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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cuckoo Clock, by Wesley Barefoot
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Cuckoo Clock
+
+Author: Wesley Barefoot
+
+Illustrator: Ernie Barth
+
+Release Date: August 6, 2009 [EBook #29623]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CUCKOO CLOCK ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ THE
+ CUCKOO
+ CLOCK
+
+ BY WESLEY BAREFOOT
+
+
+ _You know a murderer preys on your household--lives
+ with you--depends on you--and you have no defence!_
+
+
+Death wore the seeming of a battered Chevrolet.
+
+The child's scream and the screech of rubber on concrete knifed through
+two seconds of time before snapping, like a celery stalk of sound, into
+aching silence. The silence of limbo, called into being for the space of
+a slow heartbeat. Then the thud of running feet, the rising hubbub of
+many voices.
+
+"Give her air!"
+
+"Keep back. Don't try to move her."
+
+"Somebody call an ambulance."
+
+"Yeah, and somebody call a cop, too."
+
+"I couldn't help it." It was the driver of the ramshackle Chevvie. "She
+fell off the curb right in front of me. Honest to God, it wasn't my
+fault."
+
+"Got to report these things right away," said the grey-haired man beside
+him. "No cause to worry if you ain't to blame."
+
+"Probably no brakes," said a heavily accented voice, and another spoke
+as if on cue, "Probably no insurance, neither."
+
+"Let me through! Oh, please--" The woman's voice was on the edge of
+hysteria. She came through the crowd like an automaton, not seeing the
+people she shoved and elbowed aside.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+"D.O.A.," said the woman heavily. Her face was no longer twisted with
+shock, and she was almost pretty again. "D.O.A. Dead on arrival, it
+means. Oh, Jim, I never knew they said that." Suddenly there were tears
+in her blue eyes. There had been many tears, now.
+
+[Illustration: _Illustrator_: Ernie Barth]
+
+"Take it easy, Jean, honey." Jim Blair hoisted his lank six feet out of
+the old rocker, and crossed the room, running a nervous hand through his
+cornshuck hair. _She's only thirty_, he thought, _and I'm three years
+older. That's awfully young to have bred three kids and lost them._ He
+took her in his arms. "I know how tough it is. It's bad enough for me,
+and probably worse for you. But at least we're sure they'll never be
+bomb fodder. And we still have Joanna."
+
+ * * * * *
+
+She twisted away from him, her voice suddenly bitter. "Don't give me
+that Pollyanna stuff, Jim. 'Goody, goody, only a broken leg. It might
+have been your back.' There's no use trying to whitewash it. Our kids,
+our _own_ kids, all gone. Dead." She began to sob. "I wish I were, too."
+
+"Jean, Jean--"
+
+"I don't care. I mean it. Everything bad has happened since Joanna came
+to live with us."
+
+"Darling, you can't blame the child for a series of accidents."
+
+"I know." She raised her tear-stained face. "But after all-- Michael,
+drowned. Then Steve, falling off the water tower. Now it's Marian." Her
+fingers gripped his arm tightly. "Jim, each of them was playing alone
+with Joanna when it happened."
+
+"Accidents, just accidents," he said. It wasn't like Jean, this talk.
+Almost-- His mind shied away from the word, and circled back. Almost
+paranoid. But Jean was stable, rational, always had been. Still, maybe a
+little chat with Doctor Holland would be a good idea. Breakdowns _do_
+happen.
+
+They both turned at the slamming of the screen door. Then came the
+patter of childish feet on the kitchen linoleum, and Joanna burst into
+the room.
+
+"Mommy, I want to play with Marian. Why can't I play with Marian?"
+
+Jean put her arm around the girl's thin shoulder. "Darling, you won't be
+able to play with Marian for--quite a while. You mustn't worry about it
+now."
+
+"Mommy, she looked just like she was asleep, then they came and took her
+away." Her lips trembled. "I'm frightened, Mommy."
+
+ * * * * *
+
+Jim looked down at the dark eyes, misted now, the straight brown hair,
+and the little snub nose with its dusting of freckles. _She's all we
+have left, poor kid, and not even ours, really. Helen's baby._
+
+He looked up as the battered cuckoo clock on the mantel clicked
+warningly. "Time for little girls to be in bed, Joanna. Run along now
+like a good girl, and get washed." Even as he spoke the miniature doors
+flew open and the caricature of a bird popped out, shrilly announcing
+the hour. It cuckooed eight times, then bounced back inside. Joanna
+watched entranced.
+
+"Bed time, darling," said Jean gently. "School tomorrow, remember? And
+don't forget to brush your teeth."
+
+"I won't. Goodnight, Mommy, goodnight, Daddy." She turned up her face to
+be kissed, smiled at them, and was gone. They listened to her footsteps
+on the stairs.
+
+"Jim, I'm sorry about the things I said." Jean's voice was hesitant, a
+little ashamed. "It _is_ hard, though, you know it is-- Jim, aren't you
+listening? After all, you don't have to watch the clock now." Her smile
+was as labored as the joke.
+
+He smiled back. "I think I'll take a walk, honey. Some fresh air would
+do me good."
+
+"Jim, don't go. I'd rather not be alone just now."
+
+"Well." He looked at her, keeping his expression blank. "All right,
+dear. How about some coffee? I could stand another cup." And he thought:
+_Tomorrow I'll go. I'll talk to Holland tomorrow._
+
+ * * * * *
+
+"Let me get this straight, Jim." Holland's pudgy face was sober, his
+eyes serious. "You started out by thinking Jean was showing paranoid
+tendencies, and offhand I'm inclined to agree with you. Overnight you
+changed your mind and began thinking that maybe, just maybe, she might
+be right. Honestly, don't you suspect your own reasons for such a quick
+switch?"
+
+"Sure I do, Bob," Blair said worriedly. "Do you think I haven't beaten
+out my brains over it? I know the idea's monstrous. But just suppose
+there _was_ a branch of humanity--if you could call it human--living off
+us unsuspected. A branch that knows how to eliminate--competition--almost
+by instinct."
+
+"Now hold on a minute, Jim. You've taken Jean's reaction to this last
+death, plus a random association with a cuckoo clock, and here you are
+with a perfectly wild hypothesis. You've always been rational and
+analytical, old man. Surely you can realize that a perfectly normal urge
+to rationalize Jean's conclusions is making you concur with them against
+your better judgment."
+
+"Bob--"
+
+"I'm not through, Jim. Just consider how fantastic the whole idea is.
+Because of a series of accidents you can't accuse a child of planned
+murder. Nor can you further hypothesize that all orphans are
+changelings, imbued with an instinct to polish off their
+foster-siblings."
+
+"Not _all_ orphans, Bob. Not planned murder, either. Take it easy. Just
+some of them. A few of them--different. Growing up. Placing their young
+with well-to-do families somehow, and then dropping unobtrusively out of
+the picture. And the young growing up, and always the natural children
+dying off in one way or another. The changeling inherits, and the
+process is repeated, step by step. Can you say it's impossible? Do you
+_know_ it's impossible?"
+
+"I wouldn't say impossible, Jim. But I _would_ say that your thesis has
+a remarkably low index of probability. Why don't others suspect, besides
+you?"
+
+Jim spread his hands hopelessly. "I don't know. Maybe they do. Maybe
+these creatures--if they do exist--have some means of protection we
+don't know about."
+
+"You need more than maybes, Jim. What about Joanna Simmons' mother?
+According to your theories she should have been well off. Was she?"
+
+"No, she wasn't," Jim admitted reluctantly. "She came here and took a
+job with my outfit. Said she was divorced, and had lived in New York.
+Then she quit to take a position in California, and we agreed to board
+Joanna until she got settled. Warrenburg was the town. She was killed
+there quite horribly, in a terrible auto accident."
+
+"Have you any reason for suspecting skulduggery? Honestly, Jim? Or for
+labelling her one of your human--er--cuckoos?"
+
+"Only my hunch. We had a newspaper clipping, and a letter from the
+coroner. We even sent the money for her funeral. But those things could
+be faked, Bob."
+
+"Give me some evidence that they _were_ faked, and I'll be happy to
+reinspect your views." Holland levered his avoirdupois out of his chair.
+"In the meantime, relax. Take a trip if you can. Try not to worry."
+
+Jim grinned humorlessly. "Mustn't let myself get excited, eh? Okay, Bob.
+But if I get hold of any evidence that I think you might accept, I'll be
+back. The last laugh and all that. Pending developments you take it
+easy, too. Don't let yourself get overworked. Stay out of the sun. So
+long now."
+
+"So long, Jim."
+
+ * * * * *
+
+It was cool in the Warrenburg city hall, though outside the streets were
+sizzling.
+
+"Sorry, Mr. Blair," said the stout, motherly woman with the horn-rimmed
+glasses. "We've no record of a Helen Simmons. Nothing whatever." She
+closed the file with resolute finality.
+
+Jim stared at her. "Are you sure? There must be something. Mightn't
+there be a special file for accident cases? She was here in Warrenburg.
+She died here."
+
+The woman thinned her lips, shook her head. "If we had any information,
+it'd be right where I looked. There isn't a thing. Have you tried her
+last address? Maybe they could tell you something. We can't."
+
+"I'll try that next. Thanks a lot."
+
+"Sorry we couldn't help you."
+
+He went out slowly.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+872 Maple was a rambling frame house dozing on a wide flower-bordered
+lot. There was nothing sleepy about the diminutive woman who opened the
+door to Jim's knock. Snapping black eyes peered at him from a maze of
+wrinkles. A veined hand moved swiftly to smooth down the white hair that
+framed her face.
+
+"Looking for someone, young man?"
+
+"Just information, Mrs.--"
+
+"Collins, and it's Miss. Don't give out information about guests. You a
+bill collector?"
+
+"No, Miss Collins. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to check up on an old
+friend I lost track of. Helen Simmons. She lived at this address for a
+while."
+
+"Sure did. Well, come on in. Mind you, I don't usually do this, Mr.--"
+
+"Blair." Without any fanfare a bill changed hands.
+
+"Mr. Blair. Well, I can't tell you much. Try that green chair for size.
+What do you want to know?"
+
+ * * * * *
+
+Jim studied the toe of his right shoe. His eyes were veiled. "I heard
+she was hurt, and hard up, and I was worried. My wife and I were friends
+of hers back east."
+
+"Hurt, hard up? Humph! Not likely, spendin' all her time drivin' that
+English car around. Takin' trips. I'm not sayin' she didn't mind her
+manners, though."
+
+"Did she have any close friends?"
+
+"She was chummy with Edith Walton, the girl that works for Doc Mendel.
+He's county coroner in his spare time. No men. Didn't fool around at
+all. I'd a known."
+
+ * * * * *
+
+Behind Jim's stony eyes the pattern took clearer form, as if a mosaic
+approached completion. A mosaic of carefully planned events that
+totalled horror. He shivered as the outlines of his hunch filled in.
+Helen--what creatures were these? Helen--not dead, not poor,--carefully
+planting ostensible proof of her death and going on to a new role, a new
+life, in London or Paris or Rome. A free, untrammelled life. And her
+child--if child was the word--in his home, repeating the pattern.
+Eliminating competition as her mother undoubtedly had done. The
+competition--his and Jean's children! Changeling, changeling-- No, not
+that. Incubus! He shivered again.
+
+"Rabbits on your grave, Mr. Blair?"
+
+He looked up slowly. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Did Miss Simmons have
+a job while she was here?"
+
+"No, she didn't. One thing she did do was rent a place. Used to be
+Blands Hardware. Paid a month's rent, too. Said some friends of hers
+were plannin' to open a mortuary. Seemed like a funny way for people to
+do business, but then, no affair of mine."
+
+Funny? No, not funny at all, but icily, eerily logical. There had to be
+an undertaking parlor where he could send the funeral expenses. He
+wondered if Helen had laughed when she opened the letter. Everyone his,
+or her, own undertaker. And the carefully cultivated friend in the
+coroner's office. For stationery.
+
+He got to his feet. "Thanks a lot, Miss Collins. You've been a great
+deal of help." He almost smiled as he asked, "I don't suppose she left a
+forwarding address?"
+
+The old head shook decisively. "Not a thing. Just packed and left, one
+Monday morning."
+
+All the loose ends tied up tight on a Monday morning. Nothing to cause
+suspicion. Nothing to worry about. Only a woman's almost paranoid
+hysteria,--and a glance at a clock. Not very much to unmask--incubus.
+And what could he do? What _could_ he do? Start talking and land in an
+institution? Well, there was one thing.
+
+"Thanks again, Miss Collins."
+
+He went out.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+Swanson didn't look like the general conception of a small-town
+newspaperman. One knew instinctively that his beard wouldn't have been
+tobacco-stained even if he'd cared to grow one. And he didn't have a
+bottle of bourbon in the file marked Miscellaneous, or if he did he
+didn't bring it out.
+
+"That never came from my paper," he said precisely. He handed the
+clipping back to Jim. "We don't use that type, for one thing. For
+another, Miss Simmons, so far as I know, wasn't killed here or anywhere
+else."
+
+"You knew her?"
+
+"I knew of her. I never met her."
+
+"What about this report of her death?"
+
+Swanson shrugged; tented manicured fingers. "It's a hoax. Any job
+printing shop with a Linotype could do it. In all likelihood it was some
+place in San Francisco. That's closest. It would be very difficult to
+check." His curiosity was showing.
+
+"I see. Well, thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Swanson."
+
+"Not at all. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."
+
+One thing to do. One thing that must be done.
+
+Motors over the mountains. And riding with them, the numb resolve.
+Motors over the salt pans, the wheat lands, the corn belt.
+
+The stewardess stops again. "Coffee, sir? A sandwich, perhaps?"
+
+"I beg your-- Oh, no. No, thanks."
+
+She watches him covertly, uneasily, longing for the end of the run.
+
+Motors in the night.
+
+And the dull determination growing, strengthening.
+
+The airport, baggage, the ancient taxi with the piston slap, and at last
+the dark, familiar street.
+
+"Jim, you're back! Oh, Jim, darling. Next time they send you west I'm
+going too. I am!"
+
+"Okay, Jean, sure. Why not?"
+
+"What's the matter, dear? Oh, you're tired, of course. I should have
+known. Sit down, Jim. Let me get you a drink."
+
+"In a minute, Jean." Do it now _now_ NOW! "Where's Joanna?"
+
+"She's in bed. Hours ago. Jim, has something--?"
+
+"Nothing, dear. I just want to look in on her. And freshen up a bit, of
+course."
+
+"Jim--"
+
+He smoothed away the worried frown with his forefinger.
+
+"In a minute, dear."
+
+She smiled uncertainly. "Hurry back, Jim."
+
+ * * * * *
+
+The stairs unwind irrevocably, slow motion in a nightmare. The bedroom
+door opens, the hall light dim on the bed and the child's face. Incubus
+in the half dark.
+
+For a moment Jim remembered wondering somewhere, sometime, what strange
+powers of protection might be implicit in such a creature. As the
+thought came into his mind, Joanna stirred. She opened her eyes and
+looked at him.
+
+He took one step toward the bed.
+
+The little girl eyes over their dusting of freckles slitted. Then they
+opened wide, became two glowing golden lakes that grew, and grew--
+
+There was the feeling of a great soundless explosion in his mind. Waves
+of cool burning in his brain, churning and bubbling in every unknown
+corner, every cranny. Here and there a cell, or a group of cells,
+blanked out, the complex molecules reverting, becoming new again. Ready
+for fresh punch marks. Synapses shorted with soundless cold fire, and
+waited in timeless stasis for rechannelling. The waves frothed, became
+ripples, were gone. He stood unmoving.
+
+What was it he was supposed to do? Let's see-- Tuck Joanna's blanket
+around her. But she was covered up snugly. Sleeping soundly, too, and
+for a few seconds he'd thought she was awake. And Jean was waiting
+downstairs, Jean and a cool drink.
+
+Oh, yes, stop in the bathroom.
+
+The stairs wind up again. It is good to be with one's family, relaxed in
+the well known chair. Not a worry in the world.
+
+He sat there, his mind at ease, not caring much about anything. He
+didn't even look up when the clock on the mantel whirred, and the
+ridiculous bird popped out of its nest to herald a new day.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+ This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ March 1954. Extensive
+ research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
+ this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical
+ errors have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cuckoo Clock, by Wesley Barefoot
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CUCKOO CLOCK ***
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