Weird Tales/Volume 7/Issue 1/McGill's Appointment

"Flighty" McGill entered the warden's office and saluted him.

"McGill," said Warden Fowles, "you seem very anxious to get a parole this week."

"Yes, sir, I am," said McGill.

"You say you have an appointment to keep outside?" said the warden.

"Yes, sir."

"Will you tell me just what sort of appointment. it is?"

"It's pretty—personal, sir."

"Hm. You wanted to get out so you could get to the city tonight, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Hm. Well, I have an idea what you wanted to do when you got out," said the warden.

There was a touch of malignity in his voice. He reached for the telephone.

​"You're not going to get parole today, or for twenty years, McGill," he said. "You can make up your mind to that."

"I had about done so, sir," said McGill. "You see, sir, we inside hear at least a little about what happens outside."

"Take that chair," ordered the warden roughly.

The clock said 9, and the moonlight that fell for honest people lay on the floor of the office like a lake. McGill looked at it and smiled faintly. Then a spasm crossed his face; his appointment was at 9. McGill gripped the arms of his chair tightly, seemed to pray for a moment, and then the warden saw him rest his forehead on his hands.

The connection the warden wanted was made. "Here is District Attorney Downey," said the operator. The warden heard the voice of his friend at the other end of the hundred-mile circuit.

"Hello, Jim," he said, "this is George."

"Hello!" The voice was nervous. "What's been done?"

"About your wedding anniversary, Jim?"

"Yes. Did he—did he get the parole?"

"Well, it came from the board all right; McGill's conduct reports have been perfect. But I fixed it up. We have our own little system here."

"Funny, George, but I feel as if he were on his way here now. You heard about the note I got?"

"No. Not from McGill?"

"Yes. It said that he was going to keep his appointment on time, but that he was coming to me instead of to Judith. I never could understand what she could see in that fellow, George. But if we hadn't arranged his little trip she'd have married him, not me. I'm a bit afraid of him. He swore that neither jail nor hell would keep him away. The five years are up tonight at 9, and it's just 9 now. I tell you I have a feeling ... that he's coming back."

"Nonsense, Jim, old boy. I don't know how the devil he got that letter through, but there's not a bit of a chance of his getting there to—what was it, choke you? He's sitting right here now, not ten feet from me——"

"George!" The cry was one of more than human fright. "George! What's that you say? Who's sitting there—not ten feet——"

"Why, McGill, of course——"

"George! McGill...."

There was a gasping sound.

"McGill's sitting right here, Jim, as quiet as a lamb. We've been working him pretty hard. Looks as if he'd gone to sleep.... Hello!! Hello! Hello, there, Jim! Hello, Jim! Operator! Hello! Hello! Hello!"

There was a strange silence at the other end of the line, and then there was the sound of someone breathing hard. Something struck the telephone instrument. There was a shriek, and the wire was quiet.

The warden was working the receiver hook wildly. Someone's voice came to his ear. There was a murmuring, and someone spoke into the telephone.

"Hello!" cried the warden. "This is Warden Fowles. What's the matter with Jim—Mr. Downey?"

"Don't know exactly, sir. We just found him lying here. He seems to have been choked to death, sir. We can't find anyone——"

Fowles sprang across the room. McGill's lifeless hand held a vial from the prison hospital labeled "laudanum."