The Dog Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  “The moments passed in a breathless state of tension. He stared at the eyes, and the eyes stared back at him. Once he endeavored to rise, but a dead weight seemed to fall on his shoulders and hold him back; and twice, when he tried to speak—to make some sound, no matter what, to break the appalling silence—his throat closed as if under the pressure of cruel, relentless fingers.

  “But the Ultima Thule of his emotions had yet to come. There was a slight stir behind the canvas, a thud, a hollow groan that echoed and re-echoed throughout the room like the muffled clap of distant thunder, and the eyes suddenly underwent a metamorphosis—they grew glazed and glassy like the eyes of a dead person. A cold shudder ran through the Dean, his hair stood on end, his blood turned to ice. Again he essayed to move, to summon help; again he failed. The strain on his nerves proved more than he could bear. A sudden sensation of nausea surged through him; his eyes swam; his brain reeled; there was a loud buzzing in his ears; he knew no more. Some moments later one of the College servants arrived at the door with a bundle of letters, and on receiving no reply to his raps, entered.

  “‘Good heavens! What’s the matter?’ he cried, gazing at the figure of the Dean, lolling head downward on the table. ‘Merciful Prudence, the gentleman is dead! No, he ain’t—some of the young gents will be sorry enough for that—he’s fainted.’

  “The good fellow poured out some water in a tumbler, and was proceeding to sprinkle the Dean’s face with it, when, a noise attracting his attention, he peered round at the picture. It was bulging from the wall; it was falling! And, Good God, what was that that was falling with it—that huge black object? A coffin? No, not a coffin, but a corpse! The servant ran to the door shrieking, and, in less than a minute, passage and room were filled to overflowing with a scared crowd of enquiring officials and undergraduates.

  “‘What has happened? What’s the matter with the Dean? Has he had a fit, or what? And the picture? And—Anderson? Anderson lying on the floor! Hurt? No, not hurt, dead! Murdered!’

  “In an instant there was silence, and the white-faced throng closed in on one another as if for protection. In front of them, beside the fallen picture, lay the body of the most gay and popular student in the College—Bob Anderson—Bob Anderson with a stream of blood running from a deep incision in his back made with some sharp instrument, that had been driven home with tremendous force. He had, without doubt, been murdered. But by whom? Then one of the undergraduates, a bright, boyish, fair-haired giant, named O’Farroll, immensely popular both on account of his prowess in sport and an untold number of the most audacious escapades, spoke out:

  “‘I saw Anderson, about an hour ago, crossing the quadrangle. I asked him where he was going, and he replied, ‘To old Kelly. I intend paying him out for “gating” me last week.’ I enquired how, and he replied: ‘I’ve a glorious plan. You know that portrait stuck over his mantel-shelf? Well! In poking about the room the other day, when the old man was out, I had a great find. Directly behind the picture is the door of a secret room, so neatly covered by the designs on the wall that it is not discernible. It was only by the merest fluke I discovered it. I was taking down the picture with the idea of “touching up” the face, when my knuckles bumped against the panels of the wall, touched a spring, and the door flew open, revealing an apartment about six by eight feet large. I at once explored it, and found it could be entered by the chimney. An idea then struck me—I would play a trick upon the Dean by hiding in this secret chamber one evening while he was feeding, cutting out the eyes of the portrait, and peering through the cavities at him. And this,’ O’Farroll continued, pointing at the fallen picture, ‘is what he evidently did after I left him. You can see the eyes of the portrait have been removed.’

  “‘That is so, shure,’ one of the other undergraduates, Mick Maguire—six feet two in his socks, every inch—exclaimed. ‘And, what is more, I knew all about it. Anderson told me yesterday what he was going to do, and I wanted to join him, but he said I would never get up the chimney, I would stick there. And, bedad, I think he was right.’

  “At this remark, despite the grimness of the moment, several of those present laughed.

  “‘Come, come, gentlemen!’ one of the officials cried, ‘this is no time for levity. Mr. Anderson has been murdered, and the question is—by whom?’

  “‘Then, if that’s the only thing that is troubling you,’ O’Farroll put in, ‘I fancy the solution is right here at hand,’ and he looked significantly at the Dean.

  “An ominous silence followed, during which all eyes were fixed on John Kelly, some anxiously, some merely enquiringly, but not a few angrily, for Kelly, as I have said before, had made himself particularly obnoxious just then by his behavior to the rowdier students; and, as has ever been the case at K., these formed no small portion of the community.

  “The Dean hardly seemed to realize the situation. The dignity of office blinded him to danger.

  “‘What do you mean?’ he spluttered. ‘I know nothing of what happened to Mr. Anderson! Really, really, O’Farroll, your presumption is preposterous.’

  “‘There was no one else in here but you and he, Mr. Kelly,’ O’Farroll retorted coolly. ‘It’s only natural we should think you know something of what happened!’

  “On the arrival of the police who had been sent for somewhat reluctantly—for the prestige of the College at that date was very dear to all—the premises were thoroughly searched, and, no other culprit being found, first of all Dean Kelly was apprehended, and then, to make a good job of it, his accuser, Denis O’Farroll.

  “All the College was agog with excitement. No one could believe the Dean was a murderer; and it was just as inconceivable to think O’Farroll had committed the deed. And yet if neither of them had killed Anderson, who in God’s name had killed him?

  “The night succeeding the affair, whilst the Dean and O’Farroll were still in jail awaiting the inquest, a party of undergraduates were discussing the situation in Maguire’s rooms, when the door burst open, and into their midst, almost breathless with excitement, came a measly, bespectacled youth named Brady—Patrick Brady.

  “‘I’m awfully sorry to disturb you fellows,’ he stammered, ‘but there have been odd noises just outside my room all the evening, and I’ve just seen a queer kind of dog, that vanished, God knows how. I—I—well, you will call me an ass, of course, but I’m afraid to stay there alone, and that’s the long and short of it.’

  “‘Begorra!’ Maguire exclaimed, ‘it can’t be poor Bob’s ghost already! What sort of noises were they?’

  “‘Noises like laughter!’ Brady said. ‘Loud peals of horrid laughter.’

  “‘Someone trying to frighten you,’ one of the undergrads observed, ‘and faith, he succeeded. You are twice as white as any sheet.’

  “‘It’s ill-timed mirth, anyhow,’ someone else put in, ‘with Anderson’s dead body upstairs. I’m for making an example of the blackguard.’

  “‘And I’—‘And I,’ the others echoed.

  “A general movement followed, and headed by Brady the procession moved to the north wing of the College. At that time, be it remembered, a large proportion of K. undergrads were in residence—now it is otherwise. On reaching Brady’s rooms the crowd halted outside and listened. For some time there was silence; and then a laugh—low, monotonous, unmirthful, metallic—coming as it were from some adjacent chamber, and so unnatural, so abhorring, that it held everyone spell-bound. It died away in the reverberations of the stone corridor, its echoes seeming to awake a chorus of other laughs hardly less dreadful. Again there was silence, no one daring to express his thoughts. Then, as if by common consent, all turned precipitately into Brady’s room and slammed the door.

  “‘That is what I heard,’ Brady said. ‘What does it mean?’

  “‘Is it the meaning of it you’re wanting to know?’ Maguire observed. ‘Sure ’tis the devil, for no one but him could make such a noise. I’ve never heard the like of it before. Who has the rooms on eith
er side of you?’

  “‘These?’ Brady replied, pointing to the right. ‘No one. They were vacated at Easter, and are being repainted and decorated. These on the left—Dobson, who is, I happen to know, at the present moment in Co. Mayo. He won’t be back till next week.’

  “‘Then we can search them,’ a student called Hartnoll intervened.

  “‘To be sure we can,’ Brady replied, ‘but I doubt if you’ll find anyone.’

  “A search was made, and Brady proved to be correct. Not a vestige of anyone was discovered.

  “Much mystified, Maguire’s party was preparing to depart, when Hartnoll, who had taken the keenest interest in the proceedings, suddenly said, ‘Who has the rooms over yours, Brady? Sound, as you know, plays curious tricks, and it is just as likely as not that laugh came from above.’

  “‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Brady answered. ‘The man overhead is Belton, a very decent sort. He is going in for his finals shortly, and is sweating fearfully hard at present. We might certainly ask him if he heard the noise.’

  “The students agreeing, Brady led the way upstairs, and in response to their summons Belton hastily opened the door. He was a typical book-worm—thin, pale and rather emaciated, but with a pleasant expression in his eyes and mouth, that all felt was assuring.

  “‘Hulloa!’ he exclaimed, ‘it isn’t often I’m favored with a surprise party of this sort. Come in’; and he pressed them so hard that they felt constrained to accept his hospitality, and before long were all seated round the fire, quaffing whisky and puffing cigars as if they meant to make a night of it. At two o’clock someone suggested that it was high time they thought of bed, and Belton rose with them.

  “‘Before we turn in, let’s have another search,’ he said. ‘It’s strange you should all hear that noise except me—unless, of course, it came from below.’

  “‘But there’s nothing under me,’ Brady remarked, ‘except the Dining Hall.’

  “‘Then let’s search that,’ Belton went on. ‘We ought to make a thorough job of it now we’ve once begun. Besides, I don’t relish being in this lonely place with that laugh “knocking” around, any more than you do.’

  “He went with them, and they completely overhauled the ground floor—hall, dining-room, studies, passages, vestibules, everywhere that was not barred to them; but they were no wiser at the end of their search than at the beginning; there was not the slightest clue as to the author of the laugh.

  * * * *

  “On the morrow there was a fresh shock. One of the College servants, on entering Mr. Maguire’s rooms to call him, found that gentleman half-dressed and lying on the floor.

  “Terrified beyond measure, the servant bent over him and discovered he was dead, obviously stabbed with the same weapon that had put an end to Bob Anderson.

  “The factotum at once gave the alarm. Everyone in the College came trooping to the room, and for the second time within three days a general hue and cry was raised. All, again, to no purpose—the murderer had left no traces as to his identity. However, one thing at least was established, and that was the innocence of Dean Kelly and Denis O’Farroll. They were both liberated.

  “Then Hartnoll, who seems to have been a regular Sherlock Holmes, got to work in grim earnest. On the floor in Maguire’s room he picked up a diminutive silver-topped pencil, which had rolled under the fender and had so escaped observation. He asked several of Maguire’s most intimate friends if they remembered seeing the pencil-case in Maguire’s possession, but they shook their heads. He enquired in other quarters, too, but with no better result, and finally resolved to ask Brady, who belonged to quite a different set from himself. With that object in view he set off to Brady’s room shortly after supper. As there was no response to his raps, he at length opened Brady’s door. In front of the hearth in a big easy chair sat a figure.

  “‘Brady, by all that’s holy,’ Hartnoll exclaimed. ‘By Jupiter, the beggar’s asleep. That’s what comes of swotting too hard! Brady!’

  “Approaching the chair he called again, ‘Brady!’ and getting no reply, patted the figure gently on the back.

  “‘Be jabbers, you sleep soundly, old fellow!’ he said. ‘How about that!’ and he shook him heartily by the shoulder. The instant he let go the figure collapsed. In order to get a closer view Hartnoll then struck a light with the tinder box.

  “The flickering of the candle flame fell on Brady’s face. It was white—ghastly white; there was no animation in it; the jaw dropped.

  “With a cry of horror Hartnoll sprang back, and as he did so a great yellow dog dashed across the hearth in front of him, whilst from somewhere close at hand came a laugh—long, low and satirical. A cold terror gripped Hartnoll, and for a moment or so he was on the verge of fainting. However, hearing voices in the quadrangle, he pulled himself together, approached the window on tiptoe, and, peering through the glass, perceived to his utmost joy two of his friends directly beneath him. ‘I say, you fellows,’ he called in low tones, ‘come up here quickly—Brady’s rooms. I’ve seen the phantom dog. There’s been another tragedy, and the murderer is close at hand. Come quietly and we may catch him!’

  “He then retraced his steps to the center of the room and listened. Again there came the laugh—subtle, protracted, hellish—and it seemed to him as if it must originate in the room overhead.

  “A noise in the direction of the hearth made him look round. Some loose plaster had fallen, and whilst he still gazed, more fell. The truth of the whole thing then dawned on him. The murderer was in the chimney.

  “Hartnoll was a creature of impulse. In the excitement of the moment he forgot danger, and the dastardly nature of the crimes gave him more than his usual amount of courage. He rushed at the chimney, and, regardless of soot and darkness, began an impromptu ascent.

  “Halfway up something struck him—once, twice, thrice—sharply, and there was a soft, malevolent chuckle.

  “At this juncture the two undergraduates arrived in Brady’s room. No one was there—nothing save a hunched-up figure on a chair.

  “‘Hartnoll!’ they whispered. ‘Hartnoll!’ No reply. They called again—still no reply. Again and again they called, until at length, through sheer fatigue, they desisted, and seized with a sudden panic fled precipitately downstairs and out into the quadrangle.

  “Once more the alarm was given, and once again the whole College, wild with excitement, hastened to the scene of the outrage.

  “This time there was a double mystery. Brady had been murdered—Hartnoll had disappeared. The police were summoned and the whole building ransacked; but no one thought of the chimney till the search was nearly over, and half the throng—overcome with fatigue—had retired. O’Farroll was the discoverer. Happening to glance at the hearth he saw something drop.

  “‘For Heaven’s sake, you fellows!’ he shouted. ‘Look! Blood! You may take it from me there’s a corpse in the chimney.’

  “A dozen candles invaded the hearth, and a herculean policeman undertook the ascent. In breathless silence the crowd below waited, and, after a few seconds of intense suspense, two helpless legs appeared on the hob. Bit by bit, the rest of the body followed, until, at length, the whole figure of Hartnoll, black, bleeding, bloodstained, was disclosed to view.

  “At first it was thought that he was dead; but the surgeon who had hurried to the scene pronouncing him still alive, there arose a tremendous cheer. The murderer had at all events been foiled this time.

  “‘Begorrah!’ cried O’Farroll, ‘Hartnoll was after the murderer when he was struck, and shure I’ll be after him the same way myself.’ And before anyone could prevent him O’Farroll was up the chimney. Up, up, up, until he found himself going down, down, down; and then—bedad—he stepped right out on to the floor of Belton’s room.

  “‘Hulloa!’ the latter exclaimed, looking not a bit disconcerted, ‘that’s a curious mode of making your entrance into my domain! Why didn’t you come by the door?’

  “‘Because,’ O�
�Farroll replied, pointing to a patch of soot near the washstand, ‘I followed you. Own up, Dicky Belton. You’re the culprit—you did for them all.’ And Belton laughed.

  * * * *

  “Yes, it was true; overwork had turned Belton’s brain, and he was subsequently sent to a Criminal Lunatic Asylum for the rest of his life. But there were moments when he was comparatively sane, and in these interims he confessed everything. Anderson had told him that he was going to hoax the Dean, and filled with indignation at the idea of such a trick being played on a College official—for he, Belton, was a great favorite with the ‘Beaks’—he had accompanied Anderson on the plea of helping him, intending, in reality, to frustrate him. It was not till he was in the chimney, crouching behind Anderson, that the thought of killing his fellow students had entered his mind. The heat of his hiding-place, acting on an already overworked brain, hastened on the madness; and his fingers closing on a clasped knife in one of his pockets, inspired him with a desire to kill.

  “The work once begun, he had argued with himself, would have to be continued, and he had then and there decided that all unruly undergraduates should be exterminated.

  “With what measure of success this determination was carried out need not be recapitulated here; but with regard to the phantom dog a few words may be added. Since it appeared immediately before the committal of each of the three murders I have just recorded (it was seen by Mr. Kelly before the death of Bob Anderson; by Brady, before the murder of Maguire; and by Hartnoll, before Brady was murdered), I think there can neither be doubts as to its existence nor as to the purport of its visits.