Chapter 33

Wednesday, the twenty-fifth, dawned bright and fair. My mind was fully made up and I was feeling fine. Germaine was still anxious about me at breakfast but I soon convinced her that there was nothing serious involved. I laughed secretly as I said it.

“You know,” I told her, “I think I’ll drive over to Hartford and have those people at the Sanctuary look me over again. I think I need some kind of rest--the reaction, you know.”

My wife raised no objection. In fact, she seemed rather relieved as though my aloof conduct of the previous night had been a shock to her self-confidence.

“I’ll stop off at the kennels on my way over,” I added, “just to make sure that Ponto is all right.”

My plan was to remove the dog and drive to White Plains. Then, if there was any issue raised as to my need for a rest-cure, it would appear that I had inexplicably ordered my favorite dog chloroformed. That would clinch it with Germaine as nothing else could.

She seemed rather subdued as she went upstairs and helped me pack my things in a suitcase. She did not offer to kiss me good-bye as I drove the Packard out of the garage and rolled around the graveled drive toward my road to freedom.

First, of course, I stopped at Dr. Rutherford’s office. It was early in the morning and he hadn’t finished breakfast. The maid admitted me to the reception-room and while waiting for him, I made out a check for fifteen thousand dollars to the order of Jeremiah Rutherford, and marked across the back, “For Professional Services.”

“Here you are, Jerry,” I informed him when he finally appeared. “I would have got it to you sooner except that my lawyer went off the deep end with a girl in Hartford. He should have had the papers ready on Monday and here it is Wednesday.”

“Thanks,” he said briefly. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “You look a bit shaky.”

I laughed. “Set it down to my liver,” I told him. “I had a wet night last night and am a little rocky this morning. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll run over the The Sanctuary and ask Folsom to put me up for a few days. My nerves are shot to hell.”

“Good idea,” he murmured absently. “I’ll go down to the bank and put this in for collection. My Army papers came through yesterday and I’m all set.”

I climbed into my car and tooled along the roads until, after inquiring at a couple of filling stations, I located Dalrymple’s kennels.

“I’ve come for Ponto,” I told the vet.

Dalrymple seemed rather embarrassed. “Are you sure you need him?” he asked. “He’s just served Buglebell III--that’s the prize-winning brindle bitch owned by one of the Fortune editors--and I was planning--”

“You can cancel your plans,” I informed him. “And as for Buglebell’s pups, I’ll buy the litter. What were your other plans, anyhow?”

Dalrymple was quite abashed. “Not exactly anything, Mr. Tompkins, sir,” he said. “It was only that--”

I nodded majestically. “Once is enough,” I said, “and you can be thankful I don’t report you to the Kennel Club for bootlegging thoroughbred puppies. Ponto comes with me--now.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tompkins,” the vet agreed humbly.

Dalrymple was a broken man but Ponto was not a broken dog. However, marriage coming so soon after distemper had curbed his spirit and he slouched into the Packard.

As soon as I was out on the main road again, I stepped on the accelerator, heading the car southward in the general direction of White Plains.

Ponto sat panting on the seat beside me, but in his weary eye I saw all the Westchester stock-brokers who had ever annoyed me. I also saw Winnie, and Winnie was to die.

I admit that I was day-dreaming a bit as I rounded the turn. In any case, I was driving fast and had not fully accustomed myself to handling the Packard. The other automobile backed violently out of the driveway on the right, the dope of a driver not looking to see if there was any traffic coming. I slapped my foot down on the brake, missed and hit the accelerator. The Packard gave a wild leap ahead. The other car--a battered old Chevrolet--completely blocked the road. I jammed on the hand-brake and twisted the steering gear so that the Packard ran up the bank of an elderly apple-tree. My head snapped forward, there was a blinding flash and then complete blackness.

Seconds or centuries later I opened my eyes. The old Chevy seemed to have pulled away and was now parked ahead of us along the righthand side of the road. My wind-shield had not shattered and, so far as I could see, no major damage had been done to my car though I hated to think of the fenders. I ached in every limb.

My neck itched intolerably so I scratched it with my left leg. I shook myself. “Well, I’ll be damned!” I exclaimed, only to hear a deep growl that seemed to originate from within my hairy chest.

I glanced over my shoulder. There, in the seat beside me, hunched forward over the steering-wheel, sat a heavy-built man, a thin trickle of blood sliding down his cheek, his eyes closed and his lips open, while he snorted with concussion.

Instinctively, I called for help. My reward was a series of loud, angry barks. Again my ear itched and I scratched it again with my left leg. It seemed that I had become a dog. The man beside me stirred and moaned. Then he opened his eyes.

“Ponto,” he said dreamily. “Good dog!”

The driver of the other car walked back and was standing by the window.

“You all right, mister?” he asked. “You was doing fifty easy. Lucky for you I see you coming.”

The man in the driver’s seat gave a feeble smile. “My fault,” he admitted. “I was day-dreaming. Lucky this heap has good brakes. Are you all right? Any damage, I mean?”

The other man laughed. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll go on now, just so you’re all right. Want a doc?”

“Uh-uh!” the man on the seat beside me shook his head. “My name’s Tompkins and I live in Bedford Hills. If there’s any damage, it’s my fault and I’ll pay for it. Sure you’re okay?”

“Yep!” agreed the owner of the Chevrolet. “You got a cut or something. Reckon you’d ought to see a doc.”

“I will,” said the man beside me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. Just bumped my head a bit.”

We waited until the Chevrolet had rattled itself around the turn of the road. Then the man cautiously tried the gears and disinfiltrated the Packard from the apple-tree. He got out and inspected the car carefully for damage and then climbed back behind the steering-wheel. I started to ask him a question. It was a whine.

“Why Ponto!” he exclaimed. “You old black devil. How are you, hound? Long time no see.”