“All right, Tobin. I can take it. You have too many noses scattered around. I knew you’d smell me out.”
“Why did you quote the wrong price on Synthetic, then?”
“I’d tell you, and it would make some difference to you if you were human.”
“Unfortunately, Krill, I’m not particularly human today,” Tobin said, and smiled. “Tell me, anyway.”
“I’ve had my eye on Synthetic Rubber for quite a while. I didn’t know you controlled it, or I wouldn’t have touched it. I got a tip and put every cent of capital of the United Charities into it. Dozens of organizations whose business is caring for poor, sick and old people. I’ve done wonders for United in the time I’ve handled their investments. I didn’t think your man would be interested in the stock, or the fact that I would jump it. I thought I could get out with a decent profit this morning before you were interested. I quoted a lower price on it on the slim chance that you’d have the information from no one else. I lost. If I try to sell now, I’ll be delayed until you dump; I know that. And you can afford to keep the price down until I must let those shares go. What are you going to do?”
“You had no business giving me false information.” Tobin flicked a switch.
“Yes, sir?” said the communicator.
“Dump Synthetic.”
“Yes, sir.”
Krill stood quite still. “Eighty thousand people—sick people, Tobin, and kids—are going to suffer because you did that. My mistake for hoping.”
“Are you going to kill yourself now, Krill?” Tobin asked conversationally.
“Wh—”
“Tell me!”
“What else can I do?”
“Krill, there’s something I tried to do this morning that didn’t work out. I’ll have to try again. It might as well be you. Never let it be said I wouldn’t help out a man in a jam. Krill, I don’t want you cluttering up my office. Go out into the waiting room and die. Go on!”
Krill looked at him strangely and his lips writhed. He closed the door very gently behind him.
Tobin drew interlocking circles on his scratch pad for a few minutes. The communicator buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Tobin! Mr. Krill just collapsed in the waiting room!”
“Tsk, tsk! Will he be all right?”
“He’s—dead, Mr. Tobin.”
He snapped off the instrument and laughed to himself. Ah, well. He was not the first man who had cheated death by giving the old fellow another customer.
“Sykes!”
The secretary popped up like a neat little jack-in-the-box.
“Mr. Tobin. I … I couldn’t help hearing what you said to Mr. Krill. It … it’s uncanny—” He mopped his rabbit-face. “You told him, and … and he— My goodness!”
This was annoying. “Sykes, you heard nothing, remember, nothing of this affair. Understand?”
Sykes said blankly: “You called me, Mr. Tobin?”
Tobin nodded, more to himself than to Sykes. “How many of the Exchange members are here?”
“Eleven hundred odd, sir. That’s about all we can expect, I’m afraid. The rest are out of reach or willing to chance not coming.”
“Hm-m-m. Get whoever is drawing up those property transfers and change ‘ninety percent’ to ‘one hundred percent’ on all those to be signed by holdouts. The fools— In the meantime, get all of them on the phone—a conference line. I’ll talk to them all at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go down to the auditorium and tell those who have come to take it easy and keep quiet until I get there.”
Left alone again, Tobin beamed upon himself. Things were going fine. He’d have everything finished by two this afternoon at this rate, and then he’d have the whole evening to himself. There ought to be a great many amusing things to do. The phone rang.
“Conference call, sir.”
“How many are on the line?”
“Six hundred and twenty-four, sir.”
“Good. That will be enough. Put ’em on.”
The connection was made. “Hello—MacIlhainy Tobin, New York. I want each of you to give me absolute attention. Do not hang up.
“Each and every one of you will have drawn up a document signing over to me all your holdings, private possessions, interests and enterprises. Everything you own, in whole or in part. No loopholes; I want ironclad documents. I want them signed, witnessed, and in the mail before twenty-four hours from the present time. There is no need for me to persuade or threaten you; you will do as I say because you want to and because you must. You will let no one stop you, or change your documents in any way. Those of you who wish may apply for positions in my organization. Remuneration will be on a merit basis. That is all. Drop everything and attend to this immediately.”
He hung up and signaled the switchboard. “Put me on the annunciator in the auditorium.”
Over the loudspeaker Tobin repeated his message. More than a thousand men left quietly and went back to their offices and homes—to figure, to phone, to dispossess themselves.
“I’d no idea it would be as easy as that,” Tobin muttered happily. “Let’s see—there are about one hundred and thirty men who did not get my message. That means I have well over seventeen hundred seats in the Exchange. Enough, I think, to whittle down the objectors. Sykes!”
“Mr. Tobin?”
“We are about to be swamped with highly valuable mail. Double the office force and have a plan prepared for unifying the industries that have been signed over to me. Get it ready as soon as possible. Two weeks should be sufficient. Sykes, this firm is going places—See that those papers are delivered.”
Well, that was that. Tobin had an organization strong enough to beat down any resistance, and had the best business minds obtainable working for him. He owned the financial structure of the United States and had a stranglehold on the world. That should be enough to keep him pleasantly occupied for the next ten thousand years or so. That third wish— tomorrow he would wish for a lifetime that could be ended only by his own hand. That ought to do it. It still left him an out— He had time for a final decision on that, too. He must phrase it to exclude illness; he was not a young man any longer. Never mind; it could be slept on.
He called it a day at three o’clock and left Sykes to clean up the details.
Again MacIlhainy Tobin refused a car and left Sykes even more surprised than Landis had been. He wandered about casually, peering around, looking for something really amusing to do. A cafeteria seemed a good place; he went in and had a cup of coffee. He hated cafeteria coffee, but today—everything was different. Even his sense of taste could not be penalized by the bellywash.
He spread a late paper out and turned the pages restlessly. A small item on an inside page caught his eye. “Rudolph Krill, broker—Tobin Building—heart failure—” Tobin chuckled. That wouldn’t be on the inside pages tomorrow. Not when United Charities got wind of the facts. Quite a joke, that. Heart failure. Why, Krill—
The smile froze on his broad face. Heart failure? Since when was that a punishable offense—for a second party? It was, of course, suicide. Krill had willed himself to death. But—that wasn’t murder.
Tobin stood up and sent his cup crashing to the floor. He stalked past the startled cashier, who managed to enunciate: “Ch-check, please—”
“Be quiet!” Tobin said, without turning his head, and kept on moving. This wouldn’t do at all. He had to murder someone, or pay the price of his freedom from punishment.
Whose idea was this death penalty for murder, anyway? Blessed civilization. Tobin snorted. If you killed a man cleverly enough to outwit society, there was no penalty. Society killed without penalty. Armies—Tobin was furious. He thought he had freed himself from the stupidity of mankind for good and all. And now, even with his superhuman power, he had to stoop to the level of man—kowtow to idiocy. He must murder someone so clumsily that it must be detected and traced to him, immediately. He walked a little f
aster. Time was short. He’d wasted hours—
Opportunity, from force of habit, presented itself to him. A busy street corner, a taxi cutting across traffic to make a turn, a man standing just off the curb—
Tobin pushed him. This was not like the morning. This time the tires were moving, and moving fast. This time they drew blood, chewed on bones and bits of cloth. In the split second of horror before the crowd began to chatter, Tobin saw that he had done it this time. The man was dead. You couldn’t cut an angleworm up that way and expect it to live.
A policeman had his notebook out, was taking names, details. Tobin stepped up and touched him on the shoulder. “I did it, officer. I pushed him.”
The policeman pushed his hat back on his head and stared at him. “Yeah. Me, too. Fifty people see him try to run across and get hit, an’ you pushed him. Better go home and sleep it off, buddy. Move on; I got things to do.” He turned away.
A little dazed, Tobin was three blocks away before he realized he could have forced that policeman to believe him. He was halfway back to the crowded corner before he realized that then the policeman would have to take him in for questioning. An arrest was a penalty; something would happen to stop it! He was—invulnerable.
Tobin leaned wearily against a lamppost and tried to think. Every murderer made fatal mistakes; evidently he was no exception. He knew it now. No matter what he did, who he killed or how, something would happen to save him from blame. There must be a way out!
He’d try again. He had to keep trying until he managed to commit an indisputable murder.
At the next corner another policeman was directing traffic. Tobin walked over to him and took the man’s gun. The officer never missed it because of a rending crash at the far corner. A sedan and a coupé—The man ran away and left Tobin with the gun. He wouldn’t miss it until Tobin was well out of sight; that was certain. Tobin followed him and helped himself to bullets. No one noticed—
He picked a busy corner and a likely-looking victim, a young man with a briefcase. Tobin fired four times at twenty feet. The man screamed and fell, clawing at his chest. People ran toward him, gabbling. Some idiot collided violently with Tobin, sent the gun flying yards away. Another man picked it up— Why go into details? The police came and took the man away. No one had seen Tobin fire. The murdered man had screamed, and people had seen him fall. Tobin was left in the crowd while the Black Maria and the ambulance wailed away with their unoffending cargoes.
It was a new and different Tobin who found his way into a small park and sat heavily on a bench. The cocky air was gone, and the breezy smile, and the lift from the shoulders. MacIlhainy Tobin could not know fear today, but his was bewilderment.
For the first time he noticed the shabby figure beside him. They recognized each other at the same time. The boy sprang to his feet.
“You! Who—what are you, anyway? You’re the guy made me lie down under that truck this mornin’. I oughta—” He clutched the bench and weaved a little on his feet. Pickings apparently had not been so good. “Joke, I guess— Hell of a price you tried to make me pay to save yourself a couple nickels—” He walked off, trying to keep his head up.
Tobin watched him go. It never occurred to him that a dollar now would save a life. “Hell of a price—” The words said themselves over and over in his tired brain. The price of lying down under that truck was—death.
Tobin sat there and laughed. He roared. Murder wasn’t the only thing carrying a death penalty. There was—suicide!
Where, then? When? Some place where no one would bother him, and some means that couldn’t fail. Poison? He’d throw it off. Ropes broke; guns missed fire. Gas wasn’t certain. Knives broke or missed vital spots.
He finally faced it like the man he was. He couldn’t kill himself because he couldn’t be killed. He’d keep fighting until he won, or lost—he had never lost before— Ah, well. He hailed a cab and went home.
MacIlhainy Tobin dined in his usual lonely splendor. He was a little more himself, now. He felt a little rueful, but once he knew what he had to face, he could stand it. He’d die tonight, then. The richest, most powerful man in the history of the world, and he was going to die. It was grimly humorous. Why hadn’t he taken a chance on boredom? He could have had his power indefinitely. He had stipulated that his power would last until he slept. As soon as he slept he would pay the penalty for paying no penalties—death. There must be a way! One more try—
“Landis!”
“Sir?”
“I want the whole household in the library in fifteen minutes—maids, gardeners, chauffeur, everyone. You, too.”
“Very good, sir.”
They were all there—twenty-six, including Landis. Tobin got them settled and then locked the door and put the key in his pocket.
“I’ve called you here as witnesses,” he began. “I want your complete attention. All of you are to watch everything I do, hear every word I say, and remember your stories when the police come and question you. You are not to be surprised. There is to be no screaming, fainting, or interference. Riggs, Cramp, come here. And Landis.”
The gardener and the chauffeur towered over the butler as they stood together. Tobin folded his arms and leaned back against the desk.
“Landis, you are not to resist or be frightened. Riggs, Cramp, hold him firmly.” This ought to do the trick, thought Tobin. Pity he hadn’t thought of it in the first place.
He went to the wall and lifted down a heavy scimitar. It was Damascus steel, and Tobin knew that it would pass the time-honored test of slicing a feather floating in midair.
“Hold your head to one side, Landis. That’s it. Can everyone see? Very good.”
He swung the blade high over his head and brought it down with all his strength. It seemed to melt into Landis’ neck; Tobin thought it would never stop. He saw terror on the faces about him, but no one made a move. He had no idea there was so much blood in that scrawny body.
“Let him go.” The dead man fell with a squashy thump.
“Now,” said Tobin, “you are all to wait here quietly for one hour. Then call the police and tell them what has happened.”
“Yes, Mr. Tobin,” they chorused.
“Good night, everyone.”
A few minutes later he lay comfortably in bed and went over it all in his mind. The subtlety of it pleased him. Those murders this afternoon—they had failed because he had relied on coincidence to damn him. Coincidence had worked the other way. But, by merely setting his stage, he had nullified coincidence. He could not be blamed for the other murders, therefore he had done nothing to deserve a death penalty. He must be blamed for this one.
It had happened in his day of power, so he would not be penalized. A signed statement lay on the bureau, a carbon copy with an original signature was now in the mail. The fact that the penalty would, in the natural course of events, be brought to bear weeks or months from the time of the murder, did not matter. The fact remained that he had done something to deserve a death penalty. That was enough, and he was content with himself and the world.
He lay for a long while watching the butt of his cigarette burn to a white ash in the bedside tray. When it had gone out he yawned, stretched lazily and turned out the light. The last thing that he remembered was the faint tinkle of the doorbell. That would be the police. He smiled and went to sleep.
“He did it then. Got away with it. I must say I’m sorry,” I said to the man.
“Wait. I haven’t finished.”
“But—”
“He hadn’t finished with his day of power—quite. Listen.”
MacIlhainy Tobin awoke gently. He smiled. That would be the police. He heard the faint tinkling of the doorbell. He reached up and turned on the light, stretched lazily and yawned. His eyes fell on the bedside tray. A wisp of smoke began curling from the dead ash there; a tiny sliver of paper appeared and grew into a cigarette butt. He was quite content with himself and the world— The smoke was curling downward toward the butt
, not from it, something deep inside his mind told him. Thoughts of the penalty, of the statements, of the afternoon’s murders slipped through his mind. After a while he gripped the edge of the sheet, pressed it from him. He arose, pushed his pajamas off. His trunks sailed from a nearby chair into his hand; he bent and laid them on the floor, stepped into them. They flowed up his legs after he was standing straight up; he caught the waist, pulled it together. A button flung itself from the floor, placed itself over the buttonhole, the threads held it intact again. He finished dressing like a man in a movie film run backward—it was running backward.
Backward, he went to the door, down the stairs, into the library. Backward he did the murder, saw Landis’ corpse lift limply into the grip of the two servants, pulled the scimitar out of the wound while blood flowed into it, lifted it high over his head, hung it on the wall—and all the while he was talking gibberish, a horrible language, spoken with inhalations. He went back to the table and ate, and eating was revolting. He went backward out of the house, the cab driver handed him money, backed swiftly up to the park. He saw the boy again, the murders—everything. Until finally he got back home, disgorged his breakfast neatly, went upstairs, pressed his clothes off, wet himself with a towel, got into the tub and climbed out dry; went to bed. Landis moved about softly, backward, closing the curtains—Tobin drifted off to sleep, and as soon as it enveloped him—
“Six o’clock, sir.”
“Ah—Landis. Good. Has Synthetic Rubber moved?”
And so he began again his day of power. Again he ordered a shabby youth to kill himself, and swept into his office to start the day, and arranged for the transfers, and ordered Krill to die, and went through all those senseless murders, and went home, and killed Landis, and went to bed. And again, just after he closed his eyes, he heard the doorbell. That would be the police. Again he smiled, and watched the cigarette grow in the ashtray, and again he killed Landis, and again, and again, and again, he lived through his day, backward and forward, backward and forward. His body did as it had done the first time, and so did his mind, but there was something deep inside him, something that neither he nor I could touch nor destroy, that wept and wailed and had no will, that suffered and cried, and knew utmost horror, and had not strength enough even to go mad— It was the only way. He could not die, for he deserved death and denied himself death.
The Ultimate Egoist Page 28
