The Collection

by Fredric Brown

“Nope,” said Pop Williams. “Beckon I'm quitting, Mr. Tepperman. I'm strictly a bull man. I'm quitting.”

  “But you'll stay till tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” said Pop. “I'll stay till tomorrow.” He watched Tepperman walk away.

  Yeah, he'd stay till tomorrow all right. Just let anybody try to get him off the lot, while there was a chance to save the old gal. A Chinaman's chance.

  After that— Oh, hell, why worry about after that? The arcs on the midway were blurring a bit, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes. And then, because he knew Tepperman was right, and because he had to blame somebody he muttered, “That damn Shorty!” What business had Shorty to come monkeying around Lil when she was asleep for the night, and what had he done to her?

  He turned to look at her, and she was sleeping as peacefully as a baby. Old Lil a killer?

  Hey, wait! Maybe she wasn't! He'd argued against it, but suddenly he realized that he'd really believed, down inside, that she had killed Shorty.

  But would she have? Lil had a temper, all right. But when she got mad, she trumpeted. She hadn't let out a yip tonight. Drunk or sober, asleep or awake, he'd have heard her.

  He said, “Lil, didn't you—?”

  She opened her little red eyes sleepily and then closed them again. Damn, if she could only talk.

  Who'd found Shorty's body, and where had Shorty been before that and what had he been doing? Maybe the answers to those questions could be important. Nobody else was asking them, either. Everybody else was going on — what did the coppers call it? — circumstantial evidence. Pop looked around for someone to ask those questions of, and there wasn't anybody there. He was alone, with Lil.

  Somewhere a clock struck two.

  He took a look at Lil's leg chain and at the stake it was fastened to. They were all right.

  Walking softly, so as not to waken her, he picked his way through the dimness, around the Dip-a-Whirl and into the midway. On the soggy shavings of the path, he headed for the cookhouse.

  Half a dozen carneys were sitting at tables or at the counter.

  Whitey was there, and Whitey said, “Hi, Pop. Have cuppa Java?”

  Pop nodded and sat down. He found he was sitting gingerly, as though the seat were hot, and realized it was because he was afraid Tepperman would see him here, when he'd promised to stay by the bull. But what if the boss did see him? This was his last night anyway, wasn't it? You can't fire a man who's already quit.

  He made himself relax, and the hot coffee helped. He asked, “Anybody see what happened back there? I mean, what Shorty was doin' to the bull, or how come he went over there in the first place?”

  “Nope,” said Whitey Harper. “Shorty was in the freak-show top just after you left. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “Did he get in the game?” Pop asked. “Nope. Just watched a few minutes. Let's see; I came up here and borrowed a buck and went back. Shorty was there then, and left a few minutes later, somewhere around midnight. I dunno where he went from there.”

  One of the ride-boys at the counter said, “That must've been when I seen him. Coming out of the freak-show top, and he went over toward the Ferris wheel. Pete Boucher was working on the diesel. I guess maybe he was going to talk to Pete.”

  “Was he sober?”

  “Far as I could see,” said the ride-boy. And Whitey nodded.

  Pop finished his coffee and shambled out to look for Pete Boucher. He had no trouble finding him; Pete was still working on the recalcitrant engine.

  “Hi, Pop,” he said. “They gonna shoot the bull?”

  “I guess so,” said Pop. “Tepperman can't find his rifle, or he woulda done it tonight. Shorty stopped to talk to you a little after midnight, didn't he, Pete?”

  “Yeah. Guess it was about then.”

  “Did he say anything about the bull, or about going over there?”

  Boucher shook his head. “We just talked about tomorrow, whether it's going to be a good day or not. He wasn't here long. A few minutes.”

  “Say where he was going, maybe?”

  “Nope. But I happened to notice. He went on across the midway and cut in between the dog stand and the geek show.

  Valenti's trailer's over there, back of the geek show. I guess he was maybe heading for Valenti's trailer.”

  Pop nodded. Getting close, he thought. From the trailer, Shorty must have gone direct to Lil, and no one would have seen him make that last lap of the journey. He'd have gone around the curve at the end of the midway, probably, in the darkness back of the tents.

  He said, “I can't figure out why Lil — Pete, what kind of mood was Shorty in when he was talkin' to you?”

  “Cheerful. Kidding around. Said he was going to be rich tomorrow.”

  “He didn't... uh ... sound like he meant anything by it, did he?”

  “Naw. What th' hell could he mean? Say, Pop, what are you gonna do after they shoot Lil?”

  “I dunno, Pete. I dunno.”

  Pop strolled on across the soggy midway, past the big tank and the eighty-foot tower from which Valenti dived once an evening. Pop didn't look up at the tower. He had a touch of acrophobia — fear of heights. Enough to give him the willies at the thought of that dive.

  He went back past the dog stand toward Valenti's trailer.

  It was dark, and he hesitated. Maybe Valenti and Bill Gruber, his partner, had both turned in and were asleep. Must be after two-thirty by now.

  The trailer itself was a black shadow in the darkness.

  Pop stood at the door, wondering whether he dared call out or knock. Maybe they weren't asleep yet.

  He said, “Valenti,” softly. Not loud enough to wake anyone already asleep, but loudly enough, he hoped, to be heard if either Valenti or Gruber were in there, and still awake.

  There wasn't any answer. He was listening carefully, and he heard a sound he'd never have noticed otherwise. A soft and irregular breathing that puzzled him, because it didn't sound like an adult at all. Sounded like a kid. But neither Valenti nor Gruber had a kid. What would one be doing in the trailer?

  That breathing wasn't normal, either, or he'd never be able to hear it, even in the dead silence of the night. But why—?

  He hadn't heard the footsteps behind him.

  Valenti's voice demanded, “Who's—? Oh, it's you, Pop.

  What you want?”

  “Is that a kid in the trailer, Valenti?” Pop asked. “Sounds like one with the croup or something.”

  Valenti laughed. “You're hearing things, Pop. That's Bill.

  He's got a helluva cold, along with his asthma. Wait till I tell him you thought it was croup. What did you want?”

  Pop shuffled his feet uneasily. “I... I just wanted to ask you a question or two about Shorty.” He lowered his voice.

  “Say, maybe we oughtn't to talk here. If Bill's sick and asleep, we better not wake him.”

  “Sure,” said Valenti. “Want to go up to the cookhouse?”

  “I was just there. I better get back by the bull. Let's walk over that way.”

  Valenti nodded, and together they picked their way through the high, wet grass back of the tents, following, probably, the same path Shorty Martin had taken an hour or two ago. Maybe, Pop thought, Valenti could tell him—

  In sight of the sleeping elephant, they stopped. Pop said,

  “I'm still trying to figure out what happened tonight, Valenti.

  Why Shorty came over here at all, and what made Lil grab him — if she did.”

  “What do you mean, if she did?”

  “I dunno,” said Pop, honestly. “Just that — well, she never done anything like that before. Pete Boucher said Shorty was heading for your trailer sometime after twelve.

  Did you see him then?”

  Valenti nodded. “He wanted to know if Bill and I would go uptown with him. Neither of us wanted to. Then he went on over this way; that's the last I saw of him. Last anybody saw of him, I guess.”

  “Did he say why he wa
s—?”

  Pop's eyes, as he started the question, had been straining past Valenti, out toward the edge of the lot. Someone was coming from that direction, and he couldn't quite make out who it was.

  And then, right in the middle of the question, his voice trailed off into silence and his eyes went wide with bewilderment.

  Valenti had been lying to him. Bill Gruber, Valenti's partner, wasn't asleep in the trailer. Because it was Bill Gruber who was cutting across the lot toward them.

  Valenti had lied, and there was a kid—

  “What's the matter, Pop?” asked Valenti. “You look like you saw—” And then Valenti turned to see what Pop was looking at.

  Bill's voice cut through the sudden silence, unconcernedly. “Hi, Pop, how ya? Finally found a drugstore open, Val. I got— Say, what's wrong with you guys?”

  Valenti laughed as he turned back. “Pop, I was kidding you about—”

  And those few words bridged the gap of his turning, and kept Pop off guard during the second when he might have yelled for help or started to run. And then that second was over, and Valenti's huge hand was over his mouth while Valenti swung him around.

  And then, while Valenti's arm was tightening crushingly around his ribs, and Valenti's hand over Pop's mouth was bending his head backward, Pop knew what had happened to Shorty, and why. Too late now, he knew why Shorty had expected to be “rich” tomorrow. Shorty had found out that Valenti was holding the kid in the trailer and had gone to demand a cut on the ransom.

  Yes, everything fell into place all at once. Banker's kid snatched at Brondale. Held, probably doped, in the trailer.

  Valenti, the only man with the carney strong enough to kill, as Shorty had been killed. And as Pop Williams was going to be killed right now. So the blame would fall on Lil.

  Why, when he didn't really believe Lil had killed Shorty, hadn't he thought of Valenti? Valenti, who wouldn't shoot dice because it wasn't enough of a gamble for him. Who was strong enough to wring a man's neck like a farmer would wring a chicken's. Who had the nerve to dive eighty feet into a shallow tank every day—

  And only a second ago, he could have yelled. He could have waked Lil, and she'd have pulled her stake and come running.

  Too late, now. That hand over his mouth was like the iron jaw of a vise. His ribs and his neck-Only his feet were free. Frantically, he kicked backward with his heels.

  Frantically, he tried to make some sort of noise loud enough to wake Lil or to summon other help.

  One heel caught Valenti's ankle, hard, but then the shoe fell off Pop's foot. He still hadn't taken time to tie them on after that desperate rush to get out of bed and hide Tepperman's rifle.

  As the crushing pressure around his ribs tightened, he tried again to yell. But it was only a faint squeak, not so loud as their voices, which, in normal conversation a moment ago, had not disturbed the sleeping elephant.

  Help, adequate help, ten feet away directly in front of him — but sound asleep.

  And Valenti was standing with his legs braced wide apart. Pop couldn't even kick at the ankles of the man who was killing him. He tried, and almost lost his other shoe.

  Then, in extremity, a last, desperate hope.

  He kicked forward, instead of backward, with all that remained of his strength. And at the end of the kick, straightened his foot and let the shoe fly off.

  Miraculously, it went straight. Lil grunted and awoke as the shoe thudded against her trunk.

  For just an instant, her little eyes glared angrily at the tableau before her. Angry merely at being awakened, in so rude a manner.

  And then — possibly from the helpless kicking motions of Pop's bare feet, or possibly from mere animal instinct, or because Pop had never hit her — it got across to her that Pop, whom she loved, was in trouble.

  She snorted, trumpeted. And charged forward, jerking her stake out of the ground as though it had been embedded in butter.

  Valenti dropped Pop Williams and ran. There's a limit to what even a daredevil can face, and a red-eyed, charging elephant is past that limit. Way past.

  Pop managed to gasp, “Atta girl,” as Lil ran on over him, with that uncanny ability of elephants to step over things they cannot see. “Atta girl. Go get him” — as Pop scrambled to his feet behind her and wobbled after.

  Around the Dip-a-Whirl and alongside the Hawaiian-show top, and Valenti was only a few yards in front, toward the midway. Valenti ducking under the ropes and Lil walking through them as though they were cobwebs. She trumpeted again, a blast of sound that brought carneys running from all parts of the lot and from the cars back on the railroad siding behind it.

  There was terror on Valenti's face as he ran out into the open of the midway. Death's hot breath was on the back of his neck as he reached the area in the center of the midway where stood the tank and the diving tower. He scrambled up the ladder of the tower, evading by inches the trunk that reached up to drag him down.

  Then Tepperman was there, and the carney grounds cop with a drawn revolver in his hand. And Pop was explaining, the instant he had Lil quieted down. Somebody brought news that Bill Gruber was back of the Hawaiian-show top, out cold.

  Running, he'd apparently taken a header over a tent stake and smacked into a prop trunk.

  Doc Berg started that way, but by that time enough of Pop's story was out and Tepperman sent him to Valenti's trailer instead. No hurry about reviving a man who was going to burn anyway; the kid came first.

  The cop yelled to Valenti to come down and surrender.

  But Valenti had his nerve back now. Pop had a hunch what was going to happen next, and made the excuse of taking Lil back where she belonged. He did it while Valenti was thumbing his nose at the cop, and before Valenti poised himself on the diving platform — over the drained, empty tank eighty feet below.

  Pop Williams's voice, off-key and cracking, but plenty loud, preceded him along the path from the lot to the carnival cars. It was almost dawn, but what was that to a man who'd been told by the boss to sleep as late as he wanted to sleep.

  And who'd been given a ten-buck advance on an increased wage and had spent it all. Scotch wasn't bad stuff, after all, although it took a lot of it.

  Whitey was with him, and Whitey had tried Scotch, too.

  Whitey asked, “Who's this P-Pally-achoo you're yowling about, Pop?”

  “A clown, like me, Whitey. Di' I tell you Tepperman's gonna let me ride Lil in th' parade, in clown cos-coschume?”

  “Only fifty times you told me.”

  “Oh,” said Pop, and his voice boomed out again.

  A beautiful sentiment, no doubt, but not quite true. He hadn't been happier in fifty years.

  NOTHING SINISTER

  No one who lives a reasonably sane, law-abiding life ever thinks seriously of murder in connection with himself.

  Nemesis is a gal who follows somebody else, follows him and catches up with him somewhere, and you read about it over your morning coffee. The name of the victim is just a name you never heard of. It couldn't be yours.

  Or could it?

  Take Carl Harlow. He was an ordinary-enough guy. And right up to the time the bullet hit him, he didn't know Nemesis was after him. He didn't guess it even then, until the second bullet — the one that missed — whined past his ear like a steel-jacketed hornet out of hell.

  You couldn't blame Carl Harlow for not knowing.

  Certainly, there hadn't been any buildup to murder. No warning note printed on cheap stationery. When he'd driven home from the poker game the night before, no specters had perched gibbering on his radiator cap. No black cats had crossed his path. Nothing sinister.

  In fact, he'd won seventeen dollars. Doubly sweet because most of it was Doc Millard's money and although he liked Doc a lot, it served him right for the outrageous bills he'd sent. And a couple of bucks had been Tom Pryor's, and bank officers deserved robbing if anybody did.

  True, he'd drunk too much. But he was used to that, and took it in his stride, now.
He'd got up early this morning —Saturday morning — just as early as ever, and at breakfast he'd gone so far in righteousness as to split his winnings with Elsie, his wife. But maybe that was because Elsie would probably find out, from one of the other fellow's wives, how much he had won. Wilshire Hills has a grapevine system that is second to none.

  Nor did he see anything sinister in the fact that his boss— or rather, one of his two bosses — had assigned him to write copy for the Eternity Burial Vault account. Carl Harlow sat down and began to study the selling points of those vaults, and he waxed enthusiastic.

  “Lookit, Bill,” he said, “these burial vaults really are something! When you come to think about it, an ordinary coffin must disintegrate pretty darned quick. But these things are made of concrete—”

  “Like your head!” snapped Bill Owen. “Don't sell me on the things; write it down— Oh, hell, Carl, I'm sorry I'm so irritable. But you know why. Have you told Elsie yet?” Carl Harlow nodded soberly. “Told her last week, Bill. She took it like a sport, of course. Said I'd get another job as good or better. Wish I was that confident myself. It's hell to work for a place for twenty years and then have it fold up under you.

  Course, I've got savings, but — I suppose it's certain for the first of the month?”

  “All too certain,” said Bill Owen.

  Carl took the Eternity account folders over to his desk and sat down to make a rough layout. And to write a catch line, something about eternal peace, only you could not use the word “eternal” because that was too close to the name of the company. And you shouldn't make any direct mention of corpses or death or decomposition. Nothing sinister.

  It was tough copy to write. There was a dull throb in his head, too. A thump-thump-thump that Carl didn't recognize as the footsteps of Nemesis. Few of us recognize those footsteps.

  All they meant to Carl Harlow was: “I've been drinking too much. I've got to cut down.” Even though he knew he wouldn't.

  He knew that once you got the pick-me-up habit you were pretty near a goner. If, when you woke up after a bit of too much, your first thought was to reach for a drink, then the stuff had you. But otherwise you stayed in a fog. And things went thump-thump.