Another sign on Two-Phones’ desk read: What’s a Head without a Body? Follow up!
Wherever I was, I thought, it smelled like home. I was in an advertising office. I could relax. If there’s anybody who can show you the way out of anything, it’s an advertising man.
With a growl, the ape at the desk slammed both phones into their cradles and scowled at me. “What’s your line?”
“I—I’m lost…”
“So is everybody. What do you do?”
“Advertising copywriter. But that isn’t…”
He waved a big hand. “Don’t talk—I’m thinking. You like advertising?”
“I do it for a living.”
“It isn’t the same, but it doesn’t matter.” He brooded over his cigar. He grunted. “Need a man—a good one.”
Both phones began to ring at once. He swept them off onto the floor, where they crashed and commenced to squawk futilely. His eyes narrowed into puffy slits.
“We can use you!” He looked bitterly at the squawking telephones. “Damned incompetents!” He lifted his glance heavily to me. “Not that you’ll be any better—just different.” He sat back. “I could check the records on you, but no time. Allatimehurryhurry—hurry!” He ran the words together and drooled. “All the damn time!” He looked at me bleakly.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not in the market, Mr.—uh…?”
“Schlemiel.”
I smiled politely and waited for the punch line. There wasn’t any, so I assumed the handle was real.
“I came here looking for my wife. All I want it to find her and get back home.”
Schlemiel shook his head morosely. His fat lips waggled back and forth. “No use. Didn’t you ever read Dante, son?”
“Sure. So what?”
“Abandon hope, son. You’re dead, see? It’s all done with—vorbei—ausgespielt. You’ve come to the Happy Hunting Grounds.” He grunted. “Happy Hunting!”
“Dead, hell!” I flared.
“Hell—yes—Hell,” he muttered. “Where else did you think you were? You came in through the advertising sets, somehow. They’re your own, by the way, did you know that? We’ve had ’em on tapes for years, just to get you in here. You thought they were dreams—desires of your own. Your copywriter did a good job on them. You’re here—and here to stay!”
“Oh, no—” I began.
Schlemiel got up, came around his desk and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. “This is Hell’s Advertising Department, son. We’re the boys who gave you the ideas that made you sin and fall. Being an advertising man, you came right here, instead of going on down below—where it’s hotter.”
I began to understand. No wonder those scenes had been familiar. Thoughts I had nourished… I began to get red. I had seen only a few. Were the others…?
“Every indecent thought you ever had came directly from this department, son,” Schlemiel went on. “How do you think we get all the dead into Hell?”
“But I’m not dead!” I blurted.
“Son,” Schlemiel boomed hollowly, “you are faced with an irrefutable logic. Nobody but the dead get to Hell. You got to Hell. Ergo, you are dead.”
“All I want,” I said desperately, “is to get the hell out of here!”
“I like that!” roared Schlemiel. “Boy, how I like it! I really do. Boyohboyohboy!”
He went off into rippling, primitive chuckles.
What could you do with an ape like that?
I said, “I don’t believe this is Hell. All those people I saw were having a good time.”
Schlemiel gripped my shoulder affectionately. “You miss the props you’ve heard about all your life, son. Forget ’em—this is nineteen fifty-four. We left the red monkey suits, the horns and the tails back in the Middle Ages, where they belong. And as for those people on the sets—they ain’t real, son. They’re just thoughts-bait that brings in traffic. We broadcast a little of that stuff, and bingo! Hell’s potential population goes up fifteen percent—amortized in another generation.”
He cut loose with a bellow of hearty laughter. “Get the joke, son? Amortized! Haw, haw, haw!” He was a real demon, this Schlemiel.
* * * *
None of my protests did any good. Schlemiel signed me on without further preliminaries and turned me over to one of his flunkies. On him, a red devil suit would have looked good.
“Copywriter, hey?” he said. “If you can do as good copy as the stuff that brought you here, you won’t be half good enough. I got a real toughie of a client for you—a nut we’ve been trying to crack for years.”
* * * *
The “client” turned out to be a settlement of recluses in the backwoods of Georgia. My job—to entice them into Hell.
I had to think up allurements that would appeal to a recluse—if that wasn’t a hellish assignment, I sure was in the wrong place!
I toyed with the thought of indirect advertising. In a town near the settlement of recluses, flourished a bawdy house. Now, a one-cent sale…nope—bargains in Sin are too common.
In the office given to me was a second desk. I wondered who sat there—or if I was to have the office to myself. Between wondering how I was going to allure a bunch of freaks that didn’t want allurement, and how I was going to get out of here, I wondered where Ethel was.
Just then the door burst open and Ethel came hopping in, Schlemiel’s flunky right behind her.
“I’m not a copywriter!” she yelled at him over her shoulder, looking as belligerent as I had ever seen her. “I don’t belong here! I want to go home! If my husband Jack—”
Then she saw me. Her eyes got big and round and her mouth dropped into a red, juicy O. She did a double take, primmed her lips and her eyes began to snap.
“So—my fine-feathered husband!” she snarled to me. “I see now what I have been married to all these years. A dyed-in-the-wool demon—a devil in human form!”
“Nothing of the sort,” I hollered, jumping up. “I came here looking for you—and they put me to work!”
Schlemiel’s flunky snickered over Ethel’s shoulder. “We got him dead to rights. Don’t tell me you two know each other?”
“No,” said my wife sweetly. “I thought we did, but it seems I was mistaken. Furthermore, I wouldn’t want to know this character.”
“Stop acting silly,” I said.
“Who’s silly? When I consorted with you, I was an innocent dupe. I didn’t know any better. I could never have guessed…”
“Listen to me!” I said firmly. “Get this into your head. I’m not a devil. I don’t belong here. I’ve been good all my life and I—”
“I don’t believe a word of it!”
I pointed an accusing finger at her. “How did you get here? What kind of thoughts were you having?”
She dropped her proud glance. Her little ears pinked with embarrassment.
“Aha! I thought so. You know only too well that those were some of the wicked thoughts you’ve had in your life.”
“Jack,” Ethel whimpered, “is it true you aren’t really…?”
“You’re darned tootin’ it’s true. Come on, Honeybun—I’ll be forgiving if you…”
“Down to business!” yelled the flunky. “Get to work!”
“Stand aside, Mac,” I yelled right back. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Nuh-uh,” said he. “You forget—you’re dead. You can’t go any place…”
“Dead, huh?” I swung a haymaker. The demon bounced off the wall, then off the floor. He flashed, screaming, out of the room.
“Live ’uns!” I could hear him yell in diminuendo. “There’re live ’uns in the place!”
I couldn’t figure what had made him bounce, because when I’d swung, I hadn’t felt anything. But
I guess he felt it and that’s what really let him know we were alive.
“I think I got it figured,” I said to Ethel. “Do as I say and maybe we can find our way out of here.”
I held her close to my side and we both took a step backward. Schlemiel dropped both phones from his head as we passed through his office. Another step, and we were on the sunny hilltop. I hated having to take Ethel back through my own indelicate thoughts, but I wanted to make sure we both got back. I gritted my teeth and stepped backward as rapidly as possible.
* * * *
We moved into De Valgis’ house a week after. It’s not a bad place, once you get used to it. The library now has some innocuous texts in it and lots of bare shelves. I took the junk De Valgis must have spent a lifetime collecting and stashed it away in the attic.
And the Room Without Windows? I nailed the door shut and built a new wall across in front of it.
We hardly ever go upstairs, Ethel and I, unless we are together. And neither of us ever reproaches the other for naughty thoughts. Every time we hear an unexpected step on the front porch, we both rush to fling open the door. We hope it will be Lavorine De Valgis standing there. We want to give him back his house.
LOUP-GAROU
Originally published in Weird Tales, May 1947.
Sometimes a stranger drops in at our Club. He’s always made welcome, attended to, and sped on his way. We are rather reserved, though, and do not ask questions. Consequently, we learn no more about such folk than they are willing to divulge.
Sometimes, they will enter into our discussions and provide us further food for thought on the part of our philosophies. And so it was with the tall, brown-faced stranger who looked prosperous and smoked a fine cigar.
Our philosophy had turned…or had it been directed, I wonder?…to the supernatural. Lycanthropy was the subject, and we endeavored through speculation to arrive at the absolute root of the were-wolf legend.
The stranger smiled at the trend of our discussion, flashed white teeth, and observed with a soft, pleasantly foreign accent: “I have no knowledge how the first stories of were-wolves began, but perhaps, Messieurs, you would be interested in such an occurrence that took place in my native France.” He looked over our group with a peculiarly brilliant, penetrating glance. We all nodded acquiescence.
“Go ahead,” I urged. “At least, it will take up the time before dinner.”
The stranger nodded again with a lupine smirk that was meant for a smile.
“Most appropriate, too,” he remarked, “as tonight is the full moon. We have perhaps half an hour.”
He looked around at us brightly once more and began.
* * * *
What I am about to tell you, related the stranger, happened—or did not happen, as you choose to believe—about a century ago. It concerns an official named Hubert de Montreuil, and the occurrence took place in the province of—what does it matter, its name? It exists no longer.
To understand Hubert, you must understand his environment and background. He was average French middle class, reared in the brawling Paris of those times. As a youth, he fought continuously with his classmates, and once struck the maître d’école so smartly that he broke the professor’s glasses and was consequently expelled from school.
By the time he was twenty, Hubert was tall, dark. He had piercing eyes and an insolent curl to his lips. And he was thin…le jeune homme maigre he was called by all who knew him. The thin young man he was; his thinness was his trademark, and he bore himself wolfishly aloof.
Hubert was intelligent…keenly so. But sharp. And ambitious, as well as thoroughly unscrupulous. I could tell you of his affaires…but never mind. There was only one that mattered.
Hubert was shrewd enough to see where the money lay. He set his ambition to become governor of a province, and so worried his parents for money and ever more money in the attainment of his ambition, that he finally drove them broken-hearted and empty-pursed to the grave. Hubert was not sorry. He thrived through the misfortunes of others. In ten years—the ten years it took him to drive his poor parents to untimely death—he rode through his schooling with brilliant honors. Law School. The Sorbonne. Berliner Universität. Les écoles de gouvernement. Collège du háut magistrate. He studied in fantastic places. Always brilliantly—always expensively.
He made contacts. He pulled strings. He spent money. He became the governor of a province.
Hubert was the marvel of the time. Thirty years old, and governor of a province! Messieurs, such a feat was impossible for anyone except Hubert de Montreuil!
The Republic then fumbled in its childhood. Money, judiciously placed here and there, played a large part in Hubert’s advancement.
Hubert took his governorship seriously. That is to say, Hubert set himself to dreaming dreams of the future, with the governorship as a starting mark instead of a goal.
The little town of d’Aubrecourt was like many another town of its day. Its chaumières clustered about the public square, sleepy, placid, a little aloof from the world. The town nestled in a wooded valley. There were hills all around, somber, dark in the light of the moon, teeming with superstition and imagery for the townsfolk.
The Palais du Gouverneur occupied a hilltop above d’Aubrecourt. From its solemn, stone windows, one could gaze across the town, and on a clear day see the sparkle of the sun on Lac de Lune, a beautiful sheet of water popular in summer for sailing and in the winter for ice skating. The life of d’Aubrecourt was like a story in a picture-book—a round of fêtes, carnivals, seasonal holidays, with all their simple color of French festivity.
And there were the farms—rich farmlands below the foothills, and mines, and travel agencies. Upon all these the scheming mind of Hubert de Montreuil fastened itself avidly. Riches were within his grasp. He had but to reach forth and seize them—droit de gouverneur.
Hubert installed himself grandly in the Palais. Before the Revolution, it had been the home of a famous Court favorite. Now it was seedy and fallen into disrepair.
Hubert pressed peasants into service to put the dwelling into livable shape, promising payment through cancellation of taxes. He cancelled the taxes of his laborers, of course, but took produce in equal value from their farms instead and glibly explained he had but cancelled the cash payments.
Were the peasants bitter? You know they were. They had not yet begun to feel the full weight of the heavy hand of Hubert de Montreuil.
In five years, the peasants were on the verge of ruin…so, also, the merchants, the mine-owners, and the keepers of travel-agencies. Hubert rolled in wealth in his palace.
It was the percentage that passed on through Hubert’s hands that kept him there.
* * * *
It was on a miserable, rainy night in April that a carriage rolled up to the ornate porte-cochère of the Palais du Gouverneur, and the Commissaire de Police, Pierre de Cardinois, got down. Pierre was so fat he puffed when he walked, and his face was as red as the wine he bibbed so freely. But now his face was gray, and his breath was shorter than usual when he spoke.
“Monsieur le Gouverneur, it is a grave thing I come to report. It is requested—” he paused to puff arduously, “—it is requested that—that the militia be…”
Hubert de Montreuil crashed the tankard from which he was drinking down upon the oaken table. His mustaches flared and bristled.
“Que diable! There is not an uprising of the people?”
“Mais non!” the Commissaire protested vigorously, and added somewhat bitterly, “though why there should not be is beyond me. It is graver than that.”
Hubert leaned back in his fine carved chair and laughed.
“Graver than that, hein? Pierre, you are a fool. Nothing could be graver than that. Strictly speaking, we are not robbing the good folk of our land, but there are some who might no
t draw so fine a line of distinction as we. But, what is this trouble?”
Pierre shuddered. “Loup-garou! A werewolf roams the forest. All winter, the people have whispered of him. He has come down from the mountains, and roams now in the foothills, cette bête du diable…”
Hubert threw his tankard into a corner. It clattered resoundingly.
“Nonsense, Pierre! Old wives tale! Is that what you have driven here tonight through the storm, to tell me?”
Pierre de Cardinois pressed fat lips into a thin line, drew himself haughtily erect.
“C’est la vérité—it is the truth! With my own eyes, I have seen the body of the old woman who…”
“So this old woman loup-garou has you afraid, Pierre?”
“It is not the old woman who is the were-wolf,” replied the Commissaire slowly. “She is its victim!”
Scoffer though he was, Hubert de Montreuil was superstitious enough in his way. He snarled.
“I will have to be shown! Attend while I cloak myself, and you will drive me to this so detestable scene!”
It was raining horribly when the two men darted from the porte-cochère into the shelter of the carriage.
“Allez, donc!” the Commissaire called put to the driver. The carriage lurched in unison with the stamping of horses’ hooves, and the wheels commenced to grind in mud and gravel.
The governor maintained grim silence while the carriage took its way tortuously down the mountainside, passed through the streaming village, and entered the dripping forest on the other side. Pierre broke the silence only once. “There is a group of peasants watching over the body with lanterns. We will see their light before we come upon them.”
They found a half dozen peasants huddled miserably in the doubtful shelter of a fir tree, while the forest literally swam around them. Each held tightly to a lantern, and they were so like a clustered group of fireflies that the governor almost smiled to observe them.
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 13
