by Jerry
“Always say Lassanglus fines’ place in world with fines’ people,” said Mr. Hayes. “Knew moment I saw you, you fines’ of ’em all!”
Mr. Hayes nodded his head with great emphasis and almost fell off his stool.
“Oh,” said Montrose, “I’m fine enough, I guess. I’m also pretty smart.”
“So?” Hayes’ eyes grew round with wonder. “Me. I’m dumb.”
“You look damn’ intelligent to me,” said Montrose.
Hayes beamed. They had more rye. The bartender moved back to his “loudmouths” at the other end. Montrose looked over the bar and saw a short knife, used for cutting lemons. He leaned over the bar, snatched up the knife and stuck it in his coat pocket.
“Whaddye do tha’ for?” asked Hayes.
“A bet,” grinned Montrose. “Pal of mine bet me ten bucks I couldn’t lift it. Say!” He faced the goggling Hayes. “You’re just the guy I need! A witness!”
Hayes giggled.
“Look,” said Montrose. “You saw me lift the knife. How about coming along and helping me collect the bet. Then you and I will really paint this town! What say?”
“Sure. ’S a good idea.” Hayes fished for more money.
“Drinks are on me,” said Montrose.
“Nossir!” Hayes became stubborn. “You’re my gues’. I’m buyin’.”
Montrose shrugged. It was low, somehow, to let Hayes pay, in light of what was going to happen to Hayes. But he didn’t dare argue with a drunk, a drunk’s reaction’s are too unpredictable.
Hayes paid and they left the bar, arm in arm.
Montrose walked slowly, pretending to stagger a little, waiting until they came to an intersection. There was a traffic policeman in the middle of the street. A couple of men were just stepping off the curb on the other side of the street. Plenty of witnesses . . .
Montrose shrugged off Hayes’ arm and pulled the knife.
“All right, sucker,” he said loudly. “Hand over that roll you were sporting in the saloon!”
Hayes giggled.
“Come on!” Montrose grabbed his shirt. “Gimme the dough or I’ll let you have it!”
“Hey, leggo,” mumbled Hayes. “Don’ play so rough, pal!”
Montrose shook him and raised the knife.
“Leggo!” cried Hayes. He quailed to sobriety before the awful threat in Montrose’s eyes. “Help!” he screamed once.
MONTROSE sunk his knife in the other’s chest, turned and ran squarely into the arms of the policeman.
“You’re under arrest!” bellowed the cop. “I saw you! Plain as day it was murder!”
“Yeah!” Montrose dropped the knife. “I—I killed him.”
He could not look at the small, crumpled body.
“But, officer! You don’t understand!”
The two men from across the street stepped briskly up to the policeman. The officer saw two well-dressed men, one tall, the other short and portly. To his practiced eye, they meant one thing—importance.
Montrose saw in them the things he still called Dr. Aloysio and Dr. Fesler.
“What do you mean?” rasped the policeman.
“We saw it all,” said the tall man. “My friend, here, and I. This man was walking along, pleasantly and amiably, with the—other one. We left the same bar they did, just a minute or so after them.”
The street began to rock under Montrose. The policeman scowled.
“Well I—” he grumbled.
The plump man spoke up.
“The dead man tried to quarrel with his friend in the bar. Just as they reached the corner here, he became angry again. He jerked out a knife and assaulted the gentleman you’re holding. We saw him pull the knife away, but the other chap seemed to slip and fall right on the knife.”
“But I killed him!” screamed Montrose. “It was murder!”
The tall man clucked.
“Poor chap,” he murmured. “Shock. You’d be hysterical too, officer, if you’d just killed a friend.”
The cop was still unconvinced.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he growled. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of frame-up?”
The two gentlemen presented cards. As the policeman read the names, his voice lost its growl and he became very deferential.
“Oh!” It seemed he said their names, but oddly enough, Montrose couldn’t hear him.
But Montrose didn’t care, anyway.
There was one more chance. If he ran, now, the cop would shoot. Even if he weren’t killed, flight would be a sure sign of guilt. He stumbled forward.
“Look out!” It was the one Montrose knew as Dr. Aloysio. “The poor chap is fainting!”
And Montrose was fainting. The whole, seething scene spun around into a vast, sneering portrait of Dr. Aloysio. Then, Dr. Aloysio receded into the leering blackness. But not before Dr. Aloysio had leaned forward and whispered in Montrose’s ear,
“Please, Mr. Montrose! Don’t you realize by now you can’t cheat me! Your body is mine, you know . . .”
HOURS later Montrose stood calmly in the courtroom while the traffic officer mumbled his testimony and the other two gave their version of the tragedy. When it was his turn, Montrose spoke patiently, as though repeating a lesson. Word for word, he gave an account that tallied exactly with that of the two . . . doctors. As he talked, his only sensation was one of vast pity for poor Perry Hayes.
The judge called it justifiable homicide and dismissed the case.
Montrose turned to go. Aloysio and Fesler walked on either side of him. At the sidewalk, Montrose turned.
“Damn you!” he said, slowly, viciously. “Why don’t you collect now. I’m tired of it! I don’t know who you are—or what happened to me. But take your body. I’m sick of it!”
Dr. Aloysio shook his head sadly.
“Ah, Mr. Montrose,” he murmured. “The fault is yours. You don’t know how to live—at, a leased body. You don’t know how to take advantage of it!”
His words pounded against Montrose’s mind, even as the two seemed to fade in the bright sunlight.
THE BARTENDER sliced a lemon, slowly and methodically. The joint was as yet but slightly crowded and he wasn’t very busy.
“Hi!” sounded a familiar voice. “Let go that lemon and shake hands with me!”
Callahan looked up.
“Monty!” he croaked.
His face creased into a smile. “Monty!” he repeated. “ ‘Tis good to see ye, lad!”
Callaghan looked Montrose over carefully. Then he reached below the bar and took out a dusty bottle of very old Baltimore rye. It was his seal of approval on what he saw.
“Me boy,” he said, as he poured, “ye look very prosperous and I’m glad to see it.”
“Prosperous?” Montrose’s eyes grew bleak. “Well, I’ve got lots of money and I can do lots of things, but I wouldn’t exactly say I’d prospered.”
“Talkin’ in riddles, hey? Well, here’s to ye!”
They drank. Callaghan cast a look up and down the bar, saw nothing that needed his attention, then leaned forward, elbows on the bar.
“Last time I saw ye was over a year ago. Ye were on yer uppers, then.” Montrose laughed.
“I started my comeback that very night. Got a tip from Jack Rann. which reminds me.” His voice was casual. “Is he here?”
Callaghan scowled.
“He is.”
“That’s fine. I’ve been looking for him.”
“Why?”
Montrose waved his hand airily. “Well, to be frank with you, Cal, I’m going to kill Jack Rann.”
“Somebody should do that.” The Irishman did a double take. “What did ye say, Monty?” he whispered.
“I said I was going to kill Rann,” Montrose replied.
Callaghan threw up his hands.
“Ye’re drunk agin! Monty, why don’t you lay off the stuff! And don’t you start no ruckus in my place!”
Montrose took out an initialed leather cigarette case. With s
teady fingers he chose a smoke, lit it and flicked the match away. After a deep drag, he smiled at Callaghan.
“Cal, old boy,” he drawled, “I am not drunk and you know it! And I won’t start anything. I’ll just shoot him, that’s all!”
Callaghan’s face purpled.
“Did ye ever hear of the electric chair, boy! Didn’t ye know they execute people for murder?”
“Not me.” Montrose spoke quite seriously. “I’ve already tried it and I can’t be caught. You’ll see.”
Callaghan found himself believing the other. Unbelief could not stand up before the easy confidence of Montrose. The Irishman was afraid, terribly afraid.
“Ye’re not crazy,” Callaghan stated.
“No.”
“Then what have ye done—sold yer soul to the devil?”
Montrose shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Not my soul, Cal.
CALLAGHAN watched him walk to where Jack Rann sat. Unfortunately, a customer summoned him, so Callaghan never did hear what was said.
It wasn’t very much.
Montrose stared confidently into Rann’s slate eyes, watched them widen with recognition.
“ ’Lo, chum,” Rann said. “What are you doing back here?”
“Just a little visit,” smiled Montrose. “Came to pay you your commission on a sale.”
“Commission?”
“Yes. Remember when you advised me to sell my body to a hospital?”
Rann frowned, then he smiled what was, for him, a wide smile.
“Did that really work?” he chuckled. He hesitated, taking in Montrose’s appearance with a quick glance. Then he said, “Sit down and tell me about it. You know, I used to wonder just what put that idea in my mind?”
“Really?” Montrose remained standing.
“Yeah. I didn’t know anything about it, chum. I was just tryin’ to get rid of you.”
“It worked, Rann. I got the hundred. And a lot of other things. Things I didn’t bargain for. But you deserve your commission. Even on the other things.”
Montrose took a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Jack Rann.
“Hey!”
Rann’s face turned a dirty gray.
“I never liked you,” Montrose said calmly. That night I hated you. I still do. I wouldn’t bother with this if I thought I ran any risk.”
“Put that gun away, pal. You’ll—you’ll burn!”
“No. I won’t.”
Rann began to beg in a high, hysterical voice. He fell to the floor, and writhed like a worm among the litter of cigarette butts. Montrose watched with an almost clinical detachment.
In a fragment of time that seemed endless, Montrose recapitulated the situation. He was going to kill Jack Rann, this groveling creature who had lost all dignity. He felt a sense of pleasure, deep inside himself. This was the way to use a leased body to advantage. He could go about and destroy all worthless men—with impunity. Ano no man-made punishment would be his. This body was sacred to some higher power.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Callaghan had thrown a bottle of whiskey at him. Still with an amused detachment, Montrose marked the arc of the bottle. It looked like a true throw, yet it would not hit him, would not destroy his aim. As they had allowed him to kill Perry Hayes, so would they allow him to kill Jack Rann. And no reprisal.
It was really fun. He chuckled a little as he pointed the gun down at Rann. That bottle, flying hard and true, would be swerved aside by . . . something. Or it would disappear in mid-flight. How these barflies would goggle!
HE HELD the gun steady, and began to squeeze the trigger. The bottle reached the top of its flat parabola and began to drop toward his hand. He put a little more pressure on the trigger. The bottle came on. He squeezed hard on the trigger, a fraction of a second behind the impact of the bottle.
It crashed into the gun, knocked his hand to one side. The roar and flash of the gun deafened and blinded him. The bullet buried itself in the floor.
Montrose’s jaw went slack. He looked idiotically at the gun.
“What does it mean?” he muttered to himself. “What does it mean?”
Jack Rann leaped up, with desperate despair, and wrenched the gun from Montrose’s limp hand. He pointed it at Montrose.
“You saw him;” he babbled. “Tried to kill me! I’m protecting myself. You’re witnesses! He flung a wild glance at the bartender. “I’m justified in killing him! You’ll testify, Cal!”
“But you can’t kill me,” Montrose said, as if to a child. “This body can’t be hurt. It’s being saved for—something. I’m not afraid, you see.”
It struck him with a blinding impact. I’m not afraid!
What did it mean? He’d always been afraid before. A fear that came from outside himself had sent him fleeing from the gloved fists of Dr. Sam Halsey, had held him paralyzed when death plunged at Marcia. But now that fear was gone.
He thought: Why, I’m about to be killed. I can be killed.
He cried aloud, in wild exultation: “I can be killed! Oh, thank God, I can be killed! I’m free, free! Kill me, Jack This is wonderful!”
Jack Rann dropped his arm. He looked at Montrose with a kind of puzzled fear. “You’re crazy, Montrose. I can’t shoot a crazy man.”
“Then I’ll kill myself!” Montrose cried. “Oh, God, but I’m happy!”
He turned and ran out the door. Laughing insanely, he plunged into the street.
Brakes screamed. Horns cried in torture. A yellow laundry truck lifted Montrose on a front fender, sent him flying through a short arc.
DEAD men feel no pain. Through a fog of it, Montrose told himself this over and over and over. Dead men feel no pain.
He hadn’t died, then. Presently he opened his eyes. He saw brown hair curling gently against a remembered face. Grey eyes anxiously fixed on his. Powder blue sheathed a lovely figure.
“Marcia,” he said softly, without wonder, stating a simple but beautiful truth. “Marcia.”
“You’re going to live, Frank. You’re going to live, darling. That’s the important thing.”
“Is it?” he asked dully. “They cheated me again. They took away the fear, only to fool me. The evil, evil scum!”
“You mustn’t talk, dear,” she soothed. “You’ll be out of your head for a while, but you’re going to live.” He looked at her. He thought: Pain. I hurt. I am hurt. If this body has been hurt . . .
“What happened to me?” he asked. “My right foot hurts like hell.”
A nurse came in. “You mustn’t excite yourself,” she said pleasantly. “You must gain strength.”
“What’s the matter with my foot?” he said tensely. “It—feels strange. What happened to it?”
“Shh!” the nurse said. “Shhh!” He tried to sit up, but fell back gasping with pain. “I insist!” he cried. “Tell me!”
“Shh!”
Marcia set her jaw. “I’m going to tell him. I don’t care what the doctor said. Your foot was—”
“Miss Powers!” the nurse said sharply.
“Your foot,” Marcia said grimly, “had to be amputated, Frank, just above the ankle.”
“I must ask you to leave,” the nurse began.
“I will not! There’s nearly a quart of my blood in that body. I’m going to stay!”
Frank Montrose was suddenly at peace. A beatific smile overspread his face, and the two women looked wonderingly at him.
“I’ve only got one foot,” he said happily. “Nobody—no THING—would want me now.”
“I would,” Marcia said stoutly. “I would, Frank.”
She straightened it out for him, later. The news report she had seen. Man rushes to save alley cat in traffic, not expected to live. She had caught a plane, had given two transfusions over a period of six days. He had almost died.
“Alley cat?” he repeated. “I didn’t—”
“And it escaped,” Marcia burbled. “This roving reporter saw it wriggle through the traffic and
streak into a barroom.”
“I’ve only got one foot,” he murmured. “I have never been so happy.” Marcia said, “And I accused you once of cowardice. You must have been just—sick.”
“I can go in that church now,” Montrose said. “Marcia will you—?”
“If I have to carry you,” she said.
“THEN I pronounce you man and wife,” the justice of the peace said. “Two dollars.”
Montrose kissed his bride, and she pulled back to look at him with a frown. She said nothing until she had wheeled him out into the lazy afternoon. “What’s come over you, Frank?”
“I was wondering,” he said, still abstracted. “If there are—uh, entities waiting outside the realm of ordinary existence, ready to pounce, then . . .”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “We’re married, darling!”
“They picked me up,” he went on. “There was no rhyme or reason, that I can see. Then they flung me aside, without warning. What purpose could they have had? What purpose?”
“Don’t talk like that! You’re giving me the shivers!”
He grinned up at her. “I’ll never mention it again. If you’ll wheel me home, my rickshaw coolie, I’ll show you what purpose really is. Chop-chop, now!”
“Yes, massa,” she said.
They’re out there, he thought as she wheeled him home. They’re out there, waiting. Who will be next? Who will—?
It seemed to him that an unseen hand had touched the breast pocket of his coat. He felt. He took out a creased paper. He opened it, remembering.
“I, Frank Montrose, of my own free will, do hereby assign to the full possession—”
It was signed by himself. This was the “doctor’s” copy of the agreement. Why had it been returned? He took the other from his wallet, and tore both copies to shreds.
“Is that our marriage license?” Marcia asked, chuckling.
“Just an old memorandum,” he said.
And it seemed to him that he heard soft laughter from—somewhere. From—some thing. It wasn’t jeering or ominous. It was merely laughter.
A weight seemed lifted from him. “Hurry!” he said to Marcia, and laughed with her.
THE two of them sat in impenetrable darkness. The darkness pulsated with their laughter.