by Isaac Asimov
No one in prison pays much attention to time unless scheduled to get out soon. A week or two, or a month or two, passed. Then I looked out one morning and spotted Ben near the walk at the front of the building. He was on one knee in the classic crapshooter’s pose. He opened his hand and released a small, mud-colored bird.
It was hard to believe that this was Baby; he had grown so. He wasn’t as big as an adult bird, but no one would have any trouble recognizing him as a bird. The little guy beat his wings frantically and fluttered from side to side, then landed on the soft grass about twenty feet from where he’d been launched. Big Ben lumbered over to where the bird lay on the grass and scooped him into his hand. I could see his lips moving and I knew he was muttering praise and encouragement to the bird.
I watched a few more flights from the window. Baby kept flying increasingly greater distances but wasn’t getting much altitude. Several officers entered and left A-cellhouse through its side door. Each glanced at Big Ben and his bird, then quickly looked away. None wanted to enforce the regulation against pets, so they pretended not to notice. After a while Ben stopped giving the bird flying lessons, and I left the window and went back to work.
I looked out the window several times in the next few days, but I must’ve picked the wrong times because I didn’t see Ben. Other guys kept telling me about Big Ben and his bird and how well it could fly and how it came to him when he whistled for it. Baby became the chief topic of conversation around the Education Building. A couple of men joked that they wished Big Ben would teach them to fly — they wanted to see what’s on the other side of the prison’s thirty-five foot wall.
Then one day I saw Big Ben sitting alone on the steps of A-cellhouse. I sensed that something was wrong and went over to him. “How’s Baby?” I asked.
“He’s gone,” Ben said. “Flew away. Sat up there,” he motioned vaguely toward the wall, “and looked back once, then flew away.”
“Maybe he’ll come back.”
“Naw, he won’t come back.” His voice held notes of both pain and anger. “Boids is like people. When they don’t need ya no more, they forgets ya.”
I remembered that someone had once told me Big Ben hadn’t received a letter in two years. “Maybe Baby just decided to look around,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Birds do that all the time. It wouldn’t surprise me if he came back. The swallows always return to Capistrano.”
Ben gave me a cold look, then ignored me, so I went inside; but I was a little worried and kept going to the window to keep an eye on him. That’s how I happened to be around when the bird returned a few hours later and perched on his shoulder. He cupped it in his huge hands and sat talking to it for a long time. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his back shook. I watched as he touched the bird gently with his lips, then squeezed the life from it.
What Kind of Person Are You?
by Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg
I arrived at Quality Supermarkets’ Fairfield branch promptly at nine o’clock Monday morning and went immediately into the office to check the weekend receipts. A roving district manager with twelve stores and nearly one hundred employees to monitor cannot afford to waste time; I work on a very tight schedule.
At 9:40 I stood and walked quickly into the store proper, to where Franklin was working at Register Three, his regular post. I waited until he finished serving a customer and then motioned him to close down and join me. When he had done that, I took him back into the office and told him to sit down.
He sat poised on the edge of the chair, hands picking nervously at each other; he was about twenty-four, red-haired and gangly, and he reminded me somewhat of my son Ronald. I did not say anything for a time, watching him. He fidgeted under my scrutiny, eyes touching mine, flicking away, flicking back. But he always seemed to be nervous in my presence; I had a reputation as a somewhat stern and uncompromising supervisor.
“I’ll get directly to the point,” I said. “I have just been over the weekend receipts and register slips, and you’re seventy dollars short, Franklin — fifty on Saturday and twenty on Sunday.”
His eyes grew wide and his face paled visibly. “Seventy dollars?” he said.
“Exactly seventy dollars. That is a considerable amount, Franklin, as I’m sure you realize.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Adams? I mean, couldn’t you have made a mistake...”
“I do not make mistakes,” I said stiffly. “The mistake here, if that is what it is, rests squarely on your shoulders.”
“I... I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been short before, I’m always careful—”
“Indeed?”
“I haven’t been off a penny in the two months I’ve been working here,” Franklin said. “You know that, sir.”
“I do know it, yes,” I said, “but the fact remains that you are seventy dollars short for this past weekend — exactly seventy dollars, not a cent more or less. The question now is what kind of person are you, Franklin?”
“Sir?”
“What kind of person are you?” I repeated. “An honest and fallible one, whose only crime is making careless errors in mathematics? Or a foolish and culpable one who succumbed to the obvious temptation?”
His mouth opened, as though in shock, and he blinked rapidly several times. “Mr. Adams, you don’t think I stole that money?”
“Did you?”
“No. No!”
I held up a hand. “I am not accusing you of anything, Franklin. I am merely trying to ascertain the truth of the situation here.”
“I’m not a thief,” he said desperately. “You’ve got to believe that, Mr. Adams. I don’t know how I could have made a seventy-dollar mistake, but that’s all it was — a mistake. I swear it.”
“I would like to believe that.”
“You’ve got to believe it,” he said, “it’s the truth.”
I picked up my pencil and tapped the eraser on the sheaf of papers spread out in front of me. “Embezzlement of funds is a serious offense, you know. I could have you arrested, or at the very least summarily fired.”
“Please, Mr. Adams — I didn’t steal that money!”
“Have you ever been in trouble before? Any kind of trouble?”
“No, sir, never. Never.”
I sighed. “Very well, then. I am not a harsh man, and I have a son about your age; I see no reason not to give you the benefit of the doubt, particularly in view of your prior work record. If you’re willing to replace the seventy dollars, and assuming something like this does not happen again, I suppose I am willing to drop the matter entirely.”
Relief made him slump on the chair. “I’ll replace the money, sure,” he said eagerly, “I know I’m responsible for it. I don’t have seventy dollars with me, but I can have it by tomorrow; I’ll borrow it from my father—”
“That won’t be necessary, Franklin. I will accept ten dollars now and ten dollars per week for the next six weeks, assuming again that there are no further shortages and you continue to do your job properly.”
“I will, Mr. Adams, I’ll be extra-careful. It’ll never happen again, I promise you that.”
“For your sake,” I said, “see that you keep that promise.”
He nodded and produced his wallet and handed me a ten-dollar bill. I took it and laid it carefully on the desk. “You can go back to work now,” I said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Adams.”
When he was gone I sat for a moment looking at the register receipts, the branch ledger-books. Then I finished my work, closed everything into the safe, put Franklin’s ten-dollar bill into my own wallet, and left the store to continue my rounds...
I arrived at the Essex branch at precisely noon and spent nearly an hour checking the weekend receipts. At 12:50 I went out into the store proper and brought Trowbridge — another young man in his early twenties, tall and thin like Ronald — back to the office and told him to sit down.
“I have just been going over the weekend receipts,” I s
aid, “and you’re seventy dollars short — fifty on Saturday and twenty on Sunday.”
He stared at me incredulously.
“The question now is,” I said, “what kind of person are you?”
At eight the following Friday night, I arrived at the Dunes Motel on the outskirts of the city, knocked on the door of Unit Eight, and was admitted.
“Right on time,” Cobb said.
“I am always punctual.” I opened my wallet and laid two hundred and fifty dollars on the bed.
He picked it up and counted it twice. “O.K., Adams,” he said. “That takes care of the first installment. Six more weeks and Ronnie and I will be square.” He chuckled. “Unless he decides to borrow another thousand to pay off some more of his gambling debts.”
“Ronald will never borrow another dime from you,” I said, “I’ll see to that. And he is not gambling any more.”
Cobb smiled wisely. “Sure — whatever you say, Adams. Just make sure you’re here with the second installment next Friday. I’d hate to have to send one of my boys out to pay Ronnie a little visit.”
A sudden rush of anger made me clench my fists. “What kind of person are you to prey on decent people this way?” I said. “What kind of monster are you?”
Cobb’s laughter rang in my ears all the way out to the car and all the way home to my son.
Shatter Proof
by Jack Ritchie
He was a soft-faced man wearing rimless glasses, but he handled the automatic with unmistakable competence.
I was rather surprised at my calmness when I learned the reason for his presence. “It’s a pity to die in ignorance,” I said. “Who hired you to kill me?”
His voice was mild. “I could be an enemy in my own right.”
I had been making a drink in my study when I had heard him and turned. Now I finished pouring from the decanter. “I know the enemies I’ve made and you are a stranger. Was it my wife?”
He smiled. “Quite correct. Her motive must be obvious.”
“Yes,” I said. “I have money and apparently she wants it. All of it.”
He regarded me objectively. “Your age is?”
“Fifty-three.”
“And your wife is?”
“Twenty-two.”
He clicked his tongue. “You were foolish to expect anything permanent, Mr. Williams.”
I sipped the whiskey. “I expected a divorce after a year or two and a painful settlement. But not death.”
“Your wife is a beautiful woman, but greedy, Mr. Williams. I’m surprised that you never noticed.”
My eyes went to the gun. “I assume you have killed before?”
“Yes.”
“And obviously you enjoy it.”
He nodded. “A morbid pleasure, I admit. But I do.”
I watched him and waited. Finally I said, “You have been here more than two minutes and I am still alive.”
“There is no hurry, Mr. Williams,” he said softly,
“Ah, then the actual killing is not your greatest joy. You must savor the preceding moments.”
“You have insight, Mr. Williams.”
“And as long as I keep you entertained, in one manner or another, I remain alive?”
“Within a time limit, of course.”
“Naturally. A drink, Mr?”
“Smith requires no strain on the memory. Yes, thank you. But please allow me to see what you are doing when you prepare it.”
“It’s hardly likely that I would have poison conveniently at hand for just such an occasion.”
“Hardly likely, but still possible.”
He watched me while I made his drink and then took an easy chair.
I sat on the davenport. “Where would my wife be at this moment?”
“At a party, Mr. Williams. There will be a dozen people to swear that she never left their sight during the time of your murder.”
“I will be shot by a burglar? An intruder?”
He put his drink on the cocktail table in front of him. “Yes. After I shoot you, I shall, of course, wash this glass and return it to your liquor cabinet. And when I leave I shall wipe all fingerprints from the doorknobs I’ve touched.”
“You will take a few trifles with you? To make the burglar-intruder story more authentic?”
“That will not be necessary, Mr. Williams. The police will assume that the burglar panicked after he killed you and fled empty-handed.”
“That picture on the east wall,” I said. “It’s worth thirty thousand.”
His eyes went to it for a moment and then quickly returned to me. “It is tempting, Mr. Williams. But I desire to possess nothing that will even remotely link me to you. I appreciate art, and especially its monetary value, but not to the extent where I will risk the electric chair.” Then he smiled. “Or were you perhaps offering me the painting? In exchange for your life?”
“It was a thought.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Williams. Once I accept a commission, I am not dissuaded. It is a matter of professional pride.”
I put my drink on the table. “Are you waiting for me to show fear, Mr. Smith?”
“You will show it.”
“And then you will kill me?”
His eyes flickered. “It is a strain, isn’t it, Mr. Williams? To be afraid and not to dare show it.”
“Do you expect your victims to beg?” I asked.
“They do. In one manner or another.”
“They appeal to your humanity? And that is hopeless?”
“It is hopeless.”
“They offer you money?”
“Very often.”
“Is that hopeless too?”
“So far it has been, Mr. Williams.”
“Behind the picture I pointed out to you, Mr. Smith, there is a wall safe.”
He gave the painting another brief glance. “Yes.”
“It contains five thousand dollars.”
“That is a lot of money, Mr. Williams.”
I picked up my glass and went to the painting. I opened the safe, selected a brown envelope, and then finished my drink. I put the empty glass in the safe and twirled the knob.
Smith’s eyes were drawn to the envelope. “Bring that here, please.”
I put the envelope on the cocktail table in front of him.
He looked at it for a few moments and then up at me. “Did you actually think you could buy your life?”
I lit a cigarette. “No. You are, shall we say, incorruptible.”
He frowned slightly. “But still you brought me the five thousand?”
I picked up the envelope and tapped its contents out on the table. “Old receipts. All completely valueless to you.”
He showed the color of irritation. “What do you think this has possibly gained you?”
“The opportunity to go to the safe and put your glass inside it.”
His eyes flicked to the glass in front of him. “That was yours. Not mine.”
I smiled. “It was your glass, Mr. Smith. And I imagine that the police will wonder what an empty glass is doing in my safe. I rather think, especially since this will be a case of murder, that they will have the intelligence to take fingerprints.”
His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t taken my eyes off you for a moment. You couldn’t have switched our glasses.”
“No? I seem to recall that at least twice you looked at the painting.”
Automatically he looked in that direction again. “Only for a second or two.”
“It was enough.”
He was perspiring faintly. “I say it was impossible.”
“Then I’m afraid you will be greatly surprised when the police come for you. And after a little time you will have the delightful opportunity of facing death in the electric chair. You will share your victims’ anticipation of death with the addition of a great deal more time in which to let your imagination play with the topic. I’m sure you’ve read accounts of executions in the electric chair?”
&n
bsp; His finger seemed to tighten on the trigger.
“I wonder how you’ll go,” I said. “You’ve probably pictured yourself meeting death with calmness and fortitude. But that is a common comforting delusion, Mr. Smith. You will more likely have to be dragged...”
His voice was level. “Open that safe or I’ll kill you.”
I laughed. “Really now, Mr. Smith, we both know that obviously you will kill me if I do open the safe.”
A half a minute went by before he spoke. “What do you intend to do with the glass?”
“If you don’t murder me — and I rather think you won’t now — I will take it to a private detective agency and have your fingerprints reproduced. I will put them, along with a note containing pertinent information, inside a sealed envelope. And I will leave instructions that in the event I die violently, even if the occurrence appears accidental, the envelope be forwarded to the police.”
Smith stared at me and then he took a breath. “All that won’t be necessary. I will leave now and you will never see me again.”
I shook my head. “I prefer my plan. It provides protection for my future.”
He was thoughtful. “Why don’t you go direct to the police?”
“I have my reasons.”
His eyes went down to his gun and then slowly he put it in his pocket. An idea came to him. “Your wife could very easily hire someone else to kill you.”
“Yes. She could do that.”
“I would be accused of your death. I could go to the electric chair.”
“I imagine so. Unless...”
Smith waited.
“Unless, of course, she were unable to hire anyone.”
“But there are probably a half a dozen other...” He stopped.
I smiled. “Did my wife tell you where she is now?”
“Just that she’d be at a place called the Petersons. She will leave at eleven.”
“Eleven? A good time. It will be very dark tonight. Do you know the Petersons’ address?”
He stared at me. “No.”
“In Bridgehampton,” I said, and I gave him the house number.
Our eyes held for half a minute.
“It’s something you must do,” I said softly. “For your own protection.”