by Isaac Asimov
Philippe jumped up, upsetting his chair. “What’s this?” he demanded shrilly.
“A revolver,” Manuel told him. “It’s quite old, but I think it will work. I’m going to kill you with it.”
Philippe straightened the chair, and sat down again: slowly, as though he were sitting on a case of eggs. “Kill me? You wish to kill me?”
“I’ve wished nothing else for many years.”
“They’ll hang you,” Philippe said.
“I think not,” Manuel answered. “And I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot. Let me explain.”
“You’re insane,” Philippe said.
Manuel went on as if he hadn’t heard. “The trouble, of course, is the police,” he explained. “They find a body, and they start searching for a murderer. They check for clues; they try to find witnesses; they try to establish a motive. They slowly close their net until they find their killer. It is almost inevitable.”
“Yes, yes. Inevitable. If you kill me, they will find you and hang you.” Philippe pounced on the thought. “You don’t want to be hanged. Now leave here, and we’ll forget all about it. I promise you, I shall not say a—”
“The trick,” Manuel went on, as if his brother had said nothing, “is to stop this process before it starts. And I’ve found a way. It came to me while I was listening to the radio. It’s a clever idea, but very simple. What bodies do they find that do not cause them to search for a murderer?”
Philippe said nothing.
“I will tell you. Now, in this part of the city, during the riots, there is much looting going on at night. The Guardias shoot anyone they find looting. Such bodies are buried without question. If one of the bodies happens to be the owner of a store instead of a looter, a regrettable mistake has been made, and that is the end of it. You see how simple it is?”
Manuel took the revolver in both hands and pointed it at his brother’s head. “Bang,” he said.
“You’re crazy,” Philippe said, starting to shake uncontrollably.
“You see something wrong with the plan?” Manuel asked.
“They’ll hang you.”
“How are they going to catch me?”
Philippe did not answer.
“Turn around,” Manuel said.
“What?”
“Turn around. I’m going to tie you up. When I hear some shooting, so I know the Guardias are out, I’m going to drag you outside. Then, bang! The Guardias never come up the street to see the looters they’ve shot until morning, for fear of ambush, so you’ll lie there until daylight. Of course, I’ll untie you before I leave. Regrettable accident. I shall cry when I hear the news.”
Manuel tied and gagged his brother with rags that wouldn’t leave marks, and continued sitting on the desk staring at Philippe. Philippe tried to meet his brother’s stare with a defiant look. “Bang,” Manuel said softly, and Philippe looked away.
Manuel took a thick, black cigar out of a box on the desk, and lit it with a wooden match from his pocket. “Would you also like a cigar?” he asked his brother politely. Philippe shook his head.
Time passed. Manuel lit another cigar from the stub of the first one, and then a third from the stub of the second. The street outside was dark and silent. Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and then of running feet. A loud cracking sound was heard, and the feet stopped running.
“It’s almost time,” Manuel said.
From a few blocks away there were new noises, and then more gunshots. Soon the siren of a fire-engine filled the night with its wail.
“Time,” Manuel announced. He dragged his brother to the door of the shop, and then outside to the slightly set-in doorway, and propped him up against the wall.
“Good-bye, Philippe.”
Manuel took three steps away from the doorway, turned and raised his pistol as though he were engaged in a duel. He took a last, deep drag on the cigar, and...
At first they thought it was just another looter. “There he is,” one of the Guardias said to his partner, “the one I shot at last night. I told you I saw a burning cigarette.”
“Cigar,” the second one said, looking down.
“Look over here,” the first one called, “there’s someone tied up in this doorway.”
Acting Job
by Richard Deming
The man was tall and pale, with a wooden expression and hooded eyes. He would have been perfect in the movie role of Jack-the-Ripper. Myrna Calvert hesitated before letting him in, then seemed to decide it was silly to let his appearance bother her.
“Come in, Mr. Moore,” she said coolly, stepping aside to let him go past her into the apartment and closing the door behind him.
He glanced around the actress’ front room, approving its tasteful furnishings. When she invited him to sit, he gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake.
“I won’t be here that long,” he said, barely moving his lips. “I’ll just say what I have to say and leave. But first, I didn’t quite tell you the truth over the phone.”
The woman’s green eyes narrowed. “You don’t really have any life-or-death information for me?”
“Oh, that part was the truth. Only my name isn’t Moore. I’m not going to tell you my real name.”
Myrna’s lovely features were marred by a frown. She studied him suspiciously.
He said, “Before I explain just what this is all about, I want you to know why I’m telling you. I’ve seen every play you’ve ever been in, Miss Calvert. I think you’re the finest actress and the loveliest woman who ever walked on a stage.”
Myrna’s back stiffened. “If this is just some trick to get an autograph—”
“It isn’t,” he interrupted. “I just don’t want you to be scared of me. You would be if I told you why I’m here before letting you know how I feel about you. I want you to know I wouldn’t harm you for anything.”
The actress looked surprised. “Why should you harm me?”
“It’s my business,” he said dryly. “I belong to an organization which disposes of people for a handsome fee.”
Myrna’s eyes gradually widened until they were enormous. In an incredulous tone she said, “You mean you’ve been hired to kill me?”
“My organization has. I’ve been assigned the job. I don’t intend to do it.”
After a period of shocked silence, she asked faintly, “Who wants me dead?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “I figured you’d know that. I was just given the job, not the reason.”
Myrna paced to a sideboard, took a cigarette from a box and lit it. “Why have you risked telling me this, Mr. whatever-your-name-is? Won’t your organization be angry with you?”
“I don’t plan on them finding it out.”
“Suppose I called the police and asked for protection? Wouldn’t they know then?”
He shrugged. “You could probably get me killed, if you’re that ungrateful. Are you?”
She studied him with an undecided expression on her face. “You’re taking this risk just because you’re a fan of mine?”
“A little more than that, Miss Calvert.”
“Oh? What?”
“I’ve been in love with you for five years,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it upset you. It’s from a distance and I never expected to meet you. I don’t plan to bother you. When I walk out of here you’ll never see me again. I just don’t want you dead.”
After contemplating him for a time, she said, “I’m flattered. And very lucky too, I suspect. You look like an efficient killer.”
“I am,” he said dryly.
She took a quick, nervous puff on her cigarette and stubbed it out. “You don’t know any details of this plot?”
“There was a condition attached,” he said. “I’m supposed to tail you. If you caught a plane for Europe tonight, I was supposed to forget it. If you didn’t, I was supposed to move in and do the job.”
Her nostrils flared. “Max Fenner!” she said.
“The theat
rical producer?” he inquired.
She gave a jerky nod. “I knew he hated me, but I didn’t think he’d go this far. He must be mad.”
“What’s his beef?”
“He’s over a barrel,” she said viciously. “I want the lead in his new play. He’s already signed Lynn Jordan, and he knows she’ll sue his pants off if he reneges on the contract. But I’m in a position to cause him even more trouble if he doesn’t play ball.”
He said, “I thought I read you were supposed to make some picture in France.”
Myrna made an impatient gesture. “That’s peanuts compared to the lead in Make Believe. Max knows I have no intention of catching that plane. I told him yesterday if he didn’t bring around a contract by this evening, I’d talk to his wife.”
He examined her curiously. “You’re blackmailing him into giving you the part?”
“This is a cutthroat business, mister. You get to the top any way you can. Lynn Jordan signed her contract on Max’s casting couch. I’m in a position to wreck his marriage if he doesn’t break the contract and sign me. There isn’t an actress on Broadway who wouldn’t use that position in the same way I am. It isn’t amoral, because there aren’t any morals in the theatrical business.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing to me. You ought to know something, though.”
“What?”
“You’re not off the hook just because I’m turning down the job. The organization will assign somebody else. And maybe he won’t be a secret admirer.”
Myrna paled a little. “They won’t just forget it when you back out?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“And if I ask for police protection, they might kill you?”
“Uh-huh. It wouldn’t save you anyway. You’d get by tonight, maybe, but the cops can’t guard you forever. They’d get to you eventually. I doubt that the cops would believe you anyway. They’d think it was a publicity stunt. And I’m not about to back up your story. Tipping you off is as far as I can afford to go.”
Nervously she lit another cigarette, immediately punched it out again. “What do you think I ought to do?”
“You could save everybody trouble by catching that plane. I wouldn’t even have to turn down the job if you did that. I could just report that you caught it.”
“And miss the best part I ever had a chance at?”
He shrugged again. “My outfit is pretty efficient. You won’t star in anything if you’re in the morgue.”
Myrna paced back and forth. “Suppose I hired you as a bodyguard?”
He gave her a bleak smile. “I might as well commit suicide. They’d just get both of us.”
She stopped pacing, lifted another cigarette from the box, then dropped it back again without lighting it. “You don’t think I have a chance?”
He gave his head a slow shake.
Biting her lip, she considered. “But if I catch that plane, nothing at all will happen?”
“That’s right,” he said tonelessly. “You make your picture in France without a care in the world.”
“All right,” she decided. “Tell your people I’m on my way to France.”
His wooden expression momentarily relaxed into the barest suggestion of a relieved smile. “Thanks, Miss Calvert. That will keep both of us out of bad trouble.”
When the tall, pale man entered Max Fenner’s office, the fat, bald-headed producer eyed him worriedly.
“How’d it go, John?” he asked.
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” the pale man said, sinking into a chair. “She’s catching the plane.”
“She didn’t suspect you were a phony?”
The pale man looked pained. “I told you I do the best gangster act in the business.”
“Yeah, but are you sure she didn’t recognize you?”
“Where would she see me? I’ve been ten years with the Cleveland Players. She doesn’t even catch off-Broadway shows, let alone out-of-towners. I tell you she swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.”
Max Fenner breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s a load off my mind. If she’d ever played those tape recordings for my wife—” He paused to shudder. “John, if you ever carry on an affair with an ambitious actress, make sure her apartment isn’t wired for sound.”
“How could anybody blackmail me?” the character actor inquired. “I can’t hand out parts in Broadway plays.”
“I guess you wouldn’t have the same problem,” the producer agreed. “You’re going to follow up by being at the airport to make sure she doesn’t change her mind, aren’t you?”
“Sure. You can phone me at my rooming house about nine P.M. I’ll be back from the airport by then.”
Max Fenner nodded. “I won’t forget this, John. The minute you tell me she’s on that plane, you’ve got a part in Make Believe.”
When the character actor came to the phone, Fenner asked, “Did she make it?”
“Yeah,” Blake said. “She’s gone. I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
“Good job,” Fenner said with relief. “Drop by tomorrow and we’ll draw up your contract.”
“What sort of message is it?” Fenner asked dubiously.
“I told you it has to be delivered personally,” the man said in a patient tone. “May I come up?”
“All right,” Fenner agreed. “You know the apartment?”
“Uh-huh. See you in five minutes, Mr. Fenner.”
When the doorbell rang five minutes later, Fenner found a plump, middle-aged man standing in the hall. The man had a round, pleasant face and a deferential manner.
“Mr. Fenner?” he inquired.
“Yes. You’re Howard Smith?”
The man nodded. Letting him in, Fenner closed the door behind him. Howard Smith glanced around the front room.
“You’re alone?” he asked.
“Yes. What is this message?”
The plump man smiled. “Miss Calvert resented what you did to her today, Mr. Fenner. She was really quite frightened.”
Fenner said coldly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hiring a professional killer to work on her, Mr. Fenner. She wasn’t sure whether the man actually was sincere when he said he couldn’t kill her because he admired her so, or was merely subtly warning her that he would kill her if she didn’t catch that plane. But she was too frightened to risk not catching it. I suppose you know she’s on her way to France.”
“You’re saying nothing which makes sense to me, Mr. Smith,” Fenner said in the same cold voice. “I haven’t hired any professional killer.”
“Of course you did, Mr. Fenner. But I won’t press the point. What Miss Calvert wanted me to tell you was that she has contacts too. You’ve heard of Vince Pigoletti, I suppose?”
“The racketeer?”
Howard Smith nodded. “He’s a great admirer of Miss Calvert. He is one of the numerous men with whom she has had — ah — romantic alliances, I understand. Mr. Pigoletti was kind enough to put her in touch with the organization I represent.”
Fenner frowned. “What organization is that?”
“We don’t advertise its name, Mr. Fenner. But it’s a competitor of the one you engaged. Miss Calvert resented your action so much that she decided to retaliate in kind. Ordinarily we don’t explain things like this, but she stipulated that she wanted you to understand exactly what was happening.”
Fenner’s face gradually paled. “I don’t think I follow you,” he said faintly.
“I think you do,” the plump man said.
He drew a silenced revolver from beneath his coat. Staring at him in fascination, Max Fenner realized that this was no character actor.
Myrna Calvert had hired the real thing.
The Last Smile
by Henry Slesar
The arrogance went first. The clanging of the death-cell door drove it out of Finlay the first day. Then he turned sullen, uncooperative, his young face taking on the protective coloration of the cement bl
ock that lined his prison. He wouldn’t eat, talk, or see the chaplain. He snarled at his own lawyer, muttered at the guards, and kept his own company. A week before the scheduled execution, he began to cry in his sleep. He was twenty-one years old, and with the aid of an accomplice, had mercilessly beaten and slain an aged storekeeper.
On the morning of the fifth day, he woke out of a nightmare in which he had been sentenced to die. Finding the dream sustained by reality, he began to scream and hurl himself against the steel bars. Two guards came into his cell and threatened him with mechanical restraints, but they failed to quiet him down. An hour later, the prison chaplain, a silver-haired, stocky man with the pained face of a colicky infant, looked in on him and said the same old things. This time, however, there was an air of pleading that made Finlay listen harder.
“Please,” the chaplain whispered. “Be a good fellow and let me come in. It’s important, really.”
“What’s important?” he said bitterly. “I don’t want you praying over me.”
“Please,” the chaplain said in a curious, begging tone. The boy in the cell wondered at it, and wearily gave his permission. Once the chaplain had been admitted, however, he regretted the decision. The silver-haired man took a small black book from his pocket.
“No!” Finlay yelled. “None of that! I don’t want no Bible reading!”
“Just look at it,” the chaplain said, his face reddening. “Here, take a look.”
Finlay took the small thick volume from the plump fingers. Outside the cell, a guard with a comfortable paunch stood profiled against the hall light. Finlay looked at the open page, marked Revelation, and then at the tiny slip of white paper that had been stuck into the binding of the book. The handwritten message read:
Trust me.
Finlay blinked at it rapidly, and then looked at the cherubic face of the man beside him. The round chin fitted the turnabout collar like an egg in an eggcup, and the expression on the baby features was impassive.
“Now can we talk?” the chaplain said cheerfully. “There’s so little time, my son.”
