Tricks and Treats, page 31
He wandered the moors in his Deveraux monster suit the next week—though I did not learn about it until later. It seems that people were reluctant to bring the creature’s existence to my attention, since there was a general feeling that Leslie was undergoing a transformation.
And then Leslie disappeared.
It was not until a year later that Leslie wrote me from India, but in the meantime I had no answer to those of our friends who cautiously inquired about his disappearance. In a fit of pique one day, I declared that actually I kept Leslie chained in the east room. It was an unfortunate remark, and my words were eagerly taken at face value by a number of people who should have known better. I might have exposed the Deveraux myth when Leslie’s letter finally came, if, in the meantime, this district had not enacted the mantrap laws.
I have never scattered mantraps about my grounds. I feel that their jaws are quite capable of severing a poacher’s leg. But I have nourished the impression in the countryside and at the village that I was quite liberal in strewing them about my property. That was quite sufficient to keep most of the poachers off my land.
But then, as I mentioned, the mantraps were outlawed, and if I have a reputation for anything, it is obeying the law and the poachers know that. They immediately descended upon me with their snares and traps, causing untold depredations to the American quail and partridge I had introduced on the moor.
I tried everything to stop them, of course. I appealed to the authorities, I hired a gamekeeper, and I even personally threatened to thrash any poacher I apprehended on my property.
But nothing availed.
It was in a moment of total desperation that a wild idea descended upon me. I gathered up the house keys and went up to the east room. I opened the chest Leslie had left behind and the Deveraux monster costume was inside.
It fit me perfectly.
I believe I have never since enjoyed myself as much as I did in the next few weeks. At night I would don the costume and wander about I tell you, my son, it was with the most delicious pleasure that I pursued-with blood-chilling howls—the elder Garvis to the very door of his cottage.
The elder Garvis did not poach again—to my knowledge—but it is unfortunate that his experience, or his relation of that experience, did not make an impression upon his son. He persisted in poaching, and eventually toppled off a cliff and broke his neck.
It is widely believed that his demise occurred while the monster pursued him. That is not true. I never met Sam, Jr. on the moors. But I have done nothing to discourage the legend. As a matter of fact, the monster has been “seen” a number of times when I did not leave the house.
And so, my son, when I depart, I leave you the Deveraux monster. Perhaps you too will find some use for him.
* * *
Your loving father,
Bradley Deveraux
* * *
My own father had added a note.
* * *
Gerald, it is remarkable how persistent the Garvis family is. Each Garvis, apparently, must learn about the monster from first-hand experience before he refrains from poaching.
* * *
I pulled the costume from the chest and slipped into it. At the mirror I gazed at the monster once again.
Yes, he was indeed frightening, and the good colonel had fainted. Norm Wakins had seen the Deveraux monster, and simple Verdie Tibbs, and Diana.
But Albert Jarman? No.
After I let Diana catch a glimpse of me, I had returned directly home. I had met no one on the way and I had gone directly to bed. And slept soundly. Except for the dream.
I removed the head of my costume and stared at my reflection. Did I need a shave again?
At dusk, I saw the Jarmans returning to Stonecroft and let them in the front door.
Mrs. Jarman was a spare woman with dark eyes, and she stared at me as though she was thinking something she didn’t want to believe.
“Mrs. Jarman,” I said. “I’d like to extend my most sincere…”
She walked by me and disappeared into the back hall.
Jarman frowned. “Mrs. Jarman is very upset, sir. We all are.”
“Of course.”
Jarman was about to pass me, but I stopped him. “Jarman, do the authorities have any idea who might have killed your son?”
‘‘No, sir.”
“Is there any…any talk?”
“Yes, sir,” Jarman said. “There is talk about the Deveraux monster.” He sighed. “Excuse me, sir. I should go to my wife.”
Before turning in for the night, I opened the bedroom windows for air. The rolling hills of the moor were bright with the moon and in the distance a dog howled. I felt the drift of the cool wind.
A movement in the shadows below caught my eye. I watched the spot until I made out a crouching figure. It moved again and stepped into the light. It was Verdie Tibbs. He glanced back at the house for a moment, and then disappeared into the darkness.
That night I dreamed again. I dreamed that I left the house and roamed across the moors until I found the circle of stones. I remained there waiting. For anyone.
Albert Jarman’s funeral took place on Thursday and I, of course, attended. It was a dark day, and at the graveside the mist turned to light rain. Most of the countryside seemed to be in attendance, and I was conscious that a great many of the eyes found me with a covert glance.
Freddie Hawkins came to Stonecroft the next morning, while Jarman and I were going over the household accounts.
He sat down. ‘‘Frank Garvis was found dead in his garden this morning. Strangled. He had several tufts of hair…or fur…clutched in his fingers. Definitely not human, according to the inspector.”
Jarman looked up, but said nothing.
I rubbed my neck. “Freddie, just what do you make of all this?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps some ape has escaped from a circus or something of the sort?”
“The papers would have carried a notice.”
He shrugged. “Could there actually be a Deveraux monster?” He looked at Jarman. “What do you think?”
“I have no opinion, sir.”
Freddie grinned. “Perhaps Gerald rises in the middle of the night, gripped by some mysterious force, and goes loping about the moors searching for a victim.” He shook his head. “But I guess that’s out too. I hardly think that he would grow fur just for the occasion. Or does he slip into a monkey suit of some kind?”
Freddie looked at me for a few moments and then changed the subject. “My mother told me about your break with Diana. Dreadful sorry, Gerald.”
“I think she rather fancies you,” I said.
He flushed. “Really?”
“No doubt. She’s impressed by your intelligence and drive.”
He smiled. “No need to get nasty.”
After he left, I went upstairs to the east room and unlocked the chest. I pulled out the Deveraux monster. Tufts of hair had been torn from both of the arms.
That evening I was in my study with a half-empty bottle of whiskey when Jarman entered.
“Will that be all for today, sir?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He glanced at the bottle and then turned to go.
“Jarman.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is Mrs. Jarman?”
“She is…adjusting, sir.”
I wanted to pour another glass, but not while Jarman was watching. “Do the authorities still have no suspects for your son’s murder?”
“No, sir. No suspects.”
“Do you have any...ideas?” His eyes flickered. “No, sir.”
I decided to pour the glass. “Does your wife have any ideas? Does she think that the Deveraux…?” I found myself unable to go on.
I drank the whiskey, and my next words came suddenly, and were undoubtedly inspired by the drink. “Jarman, I want you to lock me in my bedroom tonight.”
“Sir?”
“Lock me in my bedroom,” I snapped.
He studied me and there was worry in his eyes.
I took a deep breath and came to a decision. “Jarman, follow me. I have something to show you.”
I led him to the east room, unlocked the chest, and put the envelope in his hands. “Read this.”
I waited impatiently until he finished and looked up.
“You see,” I said. “There is no actual Deveraux monster.”
“No, sir.”
“Jarman, I wouldn’t tell you what I am now going to if it weren’t for the present circumstances. I must have your word of honor that you will not repeat my words to a soul. To no one at all, do you understand?”
“You have my word, sir.”
I paced the room. “First of all, you know that the poachers have been plaguing us again?”
He nodded.
“Well, Jarman, I have been wearing the Deveraux monster. I am the one responsible for chasing Norm Wakins to his door. I am the one who met poor simple Verdie. Accidentally, I assure you. He is not a poacher. He actually tried to make friends with me, and I was forced to flee.” I stopped pacing. “My only intention was to frighten away poachers.”
Jarman smiled faintly. “Is Colonel Munson a poacher?”
I felt myself flushing. “That was a spur of the moment thing. A lark.”
He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “A lark, sir?”
I decided that I might as well be embarrassingly candid. “Jarman, you are aware that the colonel and Diana Munson came here about eight months ago? And that within two months I found myself engaged?”
“Yes, sir. Rather sudden.”
I agreed and cleared my throat. “I was committed, and I am a gentleman. A man of my word, but still…”
The comers of Jarman’s mouth turned slightly. “You found yourself not quite as happy as you thought you should be?”
I flushed again. “I happened to see Colonel Munson while I was in the monster suit and suddenly it occurred to me that if the colonel, and perhaps Diana herself, should see the monster, they might not be so eager for me to…” I wished I were downstairs with the bottle.
“I understand, sir,” Jarman said. “And I am sure that Miss Munson will be quite satisfied with Mr. Hawkins.”
“Jarman,” I said. “I have frightened a number of people, but I have injured no one. I am…positive…that I did not kill your son.” I stared down at the Deveraux monster in the chest and at the bare spots on the arms.
Jarman’s voice was quiet. “Do you still want to be locked up for the night, sir?”
There was silence in the room and when I looked up, I saw that he was watching me.
Finally, Jarman said, “I know you didn’t kill Albert.”
“You know?”
“Yes, sir. Two nights ago, Verdie Tibbs came to the back door and spoke to me. He saw Albert killed. He saw the murder from a distance, too far away to give aid to Albert…and the crime was over in an instant.”
Jarman looked tired. “Albert was returning from the village and apparently he came across a set of poacher’s snares or nets. According to Verdie, Albert was bending over them and he seemed to be tearing them apart, when suddenly someone leaped behind him and struck him with a rock.”
“Who was it?” I demanded.
Jarman closed his eyes for a moment. “Frank Garvis, sir.”
“But why didn’t Verdie go to the authorities?”
‘‘Verdie was afraid, sir. He’s heard talk that he might be sent to an institution, and he wants nothing to do with any public officials. But even if he had gone to the authorities, what good would that have done, sir? It would have been the word of simple Verdie against that of Frank Garvis.”
“But then who killed Garvis last night?” I looked down at the chest again and wondered if I had only been dreaming when…
“Sir,” Jarman said quietly. “The Jarmans and the Deverauxs have been together ever since the beginning. There are no secrets a Deveraux can keep from a Jarman—not for long.” He smiled faintly. “My grandfather also left a letter to his son, and, in turn, to me.”
He took a key out of his vest pocket. “This unlocks the chest too, sir, and the Deveraux monster fits me—as it did my grandfather and my father whenever they wished to wear it.”
Jarman sighed. “I would have preferred to remain silent on the whole matter and let it pass. But I could see that you were beginning to fear that you were responsible, and so I had to speak. Now that you know, I will put my affairs in order, and then go to the police with a full confession.”
“What have you told your wife?”
“Nothing but that Garvis killed Albert. I did not want her to think what the villagers are thinking.”
I rubbed my neck. “Jarman, I fail to see that any…good…can come of your going to the police.”
“Sir?”
“The Deveraux monster murdered Garvis,” I said. “I think that it is much, much better if we leave it that way.”
After a while, Jarman spoke faintly. “Thank you, sir.”
I pulled the Deveraux monster out of the chest. “However, I believe that we should destroy this, don’t you, Jarman? After all, someone might manage to compare it with the tufts of hair Garvis had in his fingers.”
Jarman put the monster over his arm. “Yes, sir. I’ll burn it.” At the door he looked back. “Is the Deveraux monster dead, sir?”
A sudden gust of moor wind whispered around the shutters.
“Yes,” I said. “The Deveraux monster is dead.”
When he was gone, I happened to glance at the mirror.
Strange. I rather needed a shave again.
Afterword
We at Mystery Writers of America hope you enjoyed this collection of stories from our great writers. Tricks and Treats, edited by Joe Gores and Bill Pronzini, is the latest in a series of classic crime collections in our new program, Mystery Writers of America Classics.
Since 1945, MWA has been America’s premiere organization for professional mystery writers, a group dedicated to learning from each other, helping new members, and sharing our successes and good times. One way we celebrate our talent is through the production of original, themed anthologies, published more or less yearly since 1946, in which one remarkable writer invites others to his or her collection.
Read more about our anthology program, both the new ones and classic re-issues, on our web page: https://mysterywriters.org
And watch for future editions of Mystery Writers of America Classics. To receive notifications, please subscribe here: http://mysterywriters.org/mwa-anthologies/classics-newsletter/
The Mystery Writers of America Presents Classic Anthology Series
A Hot and Sultry Night for Crime, Edited by Jeffery Deaver
Woman’s Wiles, Edited by Michele Slung
Blood on Their Hands, Edited by Lawrence Block
The Lethal Sex, Edited by John D. MacDonald
Merchants of Menace, Edited by Hilary Waugh
Tricks and Treats, Edited by Joe Gores and Bill Pronzini
Story Copyrights
The authors of the stories in this collection have kindly granted special permission to the editor and the Mystery Writers of America to include them in the book. Grateful acknowledgment is made to the authors and also to the copyright holders, magazines, and publishers named below.
“The Donor” by Dan J. Marlowe. Copyright© 1970 by HSD Publications. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine as by Jaime Sandaval.
“The Pill Problem” by Pauline C. Smith. Copyright © 1972 by HSD Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.
“I Always Get the Cuties” by John D. MacDonald. Copyright © 1954 Mercury Publications, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
‘‘The Crooked Picture” by John Lutz. Copyright © 1967 by Renown Publications, Inc. First published in The Man From U.N.CL.E. Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Night Piece for Julia” by Jessamyn West. Copyright © 1970 by Jessamyn West. Reprinted from Crimson Ramblers of the World, Farewell.
“No More Questions” by Stephen R. Novak. Copyright © 1975 by HSD Publications. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.
“Violation” by William F. Nolan. Copyright © 1973 by Roger Elwood. First appeared in the anthology Future City.
“Hollywood Footprints” by Betty Buchanan. Copyright © 1976 by Betty Buchanan. An original story.
“The Time of the Eye” by Harlan Ellison. Originally appeared in The Saint Detective Magazine, May 1959. Copyright © 1959 by King-Size Publications, Inc.
“Face Value” by Edward Wellen. Copyright © 1962 by West Park, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.
‘‘The Leopold Locked Room” by Edward D. Hoch. Copyright © 1971 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“If I Quench Thee...’’ by William E. Chambers. Copyright© 1976 by William E. Chambers. An original story.
“The Spoils System” by Donald E. Westlake. Copyright © 1965 by HSD Publications. First appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.
“Rope Enough” by Joe Gores. Copyright © 1976 by Joe Gores. An original story.
“Robert” by Stanley Ellin. Copyright © 1959 by Stanley Ellin.
“My Mother, The Ghost” by Henry Slesar. Copyright© 1965 The Diner’s Club, Inc.
“Murder by Scalping” by S. S. Rafferty. Copyright © 1973 by S. S. Rafferty. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
‘‘We All Have to Go” by Elizabeth A. Lynn. Copyright © 1976 by Elizabeth A. Lynn. An original story.
