Brown, Fredric - Night_of_the_Jabberwock

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NIGHT OF THE

JABBERWOCK

By FREDRIC BROWN

BANTAM BOOKS 990

Printing History:

Dutton Edition Published December, 1950

1st Printing October, 1950

Unicorn Mystery Book Club Edition Published February, 1951

Bantam Edition Published April, 1952

1st Printing March, 1952

ALL VERSES INTRODUCING

CHAPTERS ARE FROM THE WORKS

OF CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON,

KNOWN IN WONDERLAND AS LEWIS

CARROLL.

CHAPTER ONE

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

In my dream I was standing in the middle of Oak Street

and it was dark night. The street lights were off; only pale

moonlight glinted on the huge sword that I swung in circles

about my head as the Jabberwock crept closer. It bellied

along the pavement, flexing its wings and tensing its muscles

for the final rush; its claws clicked against the stones like the

clicking of mats down the channels of a Linotype. Then,

astonishingly, it spoke.

“Doc,” it said. “Wake up, Doc.”

A hand – not the hand of a Jabberwock – was shaking my

shoulder.

And it was early dusk instead of black night and I was

sitting in the swivel chair at my battered desk, looking over

my shoulder at Pete. Pete was grinning at me.

“We’re in, Doc,” he said. “You’ll have to cut two lines on

this last take and we’re in. Early, for once.”

He put a galley proof down in front of me, only one stick

of type long. I picked up a blue pencil and knocked off two

lines and they happened to be an even sentence, so Pete

wouldn’t have to reset anything.

He went over to the Linotype and shut it off and it was

suddenly very quiet in the place, so quiet that I could hear the

drip of the faucet way in the far corner.

I stood up and stretched, feeling good, although a little

groggy from having dozed off while Pete was setting that

final take. For once, for one Thursday, the Carmel City

Clarion was ready for the press early. Of course, there wasn’t

any real news in it, but then there never was.

And only half-past six and not yet dark outside. We were

through hours earlier than usual. I decided that that called for

a drink, here and now.

The bottle in my desk turned out to have enough whisky in

it for one healthy drink or two short ones. I asked Pete if he

wanted a snort and he said no, not yet, he’d wait till he got

over to Smiley’s, so I treated myself to a healthy drink, as I’d

hoped to be able to do. And it had been fairly safe to ask

Pete; he seldom took one before he was through for the day,

and although my part of the job was done Pete still had

almost an hour’s work ahead of him on the mechanical end.

The drink made a warm spot under my belt as I walked

over to the window by the Linotype and stood staring out

into the quiet dusk. The lights of Oak Street flashed on while

I stood there. I’d been dreaming – what had I been dreaming?

On the sidewalk across the street Miles Harrison hesitated

in front of Smiley’s Tavern as though the thought of a cool

glass of beer tempted him. I could almost feel his mind

working: “No, I’m a deputy sheriff of Carmel County and I

have a job to do yet tonight and I don’t drink while I’m on

duty. The beer can wait.”

Yes, his conscience must have won, because he walked on.

I wonder now – although of course I didn’t wonder then –

whether, if he had known that he would be dead before

midnight, he wouldn’t have stopped for that beer. I think he

would have. I know I would have, but that doesn’t prove

anything because I’d have done it anyway; I’ve never had a

conscience like Miles Harrison’s.

Behind me, at the stone, Pete was putting the final stick of

type into the chase of the front page. He said, “Okay, Doc,

she fits. We’re in.”

“Let the presses roll,” I told him.

Just a manner of speaking, of course. There was only one

press and it didn’t roll, because it was a Miehle vertical that

shuttled up and down. And it wouldn’t even do that until

morning. The Clarion is a weekly paper that comes out on

Friday; we put it to bed on Thursday evening and Pete runs it

off the press Friday morning. And it’s not much of a run.

Pete asked, “You going over to Smiley’s?”

That was a silly question; I always go over to Smiley’s on

a Thursday evening and usually, when he’s finished locking

up the forms, Pete joins me, at least for a while. “Sure,” I told

him.

“I’ll bring you a stone proof, then,” Pete said.

Pete always does that, although I seldom do more than

glance at it. Pete’s too good a printer for me ever to catch any

important errors on him and as for minor typographicals,

Carmel City doesn’t mind them.

I was free and Smiley’s was waiting, but for some reason I

wasn’t in any hurry to leave. It was pleasant, after the hard

work of a Thursday – and don’t let that short nap fool you; I

had been working – to stand there and watch the quiet street

in the quiet twilight, and to contemplate an intensive

campaign of doing nothing for the rest of the evening, with a

few drinks to help me do it.

Miles Harrison, a dozen paces past Smiley’s, stopped,

turned, and headed back. Good, I thought, I’ll have someone

to drink with. I turned away from the window and put on my

suit coat and hat.

I said, “Be seeing you, Pete,” and I went down the stairs

and out into the warm summer evening.

I’d misjudged Miles Harrison; he was coming out of

Smiley’s already, too soon even to have had a quick one, and

he was opening a pack of cigarettes. He saw me and waved,

waiting in front of Smiley’s door to light a cigarette while I

crossed the street.

“Have a drink with me, Miles,” I suggested.

He shook his head regretfully. “Wish I could, Doc. But I

got a job to do later. You know, go with Ralph Bonney over

to Neilsville to get his pay roll.”

Sure, I knew. In a small town everybody knows

everything.

Ralph Bonney owned the Bonney Fireworks Company,

just outside of Carmel City. They made fireworks, mostly big

pieces for fairs and municipal displays, that were sold all

over the country. And during the few months of each year up

to about the first of July they worked a day and a night shift

to meet the Fourth of July demand.

And Ralph Bonney had something against Clyde Andrews,

president of the Carmel City Bank, and did his banking in

Neilsville. He drove over to Neilsville late every Thursday

night and they opened the bank there to give him the cash for

his night shift pay roll. Miles Harrison, as deputy sheriff,

always went along as guard.

Always seemed like a silly procedure to me, as the night

side pay roll didn’t amount to more than a few thousand

dollars and Bonney could have got it along with the cash for

his day side pay roll and held it at the office, but that was his

way of doing things.

I said, “Sure, Miles, but that’s not for hours yet. And one

drink isn’t going to hurt you.”

He grinned. “I know it wouldn’t, but I’d probably take

another just because the first one didn’t hurt me. So I stick to

the rule that I don’t have even one drink till I’m off duty for

the day, and if I don’t stick to it I’m sunk. But thanks just the

same, Doc. I’ll take a rain check.”

He had a point, but I wish he hadn’t made it. I wish he’d

let me buy him that drink, or several of them, because that

rain check wasn’t worth the imaginary paper it was printed

on to a man who was going to be murdered before midnight.

But I didn’t know that, and I didn’t insist. I said, “Sure,

Miles,” and asked him about his kids.

“Fine, both of ’em. Drop out and see us sometime.”

“Sure,” I said, and I went into Smiley’s.

Big, bald Smiley Wheeler was alone. He smiled as I came

in and said, “Hi, Doc. How’s the editing business?” And then

he laughed as though he’d said something excruciatingly

funny. Smiley hasn’t the ghost of a sense of humor and he

has the mistaken idea that he disguises that fact by laughing

at almost everything he says or hears said.

“Smiley, you give me a pain,” I told him. It’s always safe

to tell Smiley a truth like that; no matter how seriously you

say and mean it; he thinks you’re joking. If he’d laughed I’d

have told him where he gave me a pain, but for once he

didn’t laugh.

He said, “Glad you got here early, Doc. It’s damn dull this

evening.”

“It’s dull every evening in Carmel City,” I told him. “And

most of the time I like it. But Lord, if only something would

happen just once on a Thursday evening, I’d love it. Just

once in my long career, I’d like to have one hot story to break

to a panting public.”

“Hell, Doc, nobody looks for hot news in a country

weekly.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’d like to fool them just

once. I’ve been running the Clarion twenty-three years. One

hot story. Is that much to ask?”

Smiley frowned. “There’ve been a couple of burglaries.

And one murder, a few years ago.”

“Sure,” I said, “and so what? One of the factory hands out

at Bonney’s got in a drunken argument with another and hit

him too hard in the fight they got into. That’s not murder;

that’s manslaughter, and anyway it happened on a Saturday

and it was old stuff – everybody in town knew about it – by

the next Friday when the Clarion came out.”

“They buy your paper anyway, Doc. They look for their

names for having attended church socials and who’s got a

used washing machine for sale and – want a drink?”

“It’s about time one of us thought of that,” I said.

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摘要：

NIGHTOFTHEJABBERWOCKByFREDRICBROWNBANTAMBOOKS990PrintingHistory:DuttonEditionPublishedDecember,19501stPrintingOctober,1950UnicornMysteryBookClubEditionPublishedFebruary,1951BantamEditionPublishedApril,19521stPrintingMarch,1952Copyright,1950,byFredricBrownALLVERSESINTRODUCINGCHAPTERSAREFROMTHEWORKSOF...

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