by Isaac Asimov
“Please don’t think you can’t stay out because of it. I would hate you to think that.” She accepted a cigarette and leaned for a light. “Really, I did see them, though.”
He did not know whether to believe her or not. The timing seemed too apt. But Catharine was certainly not the melodramatic type, and in his memory she had never been too possessive. She was not sly nor subtle and her gay lack of sentimentality had pleased him more than it had troubled him. When he looked at her now, suspiciously, he thought her smile seemed too honest and her eyes too strange. He spoke carefully:
“Now you look here. You’ve got to stop indulging yourself. You know and I know how ridiculous it is. Why, you’re not neurotic, darling.” He waited, and then said again, “You’re not neurotic, not at all.”
She was rearranging the wrinkled hairnet around her curls.
“Do you remember a Russian children’s story about an old witch?” Her voice was gossipy. “And a little girl named Magda who ran and ran away from her? Well, I read that when I was little. Come to think of it though, they’re more like the witches in Macbeth.” She shivered slightly. “Only it’s ‘when shall we four meet again.’ ”
“Some women would invent a thing like this to keep their husbands at home. What’ll you do when I’m drafted? What’ll you do then?”
She patted his hand.
“Don’t worry, please don’t worry. I got along by myself for years.” She shrugged. “They don’t do anything, you see. They just appear.” Sighing, she leaned close to him. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about them. I won’t tell you next time.”
He clutched her shoulders harshly.
“Yes, you will. You’ll tell me every time; you’ve got to tell me. And for heaven’s sake,” his voice grated, “get that funny look out of your eyes!”
He suggested the next morning that they move to another apartment. In the small sunlit kitchen, the conversation seemed so incongruous that he could not help smiling when he said:
“We don’t need a psychiatrist at all. All we need is a place without a bedroom closet. Let’s look for one today.”
Catharine smiled back as she poured the coffee.
“Wouldn’t that be hard to find? Besides, if they weren’t in the bedroom, I don’t know why, but I’m sure that they would move somewhere else.”
The thought of sending her to a psychiatrist stayed with him. He hated to suggest it seriously. He was afraid she would be hurt, or angry, and would behave as though there were no real provocation. When several quiet weeks had passed, he began to think that the problem was absurd. Some men he knew hated spiders, and since a fall when he was four years old, he had always secretly feared unlighted stairways.
He did not got out often in the evenings. When he did, he always turned on the light in the closet just before he left, and he did not allow himself to think of the witches while he was away. But he went out less and less often. He dropped the poker club, and Catharine observed:
“I thought you liked to play, darling. And it’s nice for men to get out by themselves once in a while.”
“It was something to fill a bachelor’s evening.” He looked at her closely, and was sure that she did not realize why he was staying home.
They entertained or went out together, and the evenings they spent alone were relaxed and companionable. She was fond of sewing, and he liked to watch her, over the edge of his magazine, as she neatly whipped the needle in and out. The weeks stretched into months. The draft crisis passed when John was rejected because of a compound skull fracture that was not too solidly healed. He had forgotten about the boyhood accident, but now he could not help being glad of it. They said patriotic things and settled down to a smooth married life. Then John was obliged to go on an overnight business trip.
He did not think of the situation as an emergency until, well-settled on the train, he remembered that he had not turned on the closet light. He resolved immediately to return at the earliest possible hour, putting the other thoughts out of his mind. He did not even tell himself why he was boarding the train the next morning at the unbearable hour of five.
When he opened the door of the apartment, he was trembling and sick. His heart bounded with relief when he found the lights turned out, the morning seeping softly through the dusky rooms. He tiptoed into the bedroom and dropped his coat on a chair. Humming softly, half hoping that his voice would wake her, he walked over to the bed.
A chill crawled up his spine. At the foot of the bed, completely covered, the curled-up lump of her body shuddered convulsively. In a fury, he whipped off the blankets.
“Catharine!” he shouted. “What the devil’s wrong?”
He seized her wrists and pulled her to a sitting position.
“Don’t you feel well? What’s wrong?” He repeated the question arrogantly, closing his mind to what he knew was wrong. Her eyes looked out of black circles. After a moment, she shook her head and began to rearrange her hairnet.
“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?”
“You’ve got to stop this, Catharine.” He strode to the closet, snapped on the light, and returned. “If it means you have to go to a psychiatrist, you’ve got to stop. Do you hear me?”
She smiled placatingly.
“I didn’t even have time to turn on the lights,” she chattered. “As soon as I walked in here — it was twilight — I had a feeling it would happen. But I got into bed all right and read for a while, and the feeling went away. I turned out the bed lamp and looked up...”
“Don’t talk. Tomorrow I’ll find a good psychiatrist.”
She made a sad little face.
“Darling, I’ll never go to a psychiatrist. I decided that a long time ago.”
He slapped her cheek. She drew back, her eyes wide between her fingers.
“Darling, please don’t do that.”
“We must stop it,” he said gently.
“We can’t,” she said with equal gentleness. “You see, if a psychiatrist shouldn’t be able to do anything — if it shouldn’t work out, I mean — I’m sure that everything would get worse.” She stared at the closet. “They might come out.”
He sat for a long time on the edge of the bed. He did not know how long he sat there. The morning grew brighter and brighter in the bedroom. The light in the closet shone through the sunlight like a jaundiced eye. Once in a while, John looked at Catharine. She was wearing a pink satin nightgown with lace over the bodice; fatigued as she was, she looked fresh and darkly caressible, and her eyes met his with loving confidence.
She smiled the smile that implored him to be amused with her at her foolish whims. But she was different. He saw a wickedness about her lips, a strange glee in her eyes. He did not speak or move toward her. This morning he felt that he would never want to touch her again.
Setup
by Jack Ritchie
McNalley picked up the phone. “Hello?”
The voice was a man’s. “Mr. Amos McNalley?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Hamilton. James Hamilton. I am a vice-president at the First National branch bank in the South-view Shopping Center.”
McNalley was tall and thin and in his middle seventies. He nodded. “That’s my bank.”
“Yes. Mr. McNalley, I’ve heard that you are a respected citizen in this community. A man who can be trusted.”
“I guess so. Why?”
“I... we would like your help, Mr. McNalley. Your cooperation.”
“What’s your trouble?”
“We have an employee — a teller — at our bank who... how shall I put it... of whom we are... suspicious.”
“What’s he been up to?”
“We think he’s been doctoring his records. When a depositor withdraws one thousand dollars from his account, for instance, this teller marks the withdrawal as being eleven hundred, pocketing the extra one hundred himself.”
“Sounds pretty simple-minded. Why isn’t he behind bars?”
“He is
very very clever, Mr. McNalley. Somehow he manages to cover up these shortages before we can check on his books at the end of the day. It’s all very technical, Mr. McNalley, and would take a long time to explain. However, we — the officers of the branch and I — have decided that the best... the most direct... way of catching this criminal would be while he was in the act of committing the crime.”
“I suppose so,” McNalley said. “But where do I come in?”
“You have... let me see... I have your records somewhere here on my desk... something like $10,000 in your savings account?”
“$5,256 and some odd cents,” McNalley said. “And the rest in savings certificates. Can’t touch any of that but once in six months. Been thinking of putting everything into savings certificates.”
“A very sound idea, Mr. McNalley. However, for the moment... Ah, yes. I have the records now. $5,256. And those extra pennies. But they do add up, don’t they?”
“Which teller is it? There are three or four, as I remember.”
“I don’t think I ought to mention his name. You know how courts are these days about the silliest little thing. However, if you go to the window where you’ll find a young man in his late twenties, with black hair, and a mustache...”
“Oh, sure,” McNalley said. “You know, I never did trust him. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I just don’t like him.”
“Perhaps your instinct is more accurate than you suspect. Now, sir, it is just after 9:00 A.M. We — the officers of the bank and I — would like you to go to this teller’s window at exactly ten o’clock and withdraw $5,000 from your account.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
“We are not asking you to go through all this trouble for nothing, Mr. McNalley. We will see that you receive two hundred dollars for your cooperation in apprehending this criminal.”
“Two hundred dollars?” McNalley rubbed his jaw. There was a pause. “If I withdraw $5,000, then what?”
“You put the bills into an envelope and leave the bank. You walk to that little park in the shopping center.”
“Darrow Square?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, you go and sit down on one of the benches and wait for me. I should be there in five or ten minutes.”
“Should I sit on any particular bench?”
“Any one will do. I’ll recognize you. When I join you, you give me the envelope.”
“Give you the envelope?”
“Yes, you see that is evidence and we will need it.”
“But...”
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about, Mr. McNalley. Our bank is bonded to cover the entire amount. It’s just a technicality to satisfy the law, but we need the money when the police make the arrest. I will return the money to you immediately after. The whole operation shouldn’t take more than half an hour. And remember, we’ll give you two hundred dollars for your cooperation. Not bad interest for the loan of $5,000 for half an hour, now is it, Mr. McNalley?”
“You want me to stay in Darrow Square until you come back with the money?”
“Exactly, Mr. McNalley. You stay there until I get back.”
In the phone booth, the man who had identified himself as Hamilton waited exactly three minutes and then dialed McNalley’s number again.
McNalley answered. “Hello?”
Hamilton had a talent for disguising his voice. “Is Bill there?”
“Bill? There’s no Bill here.”
“Isn’t this 674-4778?”
“No. This is 674-4779.”
“Sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number.”
He waited another three minutes and then dialed McNalley’s number once more. When he heard McNalley’s phone ring, he hung up.
Good. The line hadn’t been busy either time he dialed.
If the suckers didn’t phone the police within the first five or six minutes, the chances were that they had been hooked.
Hamilton went back to the bar and ordered a whiskey and sweet soda.
Sitting on this particular stool, he could watch the front of McNalley’s three-story apartment building. He always liked the extra insurance of being able to do that. More than once he’d seen the squad car draw up when the pigeon got suspicious later and phoned the police.
Hamilton sipped his drink.
Why did they fall for it so often?
Ignorance, stupidity, old age. Sometimes all three?
Yesterday, Hamilton had spent the morning in the lobby of the First National branch in the Southview Shopping Center. He had kept an eye on the deposit window. It was the second day of the month and that was usually a busy time, what with pension and social security checks being deposited.
He had selected Amos McNalley.
McNalley fitted the pattern. In his seventies or more. Good clothes. Neatly groomed.
Hamilton had followed him when McNalley left the bank.
McNalley covered four blocks at a brisk pace before he turned into the three-story apartment building.
Hamilton, one block behind, found himself puffing when he entered the small foyer and studied the names on the glassed mail compartments.
Evidently the mail had just been delivered. There was mail in all the slots except one. Amos McNalley had apparently picked up his before going up to his apartment.
Now Hamilton glanced at his watch as he saw Amos McNalley leave the apartment building and begin walking toward the shopping center.
Hamilton quickly downed his drink and followed. He was puffing again when McNalley entered the First National branch building.
After approximately ten minutes, McNalley came out of the building. He blinked for a moment at the green square and its park benches. He sat down on one of them.
Hamilton waited another five minutes and then approached. “Mr. McNalley?”
McNalley looked up. “Hamilton? The vice-president of the bank?”
Hamilton nodded. “You have the money?”
McNalley took an envelope from his inside coat pocket. “You said something about two hundred dollars?”
“Of course.” Hamilton brought out his wallet and removed two one hundred dollar bills. “Here you are, sir. And the bank wishes to thank you for your assistance.”
Hamilton glanced into the envelope. The money was all there. “Now I’ll go back to the bank and we’ll get after that scoundrel immediately. I should be back in half an hour.”
He took a dozen steps before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face what instinct told him were plainclothes-men.
The taller of the two spoke. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you do not choose to...”
Hamilton closed his eyes and listened to the bitter end.
McNalley joined them and spoke for Hamilton’s benefit. “I waited fifteen minutes before I used the phone.” He grinned. “I spent forty years on the force before I retired and the last ten were as head of the Bunco Squad. I think I learned a few things about Pigeon drops in that time.”
Hamilton sighed. Every five years or so he had a day like this. It made him wonder if it was really all worthwhile.
A Very Rare Disease
by Henry Slesar
Spiro got to the restaurant first, and sat silently on a plump semicircle of leather cushions, sipping a cold, dry martini and listening to the lunch talk. Big talk, little talk, deal, deal, deal; it was just like the talk he’d heard in every restaurant in every city where the selling business had taken him and his black suitcase. But today, the talk jarred. Today, Spiro had big worries.
O’Connor showed up at 12:30. He said: “Welcome home, Joe. You knock ’em dead in Chicago?”
Spiro edged over for his lunch partner and picked up a spoon. “Yeah, I knocked ’em dead, all right.” He rapped the spoon against a glass and rang a clean sweet bell that made the waiter look in his direction. “You want a martini, right?”
“You got it,” O’Connor grinned. “Tell you the truth, Joe, I kind of
think you’re lucky. I hate being stuck behind a desk. Me, I like to travel.”
“I like it all right,” Spiro said.
“Then what’s wrong? You look worried.”
“I am.”
“Bad trip?”
“No, good trip. Best three weeks on the road since last year. It’s no business worry. It’s a health problem.”
“No kidding? You having trouble, Joe?”
Spiro slumped in his seat.
“No, not me. It’s Katherine.”
“Your wife?”
“Yeah. I guess the worst is over, but she really had me scared for a while. I been through hell these past three days—”
“Well, what happened?”
“It must have started a couple of weeks ago, when I called her from Chicago, just to say hello. She complained of a headache, some dizziness, nothing very serious. But that’s the way this thing is — hardly a symptom at all. That’s what’s so frightening about it.”
“About what, for Pete’s sake?”
“About this disease. I forget what it’s called exactly — mono, monotheocrosis, something like that. It’s a very rare disease, one of those medical freaks that show up once in a hundred years. The symptoms are practically nonexistent; the doctor told us some people don’t realize a thing until it’s too late.”
O’Connor’s jaw slackened. “Until it’s too late? You mean this thing’s fatal?”
“That’s right. If you don’t catch it in time—” Spiro snapped his fingers crisply, “—that’s it.”
“But she’s okay now? You found out in time?”
“Yes, thank God. It was pure coincidence that saved us. My doctor came to our house on Thursday night to play some bridge. I told him about Kathy’s cold, and he looked her over. He thought she was looking funny, so he decided to take a blood sample; that’s when he found this crazy bug. It’s a damn good thing he did — for both of us.”
“How do you mean?”
“This monotheocrosis — it’s catching as hell. A couple of nights more, and I would have had the damn thing in my system, too.”
O’Connor’s drink arrived, and he gulped it gratefully.
