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 eyes,” 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.
“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 question?”
“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.
DR. ALOYSIO and Dr. Fesler were not sitting in the office this time. In fact, they were not sitting at all. And Dr. Fesler had a smirk on his round face.
“If we had done it my way,” he chuckled, “he would never have met the girl. It’s not working out according to plan, is it?”
Dr. Aloysio laughed aloud.
“My pretty brother,” he sneered. “My pretty, foolish brother! I told you that you were no artist—that you lacked imagination!” He rubbed his hands together. “Can’t you see it will be better this way? Can’t you imagine that we will have more sport this way?” Dr. Fesler scowled.
“All right, all right. But I still think the old ways are best.”
Dr. Aloysio shook his head pityingly.
“No imagination. No imagination.”
MONTROSE parked his coupe at the curb in front of the church. The car was like Montrose himself, neat, trim, conservative. He switched off the motor and looked at Marcia, sitting beside him.
Montrose laughed softly.
“You don’t seem nervous,” Marcia smiled.
“Too much has happened,” he replied. “The year has gone by too darned fast.”
“It has been a good year, hasn’t it, darling!”
“A good year? Hmmn. Sole owner of a nice little construction outfit. Frank Montrose, Builder! Twenty thousand in the bank! And . . .”
“And?”
“It looks very much as though I’m being dragged to the preacher to see about getting married!”
“Do you like the idea very much?”
“When it’s the loveliest girl this side of Paradise! This side? Say, I’ll include Paradise!”
“Frank! That’s sacrilege. And in front of a church too!”
“In three weeks I’ll say it inside of a church!”
He lifted her chin and looked at her. God, Montrose thought, I’m lucky! This girl—this wonderful girl—what hasn’t she done for me!
“I think we’d better go in,” Marcia said at last. “Our appointment’s for ten.”
He nodded and let go her chin. Montrose reached for the door handle, “Frank!” then—his hand dropped back.
He turned toward Marcia.
“What—what is it?” he stammered.
“You had the queerest look . . . of strain . . . as though you were lifting something!”
Montrose forced a grin.
“I suppose I’m a little embarrassed, darling. I haven’t been inside a church for years.”
“Is that it! Why, you’ll love Dr. Eddison. He’s a real person—there’s nothing stuffy about him at all!”
Marcia opened her door. This time, Montrose forced himself to get out and started around to her side of the car. What the devil was wrong with him? His feet dragged, his whole body seemed not to co-ordinate.
Montrose lifted a hand to help Marcia from the car, missed her elbow and almost fell.
“Frank!”
He frowned.
Marcia made a joke of it.
“You’re not supposed to lose your gallantry until after we’re married,” she chided.
Montrose tried to grin.
“I—I tried to help you,” he defended himself. “I think I slipped. Or you were too fast for me.”
Marcia was too fast for him going across the sidewalk. He could barely force one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, Frank Montrose was scared. At the edge of the church’s lawn he could move no further.
He was paralyzed!
MARCIA looked back over her shoulder. At sight of his straining, sweating face, she rushed back to him.
“Darling! Are you ill?”
What could he say to her? He tried to turn away from her, back out of her reach.
He could turn!
As soon as Montrose tried to move away from the church his feet moved. He took another step. Toward the car. The paralysis left him.
Marcia hurried after him, grabbed his arm.
“Frank, darling! Say something!”
What could he say? What kind of paralysis was this? Why could he move in one direction only? Montrose tried to think very fast.
“You do look ill, Frank. I’m frightened! I’m taking you to a doctor, right now!”
Oh, no! No doctors! Something was stirring, far back of Montrose’s consciousness. He could not define it—he didn’t full realize it—but it made him feel strangely . . . unclean. He had to be alone. Alone.
“Look,” he croaked. “Just take me home. A couple of hours rest and I’ll be okay. I’ve had this before and I know just what to do.”
“Well, all right.” But Marcia still looked uncertain. “You are looking a little better, thank goodness. I never saw anyone look lie—”
“Never mind,” Montrose said hastily. “Just take me home and let me sleep. We can visit Dr. Eddison tomorrow.”
As they drove away, Montrose lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. His body felt completely relaxed. He wriggled his toes, surreptitiously flexed his arms. Movement was free and unrestrained!
But crawling along the back of his mind, there was something . . . Some thought that would explain all this. And the explanation would not be pleasant.
Marcia took him to his apartment, made him lie down on the couch and covered him with a blanket.
“When you wake up, call me,” she ordered, “I’ll fix your lunch. And your dinner, too.”
She smoothed back his hair and smiled down at him.
“You’ll make a wonderful wife,” he grinned.
“You go to sleep—or you won’t make such a much of a husband! Fainting on the public streets!”
“Did not faint!”
He grinned and closed his eyes. Her lips brushed his and she was gone. Montrose did not see the worried look she gave him just before closing the door.
Montrose waited for a while. Then he arose, went to the kitchen for a bottle and glass and came back to the couch. Carefully, methodically, he poured and drank three drinks.
The rye failed to warm him. It did not relax his mind, allowing all his thoughts to form. Montrose poured a fifth drink. He raised it to his lips, then stopped. It came to him, then, that this was the way he used to meet problems. Drink them out of existence. That had stopped with the coming of Marcia.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 4