Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  We finished with a final flesh-atomizing twang, the sudden silence painful to the ears, and Fred looked at us. He studied my gold pants and wide belt, glanced at the tambourinist’s bare feet, stared at the wide-brimmed shapeless felt hat of the drummer, looked deep into the one eye visible behind the guitarist’s bangs; then he said quietly, “And what was that called?”

  “ ‘Love is a Sandwich,’ ” I said.

  “Sweet,” he murmured. “Really lovely. Haunting.”

  “Glad you like it!” I said, and he started to reply, but we were into ‘Yowl,’ banging, whanging, and twanging away, but just as I began the vocal, Fred yanked a fuse-box lever, and the amplification drained right out of our instruments, a strange and, on the whole, unlovely effect.

  In the new silence Fred said gently, “And what do you call yourselves?”

  “ ‘The Grateful Dead.’ ”

  He nodded. “Very apt,” he said quietly; then he snarled. “Because you’re dead, all right, absolutely dead! And believe me, I’m grateful! Out!” He jerked his thumb at the door.

  In the street outside, a group of musicians were unloading their instruments from the side luggage compartment of a bus, surrounded by a knot of squealing teen-agers, GUY LOMBARDO, JR., I read on the side of the bus, AND HIS ROYAL CANADIANS, and I snatched off my wig, and walked on.

  Instruments and wigs returned to the rental agencies, the musicians paid off—one of them said he sort of liked the new music, and wanted to know if he could keep his hat—I came out on Forty-second Street and walked along it, without destination. One day left: tomorrow night at this time Hetty would be getting into her wedding dress, and now I knew there was no longer anything I could do about it. Kleenex? I thought hopelessly. Dial-A-Prayer? Bloody Marys? But I shook my head, all faith in inventing gone.

  At Bryant Park, the little square of oxygen-starved greenery back of the main Public Library, I turned in and dropped tiredly onto a bench. I was about to lose Hetty in both worlds, and if I couldn’t quite face that fact yet, I at least squinted at it sideways. I sat under a tree whose leaves hung like limp tongues, realizing that like Leonardo da Vinci staring at his fourteenth-century carburetor, I was ahead of my time.

  You are going to lose Hetty! I repeated to myself; then, forcing my mind into logical thought, I said, Why? The answer was clear: For want of a quarter million dollars that Custer stole from me. And then, for such is the power of logical thought, the solution shyly presented itself: Steal the quarter million back from Custer . . .

  I liked it! I began to smile because I’d always wanted to commit a Master Crime: detailed maps . . . flawless planning . . . watches synchronized . . . split-second timing . . . impeccably executed . . . “Okay, now let’s go over it once more” . . . “Geez, boss, how many times—” . . . “Till you can do it in your sleep!”

  I brought out a little notebook I carried, and at the top of a page I carefully printed PLAN: To STEAL $250,000 FROM C----R H------T. Underneath this I printed 1. Difficulties: (a) MORAL. Below that, Roman numeral I: WRONG TO STEAL? Capital (A): NO. MORALLY SPEAKING, MONEY YOURS IN FIRST PLACE. (B): ANYWAY, YOU GOING TO GIVE MONEY BACK TO C. (b): PHYSICAL DIFFICULTIES. I: C BIGGER THAN YOU. II: MURDER HIM? EXCELLENT! BUT RISKY. I wasn’t sure whether the next item should be Roman numeral III or (d), and I tried to recall, from Miss Wunderlich’s sixth-grade English class. But I couldn’t remember then, and I couldn’t remember now. Mentally tossing a coin, I wrote (d): MODUS OPERANDI: TRICKERY AND STEALTH.

  So far, so good, I thought, sitting back on the bench and admiring the PLAN. The Modus Operandi quickly outlined itself then, although I had a little trouble with Roman numeral nineteen. Was it an X, a V, and four I’s? Or an I and two X’s, meaning subtract I from XX? I doubted if even the Romans were sure, and just wrote a plain 19, and to hell with Miss Wunderlich, who always favored the girls anyway.

  Briefly, the Problem, or P., which the Modus Operandi, or M.O., was designed to solve—I wrote Modus Operandi: Problem, or MOP—was this: Custer would undoubtedly be paid by check, but a check made out to Custer was no use to me; also, it would be presented at his office or theirs, alive with strangers and dangers; and if Custer recognized me, I’d go to jail.

  I was elated. I wanted this difficult; I wished I had to lower myself into a building by rope, the way they did in that movie—remember?—where they stole the emerald from the turban in the glass museum case. I knew I had to work fast—tomorrow was Friday (F)—and I swung my legs over the stone railing, dropped down onto the Forty-second Street sidewalk, and moved instantly into Phase One. Crossing the street to a phone booth, I chewed and swallowed the PLAN, which I’d memorized. Surprisingly, the page had a rather pleasant minty flavor, and I ate another.

  In the booth I executed Step One: Drop in Quarter, and presently reached Mr. Swanson of the E-Z Pin Co. I have an excellent ear and am a very good mimic; you should hear my Edward G. Robinson. Sounding just like old Cus, I said, “Custer Huppfelt here; how are you, Mr. Swanson!”

  He told me: he’d had a little cold, and stayed home from the office a couple days, but he was back now; he still felt a little stuffy, but was definitely better. What could he do for me? I said I had a very important favor to ask. I would like him, if he would, to pay me in cash tomorrow. In comparatively small bills; say hundreds. And I’d appreciate it if the transaction could take place with just the two of us present; in my home, perhaps. I lowered my voice conspiratorially: it was a matter of taxes, I said; I knew he’d understand. He replied, with the businessman’s chuckle, that he certainly did, would be glad to oblige, and I gave him my address, suggesting six-thirty tomorrow evening.

  Phase Two: I walked half a block to another phone booth, so that my calls couldn’t be traced. I wasn’t sure who would be tracing them or how, but felt it best not to take unnecessary chances. I’d listened carefully to Swanson’s voice, and when Custer came on, I said, “Ed Swanson, Mr. Huppfelt,” and knew I sounded just like him. He asked how my cold was, and I said it was better, though I was still a little stuffy; I’d stayed home a couple days, because I’d noticed that if you went right to bed with a cold, you saved time in the long run. He asked what he could do for me, and I said I had a very important favor to ask. I preferred to pay him in cash tomorrow; in comparatively small bills, say hundreds. And I’d appreciate it if the transaction would take place with only the two of us present; I thought his home might be best; say six-thirty tomorrow? Lowering my voice, I said it was a tax matter, and that I knew he’d understand. I doubt if there’s a businessman with soul so dead that he’d admit he didn’t, and Custer chuckled, businessmanlike, and said he certainly did; it was fine with him, and at his house; he had a wall safe in his study. Stepping out of the phone booth, I hardly cared for the moment whether crime paid or not; this was fun!

  From fairly extensive rental-library reading, I knew the next step: Follow Subject. I was practically certain Custer would go right home from work. He hadn’t been married quite long enough to start the sordid philandering which I instinctively knew was inherent in his nature. Of course I knew where he lived, but somehow it didn’t seem right to just go on out there and wait for him. I noted all times in my notebook, the way you’re supposed to.

  5:11, and—oh, about 25 seconds: Subject walked out of office-building lobby; took cab. I foresightedly had cab waiting just down street, me inside. Avoiding cliché, did not say, “Follow that cab!” Said, “Just trail along after that guy.” Cabbie said, “What?” Said, “Just string along behind the fellow in the Yellow.” Cabbie said, “How do you mean, Mac?” Said, “Follow that cab!”

  5:43, aboard ferry to Jersey: Subject reading paper. I skulk in shadows, hat brim down, coat collar up. Can’t see. Turn collar down, brim up. Much better.

  5:43, watch stopped. Anyway, Cus went home, taking a bus for the five or six miles to Whipley, New Jersey, then walking three blocks from the bus stop. I envied him a little, “shadowing” him, as we say; this was a nice old-fas
hioned-looking town, with quiet streets and a lot of trees. Like others we passed, Custer’s house occupied what must have been nearly an eighth of a city block. It was on a corner lot surrounded by a shoulder-high wall of fine old brick; along the top of the wall ran a foot-high fence of ironwork. Two tall arch-topped wrought-iron gates opened onto a brick path leading up to the house, which was set far back from the street. The house was a fine steep-roofed Victorian with gables, dormer windows, and trim around the eaves; there was a round tower at one corner with a skyrocket-shaped roof, a great wide front porch, everything nicely painted in maroon and white.

  I was a good block or more behind Custer, and when I reached the house I just glanced in at it and walked on past, on the other side of the street, giving Custer time to settle down inside before I reconnoitered. Presently I walked back, this time on Custer’s side of the street; all around me the street and walks were empty, this being the cocktail hour. Stooping a little so that only my hat would be visible from the house, I walked slowly along beside the wall, again glancing in through the wrought-iron gates as I passed; no one in sight, in the yard or at any of the windows. I turned back; stopped; looked in at the long wide expanse of lawn up to the porch steps, noting the many trees and bushes. What was Subject doing; what were his Habits? I looked up and down the sidewalk—no one in sight—pushed open the gates, stepped quickly in, and closed them soundlessly behind me.

  Darting from tree to bush to shrub, I zigzagged my way toward the house. Alertly, I noticed a St. Bernard dog the size of a Shetland pony come ambling around from the back of the house. Peeking between the branches of a small Christmas-tree pine, behind which I had been lurking when he appeared and which I prudently continued to keep between us, I watched him stroll down the brisk walk to a patch of late sunlight and lie down precisely between me and the gates. I watched his gigantic head rise, black-rubber nose twitching as he suspiciously sniffed the air; fitted with horns, he could have fought a bull. Then he yawned, looking as though he could swallow a bowling ball without blinking, put his head on the walk, and lay staring at the closed gates, apparently forever.

  I couldn’t possibly climb the tree; it was hardly higher than I was. So I stood, crouched, motionless, trying by will power to exude no scent of interest to a St. Bernard. I put in fifteen minutes there, thinking up and discarding as somehow implausible many ingenious explanations to Custer of what I was doing here. A boy walked by the gates; he was wearing a canvas sack full of folded copies of The Whipley Whig, and he yanked one out, tossed it over the gates in passing, and was gone before it hit the bricks. It landed, sliding, the dog snatched it up, and, tail erect and swaying proudly, he trotted up the walk and scratched at the door. Several moments later Custer let him in, closed the door, and I scurried to the side of the house in a Groucho Marx crouch and peeked in.

  Living room: empty. Den: Custer, in shirtsleeves, came walking in, drink in one hand, paper in the other, dog at his heels. Cus dropped onto a lounge chair, set the drink on a table beside him, and unfolded the paper. He glanced up expectantly, and the dog was waiting before him, slippers in his mouth. Cus took the slippers, saying something to the dog, whose tail wagged in response like the mast of a sailboat in a wallowing sea. As Custer put on the slippers, the canine behemoth lay down beside the chair in a wicker dog bed larger than mine. Then, for a dozen minutes, Custer sat reading his paper and sipping his drink, one dangling arm scratching the dog’s ears and neck.

  Then Cus got up and walked out of the room; standing clear over at one side of the window, I could just see him, out in a hall and cut in half by the doorframe, turn onto a flight of stairs. Doggy stayed where he was and so did I; in five minutes Custer came down in faded blue swimming trunks, a towel slung over his shoulder.

  The only place a pool could be was back of the house and at the other side; I took a chance on the dog’s staying inside, though I kept mighty close to the walls, ready to leap. I worked my way around to the back of the house and saw the pool in the opposite corner of the lot. Custer tossed down his towel, walked out onto the diving board, and went in; a little awkwardly, I was pleased to note. He did a fast dozen lengths—I could have done a lot more, with a little training—climbed up the ladder in the corner by the board, and walked back to the house, drying his unpleasantly lean tanned body.

  Dressed again, this time in one of those ridiculous one-piece nylon jumpsuits, Custer moved to the kitchen where he stood frying some hamburger, the dog present as an observer. It was getting dark, I couldn’t see to write in my notebook, and I was tired and hungry: I left, walked back to the bus stop, and after only a forty-five-minute wait caught a bus back to the ferry, which left half an hour later.

  Twelve hours left: In the morning I set out to look for an unethical druggist and found one immediately: in the first three stores I tried, as a matter of fact. Actually, they still had some ethics left; that is, they wanted from ten to twenty-five bucks to forget them. So I went on to a fourth store, with cut-rate ethics, and got what I wanted for only ten bucks extra, asking for it by generic term instead of brand name, as recommended by Consumers’ Report.

  Handcuffs I found in an ethical pawnshop; he wasn’t supposed to sell them to me, he said; it was sort of illegal. But I explained they were just to play a joke on a friend, and he took the extra fifteen bucks and said that in that case it was okay.

  A couple of other and perfectly legal stops, at a sporting-goods shop and a butcher’s and it was time for an early lunch, at a stand-up lunch counter. I felt like a relaxed meal, having a busy time ahead, and paid the extra seventy-five-cent cover charge, entitling me to an overhead strap to hang onto, and had a pastrami on toasted Wheat Thins. Then I set out on a tour of the costume shops, which took most of the afternoon.

  It was worth the search, though, because I found exactly what I was looking for, in a shop one flight up, the owner in one of the Bela Lugosi costumes he was closing out at $19.95. He was lying in a coffin when I walked in, reading the World-Sun. “Drrrink your blut!” he said in greeting, not looking up; he finished the item he was reading, then stood up, spreading his cape like bat wings. “Blood-stain-resistant! It’s Cravenetted!” he said, but I said no, explained what I wanted, and he produced just the thing, an absolute marvel. At 5:03—less than three hours left!—I was on an early ferry to Jersey.

  •

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  •

  In Whipley I rented a car. Then, parked a dozen yards from Custer’s gates, I unwrapped my pound and a half of choice hamburger and my bottle from the drugstore.

  I glanced around; a man was on the other side of the street walking toward the corner, and I waited till he was gone. Then I got out and walked to the wrought-iron gates. Rover was there, lying on the sun-warmed bricks, and he rose up and lumbered toward me, like a fur-covered bulldozer. “Nice doggy,” I said, reached quickly in through the gates, and plopped the big wad of meat down on the walk, withdrawing my hand instantly in case he was nearsighted. This was it! It was strange standing here and realizing that my entire future depended on whether a dog liked hamburger.

  He sniffed it, then looked up at me, staring deep into my eyes trying to see whether I was trustworthy, and I smiled with a frank and boyish openness, like a movie actor running for president. It worked on the dog, too; he believed me, nodded his thanks, then gulped down the hamburger in one enormous bite, taking a small portion of one brick along with it. He wiped his mouth, using his tongue as a napkin, and turned, tail swaying in stately gratitude, and lay down again.

  I waited twenty minutes in my car, then took off my suit coat, tie, and shoes, came back to the gates, bundle under my arm, and my friend was still lying on the brick walk, eyes closed. I whistled softly, but he didn’t move. I opened the gate a foot, ready to yank it closed; he still didn’t move. I stepped in, prepared to step right out again, waited, then whistled once more. He lifted one eyelid one millimeter, looked at me without interest, then closed it again, sighing, and I knew
that the hamburger-encased sleeping pills had done their kindly work.

  Dragging a four-hundred-pound—my lowest estimate—St. Bernard twenty yards across a lawn, forearms under his armpits, hands clasped on his furry chest, his hind feet dragging, giant head and tongue lolling as he gently snored—it’s an experience! I laid him comfortably behind a bank of shrubbery, and waited. Fifteen minutes later Custer and Swanson walked in through the gates, chatting; Swanson, carrying a locked attaché case, was a tall, cave-chested but wide-shouldered guy in his fifties, kind of powerful-looking; if anything went wrong I knew I’d collect some bruises, and maybe a busted skull.

  The instant they stepped into the house, I unwrapped my bundle and got into my rented suit. Then, remembering how I’d looked in the costume-shop mirror, I studied the sleeping dog at my feet. Possibly his tail was a little handsomer than mine, I had to concede, but all things considered it was a remarkably good match. Seventy-five bucks a day was the rental fee for this outfit, and worth it; this was real fur, I was certain, and inside the expertly molded papier-mâché St. Bernard dog head, my eyes were pressed tight against the foam-rubber-padded viewers, staring out at the yard through the big transparent brown glass eyes. All was quiet, and I drew my head back from the viewers.

  The tiny light was on in here, just over the miniature control panel, which was level with my mouth. Like a pilot at flight time, I began testing my controls. Tail-wag, read the tiny plate under the first switch; I flipped the switch with my tongue, felt the spring-operated tail begin wagging at the rear of the suit, and turned it off to conserve power; you had to wind the tail motor like a clock, and it was good for only about forty wags. I was about to test Mouth Op.—Cls. when I heard a plop, and jammed my eyes tight against the padded viewers like a submarine commander scanning the horizon; a folded paper was sliding to a stop on the brick walk; my adventure had begun.