Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 249
“No,” replied Mr. Brown. “But I’ll come and visit it often.”
Suddenly the skeleton of Bland rose with an air of tragic resolution.
“I’ve had enough of this,” came hollowly from the skull. “I might as well be dead. I’m going out and bury myself in the backyard.”
“Great!” cried Lorna. “A swell idea. Let’s all go out to the backyard and dig a big grave.”
“I know a lot about graves,” said Mr. Brown. “I’ll be head digger.”
“Then come along,” commanded Mr. Bland. “The sooner I’m underground the better it will be for all concerned. Things can’t go on like this. Snap out the lights and bring some bottles. There are picks, shovels, crowbars, spades, clippers, a lawn mower, and a very nice garden hose, not to mention various other useful and instructive implements, in the tool shed.”
“Can’t very well dig a grave with a garden hose,” said the experienced Mr. Brown.
“I’m aware of that,” Mr. Bland replied. “I was merely thinking of all the things I’m going to leave behind me.”
“We can chuck a few in with you,” Lorna suggested happily.
“Why not on me?” asked Mr. Bland.
“Don’t worry,” Lorna assured him. “We’ll dig you a swell grave. Funny thing, I never thought of digging a grave before. Think of all the graves I’ve left undug. Never be able to catch up now, but I’ll do my best with this one. I’ll dig and I’ll dig and I’ll — —”
“For the love of God,” cried Mr. Bland, “don’t go on about it. Isn’t there any pity in you? Aren’t you at all sorry I’m going underground?”
“Naturally, my little subway,” said Lorna, taking a swig from the nearest bottle. “Terribly. But the thrill of digging a grave at night is almost adequate compensation for the loss of a husband who is two thirds gone already.”
The skeleton of Mr. Bland stalked with dignity from the room.
By the light of a lantern they opened operations. Mr. Brown stepped back and measured Mr. Bland with a sharp, appraising eye, humming softly the while.
“About six foot one and a half,” he murmured. “Better make it about seven. Give him plenty of room.”
“Oh, I must have plenty of room,” said Mr. Bland. “If there’s anything I detest it’s a skimpy grave.”
“Are we going to bury him head down or feet first?” Lorna wanted to be told.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Bland, shrinking a little from her.
“Well,” she explained. “I was thinking of digging a sort of hole so we wouldn’t spoil so much garden.”
“God! Did you hear that?” exclaimed Mr. Bland, turning to the mortician. “Even if I am a skeleton I deserve some consideration. Think of it! Head down.”
“It was just an idea,” said Lorna.
“A shocking idea,” said her husband. “Horrible.”
After half an hour’s steady digging considerable work had been done and considerable liquor consumed. Lorna insisted the grave was quite deep enough.
“You wouldn’t want Busy to be scratching me up every other day, would you?” Mr. Bland demanded.
“No,” admitted Lorna. “Although I wouldn’t mind seeing you, or parts of you, from time to time, knocking about the lawn.”
“Damn me if I’m going to talk to you any more,” said Mr. Bland. “Every time you speak you say something more repulsive.”
“I don’t mean to,” replied Lorna.
“That’s just the trouble. That makes it worse.”
“Well, we could put a lot of stones on top. How would that do?”
“Rotten. I want a regular grave or no grave at all.”
“Okay,” said Lorna. “One more drink, then we’ll all set to work.”
“I would like the subject to lie down in there, if he would be so good,” came the highly professional voice of Mr. Brown. “It would be just as well to see that the dimensions are correct before we proceed further.”
“A good idea,” declared Lorna. “I’d like to try on that grave myself, I can throw in that old piece of canvas to keep my dress clean.”
That was the first sight that smote Officer Kelley’s eyes as he sneaked round a corner of the house and stood watching in the shadows. And it was almost the last sight, for Kelley, in spite of his stout heart, did not hold with graves and skeletons and burials by night.
“Mother of God,” he murmured, piously crossing himself. “A skeleton, no less. Now, are they putting him in the ground or taking the poor soul out, I wonder?”
He momentarily turned away to see that a retreat was open. When he turned back again he received even a greater shock. A young and beautiful woman was lying in the grave, while the skeleton, bottle in hand, was standing in a nonchalant attitude, conversing with the town’s leading mortician.
“I was never born to look on sights the likes of this,” moaned Kelley under what little breath he had. “First the skeleton gets into the grave, then the photographer’s wife— ‘twill be the undertaker’s turn next. A bad black game it is they’re playing this night.”
“It’s nice down here,” said Lorna. “I love it.”
“Golly,” muttered Kelley. “She loves it, no less.”
“When I go down,” said Mr. Bland, “I’m going to take you with me.”
Kelley began to sweat frankly and freely. He was facing a terrific problem. If the photographer’s wife wanted to get herself buried alive with a long, lanky skeleton, did he, Kelley, have any right to stop her? On the other hand, if he let that black-hearted undertaker cover up the woman, he, Kelley, would be allowing murder to be done before his very eyes. Of one thing alone Officer Kelley was sure: the sooner that skeleton was buried the better he would feel.
Then things started to happen. The skeleton, still holding the bottle, climbed down into the grave. He gave the photographer’s wife a drink, then took one himself.
“For the last time,” Kelley heard the skeleton say, and every bead of sweat on Kelley’s body paused on its way to listen. “One more drink, Brown,” continued the skeleton, “then let the clods fly.”
This was too much for Kelley. With a cry more of horror than command he lumbered towards the grave.
“No more funny business,” he shouted. “In the name of the law.”
In the tail end of one of those well-known split seconds the backyard became the scene of kaleidoscopic activity. The sudden appearance of Officer Kelley together with the great, unfriendly noises he made completely unnerved Mr. Bland. He sprang from the grave, and with him sprang his wife, no less impressed by Officer Kelley and the things he was going to do, for Kelley, when once in action, was a man of vocal as well as physical fury.
No sooner had the four feet of the two Blands touched the brink of the grave than they started in to show Officer Kelley what feet could do when thoroughly alarmed. Finding himself confronting either one of two disagreeable prospects — solitude or Officer Kelley — mortician Brown dropped his spade and made all possible speed to overtake, if not pass, the flying couple ahead. In the rear, but not far enough to satisfy Mr. Brown, plunged the bellowing Kelley himself.
“If he keeps up making that noise,” thought the speeding Brown, “he’ll soon drop in his tracks.”
With faith rather than confidence the mortician followed the Blands. They rounded a corner on even terms and continued along the side of the house. In the heart of Mr. Bland beat a frantic prayer to the gods of all dead and active religions that he should not fall. Fear for the safety of his brittle structure caused him to exert caution, which enabled Mr. Brown to overtake him.
“He may have a gun,” panted Mr. Bland.
“He damn’ well has,” wheezed Brown.
The three flying grave diggers rounded another corner and sped across the front lawn.
“This is no place to be,” Mr. Bland explained.
“For neither of us,” said Mr. Brown.
As they rounded the next turn, they almost ran into Lorna.
“Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Well, wait no longer,” gasped her husband. “There’s a man with a gun behind us.”
“Bullets would pass clean through your ribs,” said Mr. Brown enviously.
“I wish I were sure of that,” replied Mr. Bland. “If a bullet hits my pelvis I’ll shatter like a flower pot.”
On through the night zoomed the slow-footed Kelley.
“Think of me chasing a skeleton,” he thought proudly. “If the damn’ fool only knew it I’d fall over backwards if he even so much as turned about.”
In the meantime those he sought had returned to their original point of departure.
“Don’t think I can make another lap,” Mr. Brown informed them.
“Damned if I’m going to be circling my own house the whole night long,” declared Mr. Bland.
“Let’s all jump in the grave,” suggested Lorna. “He might not think of looking there.”
At that critical moment the slanting door to the cellar miraculously opened.
“In here,” came the voice of Fanny. “Quickly!”
And in there they went so very, very quietly that they failed to close the door behind them.
When Kelley had completed the circuit he looked about him in mystification; then, spying the open door, he, too, descended into utter darkness.
For a full minute the room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing, but no movement was made, owing to the fact that both pursuer and pursued were incapable of making any. Nor did it at all appeal to Officer Kelley to pass the remainder of the night in a dark cellar with an active if timid skeleton. The thing might suddenly show a change of front and start in searching for him with those long, bony arms. In spite of this gloomy outlook Kelley was reluctant to give up the pursuit. He had worked too hard in his circuit of the house to abandon the field now.
While the officer was having his bad time in the darkness, Fanny, with great presence of mind, guided Lorna and Mr. Brown to the stairs leading up to the kitchen.
“Hide in the living room,” she whispered. “He’ll be afraid of the coffin.”
“Like hell,” mumbled Mr. Brown. “If a skeleton doesn’t feaze him he’ll probably cut his initials in the sides of 1007-A.”
When Fanny returned to fetch the skeleton, her groping hands encountered bare flesh. With a supreme effort Mr. Bland stifled a shocked scream. Not so Fanny. Hers fled through the cellar and did terrible things to Officer Kelley’s spine.
“Oh, my,” said Fanny. “Are you all naked?”
“What’s that?” demanded Kelley, outraged in spite of his fear. “I was never naked.”
“How do you do it?” called Fanny. “Are your clothes sewed on?”
“You brazen-mouthed baggage,” Kelley retorted. “I’d like to run you in.”
A third voice was heard.
“If you don’t take your hands away,” said Mr. Bland, “I’ll give myself up to the officer.”
“What’s that?” demanded Kelley. “Who’s talking now?”
“It is I, the skeleton, who speaks,” said Mr. Bland.
“Then don’t give yourself up to me,” said Kelley. “I don’t want any part of you.”
“How did you get that way?” Fanny asked Mr. Bland.
“What way?” he parried.
“You know — the way you are.”
“What way is he, lady?” Kelley wanted to know.
“Oh, you’re fired!” came the explosive voice of Mr. Bland. “Don’t do that again.”
“I’m going to run in the lot of you,” said Kelley suddenly, but without enthusiasm.
“You can begin with me,” said Mr. Bland.
“Go back to your grave,” urged Kelley. “That’s where you belong.”
For some minutes he had been fingering his flashlight, wondering whether or not it would be wise to use it. He was frankly afraid of what he might see. Now he decided to take a chance. Its beam revealed a naked man struggling to escape from a strange woman.
“For shame,” cried Officer Kelley. “Where did the both of you come from?”
“Does it matter?” cried Mr. Bland in desperation. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Turn off that damned light.”
Officer Kelley did so for the good of his own soul. The moment the light went out Mr. Bland made a dash for the kitchen stairs, Fanny crowding him for first place. He quickly achieved the top and ran through the kitchen, snatching up a dish towel on the way. It was dark in the living room, and Bland was glad of that. He crept in quietly and concealed his new-found nakedness behind a large chair. Fanny tried to follow him, but he gave her a ruthless push. So Fanny crept somewhere else. Silence reigned in the room, yet there was a feeling of other hidden, breathless figures crouching in odd corners.
Presently in crept Kelley according to that stout officer’s idea of creeping, which was, in reality, a ponderous shuffling of weary and heavy feet.
It was then an incident occurred that horrified not only Kelley but also everyone else in that silently crowded room. As he turned the beam of the torch upon the coffin, a pallid, inhuman head popped up over its side and two terrible eyes blazed in the darkness. The gasps and groans that filled the room served only to heighten the officer’s demoralization.
Dropping the torch with a cry of stark anguish, Kelley staggered stiffly from the room and slid through the front door with as much determination as Dolly Tucker had displayed several hours before him. No sooner had Kelley made his final exit than the thing in the coffin rose up still higher, then dropped with a thud to the floor.
“God! What is it?” cried Lorna. “I’m going into convulsions.”
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” came the pious voice of Fanny from a corner.
“All we can do is wait,” mournfully said Mr. Brown. “Which one of us does it want, I wonder?”
“All,” quoth Lorna hopelessly.
Then came a sudden volley of short, sharp barks, followed by a series of playful bounds and pounces.
“Damn,” said Mr. Bland. “The poor fish has got my towel.” He rose and switched on the lights. “Will somebody kindly pass me my Paisley shawl? I’ve got my body back.”
This announcement broke the tension. Lorna, Fanny, and Mr. Brown arose and stretched their cramped limbs. Lorna looked about her.
“If cook were only here,” she said, “we’d have a full cast. Get us a drink, Fanny.”
“What a hell of a place for a dog to sleep,” Mr. Bland complained.
Busy was rushing from one to the other, giving each a frantic greeting.
“One dirty dog after another,” Lorna told her husband. “They sleep in the same kennel.”
“Now you’ll have to buy that coffin,” said Mr. Brown. “I might have overlooked his master, but I’ll be damned if I will his dog, especially when the block-headed monster scares me nearly silly.”
“We’ll take that up later,” replied Mr. Bland. “I’ve too much on my mind and too little on my body.”
Lorna gave him the Paisley shawl. Fanny passed the drinks. Everyone felt much improved but too jaded to become convivial. Lorna was considering her husband through enigmatic eyes.
“You’re the most volatile creature I’ve ever met,” she said to Mr. Bland, “but now that you’ve got your body back we’d better hurry to bed.” She paused to look at Fanny, then turned to Mr. Brown. “You,” she went on, “can go to sleep on the sofa.”
“Go to sleep on the sofa,” Mr. Brown repeated bitterly. “I’m going to die on the sofa. Nothing less will satisfy me.”
“And you, Fanny,” said Lorna. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“Alone,” said the desolate Fanny. “Unless — —”
Her mad eyes strayed appraisingly to Mr. Brown.
“Don’t look at me that way,” said that gentleman. “I tell you I’m going to die.”
“Why don’t you?” Fanny asked him. “You’re long overdue.”
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE SQUARE DOG IS STRICKEN
BUSY had slept badly, and he was worried about it. He had always been such a sound sleeper. When all other pursuits failed and time hung heavy on his paws, even in the face of hunger and disparagement he had hitherto been able to depend on sleep. But last night had been a bad one. As a matter of fact, the square dog had so little of importance on his mind he was becoming neurotic about it, which is one of the troubles with so many modern dogs. They have neither to think nor shift for themselves.
Consumed with self-pity he bleakly sniffed his way about the house in the early-morning hours. Nothing smelled right, and when nothing smells right to a dog he is out of luck indeed. He found himself wondering how he was ever going to get through the long day confronting him. What a night it had been! He felt that if he did not bite something or somebody almost immediately his nerves would snap.
After he had been so rudely awakened from his slumber in the snug coffin the game had been up. No dog could sleep in the same room with that man Brown whistling and rasping in the darkness. Every time the mortician snored, which was steadily, Busy had thought he was being either called or vilified. Of course, there was no putting up with that. In one corner after another the dog had searched for sleep only to find them empty. He had even tried his own private quarters in the kitchen, but to no avail.
He wondered now if it would do any good to go in and bite the mortician. Busy decided against the idea. It would take a lion to disturb that horrid man. In his heart Busy envied him his repose.
He padded upstairs in search of absolutely nothing. There were the stairs — one might just as well go up them. Somebody had to go up those stairs. He would do it. An open window in the hall gave onto a balcony that ran the breadth of the house. Busy lugged himself through this window and regarded the day with a dubious eye. It did not smell right. Too bad he couldn’t bite it. Any other dog was welcome to this day. He did not want it.
Glancing along the balcony, he remarked that the French windows of the master’s and mistress’s room were open. He would go in there and barge about, knock something over if he could — wake them both up. He felt he would risk almost anything to relieve the depressing solitude. After all, a dog had to have some companionship. He wondered if they thought he was a bird in a gilded cage, a mere thing with no needs or life of his own.
