<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_32" id="CHAPTER_32">CHAPTER 32</SPAN></h2>
<p>I walked down Lenox Avenue to the first cigar-store and telephoned the
office.</p>
<p>As soon as I was connected with Arthurjean I asked her to meet me at
her apartment as soon as she could make it. Then I hailed a cab and was
driven south through Central Park to the upper east Fifties' and my
secretary's apartment. She was waiting.</p>
<p>"Gee, honey," she exclaimed. "I just got here. What's cooking?"</p>
<p>I followed her in and went straight to the kitchenette. I poured myself
a stiff drink and downed it rapidly. I poured myself another and
turned to see her staring at me.</p>
<p>"You look terrible," she told me. "What's happened to you?"</p>
<p>"I can't tell you," I replied. "You'd think I'm crazy and you'd turn me
in."</p>
<p>"I will not!"</p>
<p>She came up close to me and looked me square in the eye. "I don't care
if you're crazy as a bed-bug," she announced. "Go on and 'pit it out in
momma's hand. I won't squeal."</p>
<p>"Sit down!" I ordered, "and get yourself a drink first. This is tough."</p>
<p>She sat and listened quietly as I outlined the latest developments.</p>
<p>"So you see," I concluded, "I <i>can't</i> tell anyone. They'd have me
locked up for keeps."</p>
<p>She nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. "I can see that.... Maybe your wife—"</p>
<p>"I couldn't tell <i>her</i>," I contradicted. "It would be too damn cruel
just now when she's really happy."</p>
<p>Arthurjean sat and thought for a while. "Yep," she remarked, as though
she had just concluded a long argument. "You're right. You can't tell
nobody <i>that</i>. How about this nosey A. J. Harcourt? Won't he find out?
He's still having you tailed."</p>
<p>"I don't see how he could," I told her, "unless that Madame la Lune is
a complete phoney—which doesn't make sense. She and I were alone in
the room. If it was a plant, there's nothing to tell. If she's on the
level she won't remember what went on."</p>
<p>"That's no plant," Arthurjean Briggs announced. "It wouldn't make sense
for the F.B.I. to pull it. Harcourt sent you there in the first place
but he wouldn't put her up to a trick like that."</p>
<p>"He'll be hot on my trail then," I said. "All those clergymen I saw
will have to be checked—when all the time—"</p>
<p>"Do you know what I'd do if I was you," she said abruptly. "I'd get rid
of that damn dog—but fast."</p>
<p>"You mean sell it?" I asked.</p>
<p>"I mean kill it. It isn't natural, acting that way. It's been worrying
you nigh crazy, that's what it's been doing. You just take it to the
vet's and have it chloroformed. They do it all the time on account of
the rabbis—"</p>
<p>"Rabies," I corrected.</p>
<p>"That's right, but they do it, don't they? You don't have to get
permission. He's your property. You can tell the vet he bit you—"</p>
<p>I started up. "Hell!" I exclaimed. "I've got to get him away from the
kennels fast. It's—it's—"</p>
<p>Arthurjean put her large, strong hand on my shoulder.</p>
<p>"There, honey," she soothed me. "It's all right. It's going to be all
right."</p>
<p>I looked at her and realized that she hadn't believed a word of my
story.</p>
<p>"See here—" I began, when the door-bell rang.</p>
<p>"Two-to-one it's Harcourt," I remarked.</p>
<p>"I hope so," said Arthurjean coloring faintly.</p>
<p>"Well, what's all this about?" I demanded, as a slow blush gathered in
sunset fury upon her pleasant face. "Why, Arthurjean—"</p>
<p>"Lay off," she begged. "He's a nice guy and he hasn't got that
family in Brooklyn he kept talking about. You and me are washed
up—and—well, he's from the South, too, and he talks my language."</p>
<p>"Good luck," I told her. "But he's also on the doorstep, so take hold
of yourself."</p>
<p>He was. She did.</p>
<p>"'Evening, Miss Briggs," the Special Agent said politely. "Any luck,
Mr. Tompkins?"</p>
<p>I shook my head.</p>
<p>He looked reproachful. "Oh, come now," he pleaded. "<i>Something</i> must
have happened. You got out of Harlem like a bat out of hell and almost
shook the agent who was tailing you. You don't look to me like nothing
happened. Have you filled in that gap? Started to remember anything?"</p>
<p>"On my word of honor, Andy," I swore, "I haven't remembered a thing.
The gap's still there."</p>
<p>He said nothing for a few minutes and exchanged a glance with
Arthurjean.</p>
<p>"Something must have happened," he requested. "You've changed. Come
clean, can't you? I'm only trying to help you."</p>
<p>"I can't tell you much of anything," I told him. "You wouldn't believe
me if I did. There's been a sort of locked door inside my mind for the
last three weeks. Now the door's unlocked and is beginning to swing
open. I haven't looked inside, but I think I know what I'll find. I
can't tell you more than that now."</p>
<p>"But you're going to look, aren't you?" he asked.</p>
<p>"I've got to look," I said.</p>
<p>He sighed. "Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on you so as to be
around when you do. See here, Mr. Tompkins, you know your own business
but this Von Bieberstein guy is nobody to monkey around with. He's
plenty tough and he'd as soon kill as sneeze. Can't you give me a hint?
I'm trained to take those risks and know how to take care of myself,
and anyhow the Bureau is back of me."</p>
<p>I leaned back in my chair and laughed and laughed and laughed until I
noticed that both Arthurjean and Harcourt were staring at me without
smiling.</p>
<p>"Sorry," I apologized. "It's just that something struck me as
rather funny. Well, Arthurjean, I'll be catching the train back to
Westchester. You and Andy blow yourself to a dinner at my expense. I'll
go down to the vet's first thing in the morning and follow your advice.
Good night, Andy. I'll be seeing you."</p>
<p>That night I locked myself in my bedroom and slept alone. Germaine was
worried but I put her aside with the explanation that I had a splitting
headache—too much to drink, probably, was my explanation. The truth
was that I didn't want to see or talk to my wife so that she could not
guess the perfectly appalling knowledge that had come to me.</p>
<p>This was insane, I repeated to myself. Even Arthurjean Briggs, who
had sworn never to turn me in, had not believed it. Yet no other
explanation was open to me. The dog's whole conduct since that fatal
afternoon of April second was consistent only with the utterly
irrational theory that the body of the Great Dane had been possessed
by the soul of Winnie Tompkins at the very moment when the latter's
body—now mine—had been possessed by the soul of Frank Jacklin.</p>
<p>Everybody had a fairly nice set of words for the latter
phenomenon—trauma, schizophrenia, neurasthenia, the Will of God—and
the best advice was uniform: forget about it; it will wear off in time;
take things easy, you've been working too hard; everybody's crazy.</p>
<p>Now just imagine trying to convince the F.B.I. or a psychiatrist that,
in addition to this delusion, you know for a fact that a Great Dane
is now inhabited by the soul that once resided in your own body. I
could hear the clanging of the gong on the private ambulance as it
raced me to the nearest asylum, I could feel my arms already in the
strait-jacket. No one must ever know; Arthurjean must never tell. If
she doubted me, she must never tell.</p>
<p>The way I figured it was this: Winnie had been asleep at the Pond Club.
He had been worried about Ponto and Ponto was desperately ill—dying
even—from distemper. Both of their—what was the word?—their <i>ids</i> or
<i>psyches</i> were relaxed, weakened, off-guard. Then the atomic explosion
in the Aleutians, by some freak, had hurled my soul half-way around
the world into the sleeping body of Winnie Tompkins. His soul had then
crowded into the body of Ponto. Ponto's soul—if dogs have them, which
I don't doubt—was out of luck. Permanently withdrawn.</p>
<p>Crazy? I'll say! I was the only person alive who knew that it was true
and nobody would ever believe me, if only for the reason that it would
always be much simpler to lock me up.</p>
<p>Quite obviously, Ponto knew that he was Winnie and resented my presence
in his home. He had shown the jealousy and ill-temper natural to a man,
instead of the friendliness of a dog. He had been humanly jealous of
Germaine.</p>
<p>Suddenly I chuckled. By George! this was rich. Winnie in turn
undoubtedly believed that I was Ponto. The Jacklin angle was outside
of his range. No wonder he was furious with me when he saw that his
household pet—a Great Dane—masquerading in his human body, had
usurped his place in the affections of his wife and in authority over
his home. Only hunger, which brings all things to terms, had broken his
rebellion against this monstrous confusion. It must be tough to find
yourself reduced to dog-biscuits and runs on the lawn.</p>
<p>I knew what I must do. Arthurjean had been right. The only way I could
make myself secure was to have Ponto killed. Would this be murder? I
wondered what Father Flanagan would make of it. Probably he would say,
"Yes, it is murder if you believe that Winfred Tompkins is Ponto."
Yet until Ponto was dead, there could be no security for me. At any
moment, if the psychiatrists were right, the change might come, with a
small shock, and Winnie Tompkins would resume lawful possession of his
body, his home, his wife, his money, while I—Commander Frank Jacklin,
U.S.N.R.—could count myself lucky to be allowed to sleep on a smelly
old blanket on the floor in the corner and eat dog-biscuits and be
offered as a thoroughbred sire.</p>
<p>There was still time to stop that nonsense. The strictly practical
thing to do was to go to the kennels first thing in the morning.
Then I'd take Ponto away from Dalrymple and drive down to White
Plains and find a vet to give him chloroform. Thus I would be safe
from the possibility of having Winnie reoccupy his body and drive me
into Ponto's or, worse still, into the stratosphere to join the mild
chemical mist that was all that remained of the body of Frank Jacklin.</p>
<p>All right, it was murder then. I would be murdering Winnie Tompkins,
but I would be the only one who would know it—the Perfect Crime. I
laughed to myself at the thought that now Harcourt would lose his last
chance to learn what Winnie had done in that fatal week before Chalmis'
thorium bomb had blown me and the Alaska into the Aurora Borealis.</p>
<p>Although it was a cool night, I was perspiring violently. My nerves
were shot to pieces. After this, I would need a rest. Winnie's business
was in good shape. I could afford to keep away from the office for
a time, until I grew a new face, as it were, after this shattering
discovery. Then Jimmie and I—perhaps we would have a child. I'd be
damned if I'd let my son be a stock-broker with a Great Dane—I might
even take the Ambassadorship to Canada. The Forbes-Dutton scheme
sounded too raw even for Washington—it would backfire into another
Teapot Dome.</p>
<p>I drew a deep breath and relaxed in my bed. My course was plain. First
of all, I'd attend to Ponto—burn my canine bridges behind me. Then
I'd take Dr. Folsom at his word and go to the Sanctuary for a couple
of weeks. My nerves <i>were</i> shot to pieces and if I didn't tell him or
Pendergast Potter about this latest wrinkle in transmigration they
would have no reason for detaining me against my will. Oh, yes, I'd
have to see that Rutherford got his money. Merry Vail was still in
Hartford, damn him and his nurse! Well, the thing to do was to stop off
at Rutherford's office on the way to the kennels and give him a check.
Vail could fix up the papers later. Once Ponto was dead, I could relax.</p>
<p><i>Was</i> it murder? Well, that depended on how you look at it. Certainly,
I was doing a better job of managing Winnie's life than he had done or
could do. Look how I straightened out his mess with women and had made
Germaine happy for the first time in her life. Look at the killing I
had made in Wall Street, three million smackers just by using my head.
Look at the way I had sold myself to the authorities at Washington,
except for the State Department. The happiness and welfare of too many
people now depended on my staying in charge of operations instead of
Winnie Tompkins. Here, at least, was one case where the end justified
the means, and nobody could call it murder.</p>
<p>And anyhow, chloroform is an easy death. You choke and gag a bit at
first but then it's all easy, like falling off a log. You just go to
sleep and never wake up. It would be the kindest possible exit for a
man who had done no good in the world. I drifted off to sleep.</p>
<p>I awakened with a start, as though a voice had summoned me. The
moonlight was streaming through the bedroom window. I knew what I must
do. I got out of bed, crossed the room to the clothes-closet, felt over
in the corner until my fingers found the knot-hole in the smooth pine
lining. I pressed and there was a click. I reached down and lifted the
sloping shelf for shoes. There, underneath it, lay a small, neatly
docketed file.</p>
<p>There were many papers and the record went back for years. I switched
on the light and examined the contents of the envelope marked
"Thorium." It was all there—the ship—the names—the ports—the
mission. There was documentation on Jacklin. I ran through it. It
was accurate and included a specimen of my signature. There was a
cross-reference to Chalmis and a small file on someone named Kaplansky.
Irrelevantly included was a folder which contained three cards labeled
"Retreat—Holy Week." "St. Michael" and "Stations of X!"</p>
<p>I crossed to the fireplace and put the papers in the grate. For an hour
I sat there feeding the flames with the record of betrayal and infamy.
Names, places, dates—I glanced at them, forgot them and burned them
with rising exaltation. Thank God! that load was off my conscience.
I might have to answer for Winnie's sins but I was damned if I'd be
responsible for his crimes. And the killing of Ponto was no longer to
be murder, it was an execution. For Ponto was Tompkins and Tompkins was
Von Bieberstein.</p>
<p>Dawn was beginning to smudge the windows when the last paper had
been burned and the ashes crushed to fragments beyond the power of
reconstruction by forensic science. Without Winnie the organization of
his gulls and dupes would fall apart and the thing that had been Von
Bieberstein would cease to exist.</p>
<p>Another thing was clearer, too. Winnie Tompkins had had an obsession
about Jacklin. Finally, through some combination of fatigue and mental
shock, a Jacklin personality had taken control. Call it schizophrenia,
Jekyll-and-Hyde, or whatever, there was a fair chance that I was still
Winnie, but his better self. The dog had been another obsession. The
dog was to blame? Well, if I believed it, it might be true, like the
old scape-goat system. I was physically the same man who had been Von
Bieberstein and had blown up the Alaska, planting evidence that would
throw the blame on Jacklin. In my heart and spirit, it was as though I
had been recreated. All the evidence had been destroyed.</p>
<p>I switched off the light and returned to bed. I fell asleep almost at
once, for now I knew that I would be safe and that Germaine would be
safe. There was no record left and soon Ponto, too, would be gone.</p>
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