The Rat Race by Jay Franklin (ebook smartphone txt) 📖

was being put into effect, I sat down and thought it over. Apparently Winnie had been the kind of man whose pet dog tried to rip his throat out. That was puzzling, since from what I remembered of him at school, he had if anything been only too amiable. I waited out the vet's last-minute report and instructions, and then rang the bell for the maid.

"Mary," I said, "will you help the doctor with his hat and coat and then take Ponto a bowl of water. The poor old fellow's had a rough time."

The vet departed and I listened while the maid went upstairs. Then there was a scream, the crash of breaking china and the sound of a door being slammed. I bounded up the steps to find Mary, white-faced and trembling, looking stupidly at the broken remains of a white china bowl and a sizeable puddle of water on the hardwood floor outside my bedroom.

The door of my wife's room burst open and Jimmie appeared with a wild "What on earth!"

"It's that dog, sir," gasped Myrtle. "When I come—came—in with the bowl of water like you said, there he was lying on—on—your bed, like a Human, and—and—"

"And what?" I demanded.

"And he was wearing your pyjamas, sir," she sobbed. "It's—it's—"

"Uncanny," Germaine supplied the word.

I gave a hollow laugh. "He probably remembers that he isn't allowed to lie on the beds, Mary, and may have dragged my pyjamas up there to lie on. Whenever I let him up on the furniture I always make him lie on some of my clothes."

"Oh," Myrtle said, suddenly calm. "Is that it? It was just that it looked sort of queer to see his legs in the pyjama trousers."

"Well, don't worry about it now, Myrtle," my wife remarked firmly. "I'm not surprised it gave you a shock. He's such a big dog. I'll go in and see that he's comfortable. Come on, Winnie! Let's take a look at him. What's the matter?" she added, noticing a certain reluctance in my attitude.

"Nothing much," I martyrized. "It's only that he flew for my throat when he got inside the door."

"Nonsense!" she replied in the firm tone of a woman who knows better and who, in any case, expects her husband not to be afraid of a mere infuriated Great Dane. "You know Ponto always puts his paws on your shoulders and licks your face every morning, as you taught him."

My rollicking laughter was a work of art. "Of course, that was it," I agreed, "and he'd been away from us so long that he was over-eager. Come on, let's see if we can't make the poor beast comfortable."

But I let her lead the way.

The poor beast was lying panting on my still unmade bed. The flowered Chinese silk pyjamas which I had worn at breakfast were indeed strangely twisted around its gaunt body. The coat was across the animal's shoulders and both of its hind-legs were sticking through one of the trouser-legs.

"There! Ponto! Poor old fellow!" cooed Jimmie in a voice which would have charmed snails from their shells.

Ponto gave a self-pitying whine and his tail thumped the pillow like an overseer's whip across the back of Uncle Tom. My wife patted the animal's head and Ponto positively drooled at her. She gently disentangled him from among the pyjamas and hung them up in the closet. As she turned toward the bed, he jumped to the floor, reared up, put both paws on her shoulders and licked her face convulsively, giving little whines and shiverings.

"Poor old fellow, poor old Ponto!" she crooned. "Was he glad to get home from the nasty old kennel? There!" And she massaged his ears. "Come on now, Ponto," she remarked more authoritatively, "say good morning to your master."

The answer was a grand diapason of a growl and the baring of a thicket of gleaming white fangs in my direction.

"Ponto!" she ordered, as the beast positively cringed. "Say good morning to the master!"

He slumped to the floor with the grace of a pole-axed calf and approached me slowly, ears back, hair bristling and teeth in evidence.

"Ponto!" Germaine's cry was positively totalitarian but the dog lunged at me and I barely had time to close the door in its face.

A few minutes later, Germaine emerged looking bewildered. "I've never known him to behave like this," she said. "I don't like it. It's always been you he was so fond of and he barely tolerated me. Now he seems all mixed-up. After you left, he calmed right down and came back and licked my face all over again. What do you suppose is wrong with him. Can it be fits?"

I shook my head. "He doesn't act like fits," I said. "He's had a bad go of distemper and is probably suffering from shock. Dogs do get shock, you know. I remember in Psychology at Harvard they told us about a very intelligent St. Bernard dog which was shocked into complete hysteria by the supernatural. That is, they pulled a lamb chop across the floor by a thread concealed in a crack between the boards. The dog nearly had heart failure when he saw a chop moving by itself."

"But what can we do?" she asked. "Let's send him back to the kennels until he's cured."

"Nope! From what Dr. Whatsisname—"

"Dalrymple."

"From what Dalrymple said, he'd started acting up at the kennels and he—the vet, that is—thought Ponto would be better off at home."

"But we can't have him going for you every time you use your room."

"Then I won't use it. I'll sleep in the guest-room," I added swiftly, lest she leap to feminine conclusions. "You might take him another bowl of water—he's all right with you—and spread the New York Times on the floor—and a damned good use for it—and bring out my clothes and things. He seems to have quite a leech for you and we'll just leave him there to think things over by himself."

"How about his food?" she asked. "Shouldn't he have a special diet?"

"No. I'll let him go hungry for a day or so. So long as he has plenty of water it won't hurt him. Then when he's weak enough so as not to be dangerous I'll bring him some nice dog-biscuits and warm milk and he'll learn to love me the best way, by the alimentary canal."

She looked at me closely, "You do look rocky," she said. "You've had a shock, too. Hadn't I better call the doctor?"

I shook my head. "No more doctors, please. I'm out of condition, I guess, and all this dodging Great Danes is hard on the nerves. I'll go down and mix myself a brandy-and-soda. You might join me when you've moved my things upstairs. We've got to talk over a lot of things."

When I finally managed to settle down in my den with a stiff drink I felt besieged, bewildered and backed up against the wall. There could be no reasonable doubt about it—the dog knew! Ponto knew that I was an interloper, that the real Winnie Tompkins no longer existed, that a stranger was masquerading in his body and clothes. The uncanny instinct of a dog had led him to the truth when even Winnie's wife had been deceived.

This was a new twist in the maze. I couldn't imagine the Master of the Rat-Race watching with scientific detachment to see whether Frank Jacklin would make it or would be disqualified in the first round. Of one thing I was certain, unless I could establish some kind of personal understanding with Ponto, suspicion would gather around me. For the moment, Germaine did not doubt that I was her husband: my conduct had puzzled her but she had lived with Winnie so long that it was probable that she no longer specifically noticed him. Virginia Rutherford would be more dangerous—she was a woman scorned and she had been tricked out of an intrigue. She had every motive for digging out or even for inventing the truth, but I had given myself a good excuse to keep her at arm's length. She couldn't force her way into my clubs. I would tell my office staff to keep her away from me, and she couldn't be so ill-bred as to thrust herself into my home. If I could appease Ponto and avoid Virginia, I had a fair chance of getting away with it.

"Beg pardon, sir!" It was Myrtle.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Mrs. Rutherford is back, sir. She wants to see you."

"Tell her I am not at home," I replied in a clear carrying tone. "And that I never will be at home to her."

"Oh, yes, you will." It was the red-head. She was wearing a long mink coat and carrying a short automatic pistol. "Like it or not, Winnie, we are going to have a talk—now." She turned to the startled maid. "And don't you try phoning the police, Myrtle," she added, "or the first thing you will hear is this pistol going pop at Mr. Winfred Tompkins of New York City and Bedford Hills."

"That's all right, Mary," I added. "Don't call the police. Tell Mrs. Tompkins that I'm busy. Mrs. Rutherford and I wish to have a conversation."

CHAPTER 5

As the door to the room slammed convulsively behind Myrtle, Mrs. Rutherford relaxed, laid the automatic on the sofa between us, and flung back her mink coat. She was an appetizing little number, if you like 'em red-haired, well-developed and mad through and through.

Instinctively I started to reach for the gun but was checked by her laugh.

"Take it, by all means," she said. "It's not loaded. I only needed it for the maid. Tell me, Winnie, have you got her on your string, too? The maid made or undone, as they used to say."

"Virginia," I said firmly, "I told you earlier this morning that we were through. There's nothing more to be said about it. It's finished, done, kaput! All's well that ends."

She laughed again, and looked at me closely. In spite of myself, I began pulling nervously at the lobe of my left ear, a habit of mine when confused which has always irritated my Dorothy.

"There!" Virginia said finally, "that's it!"

Her voice had a note of finality with a touch of total triumph that I found disturbing.

"Well, have you anything to say?" I asked.

"Have you anything to say?"

"I've already said it, Virginia. Nice as you are and beautiful as you are, we're washed up. It won't work and we both know it. So why not shake hands and quit friends?"

She took my proffered hand in hers but, instead of shaking it, examined it carefully.

"Very clever," she murmured. "You've even got that little mole at the base of your thumb."

"Of course I have. It's been there since birth."

"Very, very, clever, Winnie," she continued, "but it won't do, my Winnie, because you see you aren't my Winnie at all. You're a total stranger."

"I've changed," I admitted. "I'm trying to be half-way decent."

"Whoever wanted Winnie to be half-way decent?" she mused. "Nobody. He was much pleasanter as he was—a rich, friendly boob. As for you, whoever you are, I'm on to your game. You aren't Winfred Tompkins and you know it."

I put some heavy sarcasm into my reply. "How did you ever guess, Mrs. Rutherford?"

She laughed airily, helped herself to a cigarette and leaned forward while I lighted it so that I could not help seeing deep into the straining V of her blouse.

"Lots of things. In the first place, you call me 'Virginia' when we're alone instead of 'Bozo' as you always used to do."

"I stopped calling you 'Bozo' when I made up my mind—" I began.

"Nuts to you, Buddy," she rejoined. "Then you kept pulling at your ear as though you were milking a cow, while I was needling you. Winnie never did that. When he was in a spot, he always reached in his pocket and jingled his change or, as a desperate measure, twiddled his keys."

"Don't judge my habits by my hang-overs," I insisted. "I'm not feeling well and I've had a sort of psychic shock."

"Winnie never said 'psychic' in his life, poor lamb," she observed. "He didn't know what it meant. No, I don't know what your game is but I'm on to you and we're going to be real buddies from now on or—"

"Or what?"

"The police," she observed quietly, "take a dim view of murder in this state. Now I'm willing to be broad-minded. Winnie was a louse who had it coming to him, I guess. I was playing him for a quick divorce and marriage. Three million dollars is a lot of money, even in these days, and it would have been nice to have been married to it. But it's even nicer this way, I guess."

The decanter was within reach. I poured myself another drink. "Have some?"