Henry Ford played a major role in developing … Molasses is made from … A sensible man does what he is paid to do. Of course he does. Yes.
I sleep well and wake up fresh and rested. Sure. Yes. A stranger will risk his life to help you. What a laugh. A guy'd have to be crazy! No!
There are lots worse crimes than murder. Probably … Sure. Lots worse. The average person will do anything for money. Absolutely right they would. Why not, if you can get away with it? Sure. And the same way, that's why you got to watch out for yourself.
There are worse things than losing your home. What? Catching leprosy?
And then the way to answer the question changed. Now you had to pick out an answer. Like, Most people who hit someone with their car at night would (a) report to the police first (b) give first aid (c) make a getaway if possible. Well, any damn fool would know it was the last. In fact, anyone but a damn fool would do just that. That's what he did that time. (c)
Now, a dope like Aberdeen: he'd probably stop his car. Stick his nose in someone else's tough luck. Anybody stupid enough to lend his rent money—
If you saw a man about to jump in the river, would you (a) move his clothes so he wouldn't trip on them (b) call your friends to watch (c) get something to eat afterwards (d) none of these things.
The important thing with women is (a) have a knife in your pocket (b) make sure your hair is combed (c) drive a red car (d) something else.
Bright lights are a sign of (a) rain (b) foreign domination (c) poisoned drinking water (d) none of these things.
National security means (a) warmer weather than we used to have (b) television programs (c) political influence (d) something else.
The main point in criminal activity is (a) dressing real warm if it's cold (b) not to get caught (c) keep in your own lane on the highway (d) avoid such activity.
Test was kind of interesting, Joe thought, as he handed in the papers. And now—back to the lathe. Go around the long way, avoid Aberdeen's machine. Gahdamn pest.
Dr. Colles took a good look around his office. It had never seemed so cramped and grubby before. Once again he found himself wondering if he ought not to get out of test construction and evaluation—way out—into some more lucrative field of psychology. Not many clients paid so well as Melchior Enterprises; in plain fact, none of them had. Not by a long shot. And his work for them was about over now, anyway. A competent personnel man like Taylor could carry on the tests without the constructionist. There was something about Taylor … smooth, knowing … without too much eagerness, he considered asking the young man to send him follow-up reports on how the psychopaths turned up by the special test were responding to treatment. Of course, some of them were bound to reject treatment. And they couldn't be obliged to accept, either, worse luck. Well, that wasn't his responsibility. He didn't even know who was doing the therapy.
Except that they would get the credit. But that was how it went. Therapy, therapy, that was all the public thought about. How many articles in general publications did you ever see about test consctructionists? Let alone movies or TV. "I do the work, others get the credit," Dr. Colles thought with some bitterness.
Feeling the inevitable postproject let-down, Colles' eyes wandered over the top of his desk. Mail … He'd checked through the mail: nothing of interest. Idly, he picked up a brochure-like thing on glossy paper. It had failed to attract his preoccupied attention earlier.
Ease-A-Just News Jottings. Published by and for the employees of Ease-A-Just Gear and Tool (a Melchior Enterprise). Oh, yes, he recalled talking to Taylor's assistant concerning a short piece about the test, for the house organs. He started to lay it aside, then opened it. Might be something about the test in there. Of course, the real reason hadn't been explained to the employees.
"Old friends of Mabel Quinn (formerly Stoltzfus), of the cafeteria staff, will be glad to learn that she and Patrolman Quinn are now the proud parents of twin boys. Congratulations, Mabel, we knew you had it in you!" Dr. Colles winced, turned a page. "Maintenance Wins Softball Tiff"—well, good for Maintenance … No, nothing here. He started to toss it away once more, but something caught his eye and was gone before he could fix what it had been. This is annoying. With a sigh, he opened the paper again, began a systematic search. He had to find it, or it would haunt him. There: a name.
The box score:
Maintenance Machine Shop
AB R H AB R H
Smead cf 1 0 0 Guthrie 2b 2 0 1
Clock rf 2 0 0 Brandt ss 3 0 0
Dupont 1b 2 0 0 Rayan 1b 3 1 2
And the name was Clock. Frowning slightly, Dr. Colles repeated it. He muttered it again, as he took several files from the cabinet and leafed through the contents. Clock! Dr. Colles whistled. Then, being a systematic man, he wrote down all the names in the Ease-A-Just News Jottings, rewrote them in alphabetical order; then began to compare them with the names in his files. He whistled again.
The door opened. His assistant said, "If you want me, Doctor, please call me by name. I'm not your dog; don't whistle."
For several seconds he stared at her, expressionless. Then he said, "My apologies, Miss Blick. It won't happen again. But, since you are here—Don't we subscribe to a clipping service on the various corporations which—We do. Thank you. Then, if you will be kind enough to bring me the clippings relating to Melchior Enterprise …Thank you, Miss Blick."
Most of the clippings were from the financial and industrial pages of the papers and did not long engage Dr. Colles' attention. Several, however, were from the news sections, and these he proceeded to read. Once or twice he pursed his lips as if to whistle, but each time he glanced at the door and restrained himself. Instead, he said, "Well, well …"
Industrialist Linked to Forced Sales of Beer. "Well!" Murdered Man Revealed As Former Melchior Employee. "Well, well!" Grand Jury Probes Alleged Tie-in of Melchior with Local … "Well, well, well!"
Dr. Colles was coming out of the Personnel Office when he met Edward Taylor coming in. "Your assistant told me you wouldn't be in today," Colles said.
"I didn't expect to be in … This is a rather large outfit, you know—not that it couldn't be larger if—yes, I've been occupied at another office. Can I help you?" He looked at Colles with cool gray eyes.
"No, I don't think so, but thank you. Your assistant was very helpful."
With smile swift as always, though perhaps a trifle less charming, Edward Taylor said he was glad of it. "Where are you heading for now? To see Mr. Melchior? Ah, yes. A. M. thinks a lot of you. As do I." His manner, as they parted, seemed rather thoughtful.
Doctor Colles, crossing the large expanse of floor between the door and Mr. Melchior's desk, had ample time to note and admire the quality of the thick rug and massive furniture. "You do me an honor," said the businessman, shaking hands. "If you'd told me you were coming, I'd've sent my car."
The psychiatrist waved his hand. "I found myself with no appointments today," he said. "So I decided to catch up on things I'd been putting off. I discharged my assistant. And I came out here." Melchior said, Oh? He inquired if the assistant hadn't given satisfaction. "Not for a long time," said Dr. Colles. "Anyway. Yes, I wanted to ask you—how are those tests working, which I devised for you? Are they giving satisfaction?"
"Perfectly, Doctor."
"I'm naturally gratified to hear that. I was wondering how the idea was working out. I was wondering, too, if you'd tell me the names of the gentlemen who are working on the rehabilitation end of the scheme. The ones who are treating the people whom my special test has turned up."
He looked expectantly at Mr. Melchior. The latter said, after a moment, "Well, I wouldn't know about those details, Doctor. Edward Taylor, being in charge of personnel, would be in a better position to know. He knows the men, and they know him. But I kind of have an idea that the other part of the plan is still in its planning stage. But you could write to Edward and I'm sure he'll be happy to give you the details."
Dr. Colles nodded. "Odd sort
of notion came to me this morning," he said. "Shall I tell you about it?"
Mr. Melchior, no longer quite so cordial, looked at his watch. "All right, if you want to," he said.
"You know, I was wondering how the whole idea was working out. So I called up your assistant personnel manager and asked to see the records. He told me to come over and help myself."
There was a pause. "He shouldn't have done that, Doctor," Mr. Melchior said. "Not without consulting me first. Those records are confidential."
Colles said he could understand that. He apologized, hoped it would not make any trouble for the assistant personnel manager. "I have a feeling, Mr. M.," he said, "that he was not fully aware of the implications of the testing scheme, anyway. May I elaborate? Thank you … I do appreciate your not reminding me that you are a very busy man. Well." He cleared his throat. He waited, but as nothing else was offered, he continued, "Now, in regard to my own especially constructed test: only certain particular questions were used in the marking, as you know, the others being either window-dressing, or designed to lull the testee into a state of unawareness, so that the chances of getting true answers to the others were increased. What were the results? Thirty-three individuals scored above the ninetieth percentile, showing marked psychopathic tendencies. Of these, eleven were women, and I rather imagine that they were sent packing pretty damned quick—though I hope in such a manner as not to hurt their feelings. The Mad Bomber and all that, eh, Mr. Melchior? Now, of the remaining twenty-two—a check of the records is in your personnel office, Mr. Taylor being fortuitously absent—twenty are still employed. What happened to the other two?" he shot the question.
"Quit," said Mr. Melchior. "We're planning to get rid of the others as soon as we can manage for them to get the treatment."
"Oh, I don't think you are," Colles said. There was a pause.
"No? Well … what do you think, Doc?"
"What do I think?" Dr. Colles asked. "I combined the information I've just mentioned with certain intelligence gleaned from the newspapers, and I think that you, Mr. Melchior, are an Emperor of Crime—if I may wax a trifle purple in my prose—and that your purpose is not to weed the psychopaths out, but to weed them in."
The tycoon smiled a thin, cold smile. "Doc, you speak the most beautiful English I ever heard. But you flatter me. I'll level with you. An emperor? Not even a king. Maybe," he shrugged modestly, "a grand duke, let's say."
The doctor slowly let out his breath with a sound like that which Yoga calls Sitali, or serpent-hiss. He looked the other in the eyes. "But you will rise," he said. "You are bound to."
The grand duke said, calmly, that he hoped so. "Believe me, Doc, it isn't easy though. I got rivals. People with other territories would like to have mine. People who work for me would also like to have mine. But I figure I'll be OK. I move with the times. My father rode a mule. I ride a Cadillac." And he proceeded to explain.
Melchior Enterprises (he said) might be compared to an iceberg of which the greater mass is submerged. There were many similar icebergs in the country, some smaller, some bigger. They generally avoided coming in collision with others, but ships were not always so fortunate. In the crime business, of course, disputes could not be settled by an industry-wide arbitrator. In which case …
"I'm not the only one who has personnel trouble, Doc," Melchior explained. "Lots of times the others get in touch with me: 'Anthony, I need somebody. Send somebody good.' Well, one hand washes the other, I like to help out. But it's hard, you know, Doc, to get somebody really good."
Dr. Colles said he could appreciate that.
It used to be, Melchior went on, that the syndicates got the tough boys from the slums. But they did not really suit the tempo of the times. They were not so dependable. They were conspicuous. They got into fights over matters which had nothing to do with business. Right after the war there had been a supply of combat veterans available, they had been generally satisfactory, but there weren't many around anymore. The turnover was rather high.
"You know what I want, Doc?" he said. "Or, better, what I don't want? I don't want guys who're outstanding. Guys with criminal records. Guys who kill for the fun of it, or to pay off grudges or they have no control of their tempers, and another acrobat grabs their girl in the wrong place. Not them.
"What I want are steady fellows. Dull types who live in tract houses and have small families. I don't care what their religion is, but only small families. Shows what I call prudence. Or maybe they live with a mother, or with a brother or sister who has the family. Now, people like this are working for me right along, on the legitimate. Or applying for jobs with me. But how do you know who's suitable? How? You can't just ask a guy right out."
Colles said, "And so you came to me to help you find them. Exactly as you go to business school to find accountants. And I know just the type you mean." He nodded, smiled faintly.
"I pay a flat salary," Melchior said. "Plus a bonus in negotiable bonds. That's good for everybody, nothing shows on the books for taxes. But nothing spectacular. These men I want, they're not for the spectacular and it isn't for them."
"How right you are," Doctor Colles said.
The type Melchior wanted (Colles went on) was the distillation of the average man, except, of course, that he was killer-prone. Why will he kill? Why will he kill perfect strangers? "We were speaking, at our first meeting," he said, "of 'lack of communication.' We might add, 'lack of religion'—'lack of love'—of the capacity to really love. These men are the men who lack. There is something dead in them. They don't kill because a fire burns in them, but because no fire burns in them. The potential was always there—men like your Grubacher, who shot his rival for the foreman's place—but it took my test to discover it, to channel it." He paused. "My test," he said.
"Oh, yes, I know the type. Men who will calmly and coolly kill to get another twenty dollars a week. Who'll kill rather than cut down on their American Standard of Living, rather than change their way of life. Why, yes—I imagine that my twenty little discoveries were quite willing once it was shown how safe and profitable it was … Yes, I imagine they perform their missions with dispatch, with no more excitement and as much efficiency as they would in repossessing a car, reading a gas meter, or serving a summons—and then try to cheat a little on their expense account—but just a little."
"So what now, Doc?"
"So what now? Melchior, when I'd calculated all this, and your role in it, I decided that you were by way of being one of those men-who-lack, yourself."
"Yeah?"
"And then, do you know what?"
"What?"
"Then I came to the conclusion that I was by way of being one of them, too."
The grand duke raised not only his eyebrows, but his eyelids. He made a little noise resembling a giggle. And again he asked, "So now what, Doc?"
"Why—" The psychologist considered. "Now I suggest that we discuss how I may be of further use to you. I rather think I will enjoy the Professor Moriarty bit. Is Taylor privy to—He is? Yes I see it now, never mind, he's young, and lacks what I—But before that, my dear Anthony: shall we discuss that bonus, payable in negotiable bonds? In advance, of course: you are certain to attain kingly rank, perhaps even imperial, but—the hazards of the chase, you know—so: in advance."
Toward the close of that year, at late of night, two men came down the steps of Mr. Melchior's club. It was cold, and there was a noisy wind.
"Where is your car?" Dr. Colles asked, gazing up and down the empty street.
"I told him to be here at eleven-thirty," said Mr. Melchior. "He ought to be here any minute now. You want to go back in—?" But Colles suggested a walk around the block.
As they rounded the corner and turned up their coat collars, two men turned to them, one of whom said, "Excuse me, Mac: This the way to the Terminal?"
"Oh, no," said Dr. Colles, gesturing. "You go—" One of the men took a revolver from inside his brown suit and shot Dr. Colles in the head. He fell with
out further words.
"Has Taylor gone crazy?" hissed Melchior, aghast. "Not here, you fool! Not now!"
"Here and now," the man said, stepping to one side as his companion moved forward.
"Do you know who I am?" Melchior cried.
"It don't matter," said the second man. The wind tore away the sound of the second shot and the noise Melchior made when he went down. The two walked a block and hailed a cab.
"What is this, about an eighty-cent fare?" the man in the brown suit asked his companion, who had a wart between his eyes, as he peered at the passing street signs.
"About eighty, yeah. What do you think, Joe? Taylor won't check—we could make it, say, three dollars on the swindle sheet?" Joe said he thought they could get away with three.
"You going fishing Sundy?" his companion asked.
But Joe Clock shook his head. "Sattady might is the bowling turnamint," he pointed out. "So that means I be out too late to get up early enough for fishing. You know what a late night can do if you don't get your sleep: it takes all the strenth out of you."
The other man nodded his agreement. "Well, so Sundy you can do some work on them power-tools you got in your cellar. A quiet weekend at home is a good thing in lotsa ways."
And they gazed out of the windows of the cab with no great interest and they chewed their gum as if they tasted in it the mild, approaching flavor of the quiet weekend at home.
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 1 Page 49