The doctor’s face took on a look of sudden interest. “That’s an angle I hadn’t thought of… What do you have in mind?”
“For the penalty?”
“No, for the operation. My colleague would take care of the other.”
“All I need for the perfect murder is a light snowfall.”
“Go ahead,” said Dr. Arsoldi.
“Every night my cousin takes a walk in the park after dinner. He always takes the same route. He makes a complete circuit of the lake and then comes back across the middle of the commons. Nobody is ever out there at night. When he’s found in the morning with his throat tom out, and no tracks in the snow but his own and those of a wolf, I think it would be rather difficult to implicate me in the affair.”
“So you want to become a werewolf,” said Dr. Arsoldi. “It’s a nice idea. I’m sure my colleague would be pleased with it.”
Peter produced the money again. “Is it a deal?”
An obvious struggle went on inside Dr. Arsoldi. Finally it subsided, and he picked up the sheaf of bills and dropped them in his pocket.
“There’s a market half a block west,” he said. “If you’ll run down and pick me up a live chicken, I’ll take up this matter with my colleague at once.”
* * * *
There was a slight powdering of snow drifting down from a gray sky when Peter Vincent next saw the good doctor.
“Here’s what you asked for,” he said, tossing two small packages on the desk. “And don’t think finding a sample of wolf blood in New York City is an easy job… I tried half the veterinarians in town before I found one who could help me. As luck would have it, he was boarding an animal act whose owner was down with the flu. I passed myself off as a biologist who was working on canine blood types and got a specimen without any trouble. He sent it over by special messenger a half an hour ago.”
“And the sample from your cousin?”
“I managed to break a glass at the right time and scratched his hand slightly. I got a little smudge on my handkerchief. It’s in the package with the brown wrapping.”
Dr. Arsoldi rubbed his hands. “Fine,” he said, “Fine! Come back in about an hour and I’ll have everything ready for you…
When Peter returned, there was a strong odor of brimstone in the air. He sniffed and looked at Dr. Arsoldi questioningly.
“Oh, that,” said Dr. Arsoldi. “He evidently comes from some place with an atmosphere containing a high percentage of sulphur dioxide. There’s no need to assume that every living thing in the Universe has to be an oxygen breather.” He sounded as if he were more interested in convincing himself than he was Peter. “If one postulates a greatly advanced race which has developed a method for warping space that makes instantaneous transmission of material objects possible—”
“What about the chicken?” interrupted Peter.
“That is a bit difficult to explain, I’ll admit, but that’s no reason to—”
Peter interrupted again. “Did he bring it?”
Dr. Arsoldi nodded and handed him a small bottle containing perhaps an ounce of a colorless liquid.
“Is that all?” said Peter. “I expected something more spectacular.”
“You’ll find the results impressive enough. Two minutes after you drink it, you’ll take on your new form. The rest is up to you.”
“Thanks,” said Peter, pocketing the bottle. “Keep your eye on the newspapers. This should rate headlines in tomorrow’s noon edition.”
“I hope there’s no slip-up,” said Dr. Arsoldi. “Remember, I have to stand surety for you.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Peter breezily.
“I hope for your sake I haven’t. If you suddenly changed your mind, the consequences would be equally unfortunate for you. Your suggestion about arranging things so you couldn’t back out was an excellent one. Have you wondered why I wanted a sample of your cousin’s blood?”
“I was a bit curious,” admitted Peter.
“It was my colleague’s idea. He used it in preparing the contents of the bottle I just gave you. Once you make the change, you won’t be able to regain human form until you’ve tasted your cousin’s arterial blood.”
“I see what you mean,” Peter said thoughtfully. “I hope none of the park policemen carry guns loaded with silver bullets.”
* * * *
Peter Vincent checked his watch, opened his bedroom window, removed his clothes, and then, satisfied that everything was ready, tossed down the contents of the little bottle in one gulp.
There was a sudden buzz from the telephone beside his bed. Peter grimaced in annoyance and picked it up.
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Arnett, down at the Stuyvesant Dog and Cat Hospital. I’ve just discovered that an unfortunate mistake was made, and I thought I’d better call you at once.”
Peter felt a sudden strangeness that warned him that the change was about to begin.
“What mistake?” he asked roughly.
Dr. Arnett sounded most apologetic. “I should have got the specimen myself, but Mrs. Datesman’s Angora had a terrible toothache, and you know how Angoras are.”
“No, I don’t,” snapped Peter. “What about the sample?”
“Well, I sent the kennelman to get it, and it seems he got mixed up and drew a specimen from the wrong animal. You see, Mrs. Lincoln’s son brought her ‘Wolfie’ in this morning for a mange treatment, and…
Peter started to say something, but his vocal chords weren’t operating.
“I know it sounds stupid,” said Arnett, “but the kennelman thought I said ‘Wolfie’ instead of wol—”
Peter’s ears joined his vocal chords as he felt a sudden twisting, slithering change start inside him. It didn’t hurt; he just felt different—as if he had suddenly turned into an almost fluid jelly and was about to run out across the floor. All his senses were disconnected. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear; he was lost in a wet and sloppy darkness. Then he felt a sudden surge of rhythmic contractions as the undifferentiated cellular mass that had been his body began to take on a new shape.
Suddenly he could see again—but not very well or very far. And he could breathe—but only with difficulty. He seemed possessed of a severe case of asthma. When his sense of touch returned, it brought with it an intolerable itch on his left side. One hind foot kicked automatically at a large hairless spot where the mange was especially severe, but it didn’t do much good. Without thinking, he turned and snapped at the smarting area. That didn’t do much good either.
From the telephone that rested on the thick carpet beside him, the voice of Dr. Arnett went on and on in explanation and apology.
Peter didn’t wait to hear him out. He had urgent business to attend to.
* * * *
Anthony Lan walked over to the large picture-window, pulled aside the curtains, and looked out into the darkness.
“Expecting somebody, dear?” asked his wife Muriel.
He shook his head. “I just wanted to see if he was still there.”
“Who?”
“Take a look. There beside the elm tree.”
Muriel peered out the window. “Why, the poor little fellow! He looks cold. Where did he come from?”
“He followed me home from the park. Darn near scared the life out of me, too. I was crossing the common when I heard a snarl from a clump of bushes off to one side. It wasn’t a very snarly snarl—if you know what I mean—but it gave me a bit of a turn. I swung around and saw him waddling toward me as fast as his legs would carry him, snorting and puffing like a steam engine. When he got almost to me he crouched down and made a leap as if he was trying to get up to lick my face, but he was so old and fat he was barely able to get off the ground. I tried to shoo him away, bu
t he kept following me. Every once in a while he’d make another run and try to jump up on me again.”
“Sounds like love at first sight,” laughed Muriel. She looked out again at the small white shape that crouched shivering on the snow-covered lawn. “Tony, it’s cold out there. We can’t leave the poor thing out all night. He’ll freeze to death.”
“He’s old and he’s mangy and he probably smells,” Anthony grumbled. “He’d be better off out of his misery.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m going to bring him in. I’ll call the Animal Rescue League to come around and pick him up in the morning.”
When Muriel returned with the animal, she placed it gently down on the rug in the middle of the living room. Anthony sniffed and buried himself behind his newspaper. Peter lay quiet for a moment, soaking in warmth and gathering his strength. Then, with a sudden pistoning of little legs, he hurled himself at his cousin.
The newspaper went flying, and for a moment there was a mad tangle of dog and man.
“Get this beast off me,” yelled Anthony.
Muriel finally stopped laughing long enough to go over and pick the small dog up by the scruff of the neck. She held it up.
“He likes you.”
“Likes me in a pig’s eye! He acted as if he wanted to tear my throat out!”
“With what?” said Muriel. “The poor old fellow hasn’t got any teeth.” She sat down with the fat little poodle in her lap and patted him on the head. “Maybe he has senile delusions,” she said. “Maybe he thinks he’s a wolf.”
* * * *
Eleven seconds after the Animal Rescue League put Peter Vincent out of his misery, Dr. Arsoldi’s colleague arrived to put him in his.
The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales Page 59
