D

by George Right

  At this moment, a wolf howl distinctly sounded from behind. Here, in the forest, it sounded much more ominous than in the house. Jeannette put her head out of the window.

  "Faster, Leroi! Do you hear?"

  "Nothing to worry about. In these parts usually people hunt wolves, not vice versa," he answered, whipping up the horses, however.

  In a few minutes the howl sounded again, this time much closer. Leroi marveled; if it was not a hearing deception, the animal moved with tremendous speed. Then he decided that it was, most likely, another wolf. The horses began to show appreciable anxiety.

  The wolf raised a howl a third time–very close, literally just behind a turn. "Faster, faster!" Jeannette shouted, but the horses didn't need further urging. Leroi felt that he couldn't cope with them. Spurred on by ancient horror, the horses galloped at full speed; the coach groaned and shook on its springs. A low leaning branch scratched the carriage top, like a hand trying to hold the escaping prey.

  "What are you doing, we will crash!" Jeannette cried. At the next moment a spasm seized her throat: having looked back, she saw the predators.

  Seven or eight large wolves chased the carriage; they seemed terribly huge to the frightened Jeannette. The biggest one ran ahead of the others; it was a magnificent beast with fur of a rare silvery shade. Its eyes shone red in the darkness, which is usual for animals of this species, but it seemed to Jeannette that in those eyes hellfire sparkled. The wolves ran absolutely silently, like ghosts, and the distance between them and their potential victims, despite the horses' mad run, decreased every minute. Leroi didn't try to manage the horses any longer; he just sat, grasping the reins and staring into the darkness with eyes wide open from fear.

  The dull crash sounded, and the carriage, which had lost a wheel, jerkily fell sidewards. The door swung open, and Jeannette, who had no time to grab any support, fell out on the road. The crazed horses dragged the overturned carriage further.

  When Jeannette came to her senses after falling, she saw the wolves had surrounded her in a semicircle. The leader wrinkled its nose in a snarl, baring its canines which dimly shone in the light of stars. Jeannette felt hair stand on her head; paralyzed by horror, she couldn't resist, couldn't shout–she only looked at the slowly approaching beast...

  "I am sorry, monsieur Dubois," Inspector Leblanc said, "but you should participate in the identification. The body is very mutilated..."

  "Yes," Dubois said, dully staring ahead, "yes, of course." After a a short pause, he asked: "And did Leroi escape?"

  "It is hardly possible to call it escape," the inspector answered. "He was found near the wreckage of the coach. The wolves didn't touch him, but what he endured had a pernicious effect on him... He was sitting, absolutely gray-haired, stupidly staring at one point; in this condition he still stays now. The poor man lost his mind."

  "It looks like all this doesn't much fit your hypothesis about an avenger," gloomily noted Dubois. "Would you say that the wolves were trained?"

  "Yes, it would sound ridiculous... Wolves generally aren't tamable. Though, on the other hand, there are breeds of dogs very similar to wolves. And an attack of a wolf pack on a coach is so unusual at this time... They actually behaved more like dogs: bit the victim to death, but didn't gobble her up. Besides, the wheel–why did it suddenly fall off? It might be an accident... or the axle might have been weakened The examination doesn't allow me to say unequivocally now."

  "You don't abandon your idea?" Dubois was surprised.

  "I don't know, monsieur Dubois; I simply don't know. If this is a crime, then it is devilishly, improbably cunning and difficult to accomplish; otherwise, it is an improbable chain of coincidences. We have to choose between two improbabilities. Well, are you ready? The doctor waits for us."

  When the uneasy formalities were finished, Clavier expressed a desire to talk to Dubois. The latter mechanically nodded.

  For some time both kept silence.

  "She was very valuable to you, wasn't she?" the doctor began at last.

  "Yes... probably she was," the businessman answered, "though I never thought about it before."

  "Now will you leave?"

  "No!" Dubois gritted his teeth. "Now I especially won't leave under any circumstances! Nobody in the world will expel me from my house!”

  "Excuse me, monsieur, but this has become a kind of obsession. Certainly, all that you had to suffer..."

  "Spare me this nonsense, doctor! I am as clear-headed as always. The laws of probability are on my side. Coincidences can't proceed eternally—that means, I am not in danger. Or do you, like the inspector, see in all this a malicious intention?"

  "Leblanc still considers that we deal with an ordinary criminal?"

  "Not with anyone ordinary; however, he isn't sure about the possibilities. He theorizes that in the last tragedy dogs could have been used as murder weapons."

  "As far as I can judge, they were wolves."

  "Then why... why didn't they eat her?"

  "Well, here a very simple explanation is possible. Wolves are very sensitive to smells; the smell of perfume could stave off their appetite. Excuse me for such details..."

  "On the contrary, you calmed me. Now I precisely know that we deal only with coincidences."

  "You see, monsieur Dubois... that's what I wanted to talk to you about. As well as Leblanc, I don't believe in too a large number of coincidences... but in this case I also doubt that an ordinary human being could arrange all this."

  "Then who?" Dubois grinned. "The angered ghost of count de Montreux?"

  "You are wrong to treat it so lightly."

  "What?!" Dubois stared at the doctor in astonishment. "You don't really mean to say that you believe in such bullshit?! You, a man of science!"

  "Yes, certainly, we live in the nineteenth century when it seems that in the temple of science only a few last bricks need to be laid... But it is a superficial view. I am afraid that what we built is only an entrance to the real temple. Factually, we still know almost nothing about fundamental things: life and death. It is considered nowadays that a human being is a machine: the heart is a motor, the stomach is a fire chamber, the arms and legs are levers, and so on. But then why can't we assemble this machine from separate parts? Why, having stopped, can't it be started again when what stopped it is eliminated?"

  "Obviously, the parts instantly spoil and nothing more," Dubois answered with irritation.

  "But why does it occur? Why are the complex and diverse chemical processes of life quickly and irreversibly replaced by the chemical processes of decomposition? Why does an injury to the brain turn an absolutely healthy organism into inert decaying protoplasm? The heart after all has its own nerve system; it doesn't need orders from the brain to work. Theoretically the body could live without the head as it lives without a foot or a hand; but it doesn't occur."

  "I am sure that science will find answers to these questions."

  "I am sure of it, too; but how can we know what these answers will be? Why not assume that there is a certain substance, call it soul or mind, which is connected to the body, but is capable of leaving it? And if this substance interacts with its own body, it can interact also with other objects of the material world."

  "Really and truly, doctor, you disappoint me. Do you think that it is enough to say 'substance' instead of 'ghost' to turn medieval nonsense into a scientific hypothesis? No, doctor. In my life I haven't faced anything that couldn't be explained rationally.”

  "Six deaths in a row, monsieur."

  "Each of which has a reasonable explanation! Eventually, what do you want from me? To leave? Jeannette tried to leave and that killed her. Perhaps I should bring a church repentance? Should I sprinkle the house with holy water and put a garlic wreath on my neck? No, I did something better. I replaced locks and secured the doors and I have a weapon at my hand. If really there is someone behind all this, I will with great pleasure fire a bullet into this bastard."

  "Whatever, monsieur, w
hatever; but I am still sure that here you are in danger."

  "Bullshit, tomorrow new servants will arrive, and everything will go as it should."

  "If I were you, at least I wouldn't spend tonight alone in the empty house."

  "I am capable of protecting myself. If it is a ghost," Dubois grinned, "it can't cause me harm; and if it's a living man, I'll quickly make him a ghost."

  By evening the weather worsened; the incoming autumn declared its rights. The cold wind tore wet leaves from trees and flung small raindrops against the windows. Dubois stayed late in his office with some papers; but business affairs didn't occupy his mind. Though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, fear was overtaking him. The thought that in this office the last count de Montreux committed suicide now disturbed the new owner of the manor; the understanding of his full loneliness in the empty and cold house oppressed him. It came to a point when, having caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he shuddered and grabbed for the gun and only in the next moment realized that he was frightened by his own shadow on a wall. Dubois swore. At the same time, an especially strong burst of wind blew; glasses shuddered, and somewhere in the house a shutter swung open with a bang. For several seconds Dubois sat motionless with his heart beating fast, listening attentively to the sounds of the night house, but he heard only wind howling in chimneys. Then he stood up and, with a pistol in one hand and a lamp in another, went to check the suspicious window.

  He didn't find anything unusual there; obviously, the shutter had indeed been opened by the wind. Dubois closed it again and, without returning to the office, went to his bedroom. There he carefully locked the door with two turns of a key, engaged a latch, examined the window, put two loaded pistols on a little bedside cabinet and only after all that went to bed, having left the oil lamp lit. Dubois couldn't fall asleep for a long time, listening to the whining of the wind and rain noise beyond the window, but, at last, a heavy drowsiness possessed him...

  About midnight the businessman suddenly opened his eyes as from a kick. The storm had ended; it was astonishingly quiet in the house. And in this silence, the remote creak of floor boards suddenly was heard. Dubois tried to convince himself that there was nothing unusual: in an old house something always squeaks and crackles. However, the sounds were too rhythmical and, seemingly, their source approached. In horror Dubois realized that he was hearing confident steps; someone strode through the house. Here creaked, opening, an office door; then it slammed–the stranger left there. Now the steps moved to the bedroom.

  Dubois understood that it was necessary to take a pistol, but he could not move and lay in full helplessness. Steps stopped on the other side of the door. The new lock snapped, opening. Then the latch moved by itself. Dubois felt hair move on his head. The door silently opened. Behind it, there was nobody.

  But the steps came nearer to the bed and stopped. Dubois smelled the disgusting stench of a decaying corpse. A cold whiff of air touched his face and at the next instant slippery ice-cold fingers seized the businessman's neck. Dubois wanted to cry out, but a spasm blocked his throat. He desperately, but unsuccessfully, tried to move his hands; his heart beat furiously, he suffocated...

  Dubois was awakened by his own shout. Still in the power of his nightmare, he jumped up on the bed, swinging hands, and knocked the lamp down from the bedside cabinet. The lamp fell and broke; burning kerosene spread on the floor, and tongues of flame licked the window curtain and the bed sheet which hung to the floor. Dubois, at last, awoke completely. In three jumps he crossed the bedroom and, having pushed the latch aside, jerked the door handle. But the door, of course, didn't open, as the lock was locked on two turns and the key lay on the bedside cabinet. Having realized this fact, Dubois helplessly turned back: the cabinet was already on fire. For some seconds the businessman helplessly looked around in search of any object which could help him, but then he understood that he had to snatch the key out of the flames barehanded. When he, at last, rushed to the cabinet, the fire reached the pistols lying there. A shot banged; a strong and hot kick in the breast threw Dubois back onto the locked door, and he slowly slipped to the floor. The flame with a cheerful crackle was devouring the room furniture.

  "Yesterday in the suburb of L. there was a strong fire, as a result of which the family estate of counts de Montreux completely burned out. The last owner, the Parisian businessman Jacques Dubois, was the only victim of the fire. It is supposed that he died because of his own imprudence."

  WINDY DAY IN WEST

  The straight gray tape of the highway was rewinding under the Ford's wheels at 75 mph. The hot southern wind drove across the road clouds of dust and tumbleweed spheres similar to skeletons of balls. Pete Palmer had needed to close the driver's window that morning and since then the wind had only increased. A continuous haze hung over the yellow-orange desert. "The way things are going, I'll have to slow down," Pete thought. "Visibility is miserable even now." It was 3 PM; he had been en route for 74 hours and had left his car only to do the deed. He ate and slept right in the car.

  "Hello, friends, Dan Daniels with you on the hour," sounded from the car radio. It was some local station. "What weather, huh? There hasn't been a scorcher like this for years. Well, the weatherman says this heat will last at least several days more. So we have to do the best we can. I like lying in a cool bath and sipping martinis with ice. Too bad my studio doesn't have a bath. Between you and me, I'm sitting here in my underpants only. Right now, I'm like the characters in the song you'll hear next–it's the hit of the month, 'Hot Guys Is What I Like!'"

  "Moron," muttered Palmer and switched the radio off. The noise of the motor merged with the rustle of sand grains hitting the glass.

  He finally noticed a figure on the roadside. He had nearly missed seeing it, not so much because of the dusty haze, but because he didn't expect to see anybody out here. He had passed the last town about an hour ago–if a gas station with a poster "Last Gas For 100 miles" could be called a town–and, according to the road map, the next populated place was no closer. Unless there was some nearby ranch not designated on the map? Anyway, the person was here and held out a hand with the thumb up, expressing an eager desire to leave.

  Just a minute ago Pete hadn't considered picking up hitchhikers. Certainly, this guy stuck in the middle of the desert in stifling heat and a dust storm could hardly be envied, but those were his problems. Nevertheless, Palmer eased off the accelerator, wanting to look at the hitchhiker before passing him by.

  It happened to be a girl. The wind fanned her short fair hair and billowed her loose T-shirt over worn jeans. A small backpack stood near her feet. On her T-shirt there was the question "ARE YOU SURE?" She wasn't a beauty. Otherwise Pete would have definitely passed her by.

  The Ford rolled briefly while the driver's foot hovered between the gas and brake pedals–and, at last, Palmer chose the latter. "Yes," he said. "I am sure."

  The girl, still not believing to her luck, hastily ran up to the car. She didn't ask anything, just simply opened the door, dusted the sand off her jeans, and plopped into the passenger seat.

  "Thanks," she said.

  "Where are you going?" inquired Pete, turning right and examining her more attentively.

  "Ahead!"

  "Means you're going my way," Palmer nodded, pressing the accelerator again.

  The girl was silent and Pete thought that didn't suit him. He could keep silent alone, which he actually did for the last 74 hours.

  "Rather odd that nowadays a girl isn't afraid to get in a stranger's car this way," he said. He dissembled a bit, as the appearance of his passenger actually didn't make her an especially desired victim for a rapist. She was short–which could by itself interest the maniacs who craved subtlety and defenselessness; however her build was not subtle, but, on the contrary, too corpulent, with some excessive flab around her waist, while she still could not be called fat. And at the same time her breasts weren't very well developed. Her round face was also quite ordinary and, beside
s, freckled. All in all, not very pretty. However, who knows what can get in the mind of a psychopath...

  “You don't look like a maniac, mister," the girl said.

  "As if you ever saw any," Palmer grinned.

  "Only in the movies," she admitted. "Though my dear daddy can be worse than any maniac when he gets drunk–and the last time he was sober was three weeks before Christmas. Well, an explanation number two–I believe in destiny."

  "Believing in destiny isn't worse than believing in anything else," Palmer shrugged his shoulders. "It's possible never to get in a stranger's car during your whole life and then to slip and die in your own bathtub, isn't it?"

  "Exactly."

  "But just the same I wouldn't let my daughter hitchhike, not even to the other end of town. These days–not for a moment. My God, I never was a goody two-shoes myself. I lost my virginity when I was 17 and my girlfriend was the same age. But at least we really thought we would get married. When I was young, if a man smiled at a kid and started talking to him, everyone around melted–look how he likes children! And in most cases, that's how it really was. And now in the same situation, the kid is immediately whisked away, because everyone thinks this guy is a fucking pedophile. And goddamn it, in most cases they're right again!"