Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 47, No. 4. Whole No. 269, April 1966

Hugh B. Cave Many Happy Returns

“Of course, it was all pretty weird and sinister. Nevertheless—”

The house was an old one on an old road, miles from anywhere, but the freshly painted sign by its driveway — TOURISTS’ REST — was as reassuring as a cleric’s smile of welcome.

“Let’s,” Grace Martin said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “There’s no telling what we might find!”

Their car was already bulging with antiques collected in six states, but Tom Martin didn’t care. He had just acquired his M.A., a teaching job at a highly regarded prep school, and a beautiful bride. “Done,” he agreed without hesitation.

The warped and weathered door creaked open as they wriggled from the car. A man as old as they had expected, with a crown of white hair glowing in the dusk, limped down the rickety steps to greet them. An equally old woman, doll-dainty, smiled and nodded in the doorway.

It was the woman who escorted the newlyweds to their upstairs room. “Our name is Wiggin,” she said, “but please call me Anna. And when you’ve freshened up, do come down for tea.”

Grace Martin became enthusiastic about the massive four-poster bed while her husband irreverently bounced on it and pronounced it comfortable. They “freshened up” by lamplight and went downstairs to a dim parlor filled with antiques and the smell of age.

Anna Wiggin poured tea into fine old cups, and her husband Jasper, in reply to Grace Martin’s question, said in a cracked voice, “No, we do not collect antiques. Not really. We have just acquired these things as we needed them.

“You are only just married, you two,” Anna said with her smile. “I can always tell.”

“Five days,” Grace admitted.

“You are very young,” Jasper said.

“Not so young. I’m twenty-two. Tom is twenty-four.”

The old man moved his head up and down as if to say he had made a guess and the guess was correct. He did not say how old he and Anna were. He did remark, “I am a little older than my wife, also,” then sipped his tea and added, “You must tell Anna your birthdays. She will read your futures.”

“By our birthdays?” Grace Martin said.

“Oh, yes.”

“How can you do that, Mrs. Wiggin?”

“I can do it.” The doll-woman leaned closer, nodding and nodding. “When were you born, my dear?”

“May eleventh.”

“It won’t work, you know,” Tom Martin said with a grin. “She—” Then puzzled by the old woman’s expression, he was silent.

Jasper rose from his chair and placed his hands on his wife’s frail shoulders. Though all but transparent in the lamplight, the hands were strong and long-fingered. “Now, Anna,” he said softly, “do not be excited.”

Grace Martin sent a half-frightened glance at her husband and said, “Is there something special about that date?”

“It is Anna’s birthday also.”

“Oh, how nice! We are special, then, aren’t we?”

“Don’t go putting on airs,” Tom Martin chided. “You’re forgetting—”

“Now, darling, don’t spoil it.”

“I will get some more tea,” the old man said. “Fresh cups, too. We must have a toast.”

The others were joking about the birthday when he returned from the kitchen with a tray. Placing four full cups on the table, he sat down again. The lamplight splashed his shadow on a wall as he raised a hand and said, “To the day that gave us two such lovely ladies.”

They laughed and drank.

“You see, my dear,” the old man said to his wife, “it never fails.”

“What never fails?” Tom Martin asked.

“Only yesterday Anna was saying we would have to leave this house and find another. So few travelers use this old road any more. And even with many guests we sometimes wait years, of course.”

“Wait for what?” Tom said.

“They have to have the same birthday, you see.”

Tom nodded solemnly. It was past the old folks’ bedtime, he supposed. When you were that old, a break with custom could make the mind a bit fuzzy. “Well, of course—” He started to rise. Grace and he had had a long day too, more than three hundred miles of driving.

“Wait, please,” Jasper Wiggin said. “It is only fair that you understand.”

With a tolerant smile Tom sank down again.

“There is a mathematical master plan, you see,” the old man said. “Each day so many people are born, so many die. The plan insures a balance.”

“Really?” Tom suppressed a yawn.

“I can simplify it for you, I think, if you will pay close attention. Each date — that is to say, each eleventh of May or ninth of June or sixth of December and so forth — is a compartment in time. Now suppose a thousand people are born today, to take their place with all the thousands born on this date in previous years. If the plan were perfect, all those born today would live exactly a year longer than those born one year ago, and so on. You follow me?”

“Uh-huh,” Tom said sleepily.

“But the plan is not perfect. There is a thinning out through sickness and accidents — there has been from the beginning — and as a consequence, some of those born today will die before the expiration date, and others will live beyond it to maintain the balance.”

“Sure,” Tom mumbled.

“Each time compartment in each of the time zones is controlled this way. Life moves according to mathematics, just as the stars do.”

“Remarkable,” Tom said. Across the table his wife Grace was practically asleep. “What about the normal increase in population?”

“Oh, that’s accounted for. So are wars, plagues, and things of that sort. If we had more time, I could make it all quite clear.”

“You discovered this yourself, Mr. Wiggin?”

“Oh, no. There was a man from Europe staying with us one summer — a mathematical genius named Marek Dziok. Not in this house, of course; we have moved many times since then. Dziok had an accident — he was very old, and one night he fell down the stairs, poor man — but before he died, he took us into his confidence.”

“I see.”

“You don’t believe me?” Jasper Wiggin said. “Dziok was writing a book — a philosophy based on his mathematics. He never finished it. But I have the manuscript...” He left his chair and limped to a bookcase, from which he lifted out a thin, paper-bound sheaf of papers. “Perhaps you would like — but no, you won’t have time.” Shaking his head, he put the sheaf of pages back.

“I guess I’d better take my wife to bed,” Tom Martin said. “She’s asleep.”

“Yes, it works faster on women.”

“What works faster?”

“The powder.”

“You mean you put something—” Staring at his wife, Tom placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself erect. It required enormous effort. “You mean—”

“You haven’t been listening, have you?” the old man complained sadly. “And I’ve tried so hard to explain. Your wife and mine share the same time compartment, don’t you see? You know yourself by now that Anna and I are much older than people get to be naturally. There’s only the one way to do it.”

“By... by killing off—”

“Precisely.”

“And you think you’re going to kill Grace?”

“It’s been nineteen years since the last one for Anna,” the old man sighed. “Hasn’t it, dear?”

The doll-woman nodded. “Jasper has been luckier. He had one eight years ago.”

“You’re crazy!” Tom Martin shouted. “Both of you, you’re crazy! Grace, wake up! We’re getting out of here!” But when he leaned across the table to shake his wife awake, his legs went limp. He collapsed onto his chair. His head fell on his hands.

After a moment he was able with terrible concentration to bring the faces of Jasper and Anna Wiggin into focus again. There was something he had to remember — something he or they had said earlier, or he should have said but hadn’t...

“It won’t hurt, you know,” the old man was saying sympathetically. “You’ll both be asleep.”

“Both... both...”

“Oh, yes. We’ll have to kill you too, of course. Otherwise you’d tell.”

“Wait,” Tom whispered. The room was filling with shadows now. “Wait...”

“But it won’t be a waste, your dying. Somebody in your compartment will benefit, you know. Somebody with your birthday.”

“Birthday,” Tom repeated. That was it — birthday. “You’re wrong about Grace — about — her — birthday.” He made a supreme effort to get the words out before it was too late. “I tried — to tell you. She wasn’t born May eleventh—”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Martin,” the old man said sadly.

“No, no, it’s true! She was born May eleventh in Manila. The Philippines. Her father taught — taught college there. Different — time — zone. Don’t you see? A whole — day — different—”

The room went dark. In the darkness, though, he thought he heard the old woman begin to weep, and was sure he heard the old man saying, “Now, now, Anna, don’t do that. There will be another one before too long.”

Then nothing...

He was in the big four-poster bed when a shaft of sunlight wakened him. His wife lay asleep at his side. Their clothes were neatly folded on chairs.

Tom yawned and sat up. His wife opened her eyes and said, “Hi.”

“You know something? I don’t remember going to bed last night,” Tom said.

“Neither do I.”

“I don’t remember getting undressed or folding my clothes like that. Grace” — he was frowning now — “I never fold my clothes. You know that.”

“All I remember,” she said with a yawn, “is getting sleepy at the table.” She looked at her watch. “Anyway, we’d better be moving. It’s after nine.”

When they were ready to go they walked downstairs together, Tom carrying their suitcases. Anna Wiggin came from the parlor to greet them. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, peering into their faces.

“I’ll say we did,” Tom said.

“You were both so tired,” Anna said, nodding. “Won’t you have breakfast before you go?”

They said no, thanks, they were late as it was, and Tom took out his wallet to pay for their night’s lodging. Anna said wait, please, she would get her husband, he was out in the field. So Tom and Grace Martin went to their car with the suitcases and Tom went back into the house alone.

It came back to him when he walked into the parlor and saw the table and the tea service and the extra cups. The extra cups! At first it was fuzzy and confused; then it sharpened and he remembered everything — just as Grace had remembered everything up to the time of her falling asleep.

He snatched the sheaf of papers from the bookcase. It was indeed a manuscript, handwritten and yellowed with age. Its title was The Mathematics of Life and its author was Marek Dziok.

Under the author’s name, in a different hand, was written: Born 1613. Died (by accident) 1802.

There was a sound of footsteps in the kitchen. Tom thrust the manuscript inside his shirt and quickly stepped away from the bookcase.

“You know, I’m still sleepy,” his wife said later as their car purred along a parkway. “It must have been that house. They were nice old people, though, weren’t they?”

“Remarkable,” Tom said.

“I wonder how old they really are.”

Tom did not answer. He had already finished his figuring and now he was thinking of the pilfered manuscript inside his shirt. That, too, was remarkable. With the information it contained, a man could live a long time.

Of course, it was all pretty weird and sinister. Nevertheless...

In spite of himself, he began to think about birthdays — his wife’s and his own.