Miss Shumway Waves a Wand (10 page)

“You’re mad!” I said backing away. “Such things can’t happen.”

Bogle came limping over and gaped at Doc. “What the hell are you squealing about?” he said, then looking down at Myra. “What she think she’s doing?”

I jerked my attention from the sausage to Myra. “I’ll take her inside,” I said, and picking her up I carried her into the lounge. When I had laid her on a couch, I yelled for Doc. “Come on,” I shouted. “Help me, will you?”

Ansell came in white and trembling. “I can’t believe it! It’s the most fantastic…”

“Aw, shut up!” I said roughly. “There’s plenty of time to talk when we’ve taken care of this kid. After all, we were in a damn tight spot before this happened. We should be grateful.”

It took some little time to bring Myra round. She opened her eyes at last and blinked unhappily up at me. “I’ve had such an awful dream,” he said sleepily. “Such an awful dream.”

“That’s all right,” I said soothingly. “You go to sleep. I’m right by your side, so there’s nothing to be soared about.”

She smiled at me and then closed her eyes again. In a moment she was breathing regularly.

“I’d be a hit as a father,” I said, pleased. “Did you see that piece of technique?”

Bogle came in. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s okay,” I said abruptly. “What have you done with the sausage? I want it in here.”

“I’ve given it to the innkeeper’s dawg,” Bogle said indifferently. “He’s a good dawg and I’ve been promising him something…”

“Given it to a dog?” I shouted, grabbing him by the arm.

“Why not?” Bogle said, on the offensive. “Want to make anything of it? Do you think it’s too good for a dawg?”

“Listen, you fat jerk,” I exclaimed. “That wasn’t a sausage. It was Pablo.”

Bogle’s eyes opened. “What was that?” he asked, starting.

“That sausage wasn’t a sausage at all. It was Pablo turned into a sausage,” I explained, trying to keep my voice down.

“The sausage wasn’t a sausage, it was Pablo?” Bogle repeated in a dazed voice. “Was that what you said?”

“Yes, you fat fool!”

“Iszatso? Well, it certainly looked like a sausage to me.”

“I don’t care what it looked like to you! It’s Pablo done up like a sausage.”

“Done up like a sausage?” Bogle’s eyes looked scared. “
I
see.”

“No, you don’t,” I said savagely. “You don’t see at all. Where is the dog? Tell me that and we won’t argue.”

“You’d better take a look at this guy, Doc,” Bogle said to Ansell. “Something’s got loose in his dome.”

“Try to understand,” Ansell said. “Myra has turned Pablo into a sausage.”

A look of horror came into Bogle’s eyes. “You, too?” he whispered, backing away. “Don’t you think you guys ought to sit down or something?”

“I tell you Pablo’s in that sausage!” Ansell snapped. “You’ve got to get it back at once.” Bogle shivered. “Maybe I’m going bats, too,” he said hoarsely. “Maybe it ain’t you two but me. Maybe I’m just hearing voices in my brain.”

“What are you drivelling about?” I stormed at him.

“Someone keeps telling me that Pablo’s a sausage,” Bogle wailed. “I’ve gone nuts! I knew I’d go nuts and by God I’ve gone nuts!”

“I tell you, Pablo has been turned into a sausage,” Ansell hissed, pushing his face into Bogle’s. “Now will you do something about it, you large lump of useless blubber!”

Bogle closed his eyes and sat abruptly on the floor. “This is going to be a pretty sad day for my old lady,” he said, as if to himself. “I wouldn’t like to be the guy to tell her her only son’s gone bugs,” and he lay flat on his back and began making humming noises.

“Come on, Doc,” I said. “We’ve got to find the dog by ourselves.”

We didn’t have to go far. Just outside on the verandah there was an enormous wolfhound lying on the floor who glanced up with bored overfed eyes as we came out. There was no sign of the sausage. As we stood staring, the wolfhound dosed his eyes luxuriously and licked his chops.

“He’s eaten Pablo,” I said in a hushed, horrified voice. “That’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

Doc took off his hat and lowered his head.

Then a sudden thought struck me and I gripped his arm in alarm. “Doc!” I gasped. “Do you realize what this means? She’s got the whip hand over us all. We won’t be able to open our mouths.”

Doc put on his hat again and blinked at me. “What do you mean?” he asked, bewildered.

“Can’t you see what she can do if she decides she doesn’t like any of us?” I looked furtively over my shoulder, then lowering my face close to his, I whispered: “She might even turn you into a pork pie and give you to me for my lunch. How would you like that?”

Doc just fainted away in ray arms.

Not much use going to sleep again, so I reached for my cigarette case. Then I propped myself up in the hard little bed and brooded.

Once I got to thinking, I realized just how much there was to think about. It was terrific. In twenty-four hours the whole set-up had so completely changed that I was up the creek without a paddle. When planning a newspaper campaign, a modern newspaperman can’t take miracles into consideration. But, on the face of it, that was what I had to do. The kidnapped blonde story was as dead as a mummy. The blonde who could work miracles was front-page news. But how would Maddox react? I thought gloomily that he’d can me before I could give him a demonstration. On the other hand, of course, I might be able to persuade Myra to give him a little scare and get my job back.

What about Myra anyway? I couldn’t imagine either Ansell or myself persuading her against her will. It’d, take all my time, anyway, to keep on the right side of her. It wasn’t as if she were a soft cookie. She’d always been difficult and now with powers such as she possessed, she was going to be a definite menace.

I came out in a cold sweat when I thought of Pablo. His was a story that could never be written. There was no proof and no one would believe it. If I even hinted to Maddox what had happened he would have sent me to the booby-hatch. I wouldn’t blame him at that. So the Pablo episode had to be forgotten.

The next point was to find another approach to the kidnapping angle. How to make Maddox and Myra happy at the same time. Not easy. The 25,000-dollars reward complicated matters. I regretfully decided that I wasn’t going to see much of that. Knowing Myra, I was pretty certain that she’d grab all of it. I couldn’t see myself arguing about it either. What was 25,000 dollars if I were turned into a hamburger or a breast of chicken?

I ran my fingers through my hair. This was driving me screwy. I played with the idea of getting up, packing quietly and sneaking off to Mexico City. I’d lose my job, but at least, I’d be clear of the whole thing. The thought tempted me.

Then there was a light tap on my door and Myra came in. She was in flame-coloured pyjamas and a scarlet dressing gown. And as she stood in the diffused light, with the little bolts of sunlight in her hair, I thought she was the loveliest thing I’d seen for a long time.

She closed the door gently and leaned against it.

We looked at each other as if we had met for the first time and I was conscious of a new feeling for her. Up to now, she had been a subject to write about. But, seeing her there, her big eyes serious, the sun in her hair, the way she held her head, well, I guess she sent a tingle through my veins. At that moment, she came alive and looking back, now that it is all over, I guess that this was the time I really fell for her in a big way.

“I’m scared,” she said. “Something’s happened to me.”

I sat up on my elbow. “Come here,” I said. “What’s happened to you?” I didn’t like the bewildered look in her eyes and she seemed to have lost a lot of her confidence.

“I don’t know what it is,” she said, sitting on the end of the bed. “I feel—oh, I guess you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t,” I said, reaching for the cigarettes and offering her one.

We didn’t say anything for a while. Smoke haze drifted in the sunbeams and the Mexican waiters chattered outside. Then she said: “It wasn’t a dream last night, was it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I hoped it was,” she went on, tapping ashes on the floor. “I wish it all was a dream. It’s frightening.”

“I can’t tell you there’s nothing to be scared about,” I said, “All I can say is I’m sorry we got you into this mess.”

“I’ve been trying to remember what happened,” she said. “I’m putting it together, but it still doesn’t make sense. I can remember the old Indian more clearly. I can remember sitting in that little hut with him. We didn’t speak. We read each other’s minds. That was frightening. I couldn’t lie to him, you see. Not talking like that. I just had to keep my mind blank when I felt he was finding out too much about me. I still don’t know how far I succeeded. We talked with our minds for a long time. He told me a lot of things. I know that, but I can’t remember what they were. He gave me some horrible stuff to drink and after I’d got it down I remember seeing some black smoke coming from the corner of the hut. It was quite terrifying. There was no fire or anything, just the black smoke building up into a shadow. I thought at the time it looked like the shadow of a woman, but it was dark in the hut and I couldn’t be sure. But all he time we talked, the shadow was there, hovering close to me.”

I lit another cigarette. I felt there wasn’t much I could say, so I just lay there and listened.

“The shadow was behind Pablo, just before it happened,” she shuddered. “I’m scared even to think of anything now, in case something happens.”

“Snap out of it, kid,” I said reaching out and pulling her to me. I put ray arm round her and she stretched out with her head on my shoulder. I liked the smell of her hair and the feel of it against my face.

“But there’s something else,” she said in a small voice. I wondered what was coming. “Tell me,” I said.

“I don’t think you’ll understand,” she returned speaking reluctantly. “I don’t understand it myself. But, last night, when I got into bed, something happened to me. I thought I saw a shadowy figure get up from my bed and go out of the room. It—seemed to come from me. It—it looked like me, and when it had gone I felt different.”

“You were dreaming,” I said, patting her arm. “You’ve been through enough to have series of nightmares.”

“But, I feel different,” she repeated. “Oh, Ross, what is happening to me?”

“But, how different?” I turned so that I could look into her troubled eyes. “Don’t get in a panic, kid. What do you mean… different?”

“Oh, lighter, happier—as if I’d been through a mental bath and become clean. Oh, I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Well, if you feel happier, why worry?” I said, and kissed her.

She drew away quickly. “If you’re not going to concentrate, I’ll have to leave you,” she said severely.

“But, I am concentrating,” I said, with my mouth against her hair.

She pulled away, “No, you mustn’t,” she said. “I wish all this hadn’t happened.”

“You wait until you get that reward,” I said. “You’ll think differently then.”

“But, I don’t want it,” she returned emphatically. “That’s another thing I can’t understand. Yesterday, I was furious with you, but now—well, I just don’t want it. I can get along without it and besides, it’s not really honest.”

This shocked me. Something
had
happened to her.

“Not honest?” I repeated stupidly. “What’s the idea?”

“You know as well as I do,” she said impatiently, “I wasn’t rescued and you have no right to try to claim the reward.”

“This is too much for me,” I said, lying back. “Coming from you, that’s rich!”

Just then Bogle opened the verandah door and stuck his head round. “Don’t mind me, if you’re busy,” he said, leering at Myra. “I’m scared of my own company, this morning.”

“Come in, Sam,” I said wearily. “If you’ve any friends, bring ‘em in too. I always work best when I’ve a room full of people.”

“There ain’t no one but me and Whisky,” Bogle said, coming in. He was followed by the wolfhound “Whisky’s taken a liking to me.”

Myra and I looked at the wolfhound uneasily. The dog clicked its teeth in an absent-minded kind of way and lay down near the bed. It eyed us with sleepy insolence and then stretched out with its head on Bogle’s boot.

“Whisky?” I repeated. “Is that its name?”

“That’s what I call him,” Bogle said. “He seems to like it and it’s the sort of name I wouldn’t easily forget. Nice dawg, ain’t he?”

“I don’t know,” I said, with some feeling. “Perhaps he is. I can’t forget that he ate Pablo. That rather preys on my mind.”

Bogle sneered, “Ate Pablo?” he said. “You’re nuts! He ate a sausage. You and Doc ought to have your ears blown out!”

I considered this. I thought if that was the only thing necessary how absurdly simple everything would be.

“Never mind, Sam,” I said. “You aren’t the only one who won’t believe it.”

While I was speaking, Whisky turned over on his back and folded his legs across his chest like a crab. His tail straightened and he closed his eyes.

Myra said quietly, “I don’t like that dog’s attitude. It’s unhealthy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I returned, pulling the bedclothes a little higher. “But, it’s disturbing, if that’s what you mean.”

Bogle unfolded Whisky’s legs gently and turned him on his side. “Relax, fella,” he said.

“You can’t rest that way.”

Whisky opened one eye and looked at Bogle. Then he turned on his back and folded his legs over his chest again.

“Gawdamn it,” Bogle said. “Did you ever see such a dawg?” and he bustled forward to unfold Whisky’s legs again.

I suppose Whisky decided not to tolerate this interference. Opening one eye sharply, he regarded Bogle’s hands with a sour look and then thrusting his nose forward he clicked his teeth with a snap like a mouse-trap.

I guess Bogle thought he’d lost his hand. He didn’t dare look, but sat on the floor, breathing heavily until I had assured him that Whisky had missed him by an eighth of an inch. Then he removed himself to the far end of the room, where he sat in a chair and scowled at the dog.

“Listen,” I said. “Don’t think I’m unsociable. I’m not. I’ve always been sociable. I’m the guy they laughed at when I sat down at the piano. But, right now, my nerves are on edge and I’d like you and Whisky to take a little walk. I don’t want you to go far. I’d even stand for seeing you at a distance, but I can’t stand much more of your heavy breathing and the dog’s affected attitude. So, would you drift… the pair of you?”

“Every time you open your trap, you write a book,” Bogle said. “I’m waiting for Ansell. He’s coming to have a talk. Besides, I’ve ordered breakfast to be sent up. You’ve got the best room, ain’t you?”

“Well, Precious, you see how it is,” I said to Myra. “We’ll have to postpone our little talk. I just can’t keep my mind on anything so long as Whisky’s with us.”

Myra got off the bed and stretched. “I don’t think we would have got anywhere,” she said, a little wearily. “I’m afraid talking won’t help me.”

“Did you say you’d ordered breakfast?” I asked Bogle.

“Yeah,” Bogle’s face lit up. “Eggs and fruit and cawfee. I didn’t get much to eat last night. There was so much talking and shouting and people going off into faints.”

“You wouldn’t like to cover up Whisky, would you?” I said. “He really is getting on my nerves.”

“Maybe he ain’t well,” Bogle said, looking at the dog with puzzled eyes.”

“With Pablo inside him, I don’t wonder at it.”

Whisky rolled over on his side and looked at me. There was something strangely human about the expression in his eyes. “How right you are, old dog,” he said in a deep, guttural voice. “He lies like a rock on my stomach.”

“There you are,” I said to Sam. “I knew he couldn’t be well.” Then I clutched my pillow and looked at the dog in horror.

Myra stifled a scream and stood petrified, but Bogle didn’t seem to be moved.

“You know it sounded almost as if that dog spoke,” I said a little feverishly.

“Sure,” Sam returned. “What of it? He’s been talking to me half the night.”

“What of it?” I repeated, stupefied. “Have you ever heard a dog talk before?”

“Well, no, but then anything can happen in this country, can’t it? What I mean is if a parrot talks, why not a Mexican dog? “That’s the way I’ve been reasoning.” He suddenly noticed my strained expression and fear came into his eyes. “It ain’t possible? Dawgs don’t talk? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? This is another of these freak things… floating women . . disappearing men … now talking dawgs?”

“Yeah, along those lines.”

“My Gawd! And I talked to it half the night!” Bogle shivered edging back in his chair and half raising his hand to protect himself.

“And a lot of rot you talked too,” the dog snapped. “Of all the illiterate, prissy-mouthed, dyed-in-the-wool nincompoops I’ve had to listen to, you take the biscuit.”

Myra said in a low voice, “I think I’ll go now. Somehow, I don’t feel like breakfast.”

“For goodness sake stay where you are,” Whisky said peevishly “There’s so much yapping in this hotel, I’m leading a dog’s life.”

“It wouldn’t be someone practising ventriloquism, I suppose?” I asked hopefully, feeling that any second I’d have to run out into the desert and keep running for some time. “Someone wouldn’t be trying to make fools of us?”

Whisky yawned. He had the most astonishing collection of fangs I’d ever seen. “To improve on your mothers’ efforts would be a difficult task,” he observed. “Just because I happen to talk your horrible language, there’s no need for you to behave like dolts.”

“Look, old fellow,” I said nervously. “Would you mind going away? It’s not that I don’t like you, but I’ve had all I can stand for one morning. Come back later on, will you? Maybe I’ll be adjusted to the idea by then.”