by Jerry
Rann’s laugh grated through the smoky air. Two men at the bar turned their heads sharply toward the noise, then looked quickly back at their drinks. Rann’s laugh was a rare—and unpleasant, thing.
“Save your breath, Monty,” Rann said. “This hot tip—you want to borrow the dough from me for a bet.”
“Yes. But this is my chance! It may sound screwy—but I’ve got a real hunch! I know that horse is going to win!” He gripped the table’s edge with both hands as he leaned forward. “Lend me a hundred bucks, Jack and I’ll give you half the take. Five grand!”
“Scram, chum.”
Montrose leaned forward still. Inwardly, he writhed at the sight of the gloating face before him. He hated himself for asking Rann for the money.
But he had to. He knew the horse would win and he had to bet on it. “It’s a cinch, Jack!”
Rann shook his head slowly, tantalizingly. His slate eyes showed a brief flash of mirth, were cold again.
“I’ve done you favors, Jack. A hundred bucks isn’t much.”
“It is to me. That’s why I’ve got a hundred.
MONTROSE leaned back in his chair, expelling his pent-up breath in a deep sigh. He stared down at his hands, disgusted at the grime beneath his nails. Five thousand dollars would pay for a lot of manicures.
He peered up at Rann.
“You don’t know where I could get it?”
The little gambler started to shake his head, then stopped. He laughed, showing all his teeth.
“Why Monty, I think I do. That is, if you really want the dough.”
He laughed again, enjoying the mad hope in Montrose’s face.
“Of course I want it.”
“Well, then, sell your body. It’s not worth much, but you’ll get a hundred for it.”
“What!”
“Sell your body, I said. To a hospital.”
“You little—!” Montrose pulled himself out of his chair. “Sell my body! What kind of malarkey is that!” Montrose knew then he had had enough. He was still man enough to step on a rat. He drew back his fist.
“All right, dope,” Rann snapped. “I’m trying to give you a tip.” Ignoring the threatening fist, he took out a cigarette case, selected one and lit it. “Any big hospital will buy your body. You just sign a paper, so your body’s theirs when you die, and they give you a hundred bucks.”
He grinned maliciously.
“They cut it up, of course, but what do you care?”
“You’re not fooling me?”
“Seems to me there’s a hospital over on Maple Street. It won’t cost you anything to find out.”
THERE was a dim light over the entrance. Montrose opened a gate that clanked a little and walked softly toward the door. It didn’t look like a very big hospital and a heavy silence seemed to brood over it. Above him, on the fourth floor, a single window showed light.
Why the light, Montrose wondered. Was some poor devil dying? Or was it the surgery? Montrose had a momentary vision of men around a table, cutting, cutting.
He shuddered.
He could see his own body, stiff in death, but robbed of death’s dignity.
“Damn it!” he muttered. “I can’t do this!”
Montrose stopped.
But within him a voice snickered, what’s the difference between that and the potter’s field?
There wasn’t any, of course. And Rann was probably lying. Probably . . .
Montrose ran up the steps and pushed through the doors.
The hall was dim to the point of blackness. Behind the receptionist’s curved counter was a switchboard. Above this, a single lamp was the hall’s sole light. A man in a white coat sat at the board, dozing over a magazine.
Montrose edged up to him. The orderly looked up sleepily.
“Yes.”
“I—I . . .”
Montrose’s throat went suddenly dry. He was overcome with an acute embarrassment.
“Yes? Are you ill?”
“Oh, no! Not at all! Not at all!”
It occurred to him that his value might be lessened if they didn’t think him perfectly sound.
“No,” he said again, “I’m okay. Never been sick a day in my life!”
The orderly frowned.
“Well, then . . .?”
“I—well, I want to sell my body.”
The orderly was wide awake now. He blinked at Montrose, then sniffed loudly.
“I’m not drunk!” Montrose exclaimed. “I just want to sell the hospital my body to use after I’m dead. To experiment on.”
He sighed. It was over. Now, in a few minutes, he’d have the money. But the orderly was grinning.
“Gosh, I suppose they still do that, once in a while,” he chuckled. “There’s no law against it. And I suppose a big, public hospital can always use a cadaver. But not us.”
“Not you!”
“Nope. Didn’t you read the sign? We just handle mental cases. We’re a private outfit.”
“I see.”
The inescapable odor of hospital hung on the air; the pungent blend of drugs, medicines and sickness. It fogged Montrose’s mind. There was a hazy, inner vision, of a horse galloping across the finish line—without even a dime of Montrose money on it. And there was Rann’s face, leering his secret smile. Montrose hated Rann, then. And, no matter what later happened, the hatred never completely left him.
Still in the fog, he didn’t hear a door open down the hall, or the sound of quiet, but assured footsteps approaching.
“Oh, good evening, Dr. Aloysio,” the orderly’s voice was respectful. “I didn’t know you were still here, sir.”
“Yes. A knotty problem of research.”
“Research!”
The word snapped Montrose’s consciousness into the clear. He turned toward the doctor.
“Ah, yes.”
MONTROSE saw a long, dark face, smooth shaven; deep-set eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. A forehead that swooped in a pale, high dome before it met black hair.
“Well, look . . .”
The eyes behind the glasses confused him. His voice faltered to a stop.
“I told you!” cried the orderly. “Don’t bother the doctor!”
Dr. Aloysio’s smile was benign.
“Is there something I can do?” he murmured.
“Oh, no, sir!” exclaimed the orderly. “This man had the idea that we’d buy his body. I told him we wouldn’t and referred him to General!”
The doctor chuckled deep in his throat. He beamed at Montrose.
“But the body seems saleable enough,” he smiled. “Sturdy and sound.”
“Don’t kid with me,” choked Montrose. “I’m serious!”
“My dear sir,” the doctor raised a pale hand. “I, too am serious. If you will just step into my office, I will show you just how serious I am!”
“What!” gaped the orderly.
Dr. Aloysio’s eyes blazed behind his glasses. The orderly gulped, then sat down hastily. He tried to pick up his magazine and it fell to the floor.
Dr. Aloysio smiled at Montrose.
“We experiment from time to time,” he murmured. “You offer your body for experiment, of course?”
“Sure. Do what you damn please with it. After I’m dead!”
“By all means, after you’re dead!” The doctor chuckled again.
The orderly gave him a sidelong look. The man seemed afraid—and amazed at his fear. He stared furtively after them as the two entered Dr. Aloysio’s office.
Montrose stood in the center of the room, trying to focus on what he saw. More dimness. A stand-lamp outlined easy chairs, a wall of books. A deep, rich carpet was beneath his feet. Then, out of the darkest corner, a rotund shape waddled toward him.
“My associate,” murmured Dr. Aloysio. “Dr. Fesler, Mr.—?”
“Montrose. Frank Montrose.”
“How do you do, sir?” Dr. Fesler’s hand was soft and moist. “You will pardon the darkness. I cannot stand light.”
“His e
yes,” said Aloysio. He moved behind Montrose, over to the vague bulk of a desk. “I’m afraid, Fesler, we’ll have to have the desk-lamp, at least.”
Fesler put a hand in front of his eyes as the light came on. Montrose saw that he was wearing dark glasses. Both men stared calmly at him; Aloysio, erect by the desk, Fesler, directly in front of him. After a long pause, Fesler turned and rolled back to his dark corner. Still, they said nothing.
Montrose tried to laugh. His throat was very dry.
“I suppose you think I’m crazy,” his voice was so high it almost broke. “But I need money badly. I’ll sell you my body for—whatever the usual fee is.”
“And we’ll buy it, won’t we, Fesler?”
“We surely will,” Fesler’s voice was barely audible.
“It is a not unusual request,” said Aloysio. “I remember when I interned at General—but that’s neither here nor there.”
He bent down, opened a drawer and took out a pad.
“Please feel no embarrassment, Mr. Montrose. This is a definite contribution to science. You are really to be congratulated, sir.”
“Oh, indeed,” Fesler laughed.
HIS soft laugh annoyed Montrose. And the other one, Aloysio, talked much. Oh God, if that horse came in, he’d never, never have to ask anyone for money again!
Dr. Aloysio wrote on the pad, tore off a sheet and wrote again on another sheet. Finally, he looked up.
“If you will just step this way, Mr. Montrose.” Montrose reached the desk in two strides. “You see, I’ve just written a simple agreement, in duplicate. You sign them and keep one for yourself. Use my pen, sir.”
Montrose bent over the desk. He heard no movement, but as he reached for the pen, he could hear Fesler breathing beside him.
It seemed simple enough.
“I, Frank Montrose, of my own free will, do hereby assign to the full possession of Dr. Izak Aloysio, my physical body, same to be delivered to him upon my death. In consideration thereof, I have received one hundred dollars.”
Montrose straightened.
“Sounds like I’m selling you my body now,” he muttered.
Fesler started to speak, but Aloysio’s laugh cut him off.
“Indeed you are, sir,” Aloysio nodded. “As soon as you sign and I pay you, the body’s mine. But I don’t think the law would allow me to tamper with it until you are completely through with it.”
“I guess that’s right.”
Montrose began to write. His hand trembled. He could see that horse again, ten lengths in the lead and Frank Montrose had a hundred dollars riding the nag at one hundred-to-one!
He straightened. Both men sighed deeply. Dr. Fesler turned away and lumbered back to his chair in the corner. Dr. Aloysio’s eyes followed him and then Montrose was amazed to hear him snicker. Aloysio grinned widely for a moment, then his face smoothed and he turned to Montrose. “Now, sir,” he said, “for the money.” He took out a wallet and extracted ten new ten-dollar bills. He presented them to Montrose with a flourish.
“A moderate price, Mr. Montrose. I fear I am the gainer by it.”
Montrose stared at the money in his hand. Feverish anticipation had dulled his capacity for realising Now, the money was his, but he scarcely felt it. He lifted his head.
“I—I—thanks. I guess I’ll be going . . . if there’s nothing else?”
“No sir. Not a thing.”
Much later, as Montrose made his night long hike to the track, he wondered vaguely why they hadn’t attempted to get more information. They didn’t know who he was, where he lived, nothing. What guarantee had they that they could collect when—when the time came?
“TURN off that light!” growled Dr. Fesler.
Dr. Aloysio grinned.
“You were always a fool, brother! Not the least bit of imagination! Why pick a body—when bodies must have darkness—”
“Turn off that light!” bellowed Fesler.
“All right, all right!” The study was in darkness. “As I was saying,” continued Aloysio’s smooth voice, “I am an artist. I was Dr. Aloysio, perfect and complete. Not something that couldn’t stand light!”
He stared at Dr. Fesler.
“Even now,” he said, “there is still something shapeless about you.”
“That’s because I’m leaving. I’m sick of your babble!”
Aloysio’s laugh was not pleasant to hear.
“You’re angry. You’re beginning to see the possibilities of our wager and you know that I’m going to win. Yes, I’m going to win—”
He sat quiet in the dark.
FRANK Montrose turned from the rail by the finish line and started toward the tunnel that led to the mutuel windows. This time, there was no thronging crowd of winners surging down the tunnel. Very few people pick a hundred-to-one shot. As he walked along, he realized he had known all along that the horse would win.
Why?
He’d made so many wrong guesses the past year. But this had been no guess! This time he had been certain.
The mutuel clerk relaxed his habitual impassivity as he counted out ten thousand dollars.
“You’re the top winner today, pal,” he said.
“Did I have the only ticket on the nag?” asked Montrose.
“Well, I had one!” laughed a voice behind him.
Montrose took the money from the clerk and turned around. He hadn’t seen much of her type lately. Tall—healthy—beautiful in a sharp, clean way. Grey eyes met his in a level, direct stare. He found himself meeting her smile.
“We’re smart,” he chuckled.
“Weren’t we!”
The clerk gave her two hundred dollars. Montrose stood, watching her frank delight as she scooped the money into her purse.
He laughed aloud.
The girl gave him a questioning glance.
“I’m standing here with ten thousand dollars,” he explained, “and I haven’t a cigarette to my name!”
“Here, have one of mine! I’m not as rich as you, but I do have cigarettes!”
They moved aside to make room for the bettors on the last race. Montrose felt through his pockets. He didn’t even have a match!
“That was my last hundred,” he confessed. “I didn’t have cigarette money. A gateman pal of mine let me in the track.”
There was nothing rude in the way she looked at him. His grey eyes looked briefly at his clothes, then long and searchingly at his face.
“You were very brave—or very desperate.” Her voice was puzzled.
“Just desperate,” he grinned.
She was nice to look at. The powder blue suit fitted her trim figure perfectly. Her brown hair, with a natural wave, curved softly about her face. Montrose smiled to himself. Why not push his luck a little farther?
“Look,” he said, “why don’t you help me celebrate? Have dinner with me.”
She frowned a little.
“It’s unconventional, I know.” He was very suave. “But I’m playing a hunch again. We’ll have a good time. I feel it!”
“We—ell—your hunches seem good ones, Mr. . .?”
“Montrose. Frank Montrose.”
“I’m Marcia Powers.”
Marcia Powers held out her hand. Her clasp was firm and warm.
Much later, they sat in a quiet little place that Montrose had known long before. So long, that the headwaiter had forgotten him, but, on the strength of Marcia’s looks and Montrose’s new suit he remembered. They drank a long drink and talked quietly.
AFTER a while, Marcia sat silent, staring at the table-cloth.
“I’m rich,” smiled Montrose. “I’ll offer two pennies for your thoughts.”
She raised her head slowly.
“This has been a curious day. The first time I ever went to a horse race and—the first time I ever went out with a stranger—”
“If I’m still a stranger, then it isn’t my lucky day after all!”
“Frank,” Marcia’s voice was serious. “May I ask you a questi
on?”
“Go ahead.”
“What have you done with that ten thousand dollars?”
Montrose was amazed to find that he didn’t consider the question impertinent.
“I left about eight thousand in the safe at my hotel. I bought some clothes, spent a little tonight. I’ve got about fifteen hundred on me.”
Her eyes widened.
“Do you honestly expect to spend fifteen hundred dollars tonight?”
Montrose looked off toward the orchestra. He had forgotten his plans for this evening. Certainly he had planned to get this girl home early. Then over to Callahan’s and get that bastard Rann in a crap game. Yes, he’d promised himself a lot of things for that night—and he’d done just a few of them.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I always carried—carry, a lot of money on me.”
Marcia reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. Surprised, he turned to face her.
“You’ve been awfully broke, haven’t you?” As he started to protest, she shook her head. “No, Frank. You looked awfully seedy at the track. I don’t know, really, why I went out with you. Somehow, I liked you. I still do. Very much.”
He could not cope with her honesty. He couldn’t tell this girl what he wanted to do. Or did he still want to do those things? Looking down at her hand, feeling her fingers over his, Montrose decided that he did not.
“Frank,” Marcia went on, “I don’t live in this city. I’m a small-town girl from upstate. I’m such a hick, I’ve never seen a horse-race before today. I made that bet by sticking a hairpin through the program.”
“That’s the best system,” he murmured.
She smiled briefly, then her face was serious again.
“But I’m very happy where I live, Frank. Why don’t you take your money and come up there? You would be happy, I think. You could do things.”
And why not? Who was Jack Rann—the guy who’d stack a deck against his own brother? Who was Callahan—whose charity was a single drink of rotgut? Last night, Montrose had walked along the bar, knowing the final humiliation of being snubbed by pals fearing a touch. Who, indeed, was Frank Montrose—who had to sell his body for a hundred dollars!
Montrose took Marcia’s hand in both of his.
“Lead the way, my dear,” he said.