ended, “I’m getting pretty mad now.”

  From bulging eyes the mayor stared at the broken bars. He wiped his forehead. “I—ah—feel a sudden illness,” he said to the chief of police. “I—ah leave this matter entirely in your hands. Both I, and the voters of this fair city, will expect a satisfactory conclusion to it. Now I—ah—due to this sudden illness that has overtaken me—am going home.”

  With that, the mayor departed. He was going home. Catching crooks, he felt, was the duty of the police. Disposing of them after they were caught was also within the province of the police department.

  The chief stared wildly around him.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” a reporter asked.

  “A conference,” the chief said. “I’m going to call a conference. I want all the captains to come to my office, immediately, to confer with me.”

  The press would gladly have sat in on that conference but the door was slammed in their face.

  Grady stared ominously at the closed door. “I got a feeling I know what’s going to happen,” he said.

  Five minutes later the door opened and the captains emerged. Captain Gallagher, of the plainclothes squad, came straight to Sergeant Buck. “The chief has had a sudden heart attack,” Captain Gallagher said. “He’s gone home. He went out the side door.”

  The captain paused and looked at the floor. “I feel kind of like I might have a heart attack coming on myself,” he said. “So I’m leaving everything to you, Sergeant. I’m sure you will be able to handle this matter.”

  Captain Gallagher at least had the grace to look ashamed of himself. But ashamed or not, with one last startled look at those broken bars, he left.

  “I knew it,” Grady said bitterly. “Everybody’s going home but us.”

  Sergeant Buck did not even bother to look ashamed. “Under the circumstances,” he said to his two men. “I am going to leave this matter in your hands.”

  “But—” Grady started to protest.

  “You caught him,” said Sergeant Buck. “You damned well have got to decide what to do with him, and do it. I might mention that, if you don’t solve this problem, you will have to settle with me.”

  With these grim words, Sergeant Buck joined the general exodus of the homeward bound.

  * * * *

  Detective Waller was a man who could get an idea. “I rank you,” he said, edging toward the door. “I’ve been in the service longer than you have and I rank you—”

  “No,” said Grady, reaching out and grabbing Waller by the collar. “You stay.”

  Waller stayed. The press also stayed, demanding to know what was going to be done.

  “Well,” said Grady. “There’s one thing that ain’t, been tried.”

  “What’s that?” a reporter asked.

  “I’m not telling,” Grady said. Nor would he give the nervous reporters a single hint of his plan. Instead he went to the locker room, and returning in a few minutes, stalked straight to the door of the cell in which the devil was incarcerated.

  The reporters watched him. He took a key out of his pocket and inserted it In the lock.

  “Are you going to open that door?” a reporter demanded.

  “I am,” Grady answered, turning the key determinedly in the lock.

  Up to this point the press had been brave to the point of foolhardiness. The reporters had badgered the mayor, the chief, the police in general, and even the devil himself, through the bars. But the instant Grady turned the key in the lock, the press, to a man, departed from the building. The repair department spent the next week putting a new door on the front entrance, so hurriedly did the press depart.

  “They didn’t think it was a good idea to unlock this cell,” said Waller, nervously watching the press depart.

  “It may not be,” said Grady. “But I’m going to open it.”

  At his tug the heavy grill slid aside.

  “Come on out,” he said to the occupant of the cell.

  The devil stood there. He was exuding a powerful odor of brimstone and his tail was swishing through the air with a sound like a scythe cutting through grass. There was surprise on his face as he looked at Grady and Waller.

  “What are you two thugs up to now?” he demanded.

  Grady wiped sweat from his face.

  “You’re the two strong arm boys who worked me over and brought me in, ain’t you?” the devil demanded, staring at them.

  “That,” said Grady, “is right. And for that, I now wish to apologize.”

  “Huh?” The devil was startled.

  “We had been kicked around some ourselves,” the detective explained. “So when you showed fight, we naturally worked you over a little. All we can say is we are sorry it happened and it won’t happen again.”

  “Well I’m damned!” the devil gasped.

  “I can’t say about that,” Grady answered. “But if you are willing to let bygones be bygones, we are certainly willing to do the same. We are also willing to turn you loose and let you go to hell in peace.” That is,” he added quickly, “if hell is where you want to go.”

  “Great demons!” the devil gasped. “Do you really mean it?”

  “We certainly do,” Grady answered firmly. “And to show our good faith—” He fumbled in his coat and brought out a bottle—the same bottle that Sergeant Buck had caught them sampling earlier in the evening. “Here,” he finished, thrusting the bottle toward the devil. “Have a drink.”

  For a minute the devil seemed doubtful. Smoke in twin jets continued to puff from his nostrils. Then the smoke began to diminish. A broad grin appeared on his face.

  “I don’t mind if I do,” he said, reaching for the bottle. Taking a long drink, he gazed fondly at the detectives. “This is the first time anything like this has happened to me in centuries. I’m not really a bad guy,” he continued, “but you humans have kicked me around so long that I’ve had to fight back. The result is, I’ve got a bad reputation.”

  “Yes sir,” said Grady, still perspiring. “You sure have. And now,” he continued, “are you willing to go back to hell and leave Center City alone?”

  “Sure,” the devil promptly answered. “Anybody that treats me half way right can be certain they will be treated right in return. I don’t mind admitting that I was about ready to tear this town apart. But since you fellows have treated me right, I’ll call my boys off and we’ll leave Center City alone in the future. Do you mind,” he ended, “if I take this bottle along with me?”

  “Not at all,” said Grady fervently, “Not at all. If you will just wait until I can raid the chief’s locker, I’ll get you a whole case.”

  “By golly!” said the devil, grinning from ear to ear. “You sure are fine fellows. Sure, I’ll wait.”

  * * * *

  Five minutes later, with the case under one arm, in a flash of fire and brimstone, he vanished.

  “Great jumping demons!” Waller gaspe
d, gazing in awe at his companion. “How did you figure out what to do?”

  “We had tried everything but kindness,” Grady said sentimentally. “So I thought I’d try that. Poor devil! Nobody had been nice to him in centuries and he was so surprised he hardly knew what to do. Kindness,” he ended, “whether used on dumb animals or the devil, certainly pays.”

  Thus the story ends. It is interesting to note, however, that the chastened and rather frightened press, in reporting this matter, agreed that it would not be wise to mention the presence of the devil in Center City. It would not be good business. Consequently the papers reported, in broad headlines, that the mayor’s clean-up campaign was a complete success and that Center City was now a fit place to rear children. The papers also supported the mayor’s campaign for reelection, which terminated satisfactorily. The crime wave in Center City, the papers admitted, was not the fault of the mayor.

  It is also interesting to note, when the various interested parties were fully informed of the method by which the devil had been induced to leave Center City, that a new spirit immediately appeared in the community. Whereas in the past lawbreakers had been most harshly dealt with, and honest citizens parking fifteen minutes overtime, had been sternly reproved, now the rare violator of the law was treated with such extraordinary kindness that he was ashamed of himself. And if a citizen should park by a fire plug, the cop on the beat did not snarl at him, but moved the car himself. Kindness, in Center City, is being worked overtime, and even those ex-boy scouts on the police force, Sergeant Buck, Grady, and Waller—the last two receiving promotions as a result of their part in the affair of the devil—are now known for their courtesy and helpfulness. By those who knew them in the sad old days of sin, this is regarded as a modern miracle.

  THE CRACKS OF TIME, by Dorothy Quick

  Originally published in Weird Tales, Sept. 1948.

  It was when the cocktail party I was giving for Myra was at its height that I first saw the face.

  I had been listening to the one hundred and fourth “But my dear, your engagement was such a surprise —You know you have all my best wishes—Now I want to congratulate the lucky man,” and wondering how Myra ever found the right words to reply. Marveling, too, at the ease with which she did so, and passed the people on to Henley, who managed them equally well. They were a good pair, my younger sister Myra and Henley Bradford. They’d have a happy marriage.

  It was to hide the rush of tears to my eyes that I looked down, and saw the face. The sun room’s floor was done with tiles Jason and I had brought from Spain while on our honeymoon—when we had been happy. They were a sea green-blue, some with geometric designs, some perfectly plain, their only ornamentation the patina of the glazing and the dark lines, or cracks, which time had given them. In this particular tile that caught my eyes the cracks had patterned a face. It was only a vague outline, the profile of a man with full, thick lips—sensuous lips, slanted eyes, and a forehead from which the hair rose up into a point that looked like a horn. There was nothing more that was definite. The rest was blurred and vague, like some modern, impressionistic picture, of the shadowy school which suggests its subject, rather than portrays it.

  I was about to call out and tell the crowd what I’d discovered. I thought I’d make a game of it, because, in a way, it was like “Statues,” or finding shapes in clouds. The words “See what I’ve found!” were actually on my lips when the eye of the face looked a warning from under its slanting lid, and then the lid came down, covering the eye.

  It was a trick of lighting, of course. The fact was in profile and the eye was open. The shadow of someone’s foot in passing must have made the effect of the lid closing. The eye looking at me in warning was imagination plus several cocktails. But what I had been going to say was still-born. I didn’t mention the profile but kept looking at it as the afternoon progressed, and it seemed to me that the face became clearer and more sharply etched. I began thinking it resembled the ancient sculptures of Pan.

  By the time the guests had drunk themselves into a state of hilarity I had forgotten the face. I didn’t notice it again until Jason came over to me and, in a rare mood of affection, put his arm around my shoulder. “Sheila,” he whispered in a voice liquor had thickened, “You’re the best looking girl here. Why don’t we kiss and make up?”

  I knew he wouldn’t have said that sober. I also knew that our quarreling had gone beyond the point where we could follow his suggestion. Jason’s charms were legion but so was his drinking and the other women that went with it. I had out-forgiven myself:—there just wasn’t any more of that virtue left in me. Still, perhaps I should try once more. Maybe it wouldn’t be right to reject this offer.

  It was then I looked down and the face was moving from side to side, obviously saying “No” to my charitable inclinations. “No, no, no!” I caught myself up sharp. This was ridiculous; I was letting my imagination run away with me. The afternoon shadows were tricky things and I certainly couldn’t let shifting light betray by better impulses.

  So, when Jason repeated his question, kissing the place behind my ear that he called his, I said “Yes, Jason.”

  It seemed to me then that the one eye of the face completely closed and that I saw a tear trickle down the high-boned cheek. It was ridiculous but that’s the impression I received.

  “Hi, folks,” Jason was calling, as he swirled me around in a wild dance. “Let’s have another round. I’m celebrating the fact I’ve got the loveliest wife in the world, the kindest, the sweetest—”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the adjectives. My handkerchief had dropped during the turns we’d made. As Jason talked I bent down for it. The tiny square of white had fallen over the face. When I picked it up, it was wet. Liquor? Something spilled from a cocktail? That’s what I thought, but when I lifted it to my nose there was no alcoholic odor. I touched it to my lips, the tip end of my tongue, and there, was the bitter salt taste of tears.

  And I had seen a tear roll down the face! Incredible, but in my mouth was the tang of a man’s tears. I looked down. The face was much clearer; the back of the head was completely filled in, with the hair clustered on it dark and curly. The eye was open now and it had acquired depth and perspective. It looked down at me with admiration and a kind of pathetic appeal. The full lips trembled. It was as though they were calling out for me to lean over and touch them.

  So strong was the illusion that in another moment I might have done so, but Jason came back just then with two cocktails. “Here you are, darling.” He handed one to me.

  I took it, and he encircled me with his arm. “Sweet, let’s drink to us!” He was very tight but his charm was in the ascendancy. I drank with him and forgot about the face.

  * * * *

  The reconciliation proved very absorbing. Not since our honeymoon and the first year of our married life had Jason been so completely devoted. It was as though the five miserable years through which we had quarreled had not existed. We were suddenly back, continuing the first twelve months of our felicity. I had fully intended to examine the tile with the face most carefully the next day, when there would be no feet to cast shadows, no liquor to give ideas. But as it happened it was over a week before I went in the sun porch.

  To begin with, there was the new devoted Jason, a round of parties for Myra, and several days of rainy weather, which always put the desirability of the sun porch at low ebb.

  The cocktail party had been on a Saturday. It was exactly ten days later—Tuesday, to be definite—that the sun shone so brightly I said I’d have my lunch in the sun room. I had completely forgotten the face by then.

  But once seated on the red bamboo chair with my lunch tray on a matching table before me, the face obtruded itself into my vision. It was slightly to my right and not as much en profile as I’d thought. It was more three-quarter; there was a glimpse of the other cheek, more than a suggestio
n of the other eye. The original one looked at me reproachfully.

  I caught my breath. The effect was really amazing. Since I’d seen it the face had gained dimensions too. There was depth and thickness to it now, and it was larger— the hair had spread over to the next tile. I leaned over and examined the lines—the cracks of time. They were deep, almost fissure-like, quite outstanding against the blue-green glaze. It was almost as though some artist had made a sketch freehand of Pan, before the tiles went to the kiln, and it had lain under the glaze for years until time and wear had brought it back to the surface. I had no hesitancy about knowing it was meant to be Pan; the little forehead horns were very clear now, and the lush, sensuous lips could have belonged to none other. Pan in the deep wood, admiring a dryad, with all the connotations of a satyr.

  I wasn’t particularly interested in my lunch but I went on eating it automatically, watching the face as I did so, surprised to see the reproach melt away to admiration, then longing, and finally desire undisguised.

  At that point I caught myself up sharply. “Sheila, you’re being ridiculous,” I said aloud.

  Johnson, the maid, appeared in the doorway, “Did you call?” she asked.

  “No.” I was amused. She’d heard me talking to myself. “But now you’re here, you can take the tray. I’ll just keep my tea.”

  When she came over I pointed down to the tile. “Look, Johnson. Don’t you think it’s funny the way those lines on that tile make a face?”

  She peered down and then drew back. “It is, indeed, Madame, a strange face—not quite human, although it’s not very clear, is it?”

  The outlines weren’t vague to me now but they had been when I had first seen them. Suddenly there was a voice in my ear. “You have tasted the salt of my tears; that is why you see more clearly.”

  The tea cup I had been holding crashed to the floor, the china ringing hard against the tiles as it shattered into bits. I found control of myself quickly. “Oh, Johnson, I am sorry. It just slipped out of my hands.”