The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  Taggert wet his lips. He didn't wear his voice quite straight when he asked, "What makes you think I was the man in the car or that he was an . . . accomplice of Lola's, if she really tried to kill you?"

  "It makes sense that way," I told him. "She was in love with you. She couldn't divorce me because she had no grounds--in New York State--and anyway I still have some insurance I took out a few years ago during a prosperous period. A big chunk of insurance, Taggert, enough for you and Lola to take a chance to get."

  I said, "And the plan was worthy of a detective story writer, Taggert, because it was so simple. You'd know how easily complicated plots and plans go astray. This one was so simple as to be foolproof once Lola had pulled the trigger. But even this went haywire--because she didn't pull the trigger soon enough. Am I right?"

  Taggert said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Adrian said, "Maybe I'm being stupid, but--I'm not sure I do, either. How was Lola to get away with shooting you?"

  I said, "The story was so simple that even the cops would believe it: We were held up in the park. I tried to jump the holdup man and was shot. And Lola had fainted. If no one had found her in half an hour or so, she'd have come to and screamed.

  "They couldn't have disproved that story with a sledgehammer; it was so simple. There'd be no gun anywhere around that Lola could have used; there'd be no nitrate marks on her hand; my wallet and probably her purse would be gone. Taggert's backfires would have covered the sound of the shot; nobody would have thought anything of it. If there'd been people around, in the park, Lola wouldn't have done it tonight; there would have been other nights. The sound of the car backfiring had another purpose too, probably; it could have let Lola know that there was no one going by on the sidewalk immediately outside the park at that point.

  "When he heard the shot in the park, Taggert would have come in--as he started to do, until he heard my voice--got the gun and the glove and my wallet and Lola's purse, and ditched all of them on the way home. Maybe he even had an alibi rigged, just in the remote chance that the cops would doubt Lola's straightforward story and go nosing around."

  I shrugged my shoulders. "As simple as that, except that Lola didn't pull the trigger quickly enough."

  Adrian said, "I'll be damned. When I told you Lola was vicious, I didn't guess she'd--"

  "I told you you didn't know the half of it, Adrian."

  "But, Wayne," he asked, "how can you prove it?"

  I stood up and backed around the chair I'd been sitting on until I was behind it, with a little more distance between me and them. I rested the gun on the back of the chair, still pointing between them.

  I said, "I can't, Adrian. I can't prove it in a thousand years, so I told you what the third-act curtain was going to be. I shoot both of you. And myself."

  Adrian's face started to turn the color of the white window curtain just behind him. He said, "Me? But why? Surely, on account of ten years ago--"

  "It's been more recent than that, Adrian. Taggert is the most recent, but you weren't ancient history. Maybe she even tried to blackmail you a bit, Adrian, and that's why you were so glad to learn I'd killed her that you were willing to help me beat the rap or make a getaway. Anyway--"

  I turned my eyes back to Taggert. His face didn't look much better than Adrian's.

  I said, "Adrian's right, Taggert. I can't prove a thing. I'm not too sure I want to bother. But you might talk me out of this, with a pen and a paper and full details-- including things like where you and Lola bought the gun, and little details you'd have a lot of trouble changing your mind about if you decided to claim the confession was under duress."

  Taggert said, "You're crazy, Wayne. I didn't have anything to do with whatever Lola did or tried to do tonight. Even if you're telling the truth about that."

  "Okay," I told him, "that's fine with me. I didn't think you would, so--"

  "Taggert!" Adrian Carr was leaning forward in his chair. "Taggert, you fool! He means this. And what are you confessing to if you write it? Accessory before the fact to a murder that never came off! With a good lawyer--"

  I said, "Don't argue with him, Adrian. I'd just as soon he didn't. Taggert, get up and turn that radio on. Loud. A regular program, not the short-wave band."

  I had to swing the muzzle of the gun dead center on his chest and let him see my finger pretend to tighten slowly on the trigger, before he got shakily to his feet. He backed over to the radio and turned the switch; I thought he was going to try to do it without looking away from my face, but he didn't. He turned to face the console to push the button for a broadcast station, and I looked quickly at Adrian and winked.

  A little of the color came back into Adrian's face after that wink and I saw him let out his breath slowly. The radio started to blare as the tubes warmed. Taggert turned back and began to edge toward his chair, and Adrian started to look scared again, though not quite so convincingly this time. But he didn't really ham it up; there was enough of the real stuff left to carry over.

  I waited till Taggert was back standing in front of his chair, and I didn't bother telling him to sit down; that was up to him. I asked, "Any last words, either of you?"

  "You can't get away with this," Taggert said, but he didn't sound as though he was convincing even himself. His voice slid upward almost to a question mark.

  I said, "I'm not expecting to. All three of us are going out the same door, remember?"

  Adrian started to say something, but I was afraid he might say the wrong thing. I said, "You're first, Adrian, because you came first with Lola, and besides I want to save Taggert for the last. Are you ready?"

  I lifted the gun and sighted it. The radio came to the end of a number and the announcer's voice cut in with a commercial. I said, "As soon as the music starts again." I lowered the gun a few inches.

  The announcer's voice shouted on--it was a shout, with the radio that loud. The commercial went on almost interminably, but it finally ended.

  I lifted the gun again, but this time Taggert yelled, "Wait! Don't. I'll--I'll write it."

  I said, "Don't bother. To hell with you. I'd rather--" but Adrian came in, begging me to let Taggert write and sign. Weak and shaky inside, I let myself be talked into it. Taggert was sold by now; he was almost pathetically eager in wanting to get to the desk and write out that confession. I let him, finally.

  He signed it and I said, "Hand it to Adrian," and I kept the gun on him while Adrian read it rapidly. Adrian said, "It's fine, Wayne. It's all here. The only sad part is they can't send him up for long. A little while in jail--and if this play goes over he'll have money when he comes out. They can't do much to him."

  I said, "There's one thing I can do." I put the gun back in my pocket and took the four steps that took me to Taggert, who was still standing by the desk. He made only a half-hearted effort to get his hands up and went down and out cold with the first punch I threw. There wasn't much satisfaction in that, but there wasn't anything more I could do about it.

  I picked up his phone and called the police.

  While we waited, Adrian said, "Damn you, Wayne, did you have to scare me to death after we got here? Couldn't you have tipped me off in advance? How'd I know, for a while there, that you really weren't going to shoot both of us?"

  I said, "You might have hammed it up, Adrian. You can't act, you know."

  He grinned weakly. He said, "I guess you can. Well, with him in jail or out, Taggert's play goes on. Only I won't consult him about who gets the lead. You still--I mean, did and do you really want it?"

  I said, "I guess I do. I don't really know right now. I'll let you know after the police get through with me and I get over the hangover I'll have from what I'm going to do after that. I'll let you know. I feel like--"

  I remembered the radio was still blaring; we'd both forgotten it. I went over and shut it off and then turned to Adrian. I asked him, "What will the job pay?"

  He laughed out loud. He said, "You'll be all right, boy. You're
coming out of it already."

  THE SPHERICAL GHOUL

  I

  I had no premonition of horror to come. When I reported to work that evening I had not the faintest inkling that I faced anything more startling than another quiet night on a snap job.

  It was seven o'clock, just getting dark outside, when I went into the coroner's office. I stood looking out the window into the gray dusk for a few minutes.

  Out there, I could see all the tall buildings of the college, and right across the way was Kane Dormitory, where Jerry Grant was supposed to sleep. The same Grant being myself.

  Yes, "supposed to" is right. I was working my way through the last year of an ethnology course by holding down a night job for the city, and I hadn't slept more than a five-hour stretch for weeks.

  But that night shift in the coroner's department was a snap, all right. A few hours' easy work, and the rest of the time left over for study and work on my thesis. I owed my chance to finish out that final year and get my doctor's degree despite the fact that Dad had died, to the fact that I'd been able to get that job.

  Behind me, I could hear Dr. Dwight Skibbine, the coroner, opening and closing drawers of his desk, getting ready to leave. I heard his swivel chair squeak as he shoved it back to stand up.

  "Don't forget you're going to straighten out that card file tonight, Jerry," he said. "It's in a mess."

  I turned away from the window and nodded. "Any customers around tonight?" I asked.

  "Just one. In the display case, but I don't think you'll have anybody coming in to look at him. Keep an eye on that refrigeration unit, though. It's been acting up a bit."

  "Thirty-two?" I asked just to make conversation, I guess, because we always keep the case at thirty-two degrees.

  He nodded. "I'm going to be back later, for a little while. If Paton gets here before I get back tell him to wait."

  He went out, and I went over to the card file and started to straighten it out. It was a simple enough file--just a record of possessions found on bodies that were brought into the morgue, and their disposal after the body was either identified and claimed, or buried in potter's field--but the clerks on the day shift managed to get the file tangled up periodically.

  It took me a little while to dope out what had gummed it up this time. Before I finished it, I decided to go downstairs to the basement--the morgue proper--and be sure the refrigerating unit was still holding down Old Man Fahrenheit.

  It was. The thermometer in the showcase read thirty-two degrees on the head. The body in the case was that of a man of about forty, a heavy-set, ugly-looking customer. Even as dead as a doornail and under glass, he looked mean.

  Maybe you don't know exactly how morgues are run. It's simple, if they are all handled the way the Springdale one was. We had accommodations for seven customers, and six of them were compartments built back into the walls, for all the world like the sliding drawers of a file cabinet. Those compartments were arranged for refrigeration.

  But the showcase was where we put unidentified bodies, so they could be shown easily and quickly to anybody who came in to look at them for identification purposes. It was like a big coffin mounted on a bier, except that it was made of glass on all sides except the bottom.

  That made it easy to show the body to prospective identifiers, especially as we could click a switch that threw on lights right inside the display case itself, focused on the face of the corpse.

  Everything was okay, so I went back upstairs. I decided I would study a while before I resumed work on the file. The night went more quickly and I got more studying done if I alternated the two. I could have had all my routine work over with in three hours and had the rest of the night to study, but it had never worked as well that way.

  I used the coroner's secretary's desk for studying and had just got some books and papers spread out when Mr. Paton came in. Harold Paton is superintendent of the zoological gardens, although you would never guess it to look at him. He looked like a man who would be unemployed eleven months of the year because department store Santa Clauses were hired for only one month out of twelve. True, he would need a little padding and a beard, but not a spot of make-up otherwise.

  "Hello, Jerry," he said. "Dwight say when he was coming back?"

  "Not exactly, Mr. Paton. Just said for you to wait."

  The zoo director sighed and sat down.

  "We're playing off the tie tonight," he said, "and I'm going to take him."

  He was talking about chess, of course. Dr. Skibbine and Mr. Paton were both chess addicts of the first water, and about twice a week the coroner phoned his wife that he was going to be held up at the office and the two men would play a game that sometimes lasted until well after midnight.

  I picked up a volume of The Golden Bough and started to open it to my bookmark. I was interested in it, because The Golden Bough is the most complete account of the superstitions and early customs of mankind that has ever been compiled.

  Mr. Paton's eyes twinkled a little as they took in the title of the volume in my hand.

  "That part of the course you're taking?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "I'm picking up data for my thesis from it. But I do think it ought to be in a course on ethnology."

  "Jerry, Jerry," he said, "you take that thesis too seriously. Ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves. If you ever find any, bring them around, and I'll have special cages built for them at the zoo. Or could you keep a werewolf in a cage?"

  You couldn't get mad at Mr. Paton, no matter how he kidded you. That thesis was a bit of a sore point with me. I had taken considerable kidding because I had chosen as my subject, "The Origin and Partial Justification of Superstitions." When some people razzed me about it, I wanted to take a poke at them. But I grinned at Mr. Paton.

  "You shouldn't have mentioned vampires in that category," I told him. "You've got them already. I saw a cageful the last time I was there."

  "What? Oh, you mean the vampire bats."

  "Sure, and you've got a unicorn too, or didn't you know that a rhinoceros is really a unicorn? Except that the medieval artists who drew pictures of it had never seen one and were guessing what it looked like."

  "Of course, but --"

  There were footsteps in the hallway, and he stopped talking as Dr. Skibbine came in.

  "Hullo, Harold," he said to Mr. Paton, and to me: "Heard part of what you were saying, Jerry, and you're right. Don't let Paton kid you out of that thesis of yours."

  He went over to his desk and got the chessmen out of the bottom drawer.

  "I can't outtalk the two of you," Mr. Paton said. "But say, Jerry, how about ghouls? This ought to be a good place to catch them if there are any running loose around Springdale. Or is that one superstition you're not justifying?"

  "Superstition?" I said. "What makes you think that's--"

  Then the phone rang, and I went to answer it without finishing what I was going to say.

  When I came away from the phone, the two men had the chess pieces set up. Dr. Skibbine had the whites and moved the pawn to king's fourth opening.

  "Who was it, Jerry?" he asked.

  "Just a man who wanted to know if he could come in to look at the body that was brought in this afternoon. His brother's late getting home."

  Dr. Skibbine nodded and moved his king's knight in answer to Mr. Paton's opening move. Already both of them were completely lost in the game. Obviously, Mr. Paton had forgotten what he had asked me about ghouls, so I didn't butt in to finish what I had started to say.

  I let The Golden Bough go, too, and went to look up the file folder on the unidentified body downstairs. If somebody was coming in to look at it, I wanted to have all the facts about it in mind.

  There wasn't much in the folder. The man had been a tramp, judging from his clothes and the lack of money in his pockets and from the nature of the things he did have with him. There wasn't anything at all to indicate identification.

  He had been killed on the Mill Road, presumab
ly by a hit-run driver. A Mr. George Considine had found the body and he had also seen another car driving away. The other car had been too distant for him to get the license number or any description worth mentioning.

  Of course, I thought, that car might or might not have been the car that had hit the man. Possibly the driver had seen and deliberately passed up the body, thinking it was a drunk.

  But the former theory seemed more likely, because there was little traffic on the Mill Road. One end of it was blocked off for repairs, so the only people who used it were the few who lived along there, and there were not many of them. Probably only a few cars a day came along that particular stretch of the road.

  Mr. Considine had got out of his car and found that the man was dead. He had driven on to the next house, half a mile beyond, and phoned the police from there, at four o'clock.

  That's all there was in the files.

  I had just finished reading it when Bill Drager came in. Bill is a lieutenant on the police force, and he and I had become pretty friendly during the time I had worked for the coroner. He was a pretty good friend of Dr. Skibbine too.

  "Sorry to interrupt your game, Doc," he said, "but I just wanted to ask something."

  "What, Bill?"

  "Look--the stiff you got in today. You've examined it already?"

  "Of course, why?"

  "Just wondering. I don't know what makes me think so, but--well, I'm not satisfied all the way. Was it just an auto accident?"

  II

  Dr. Skibbine had a bishop in his hand, ready to move it, but he put it down on the side of the board instead.

  "Just a minute, Harold," he said to Mr. Paton, then turned his chair around to stare at Bill Drager. "Not an auto accident?" he inquired. "The car wheels ran across the man's neck, Bill. What more do you want?"

  "I don't know. Was that the sole cause of death, or were there some other marks?"