Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Adventure, Take IV

IV. A PRAYER FOR CLEM MacDOUGALL. Inspector Gennady Sidorovich Kuznetsov of the Excelsior City Police Bureau sat at Clem MacDougall’s kitchen table, dressed in starched white cotton shirtsleeves and an Italian designer tie. His double-breasted Armani blazer was folded neatly over an unused chair. He made notes in tidy Cyrillic script in a small black pocket notebook, as Clem MacDougall related the strange happenings at the Fox & Hounds two days earlier. The great man himself sat on a goose-down pillow, wearing a loosely-belted dressing gown under which medicated gauze pads covered his blistered rump. On the floor beside his chair sat a No. 2 galvanized tub two-thirds full of tepid water – a precaution against possible re-ignition. Soppy Doyle listened while he busied himself with a thorough review, inspection and sampling of the contents of Clem MacDougall’s liquor cabinet and refrigerator. “Zo, Meester MacDougall,” Kuznetsov said. “Is getting more complicated every day, your life, yes?” “Knock off the phony accent, Gennady,” MacDougall growled. “You can talk like an American, okay? Your English is as good as anyone’s – save perhaps mine.” “Ah. I see. I am to talk American, as you say. But you will continue to talk like silly music-hall Harry Lauder Scotsman Jock?” “Let’s get to it, then. Stop me if I start to sound silly. I feel silly, right enough. Second-degree burns all over the south end of me anatomy, and no explanation.” “Claudia Aikens remains under suspicion, but we have no substantial evidence yet. And we certainly haven’t been able to link her to the mystery of your fiery...ah...your fiery...ah...south end, as you say. It appears there are persons – and forces – in the world, or outside it, perhaps, who wish you ill. I am getting the sense there is much here that does not meet the eye.” “Aye. True enough. Isn’t that where you come in, Inspector? With all the black arts at your command?” “Ah, Mister MacDougall. Not black arts. Police work is all applied science, but with a touch of good judgment, instinct and, frankly, luck. The latter has not been with us much, since the strange incidents with the threatening postcards and your office files. What we need – what you need – is a bit of luck.” Kuznetsov walked to the French doors leading to the east-facing balcony and glanced out into the clear night sky. It was four hours past sunset and a golden gibbous moon was visible rising through the trees bordering the fourteenth fairway. “Waning moon. My people back in Russia used to sing hymns and make prayers at moonrise,” Kuznetsov said. “Prayers for luck and good fortune. And for deliverance from Vampyr, the vampire, and Oborotyen’, the werewolf as you English call it. Perhaps it is time for you to make some prayers, Mister MacDougall.” “Rubbish. Superstitious balderdash. I’m a cafeterian. I help meself.” “Then I will make a prayer on your behalf, my arrogant Scottish friend: By the light of this waning moon, I invoke all the powers of enlightenment and reason in aid of our quest for knowledge and understanding, that our friend Mister MacDougall may be delivered from his distress. Amin.” “Amen,” echoed Soppy Doyle, through a mouthful of Clem MacDougall’s best smoked Atlantic salmon. He washed it down with a slug of Clem MacDougall’s reserve chardonnay. “Amen.” IT AIN'T OVER YET.