Willard (Ratman’s Notebooks) Read online

  By this time my plans were complete. I went upstairs and sat down in my armchair in front of the fire to put down my notes on paper. Socrates jumped on my knee and I used him as a sort of bookrest. So now I am writing this, comfortable and cozy after my adventures. Tomorrow night at this time I shall be just setting forth on the much more perilous task of actually stealing the money. Shall I return safe and sound, or shall I find myself a prisoner in the hands of the police?

  I left home at half past ten and reached the Malcomsons’ just before eleven. I drove straight in the gate and then backed the car up a side avenue where it was well hidden by rhododendrons. You couldn’t have seen it at all from the main avenue, but I parked it so that if I had to make a quick getaway all I’d have to do was jump in and drive. I had all the rats with me—all the furry-tails that is. Since I moved the furry-tails into the house I’ve had nothing to do with the others.

  First I had to find out what was happening at the house. I didn’t expect to be able to start work for another hour or two. They might easily stay up late packing, or doing last minute jobs. On the other hand, they might go to bed early so as to be fresh for the start of their holiday. I was only slightly worried about Toby. If he was there he might kick up a row and spoil everything. But I was almost certain he wouldn’t be there. The Malcomsons were bound to have put him into a boarding kennel or left him with friends. They wouldn’t have time to dispose of him in the morning.

  I left the rats in the car and went on up through the trees towards the house. There was a light on in the hall, but all the rest of the downstairs part was in darkness. Upstairs there were lights in most of the windows. For a while I watched from a clump of bushes quite close to the house. I caught a glimpse of Malcomson and then his wife in the same room. I wondered what they were doing—packing, going to bed . . . ? Presently Malcomson came right up to one of the windows and opened it. He was in pyjamas. He stood there looking out. “It’s very warm,” he said.

  “You’ll catch cold if you’re not careful,” a female voice answered. “We don’t want that.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Come to bed anyhow.” She gave a little giggle. It was so quiet. I could hear everything. He turned round and disappeared. I waited for the light to go out, but it didn’t. I wondered what on earth they were doing. And then it occurred to me that they might be one of these couples who read in bed before they go to sleep. They might read for hours and I wouldn’t know if they were awake or asleep. And fancy going to bed and leaving half the lights on, or did they mean to get up again and turn them off? Whichever way you looked at it, they were being very extravagant.

  I stepped out on to the lawn, but still kept in the shadows. I went round to the back of the house. It was quite dark there except for one window upstairs which looked like a landing window or the window at the end of a passage. I deliberately trod on the gravel once or twice on the far side from the bedroom window. Surely if Toby was any good at all he would hear and bark—but I didn’t want the Malcomsons to hear. There was no bark. I went right round the house, keeping on the grass where I could, tip-toeing when I couldn’t. Not a sound—except from the bedroom window, where I paused a little to listen. She seemed to be an awfully giggly woman.

  I had avoided going really close to the house at the very front, because it was nearly all gravel there. Now I did so, and immediately discovered a strange thing. The outer front door wasn’t shut. There was an inner front door with a glass panel in it. This was closed. But was it locked? I tip-toed into the porch. Surely Toby must bark now if he was there. Very, very slowly I turned the door-handle, and pushed . . . The door wasn’t locked. It opened with a slight creak. I waited again, with my hand on the handle. If Toby was there at all he must bark now. But Toby wasn’t there.

  I laughed to myself, soundlessly. Fancy going to bed leaving the front door open and half the lights on. I had made careful and elaborate plans for getting into the house, but they wouldn’t be necessary. All I’d have to do would be to walk in the front door bringing the rats with me. But not yet. I wanted to wait till the Malcomsons seemed to be asleep. I shut the door as carefully as I had opened it and went out again on to the lawn.

  The bedroom light was still on. Maybe they kept it on all night. Maybe one or both of them was frightened of the dark. But no. Almost immediately the bedroom light went out. The other lights remained on. I went back to the car. By the time I came back Mr. and Mrs. Malcomson should be asleep. But even if they were suffering from insomnia, I didn’t think it would matter very much.

  The car was parked about sixty yards from the house. Sixty yards is a very long journey for a rat, moving under its own steam. I imagine rats must be great hitch-hikers. Otherwise I don’t see how they could have got round the world the way they have. My original intention had been to carry the rats up to the house ten at a time. It would have been a slow business.

  Now I made a daring, perhaps rash, change of plan. I got into the car and drove it right up to the house. I didn’t leave it at the front door. I didn’t want the Malcomsons to see it when they came rushing out, tearing their hair and screaming. I parked it round at the back, again facing outwards, so that I shouldn’t have to turn it after I came back.

  I got out quickly and ran back on tip-toe to below the bedroom window. The light was on. I heard voices. “It sounded like a car.”

  “I never heard a thing.” This from Hubby.

  “That’s because you always keep your head under the clothes. You never hear anything.”

  “I hear the beastly dawn chorus every morning.”

  “I’m sure it was a car.”

  “Well, maybe someone made a mistake and went away again.”

  “I didn’t hear them go away.”

  I began to regret my rashness. Then Hubby said, “Oh, well, if it is a burglar we’re well insured, and he can’t get in here.”

  “I suppose not.” Wifey evidently was a kindly soul. I thought she might have sent Hubby down to investigate, but he had her well trained. Any investigating to be done she’d obviously have to do herself, and she didn’t feel like it.

  “Good night, darling.” Hubby sounded quite firm.

  “Good night, dearest.” And at the same moment the light went out again.

  I hurried back to the car and opened the boot. The rats came pouring out. With Socrates leading the way and Ben acting as a sort of sergeant-major I walked slowly to the house. The rats followed. I put on rubber gloves and opened the front door quietly. Almost immediately I found my first objective—the telephone. I took two pieces of sticky tape from my pocket. I had cut them to the right length before leaving home. I lifted the receiver and stuck down the two small plungers with the tape. I replaced the receiver.

  The rats, led by Socrates, were already at the foot of the stairs. I lifted Socrates on to the first step and went up two or three steps further myself. Socrates scrambled on to the second step, and then looked round for the rest. The rest were hesitating. They didn’t seem to want to go upstairs. Ben came hustling up snapping his jaws. I fancy he distributed two or three sharp nips. The rats began to hop up the stairs quite fast. I went on up to the top and looked back over the banisters. The rats were flowing smoothly up the stairs after me.

  I tip-toed across the landing, though the carpets were so thick that I need hardly have bothered. Very gently and quietly I turned the door-handle of what I knew must be the Malcomsons’ own bedroom. I pressed against it. Nothing happened. The door was locked.

  So that was what he meant—“He can’t get in here.”

  Gently again I released the handle. Baffled? No. A locked door wasn’t going to stop me. Almost immediately I remembered that I had forgotten something. Telling Socrates and Ben to keep the rats where they were, I ran downstairs and very soon found the main switchboard. I turned off all the lights. Using a small pocket electric torch I came upstairs again.

  I pointed to the bottom of the door with the little ring of li
ght from my electric torch. “Tear it,” I said. “In you go.”

  Immediately the gnawing started. I stood back and listened. I didn’t have to wait long. A creak from the bed. “Darling, are you awake?”

  No reply. Whose head was under the clothes this time?

  “Darling, are you awake? There’s a most awfully funny noise.”

  “Dig her in the ribs, man. It won’t do her a bit of harm.” This of course was under my breath, but you’d have thought he had heard me.

  At any rate, he must have done something. For Wifey awoke. “What’s the matter, dearest?”

  “Listen, darling. Do you not hear something?”

  The scraping and gnawing went on.

  “You’d think there was something trying to get through the door. Do you think Toby could have escaped?”

  “If it was Toby he’d bark or something. First that car, then this. We’ll get no sleep tonight.”

  “No,” I murmured, just loud enough for myself to hear.

  “Turn on the light, dearest, and see what on earth it is.”

  Pause while Hubby tried to turn on the light. ‘It won’t work, darling. There must be a power cut.”

  Another pause. The rats were really making a terrific noise.

  “Dearest, do you think you’d better see what it is?”

  “Stop,” I whispered to the rats. There was a moment of dead silence.

  The bed creaked and I heard Hubby’s feet hit the floor. I waited for him to turn the key and open the door, but instead I heard his voice again. “It seems to have stopped, darling.” He must have been standing by the edge of the bed, funking it.

  “Tear it,” I whispered again to the rats, and the din started once more. If he waited another minute they’d be through under the door, and into the room whether he opened up or not. That might make things more difficult.

  Suddenly I realized the door was opening. I’d never heard the key. I suppose the rats were making too much noise. Now was the critical moment. If he tried to close the door again I’d have to put my shoulder to it and make sure that he couldn’t. But he didn’t try. He felt rats crawling over his feet and jumped back into the room. I gave the door a push and peered in, being careful not to show myself.

  Hubby gave a scream. “It’s rats, millions of them.” For a moment I saw him against the light of the window—they didn’t even draw the curtains—sort of dancing on the floor. Then he jumped on to the bed.

  It was Wifey’s turn to scream. Whether he landed on her or whether it was just the word “rats,” I don’t know. Next moment she was standing up on the bed beside him.

  I got down on my hands and knees and began to crawl through the door. “Do something,” she screamed. Whether she saw me or not I don’t know. I kept as close to the floor as possible and was careful not to look up. I didn’t want them to see my face.

  “What can I do?” Hubby wailed.

  No dearests and darlings now. As they say, it takes very little to remove the thin veneer of civilization.

  I wriggled across the floor to the edge of the bed. It was rather a high bed for nowadays. I got half underneath it, and then, lying on my back, I began to lift rats on to the bed. I put Ben up first. He’s a nasty, vicious brute, and he went straight for Hubby’s toes. Hubby gave another scream—he was a good screamer, that man—and did the leap of the century into the middle of the floor. He must have landed on a rat because there was a sort of squeal that I knew pretty well wasn’t human. It didn’t stop him. He ran half-stumbling—over rats, I suppose—out of the door.

  “You’re not leaving me?” Wifey called.

  “You bet he is,” I said to myself, “and if I know Ben you won’t be long after him.”

  “The stairs seem clear,” Hubby called. “You’d better run for it.” Then Ben got at her toes, and run she did. Talk of flying angels. The way she left that bed. You could call it vertical take-off.

  Well, I didn’t want them to gather their wits together and start doing something sensible, like finding the lights were off, or getting sticks to defend themselves. So I turned the rats round and sent them down the stairs after dearest Hubby and darling Wifey. Still without showing myself, I came to the door, and after a moment or two out on to the landing to see what was happening.

  As soon as they found the rats following them down the stairs, Hubby and Wifey made a bolt for it right down to the hall. They stopped there for a moment, because they discovered they were a little ahead of the rats, which were hopping down rather slowly. “You telephone,” Wifey ordered, “while I find a coat. We may have to go outside.”

  “Who’ll I telephone?”

  “Telephone the police of course—nine, nine, nine.”

  By this time I was peering over the banisters. I could see him in a vague kind of way. He stumbled over something. I think he must have stubbed his toe, for he started cursing a bit—not very loud. “Hell’s gates! Where’s the bloody thing got to?” But he found it and of course had to yell again for Wifey. “I can’t see the numbers. What’ll I do now?”

  “Feel, you fool! Do you not know yet the nine’s next to nought.” No veneer left.

  I heard him fumbling about with the phone for a bit and then he said, “There’s no dialling tone.”

  She was back with her coat by this time. “Oh, give it me,” she told him.

  So she tried. But of course the tape I had put on was doing its work, “It’s out of order,” she complained. “Isn’t it just like them? On a night like this too.”

  I couldn’t see the rats, but I thought they must be in the hall by this time. Sure enough, Hubby gave a yell. “Here they are. We’ll have to run for it.” I heard the front door open and shut.

  I went to a window over the porch. I saw them pick their way over the gravel to the grass. Once on the grass, they began to run. They went on the verge beside the drive. Wifey was wearing the coat. Hubby had nothing on but his pyjamas. I went back to the bedroom and began to look round by the light of my electric torch. There was a dead rat in the middle of the floor. Hubby must have broken its back when he jumped out of bed. I left it there for evidence. The money was on the dressing table. I shoved it in my pocket. Also on the dressing table were two books of travellers’ cheques. No use to me. I got Socrates to nibble a bit off each and dropped them on the floor.

  I ran down the stairs, switched on the lights again, and untaped the telephone. I went out the front door and looked up and down. It wasn’t very dark. I could see as far as the edge of the trees fairly distinctly. I felt reasonably sure there was no one about. I went round to the back and got into the car. All this time I had Socrates in my pocket. I drove round to the front door, going dead slow for the last little bit, just in case any of the rats had strayed out on to the gravel. I went into the house again and called to the rats. In five minutes they were all in the car. I looked round the hall fairly quickly to see that none had been left behind—but I didn’t really care a great deal if one or two got lost. The only one that really mattered to me as an individual was Socrates, plus Ben in the sense that he’s useful.

  I started the car and drove slowly as far as the edge of the trees. I didn’t put on the car lights. If the Malcomsons were still about I didn’t want to attract their attention. They might come snooping along and take the number of the car. As soon as the car was under the trees I switched off the engine. There was a slope all the way to the gate and I hoped to get out on to the road without attracting attention. I couldn’t see very well and I had to keep my foot on the brake so as not to go too fast. There was a slight danger that I might run over the Malcomsons, but I felt they should be well out along the road by this time.

  I got to the road and it was still downhill. I didn’t have to turn on the engine. The car rolled on gently and silently towards the city. I passed a cottage. Someone was battering at the door. “Please let us in. Please . . .” I heard no more—nothing but the swish of the car tires. I began to laugh. The cottagers must be heavy sleepers
. Maybe an agricultural labourer who had worked hard in the fields all day. Or maybe they were frightened to open the door. I mean there are all sorts of strange characters about nowadays. Or perhaps the cottage was empty. It wasn’t a really cold night. But I thought of him in his pyjamas and her with not much more—and both with bare feet.

  I suppose we free-wheeled another half-mile before I switched on the headlights and the engine. We got home without incident.

  My raid on the Malcomsons is a sensation. The local evening paper had it on the front page, with big headlines, and it’s in all the national dailies this morning. No one knows what to make of it. Everyone is a little frightened. It’s come out that there have been previous rat-raids—the courting couple we chased from their car, Jones’s tires, the grocer . . . Everything is being added together, including a lot of things that have no connection with my rats at all. Damage in food stores, damage to crops, babies bitten by rats in slums. The country has suddenly become rat-conscious. The Malcomsons are both in hospital suffering from shock and exposure. Their condition is stated not to be serious.

  Jones has been interviewed on TV. It appears the police did ask him to keep quiet about his tires. They couldn’t make up their minds if it was rats or a malicious human. It’s a wonder I was never questioned. But it wouldn’t occur to Jones that I might have a grudge against him. Little friend of all the world, I don’t think. “Now,” he says (from the TV screen), “the time for secrecy is past. Everyone must get together and put an end to this scandal.”

  The papers are still going on about the rats. It is being suggested that the rat population far outnumbers the human population. At any moment the rats of the world may arise and murder the humans while the humans he asleep in their beds. “These vermin must be eradicated. They are costing a hungry world millions of lives every year.” One paper calls for a World Rat Year.

  Mrs. Malcomson has been interviewed on her release from hospital. They are to stay with friends for a few days, before deciding whether to continue with their holiday or not. There is a photograph of her clasping Toby. Toby is licking her face. But that’s not the point. She insists that there was one huge rat as big as a man, which crawled slowly across the floor from the door to the bed. Obviously the interviewers didn’t know what to make of this. There’s a headline RAT AS BIG AS MAN in one paper, and another has RAT MONSTER. It goes on, “Asked what the Rat monster looked like, Mrs. Malcomson said it was ‘quite obscene.’ ” This of course is me. What does she mean, “obscene?” Incidentally, Hubby didn’t see any “rat monster.” The way it’s put in the interview makes it plain that he doesn’t think his wife did either, though he’s polite enough not actually to say so.