The Mark of Merlin

CHAPTER NINE

Merlin woke me. The very manner in which he woke me, his cold nose butting into my eyes, told me he was on the alert. He kept butting me in the neck when he saw my eyes open. Assured I was awake, he carefully got down from the bed, turned back, and imperiously nudged my shoulder. Shivering, I dragged my dressing robe around my shoulders and slid into it. Merlin went to the door. No sound, not so much as the click of a toenail on the bare floor.

I opened the door cautiously, grimacing at the effort of keeping the metal latch silent. He slipped out as soon as there was enough space for his body. He went towards the back of the house. I grabbed his neckchain as we passed Turtle’s door. I hesitated briefly. Merlin’s manner told me someone unannounced was either in the house or trying to get in. He had not barked but had awakened me for further orders. I couldn’t imagine who was trying to get in the house, snowbound and isolated as it was.

Even if Lieutenant DeLord, presumably fast asleep in the kitchen as the other two bedrooms had no fireplaces, were prowling about, Merlin was not likely to have been alarmed. He trusted DeLord and had been given no orders restricting the lieutenant to the kitchen.

I’m sure if the major had known I could specify DeLord was to be kept kitchenbound by Merlin, he would have suggested it. But we had had a very convivial evening after all. I don’t know when the men got to bed, because I left early. They were well into the bottle when I went up. Perhaps, in their cups, Major Laird might have reconciled his differences with Robert DeLord.

Also, if Lieutenant DeLord was so fascinated by my father’s stamps, there were easier ways for him to get a look at them than crawling around a frigid house in the dark. The albums could be anywhere.

So here was I, prowling the freezing hall myself. I paused by Turtle’s door and listened, ear against the cold wood. I was rewarded with the sound of fantastic snores, each bigger or more intricately breathed than the last. I was not going to wake him if the only way I could do so was yell “Sarge” or risk my brains blown out.

I passed the room by. Merlin stopped at the bathroom. I could see his eyes gleam as he turned his head back to me expectantly. I tried to remember if the roof of the kitchen extended below the bathroom. Someone could climb it to the second story. If someone had scouted the first floor, he would have seen the lieutenant asleep in the kitchen and decided against that. The back door wasn’t locked though the front was, an unnecessary precaution in this weather and on the Cape. No, the back room, where the footlockers were, gave onto the kitchen roof, not this bathroom.

I snapped my finger softly at Merlin and started towards the back room, certain now that would be the point of entry. The next thing I knew someone’s hand was over my mouth and I was being yanked back into the bathroom.

I struggled, wondering with amazement why Merlin wasn’t ferociously attacking my assailant. I tried to bite the hand over my mouth just as I heard him snap “Quiet!” in a tonelessness that was too low on the audible threshold to be called a whisper. It was the major. He was fully dressed except for boots and wore his heavy outer coat. He had a gun in his hand, a little Luger from the size of it. His lips were at my ear and he released my mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a below-sound word that was really enunciated air.

“Merlin’s on the alert,” I said, trying to duplicate his near-silent communication. “Why are you here?” I demanded.

“Not now.” And, steely fingers around my arm, he propelled me to the back room, Merlin padding soundlessly beside us.

The door creaked as the cold hinges complained in the wood. Then Merlin erupted into the room, launching himself, a silvery projectile, against the back window. There was no doubting the presence of the intruder. His body was silhouetted in the window against the snow on the slope behind the house. Merlin had leaped in silence but the moment he connected with the barrier of glass he burst into enraged snarls. The figure hesitated only briefly and then turned, slipping down the incline of the roof and dropping off into the drifted snow below. Merlin clawed frantically at the window, snarling, bilked of an immediate capture. He had more wit than we did, for he did an end-for-end switch to get out of the room and down the stairs.

But the room was small and crowded, with one hundred twenty pounds of shepherd, me in a full-skirted robe, and the major. The door got closed. The major and I in a comedy of errors both tried to find the latch and let the frantic dog out. When we did, Merlin tore around the hallway, no attempt at quiet progress now. He didn’t stop at the front door and even as the major, a few steps ahead of me all the time, followed him, we heard Merlin crashing against the kitchen door, barking urgently.

Just as the major reached the kitchen door it opened, revealing the lieutenant, hair tousled, down to his heavy underwear, obviously not the one who had tried to enter the back room. He stepped aside for Merlin and the major. Merlin, his feet scrabbling an impatient tattoo, danced at the back door. The major, his arm fully extended, flipped up the latch and followed the dog’s mad flight to the final door out. Merlin took off across the snow with my voice roaring a command after him.

“Hold him, Merlin, hold him and guard!”

As the major started after the dog, I screamed at him, “Your boots. Get your boots. Merlin’ll hold whoever it is.”

The major caught at the door frame to stop his forward momentum as he, too, realized he was no good in that deep snow in stocking feet. Before he could, I had rushed into the study and retrieved his boots by the fireplace. He dropped to the floor, jamming his feet in, lacing them part way.

The lieutenant was no laggard. He had thrown on pants, shirt, boots, and jacket. He was out after the major before Turtle, roused by the barking and clatter, entered the kitchen, also dressing as he ran. He was somewhat hampered by the service revolver in one hand.

The three men, almost evenly spaced in their order of pursuit, staggered and plunged through the drifts, guided by Merlin’s clear cry.

Shivering as much from cold as excitement, I stood in the doorway, straining to follow the chase. But the night was moonless and the snow cast up deceiving images. I waited, frustrated, angry, hopeful.

I heard Merlin’s now distant bark change to an attacking snarl. Despite the confusion in the room and all the doors, he had made up the burglar’s head start.

A shot rang out in the still night. I gasped, leaned against the door for support. I heard another shot. Then two more in quick succession. I heard a motor revving and the squeal of protesting metal. Another shot and then a pained yip.

I sank, stricken, to the cold planking of the porch, grabbing the doorframe until I felt my fingernails bend at the quick from the pressure. Merlin! Not Merlin, too! Oh, please God, let me hear him bark, or snarl, or even yip again.

More shots broke the night stillness. I closed my eyes, limp with despair.

“Kill him, kill him,” I heard myself shriek. “If he’s hurt Merlin, kill him. Kill him!”

And then I curled in on myself, sobbing. I couldn’t have sat there very long, but I might have. The convulsions of wild crying gave way to the violent shaking of shivers. The tears were runnels of ice down my face. I got myself to my feet and forced myself to stop crying. I closed the porch door. I went back to the door of the major’s room and closed it. I marched woodenly into the kitchen, closed the door behind me. I leaned against it for a moment, shaking with cold. Then I closed the hall door Turtle had left open. I drew the curtains. I went over to the table and lit the kerosene light, its bright glow a false note in the room. I threw wood on the fire. I couldn’t stop shivering so I took the whiskey bottle and poured myself a stiff shot. I stood there, trying to swallow the first mouthful, dreading what the men would tell me when they returned.

Over and over in my brain spun prayer words for Merlin. It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair, for Merlin to be taken from me, too. Memories of him as a long-eared awkward pup crowded up to mind. The foolishness, the folly, the fun of the insolent intelligent beastie. The trials I had undergone to keep him by me from crowded baggage cars to the sometimes third-rate boardinghouses that would accept pets. The times when Dad’s allotment check didn’t reach me and we had little to eat, too proud to approach acquaintances. All the many, many facets of a relationship that was blessed with an uncanny rapport, transcending his lack of speech. I could not be deprived of that by so mean an instrument as a petty burglar.

I heard motion outside the kitchen. Disregarding the blackout, I spread myself flat against the window, straining to see but the light within the room made the outside indistinct. All I saw were two figures carrying something. I whirled to snatch the porch door open.

“He’s hurt but not badly,” the major said swiftly as he and DeLord edged sideways to bring the limp dog-body in.

I swept the lamp from the table, holding it high so they could put Merlin down. I clamped my teeth on my lips, covered my mouth to dampen the sound of the sobs rising in my throat. I widened my eyes to keep them clear of tears.

“Hold the light over here, Miss Carla,” the lieutenant ordered, pointing to Merlin’s head. He was bending over the dog, shedding his gloves and jacket so he could work better. “He got creased in the scalp. Like me,” and he threw me a hasty reassuring grin, “and, I think, in the shoulder. Major, got a first-aid kit?”

“Coming.”

The lieutenant’s hands were quick but gentle as he felt the unconscious dog’s shoulder.

“Yeah, here. Oohoo, that’s quite a furrow. Hold the light a little higher.”

The major returned, another lamp in one hand, first-aid kit in the other. In the augmented light, the gash was visible, and more.

“He’s got a slug in him,” the lieutenant said, his fingers locating the lump. “Not deep, though,” he reassured me.

When the major put an arm around me, I realized I was swaying. I caught myself upright.

“You’ll have to get it out, won’t you?” I said in a tight voice.

“No sweat. We’ve all done field surgery. Even on colonels. Right, Major?”

“Right,” the major’s deeper voice assured me. His hand pressed comfortingly against my waist. “Merlin had him by the arm, too, but the man in the car shot him. Shot him twice,” and the major’s voice turned hard and cold. “To make sure.”

The lieutenant muttered under his breath. He sighed and straightened up, looking at the major.

“I’ll need a good sharp knife, sterilized. Is that a field kit, Laird?”

“Yes, it’s got a probe.”

“Good. Hope he stays out. His teeth are sharp as I’m sure our catman found out,” and the lieutenant bared his own teeth in a malicious grin. He washed his hands very carefully.

“Merlin won’t bite you,” I declared.

“All in a good cause,” the lieutenant said lightly, using a sink brush vigorously on his nails. “Many men have survived my tender ministrations, Miss Carla, and walked away to fight again. We got him in out of the cold which could be bad for open wounds.”

He dried his hands and looked critically at Merlin.

“It’ll be easier on all of us if he sleeps on.”

“He wouldn’t bite you even if he did wake,” I reasserted loyally.

“Of course not. The dog’s got more sense than most humans. Here’s Turtle now.”

Turtle stamped in, breathing stertorously. His language, even for him, was incredible, his expressiveness therapeutic. He came right up to Merlin, glancing anxiously at the two officers. When he saw their confident expressions, he straightened up.

“Snow slowed me. They got clean away, the -,” he said curtly.

“Now, Miss Carla, you hold both lights, like so.” The lieutenant positioned my hands. “I want you two to be ready to hold him. Put your full weight on him if necessary. Bailey, you lean across his shoulders, to keep his head down. Major, take his hips. His frame is strong. The important thing will be to keep him from moving while I’m probing. Ready?”

“Wouldn’t more light be better?” I asked fearfully.

“This is more than we usually have,” Turtle grunted.

The major held up an ampoule of morphine from the field kit.

“This might help,” he suggested.

“Dose isn’t calibrated for a dog, damnitall.” The lieutenant rejected the idea with the first swear words I’d heard him use. He picked up the knife, a wicked-looking gleam running its sharp length in the lamplight. He took a deep preliminary breath and, with sensitive fingers, felt around the slug where it bulged slightly in the fleshy part of the shoulder.

Soon my arms, numbed by being held so high so long, began to tremble. The major took the lamps from me, leaving me standing stupidly useless.

The bullet had creased Merlin’s head between his ears. A little lower and it would have entered the brain. For a wild shot on a dark night it had been all too close! I turned quickly to the counter and fumbled along it for the half-filled glass of whiskey. I took a deep swallow.

“There,” said the lieutenant’s voice, full of relief for the task accomplished. “That’ll fix him. I wonder, do dogs get headaches? By rights, he’ll have a beauty.”

“Thanks,” I said in so low a voice I wondered if anyone could hear me. “Thanks,” I croaked again only this time my voice sounded too loud and very unsteady.

Two hands closed firmly around my shoulders. I thought for one moment it was the lieutenant but, as I leaned back grateful for the sympathy conveyed by the gesture, I realized it was Major Laird.

“Take another jolt, Carlysle,” he murmured softly, giving me a little squeeze. I felt his hand brush my hair, half caress, half reassurance.

I obeyed and then turned round. Over Merlin’s still form, the lieutenant caught my eyes. He draped a blanket loosely over the dog, his gestures quick and sure despite the strain he’d been under.

“Protecting him from shock will be the important thing. He didn’t lose much blood and we got him out of the cold quickly.”

DeLord skirted the table and began to wash his hands. The major and Turtle were conferring. Then Turtle left the kitchen as the major experimentally sloshed the coffeepot.

“You’re very knowledgeable about animals,” I said inanely to DeLord, trying to get out a phrase that might possibly express a gratitude too deeply felt to voice. I put my hand impulsively on his damp forearm, instinctively trying to communicate my sincerity by touch alone.

“Raised on a farm, Miss Carla. Bound to learn how to take care of sick and injured critters.” He patted my hand understandingly.

“I can’t ever thank you enough.”

He shrugged. “I’d feel better if we could have a professional check that over,” he sighed, glancing over at Merlin. “Sutures could be tighter.”

“He hasn’t come to,” I said, biting my lip anxiously.

“That was a clout, bullet notwithstanding,” the major remarked, putting a coffee cup in my hand. “Irish coffee,” he added when he saw me looking around for my whiskey. “You got creased, DeLord. Tell Carlysle how long you were out.”

Grinning with boyish ruefulness, the lieutenant’s hand had flown to his head, gingerly touching the scar.

“Several hours, they do say,” he replied. “Now, don’t you worry,” he admonished me kindly.

Turtle clumped back in with a bundle of quilts.

“Over here by the stove, sergeant,” the major ordered and I watched, vestiges of outraged housewifely conscience rising to protest as valuable handpieced quilts were laid down as a sickbed for my dog. Even if Mrs. Laird’s ghost was turning in its grave, my estimation of the major rose.

“We don’t want him falling off the table,” DeLord said.

With great care the three men settled my Merlin on the quilts, covering him as meticulously as if he had been a valued human buddy.

I was about to sit down beside him, preparing to be by his side the rest of the night, when the major took a firm hold on my arm, propelling me towards the study.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“But he’ll need me,” I protested, trying to escape.

“Old Doc DeLord’s volunteered for this detail,” the lieutenant put in, dodging around the table to take my other arm.

I couldn’t fight both of them, not that I had the strength to.

“You’ve been through quite enough tonight,” Regan Laird continued inexorably. He seated me on his bed, throwing a spare blanket around me. “Now you’ll finish your coffee and then go to bed. Sergeant, did you get the license on the truck?”

“Naw, sir. Either they covered it up or it was plain too dark. Night like tonight, I couldn’t tell what color the car was but it was a Chevvie body. I’d say about 1938. I lost them by the time they reached the second turn onto the good road. Geez, I coulda sworn I’d punctured the gas tank.”

The major turned expectantly to DeLord.

“Your eyesight’s failing, Bailey. The truck was light gray. The burglar was about five nine, slight build, too muffled in clothing to tell much more. But he sure could move in the snow,” DeLord remarked. “I think I winged the driver. I’m not sure but he gave up shooting and started cussing.”

The major nodded, digesting the information.

“Driver was just a dark blob,” he added and then exploded unexpectedly. “Goddamit, DeLord, where do you fit in all this?”

I was feeling all relaxed suddenly and the fact that the major hadn’t guessed was extraordinarily funny.

“He’s provost marshal, guardian dear. Maybe even CID.”

All three men turned to me with various expressions of astonishment on their faces. I found it difficult to focus my eyes and blinked to clear my vision.

“Provost marshal?” Turtle bellowed, half rising from his chair, disbelief and desperation on his face. “CID?”

The lieutenant ducked his head, his fingers smoothing down the crease scar.

“She’s right, I’m afraid.”

Course I m ri righ right .” I was having the hardest time enunciating. “Summuns wron wi’ me,” and I felt myself falling sideways into darkness. The last thing I saw was the major’s satisfied grin and I knew that there was more m that coffee than whiskey.