VIII
“A Trick That Almost Killed You.”
When I stepped into the open with Judge Keith Pursuivant, the snow had ceased and a full moon glared through a rip in the clouds, making diamond dust of the sugary drifts. By its light I saw my companion with some degree of plainness—a man of great height and girth, with a wide black hat and a voluminous gray ulster. His face was as round as the moon itself, at least as shiny, and much warmer to look at. A broad bulbous nose and broad bulbous eyes beamed at me, while under a drooping blond mustache a smile seemed to be lurking. Apparently he considered the situation a pleasant one.
“I’m not one of the mob,” he informed me reassuringly. “These pastimes of the town do not attract me. I left such things behind when I dropped out of politics and practise—oh, I was active in such things, ten years ago up North—and took up meditation.”
“I’ve heard that you keep to yourself,” I told him.
“You heard correctly. My black servant does the shopping and brings me the gossip. Most of the time it bores me, but not today, when I learned about you and the killing of John Gird—”
“And you came looking for me?”
“Of course. By the way, that was a wise impulse, ducking into the Devil’s Croft.”
But I shuddered, and not with the chill of the outer night. He made a motion for me to come along, and we began tramping through the soft snow toward a distant light under the shadow of a hill. Meanwhile I told him something of my recent adventures, saving for the last my struggle with the monster in the grove.
He heard me through, whistling through his teeth at various points. At the end of my narrative he muttered to himself:
“The hairy ones shall dance—”
“What was that, sir?” I broke in, without much courtesy.
“I was quoting from the prophet Isaiah. He was speaking of ruined Babylon, not a strange transplanted bit of the tropics, but otherwise it falls pat. Suggestive of a demon-festival. ‘The hairy ones shall dance there.’ ”
“Isaiah, you say? I used to be something of a Bible reader, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the passage.”
He smiled sidewise at me. “But I’m translating direct from the original, Mr.—Wills is the name, eh? The original Hebrew of the prophet Isaiah, whoever he was. The classic-ridden compilers of the King James Version have satyrs dancing, and the prosaic Revised Version offers nothing more startling than goats. But Isaiah and the rest of the ancient peoples knew that there were ‘hairy ones.’ Perhaps you encountered one of that interesting breed tonight.”
“I don’t want to encounter it a second time,” I confessed, and again I shuddered.
“That is something we will talk over more fully. What do you think of the Turkish bath accommodations you have just left behind?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think. Growing green stuff and a tropical temperature, with snow outside—”
He waved the riddle away. “Easily and disappointingly explained, Mr. Wills. Hot springs.”
I stopped still, shin-deep in wet snow. “What!” I ejaculated.
“Oh, I’ve been there many times, in defiance of local custom and law—I’m not a native, you see.” Once more his warming smile. “There are at least three springs, and the thick growth of trees makes a natural enclosure, roof and walls, to hold in the damp heat. It’s not the only place of its kind in the world, Mr. Wills. But the thing you met there is a trifle more difficult of explanation. Come on home—we’ll both feel better when we sit down.”
We finished the journey in half an hour. Judge Pursuivant’s house was stoutly made of heavy hewn timbers, somewhat resembling certain lodges I had seen in England. Inside was a large, low-ceilinged room with a hanging oil lamp and a welcome open fire. A fat blond cat came leisurely forward to greet us. Its broad, good-humored face, large eyes and drooping whiskers gave it somewhat of a resemblance to its master.
“Better get your things off,” advised the judge. He raised his voice. “William!”
A squat negro with a sensitive brown face appeared from a door at the back of the house.
“Bring in a bathrobe and slippers for this gentleman,” ordered Judge Pursuivant, and himself assisted me to take off my muddy jacket. Thankfully I peeled off my other garments, and when the servant appeared with the robe I slid into it with a sigh.
“I’m in your hands, Judge Pursuivant,” I said. “If you want to turn me over—”
“I might surrender you to an officer,” he interrupted, “but never to a lawless mob. You’d better sit here for a time—and talk to me.”
Near the fire was a desk, with an armchair at either side of it. We took seats, and when William returned from disposing of my wet clothes, he brought along a tray with a bottle of whisky, a siphon and some glasses. The judge prepared two drinks and handed one to me. At his insistence, I talked for some time about the séance and the events leading up to it.
“Remarkable,” mused Judge Pursuivant. Then his great shrewd eyes studied me. “Don’t go to sleep there, Mr. Wills. I know you’re tired, but I want to talk lycanthropy.”
“Lycanthropy?” I repeated. “You mean the science of the werewolf?” I smiled and shook my head. “I’m afraid I’m no authority, sir. Anyway, this was no witchcraft—it was a bona fide spirit séance, with ectoplasm.”
“Hum!” snorted the judge. “Witchcraft, spiritism! Did it ever occur to you that they might be one and the same thing?”
“Inasmuch as I never believed in either of them, it never did occur to me.”
Judge Pursuivant finished his drink and wiped his mustache. “Skepticism does not become you too well, Mr. Wills, if you will pardon my frankness. In any case, you saw something very werewolfish indeed, not an hour ago. Isn’t that the truth?”
“It was some kind of a trick,” I insisted stubbornly.
“A trick that almost killed you and made you run for your life?”
I shook my head. “I know I saw the thing,” I admitted. “I even felt it.” My eyes dropped to the bruised knuckles of my right hand. “Yet I was fooled—as a magician, I know all about fooling. There can be no such thing as a werewolf.”
“Have a drink,” coaxed Judge Pursuivant, exactly as if I had had none yet. With big, deft hands he poured whisky, then soda, into my glass and gave the mixture a stirring shake. “Now then,” he continued, sitting back in his chair once more, “the time has come to speak of many things.”
He paused, and I, gazing over the rim of that welcome glass, thought how much he looked like a rosy blond walrus.
“I’m going to show you,” he announced, “that a man can turn into a beast, and back again.”