Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J. Francis McComas

  “All right, Frank,” she sighed.

  They walked silently along. Marcia stared straight ahead, her silence creating a distance between them. But Montrose didn’t mind. He had arrived at a decision. He would tell her everything, making no attempt to explain it, just give her the whole story. Then, it would be up to Marcia. At least, she would give him no balderdash, like Halsey’s pat theories. Yes, or no—and he would stand or fall at her word.

  At the next corner, just a few short steps from the restaurant, it happened. A commonplace sort of accident. An old lady, walking blindly against a traffic light, blundered in the path of an oncoming truck.

  “Frank!” Marcia screamed.

  Montrose tried to move. He could have reached the old woman in time, jerked her back to safety. A policeman blew his whistle, lumbered toward them.

  But Montrose could not move. Paralysis flowed over him. He panted with the struggle to move.

  The expression on Marcia’s face changed. Suddenly and terribly and completely. Then she started for the street. And now, there wasn’t enough time. The truck would have smashed them both, Marcia and the old woman.

  The lumbering policeman threw himself forward, caught Marcia’s arm. At the last, incredible moment, the little old lady saw her danger. She dodged back to safety.

  The paralysis left Montrose.

  “Marcia! Marcia!” he screamed. He ran to her. “Darling, are you all right?”

  “Of course she’s all right,” boomed the cop. “I may have bruised her arm a bit. But she’s okay, aren’t you, Miss?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcia and the policeman stared at Montrose.

  “Thank you, officer,” she said at last. “You saved my life, you know.”

  “Now, now.” The big face reddened. He scowled at Montrose. “You’d better take a little more care of your girl, I’m thinking.” He turned away. “Now, where did the old lady go? That one needs a lecture!”

  “Marcia,” stammered Montrose. “I—I—”

  He reached for her hand. Marcia drew back.

  “You just stood there,” she breathed. “Too frightened to move.”

  Her lip quivered. Then her head went high.

  “You’re a coward, Frank. I know it. I’d never forget it.”

  Her hands clasped together, came apart. Marcia held something out toward him. It was the ring he’d given her.

  Someone laughed. Montrose was suddenly conscious that others were watching him. He stared wildly around, caught sight of the cop. There was a look of approval on the officer’s face.

  “But . . .”

  Montrose lifted his hands. There was a clink as the ring fell at his feet. Montrose let his hands drop to his sides.

  As Marcia walked away, her shoulders slumped a little, then began to tremble. But there was nothing, now, that Montrose could do.

  “Move on,” growled the policeman. “Pick up your ring and beat it!”

  DR. FESLER, if he can still be called that, smirked at Dr. Aloysio.

  “Well, what’s so funny?” snapped the latter.

  “You look so ridiculous in that get-up,” wheezed Fester. “As an old lady, brother, you are definitely comic!”

  Dr. Aloysio waved a hand and was himself again.

  “Damn it!” he growled. “It was such a neat plan. To have him look on, helpless, while his beloved was smashed to bits by a truck!”

  “Ah, well,” grinned Fester. “Destiny fights on my side. There are limitations—”

  Aloysio laughed suddenly.

  “The plan unfolds, now, dear brother! Get ready to pay me!”

  SWAYING with the motion of the train, Montrose lurched up to the lounge car’s bar.

  “A bottle of rye!” he ordered.

  The attendant handed over a bottle.

  “You gonna drink all that befo’ we get to Los Angeles, sah?”

  “I’m going to damn well try to,” growled Montrose. “Keep the soda and ice coming!”

  He sat alone in the far corner of the car. As the hours passed, the car gradually emptied itself of passengers. Montrose drank steadily, oblivious of his surroundings. He stared down at the jolting floor, drinking, smoking and staring.

  “Beg pahdon, sah, but even this train has to close up at two o’clock!”

  Montrose looked up at the white-jacketed attendant.

  “Is it that late!” he exclaimed.

  “Suah is. Don’t you think, sah, you ought to go to bed?”

  Montrose scowled.

  “Think I’m drunk?”

  The porter glanced at the nearly empty bottle, then looked long and hard at Montrose. His eyes rolled a little.

  “Why—I guess you ain’t, sah. Though you suah oughta be!”

  “Then get the hell out of here and let me alone.”

  Montrose’s mouth twisted in a sneer. No control, he muttered wearily. His body wouldn’t even respond to alcohol any more. His memory checked back over the past week. That terrible week of trying to see Marcia; of finally giving her up and then, after the Athletic Club had kicked him out and he had lost two cinch contracts, selling his business at a loss and leaving town.

  During that time he had tried to get tight. But he never had. He couldn’t do it now.

  Montrose leaned back in his chair. In careful order, he marshaled the main events of his life. An ordinary wastrel, at first, until that night at the hospital. Then, he’d found some very fine things—only to lose them. Events—events he could not control—events had ordered him about!

  He sat upright. Dazedly, he contemplated that fact. He held out his hands and blinked at them. They weren’t really his, for he couldn’t always control them. Montrose looked down at his feet—the feet that had refused to enter the church.

  Then it was true—he had sold his body! But to whom? How could he he ever redeem it? Montrose picked up his glass and emptied it. Well, he thought, the old hands will still bring liquor to the old mouth and the old mouth will still swallow. He drank again. Perhaps he did get a little drunk, for he began to think of Marcia—even saw her face, shadowy and vague, float before his own.

  And then Montrose became angry. He had been cheated. The sale had been made for delivery after death! And they, whoever they were, had taken possession before—before the lease expired. Montrose laughed at his own thoughts, then grew serious! It was no joke—he had been cheated.

  A crafty gleam grew in his eyes. He looked down the car’s length to the vestibule door. That would do very nicely. He, Frank Montrose, would do a little cheating on his own account. He got to his feet, picked up the rye and drank from the bottle. Setting the bottle down, he started slowly down the car.

  He opened the door of the vestibule and stood on the steps. The wind whipped his face. Montrose stood there for a moment, balanced precariously. His glance dropped to the ground, a grey blur under the train’s speed. It seemed to draw him.

  Yes, that was it. Nothing mattered now, since he had lost Marcia . . . and himself. Clinging to the handrail with one hand, he swung himself around between the two cars. This would be ideal. His body would be mangled beyond all recognition—there would be absolutely nothing left to collect.

  Laughing aloud, Montrose let go the rail.

  A hand caught his. For a moment, Montrose dangled, then the hand that gripped his pulled him back. Montrose banged against the car, his feet scraped over the steps. One more pull and he was crouched on his knees in the vestibule. He heard the outside door close, then a laugh grated against his consciousness.

  “Mr. Montrose! That was cheating, sir!”

  Montrose looked up. Dr. Aloysio stood before him. Eyes sparkling behind the black-rimmed glasses, high forehead gleaming palely in the darkness.

  “You!” Montrose screamed.

  He staggered to his feet.

  “Of course. I must protect my interests. If you had—ah, succeeded, how could I have obtained my property?”

  Montrose staggered forward. The doctor’s figure waver
ed, blurred, then disappeared.

  Montrose fainted.

  THE PORTER and the conductor accepted his explanation that he had fainted, although it was obvious both thought him lying. As Montrose lay sleepless in his berth, he heard the porter come and listen several times outside the curtains.

  But he did not care. He left the train at Los Angeles, smiling slightly at the porter’s sigh of relief at his going. But it was surface amusement only. Frank Montrose considered himself no longer of this world. His mind was fixed on death. For death, the proper kind of death, would break the bargain, make him a winner at last.

  He checked his bags at the station and set out on an aimless walk. He was not surprised to discover he had no hangover. As he walked, Montrose passed a small church. His footsteps walked on. Religion had always meant little to him and, since he didn’t quite believe in God, he couldn’t accept the Devil, either.

  Had he been more imaginative, he might have gone insane.

  All he did was to stop at an occasional bar and drink a little. Not that he wanted to get drunk . . . even if he could have gotten drunk. Drinking was just something to do.

  It was at the third bar that the idea hit him. He grinned slowly as the idea unfolded in his mind. When the plan had perfected itself, he chuckled aloud. He lifted his glass in a silent toast to his success and drank deeply. For the first time in days, the rye tasted good to him.

  “Fill her up,” he said.

  The bartender did so.

  “Say,” Montrose said genially, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

  The bartender rubbed the bar with a dirty towel.

  “Shoot,” his voice was bored.

  Montrose leaned over the bar.

  “Well, he said, “I was just thinking. Suppose a guy is executed in this state. What happens to his body?”

  The bartender stared.

  “Jeez!” he exclaimed. “You’re morbid, pal!”

  Montrose shook his head.

  “Not at all,” he grinned. “I’m a crime writer. Just blew in here. I’m going to do some free-lance stuff.”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Guess the nearest of kin gets it. If they want it. Otherwise—yeah, I’m sure of it!”

  “What’s that?” Montrose found the barkeep’s mind a little hard to follow.

  “There’s a cemetery at the prison. I know that, ’cause I was up there once. As a visitor, of course.”

  “Sure,” nodded Montrose.

  “Fella I was visitin’ pointed it out to me. If you get executed and they ain’t no relatives, why they bury you right there in the prison grounds.”

  “Fine. Thanks a lot.” Montrose beamed. “Have one on me!”

  “Later, maybe.” The bartender moved off. “Gotta take care of those loudmouths at the other end, first.”

  EVEN the clamor of the omnipresent juke-box sounded pleasant to Montrose’s ears. He was at peace with the world. Carefully, he went over the plan in his mind. It was foolproof. There would be unpleasant aspects, of course. He could not help shuddering at the final scene. But it was all compensated for. Yes, it made everything even.

  “Hi, pal,” said a voice at his shoulder.

  Montrose turned his head. A thin nondescript sat down beside him. “What’ll yuh have, pal?”

  The newcomer was at that stage of drunkenness when all the world was his friend. Montrose started to turn away, then looked back at the lush. It might as well be now, he thought.

  “Why,” Montrose said, “I’d like another rye.”

  “Fine. George, two more ryes.” He leaned toward Montrose. “Tha’s not his real name. But I always call ’im that.”

  “Why not? It saves time.”

  “Zactly wha’ I say.” He nodded at Montrose. “Mighty happy to have drink with me. Been drinkin’ with some of the fines’ people’n Lossanglus. M’name’s Hayes. Jus’ call me Perry. Tha’s firs’ name.”

  “Glad to know you. I’m Frank Montrose.”

  They drank.

  “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.”

&
nbsp; 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!”