The Last Drive and Other Stories by Rex Stout

Author:Rex Stout [Stout, Rex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2015-04-06T14:29:48+00:00

Herein Repose the Ashes of

NIBBIE,

Faithful Companion and Critic of

Aloysius Jellie.

He Died on the 17th Day of May, 19—,

A Martyr to

The Angry Passion of His Master.

Mr. Jellie would stand and gaze at this urn, not in sorrowful memory of the past, but in perplexed and painful consideration of the present. Mr. Jellie was not a superstitious man. But what had happened could be accounted for only by admitting the supernatural, and one miracle is as likely to happen as another. Was it Aloysius Jellie who had astounded the golfing world by averaging under 4s for 342 consecutive holes? Or was it in fact, in some mysterious manner—was it Nibbie?

But it was another query, a corollary of this, that caused the frequent frown of worried perplexity on Mr. Jellie’s brow. Finally, one evening in early August, he got Marsfield, the Orientalist, into a corner and asked him point-blank:

“How long does a dog’s soul stay on earth?”

The other gazed at him in astonishment.

“Why, bless me,” he responded, “I didn’t know a dog had any soul.”

“Of course not, of course not,” Mr. Jellie agreed hastily. “What I mean is, I remember once you spoke about some ancient belief—”

“Did I? Perhaps so. There are many interesting ancient ceremonies and beliefs connected with the canine family. The Moslems, like the old Hebrews, hold them to be unclean. They were worshipped by the Asgans, and the Egyptians honored them. The latter held a belief that the soul of a dog remains on earth after death, either to console or torment his master, according to the treatment he received in life.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Mr. Jellie, eagerly. “And how long does—did—how long did they think the soul stayed around?”

“Three moons. That is equivalent to three months, or more accurately, eighty-eight days in our calendar.” After a moment’s pause Marsfield added: “Still thinking of the lost Nibbie, eh, Jellie? By Jove, old man, I should think the past two months would have driven him out of your mind.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten him,” replied the other, thoughtfully. Then he shook himself. “Much obliged, Marsfield. Come on, let’s join the others.”

Late that evening, in his room, Mr. Jellie took a piece of paper and made a calculation. It appeared simple enough, though cryptic, consisting merely of a sum of four figures:

14

30

31

13

88

He sat gazing at the figures on the paper until the minutes dragged into hours.

Ever since Mr. Jellie’s startling leap into the sphere of the masters all Grassview, members, caddies and pros, had been looking forward to an event which was now drawing near. It was discussed in the locker room, the caddie house, the library and the nineteenth hole. The opinion in all these places was the same, though expressed differently. In the caddie house: “Gee, Mr. Jellie kin lick them guys with nothin’ but a putter.” In the library: “Jellie’ll win sure. Hurrah for Jellie!”

The approaching event was the annual tournament for the amateur golf championship of the United States, to be held on the Baltusrol links, August 8 to 13.

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