The Comfortable Coffin

by Richard S. Prather

  “So ordered,” said the judge.

  Stating that he knew the automobile well and had no further curiosity concerning it, George refused to accompany the others to the garage. He waited in the courtroom until they returned and the jurors filed back into the box shaking their heads in bewilderment at what they had witnessed. Attorney Youngs rested his case, and George had himself sworn in as a witness.

  “As you all know,” he said chattily to the jury, “Dr. Prent is my wife’s cousin. But what you don’t know is that I lent Alvin the money to get through medical school.”

  “I object to that as being irrelevant, immaterial, and having no bearing on this case,” said Attorney Youngs.

  “It’s a little early to determine that,” said the judge. “Go on, Mr. Bashford.”

  “The total,” said George, “was five thousand dollars—and, to date, Alvin hasn’t paid me back one red cent.”

  “I object,” said Attorney Youngs, “on the grounds previously stated.”

  “And I heard you the first time,” said the judge. “Go on, Mr. Bashford. If you’re trying to say that you cooked up that five-thousand-dollar repair bill as a means of collecting your debt, I assure you that you won’t get very far with it.”

  “That isn’t it at all,” said George. “What I’m trying to do is establish the groundwork for my defense.” He turned toward the jury. “Shortly after Alvin started in practice here, my wife, Dora, acquired the galloping miseries.”

  “And what,” asked the judge, “are the galloping miseries?”

  “It’s a pain,” said George, “that changes locations faster and more often than a floating crap game. One day it’d be in her head, then it’d roost in her stomach, and then it’d settle in the base of her spine. So she went to Alvin for a consultation. The first thing Alvin did was go in for some of the fanciest free-style needlework you ever heard of.”

  “Meaning injections, I suppose?” said the judge.

  “Yes, sir,” said George. “If those needles were still in the places Alvin stuck them, Dora’d look like a porcupine. Alvin squirted enough liquid into her to float a barge, and she gurgled and splashed when she walked. The wholesale drug people must have thought we had an epidemic here in Pott’s Corners. Sulfa—gallons of it—was coming in by fast freight, airplane, dogsled, carrier pigeons, and—”

  “Your Honor,” said Attorney Youngs in an agonized voice, “I must insist that—”

  “I know,” said the judge patiently. “Mr. Bashford has a gift for hyperbole that leaves me singularly unamused, but, still in all, he may be heading toward something pertinent. Proceed, Mr. Bashford.”

  “Thank you. Judge,” said George. “Well, Dora had so many injections that she built up scar tissue all over her body and her skin got so tough it dented Alvin’s needles, and still she had that pain. Then Alvin had all Dora’s teeth yanked.”

  “Why?” asked the judge.

  “That’s information I was never able to get out of Alvin,” said George. “But I’d like to point out that Dora isn’t the only woman in Pott’s Corners going around with a loose plate that clicks like a castanet when she talks on account of maybe Alvin is a disappointed dentist at heart.”

  “Your Honor!” screamed Attorney Youngs.

  “I know, I know,” said the judge soothingly. “Objection sustained.” He turned to George. “Mr. Bashford,” he said, “because of your status as a layman in this court, I have been extremely lenient with you, but don’t pursue your advantage too far. I must warn you to quit rambling and get down to the issues involved in this case.”

  “I’m getting there as fast as I can,” said George. “Pulling Dora’s teeth didn’t get rid of the pain, so Alvin abandoned his needles and forceps and took to the knife. In quick succession he cut out Dora’s tonsils, her adenoids, three wens, and a mole. Then he let her lie fallow for a while, but as soon’s she recovered her strength, he got out his cleavers again and—”

  “I object,” cried Attorney Youngs hysterically. “This man is not only impugning the integrity of my client, but of the whole medical profession as well.”

  “The medical profession as a whole is not involved in this case,” retorted the judge, “and it is quite obvious that the one Mr. Bashford is gunning for is your client, who in turn has impugned Mr. Bashford’s integrity as a mechanic. All this may or may not have some bearing on the issues involved, and, if it doesn’t, I shall instruct the jury to ignore it. In the meanwhile, will you please subside, Mr. Youngs? Go on, Mr. Bashford. What happened next?”

  “Alvin,” said George, “damn near eviscerated Dora. Not all at once. Just a little bit at a time. Alvin cut out Dora’s appendix and her gall bladder, trimmed her liver and pruned her tripes, and then amputated some other things that I’m not going to mention on account of I don’t know the technical names for ’em—and besides I’ve already established my case.”

  “Not as far as this court’s concerned you haven’t,” said the judge. “You haven’t come within throwing distance of the basic issues. I saw what you did to Dr. Prent’s car. Suppose you give us your version of that affair?”

  “I think,” said George, “that I forgot to mention that the bill Alvin gave me for what he did to Dora was exactly five thousand dollars, which, by a strange coincidence, was precisely what he owed me. Considering Dora still had the galloping miseries, I think that was excessive, don’t you?”

  “Dr. Prent’s bill for medical services has, as far as I can see,” said the judge, “no bearing on this case. Your bill for mechanical services has. Will you kindly get around to explaining that?”

  “Gladly,” said George. “When Alvin brought his Imperial Eight into my garage, he didn’t know exactly what was wrong with it. He said it ran slick as grease on the level, but he didn’t think it had the power it should have on hills and, besides, he figured he wasn’t getting enough mileage out of his gasoline. Now this is where the matter of professional ethics, protocol, and procedure comes in. I didn’t want to tell Alvin that I didn’t think there was anything wrong with his car—that might have insulted him. Besides, I figured it’d make him feel better if I fussed around with it a bit, and then I had to charge him plenty for my services, or else he’d think I hadn’t taken his case seriously.”

  “Don’t forget to mention that the bill was five thousand dollars,” interjected Attorney Youngs. “That was more than my client’s car cost him.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” said George, “was more’n my wife cost me, too.” Then he turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” he said, “has this guy got a right to bat during my inning?”

  “Objection sustained,” said the judge. “Mr. Youngs, you know better’n to do that. Proceed, Mr. Bashford.”

  “Well,” said George, “it was quite a problem. Of course, I had to work under the assumption that my customer could have been right about loss of power on the hills and the increase in gasoline consumption. So I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to examine the car’s nervous—I mean, electrical system. I amputated the fog lights, cigarette lighter, radio, and dome light—”

  “Just why did you do that?” inquired the judge.

  “They could have been a drain on the juice the battery was delivering to the spark plugs,” explained George. “And besides, as anyone knows, all those things aren’t really essential to the running of a car.”

  “And then what did you do?” asked the judge.

  “Well,” said George, “I based my procedure on the precedent set by Alvin, here. I figured that when you don’t know what’s wrong with a car, the only thing to do is to keep on cutting things out of it. I excised the horn, the hood, the rearview mirror, the windshield, the left rear fender, and the spare tire. That didn’t seem to do much good, so I pulled out three spark plugs which still left a lot more spark plugs in the motor than my wife has teeth in her head, and then I amputated the air cleaner and the oil filter.”

  “And I suppose,” snapped Attorney Youngs, “that you’re
going to insist that the car still runs as well as ever.”

  “Well,” said George, “she still runs as well as my wife does without her gall bladder, not to mention the other accessories she’s missing.”

  “I object,” howled Attorney Youngs.

  “It isn’t your turn to object,” the judge told him. “I’m the one that objects. I object to this whole outlandish proceeding.” He leaned over and glared at George. “Mr. Bashford,” he said, “anyone with half an eye can see the point you’re trying to make, and—not that it’s going to do you any good —are you satisfied? Are you through?”

  “Not quite,” said George. “Your Honor, I’d now like to introduce Exhibit A in my own defense.” He turned to the bailiff and whispered a few words. The bailiff hurried away and George turned back to the judge. “Be patient, Your Honor,” he said. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

  There was a commotion at the rear as the bailiff escorted a fat, red-faced, angry woman toward the bench.

  “Oh, there you are,” she called, as she caught sight of George. “What’s the meaning of having me held in that little room all this time, and what’s the meaning of having me hauled in here like a sack of potatoes?”

  “Mr. Bashford,” inquired the judge, “just who is this woman?”

  “That’s Dora, my wife,” said George.

  “And what’s she doing here?” asked the judge.

  “She,” said George, “is Exhibit A. And what’s more, Your Honor, I demand the same right as you gave my opponent. I demand that the evidence be examined by the jury.”

  “You mean,” gasped the judge, “your wife?”

  “Sure,” said George. “Down to every last scar, incision, and adhesion.”

  The male jurors looked appalled, and some of them seemed ready to bolt from the courtroom. The judge was horrified.

  “Of course,” said George, “the evidence as it stands isn’t complete. Dora isn’t all here, Your Honor. The rest of her, her more intimate and functional parts, are scattered all over Alvin’s laboratory in bottles. I demand that these bottles be labeled Exhibit B, and that they be produced in court for the scrutiny of the jury.”

  “Cousin Alvin,” shrieked Dora, “are you going to stand there and let him do this to me?”

  “He can’t get away with it,” said Dr. Prent, who was white and shaken. “My attorney says you’re not admissible as evidence.”

  “You don’t know what George can do, once he sets his mind on it,” said the terrified Dora. “Cousin Alvin, I demand you withdraw your case—or else!”

  “Don’t mind me,” said the judge, wearily. “This is just supposed to be a court of law and I’m supposed to be presiding, but what does it matter and who cares? Go on, Mrs. Bashford, you interest me. Or else what?”

  “Alvin,” said Dora, “needs a loan of ten thousand dollars to buy a practice he wants in Midvale, and he thinks he’s going to get it from Uncle Wilford, but I’m standing right here and now to tell him that, unless he calls off this case. I’ll put a flea in Uncle Wilford’s ear, and he won’t get a single red cent.”

  Dr. Prent held a brief, whispered consultation with his counsel, and finally Attorney Youngs approached the bench. “Your Honor,” he said, “my client agrees to withdraw all charges.”

  “Never,” said the judge, breathing deeply, “have I heard better news in my life. Although I must advise you, Mr. Youngs, that the instructions I intended to give the jury would have practically precluded any chance of Mr. Bashford winning this case.”

  “That’s what you think,” said a tall, gaunt juror, while several of his male colleagues nodded approval. “I’d have voted for George. Doc Prent’s got part of my wife in a bottle, too, and I’d have—”

  “I wouldn’t have,” snapped Mrs. Sylvia Pembroke, the sole female member of the jury. “That man Bashford is an unfeeling brute. I’ll have you know. Judge, that what he jestingly calls the galloping miseries is the most painful cross a lady has to bear. I have a pain that starts just—”

  She began to reach for the spot, and the judge banged the gavel.

  “Mrs. Pembroke,” he said, “your standing in this court is now unofficial, your information is superfluous, and your symptoms are of no interest to me.” He turned to Attorney Youngs. “Do you still agree to withdraw your case?”

  “We do,” said Attorney Youngs, “providing that Mr. Bashford restores the missing parts, puts my client’s automobile in good running order, and then submits a modified and reasonable bill for his services.”

  “Do you agree to that, Mr. Bashford?” asked the judge.

  “I do,” said George promptly, “providing—”

  “Providing what?”

  “Providing,” said George equably, “Alvin submits a modified and reasonable bill to me. And also providing that he restores my wife’s teeth, tonsils, gall bladder, and other deleted spare parts, and puts her in good running order.”

  “Mr. Bashford,” said the judge quietly, and then his voice rose to a scream. “Mr. Bashford!”

  “Okay, Judge,” said George, grinning. “I was just kidding. I agree to the terms. I never expected to get my money back from that deadbeat, anyway.”

  “Oh, you were just kidding, were you?” The judge leaned over the bench and spoke in a low, strangled whisper. “Mr. Bashford, you have given me the most miserable day in my experience as a jurist. Someday, Mr. Bashford, I would appreciate the extreme pleasure of trying you for murder. Right now, I’m considering whether or not I can stretch contempt of court into a felony and give you a life stretch in the state pen, and what’s more—” Suddenly he paused and grinned fiendishly. “But, pshaw!” he cackled. “I don’t have to worry about your getting your just deserts. From the looks of that wife of yours and considering what you tried to do to her, I imagine that you’re going to spend the next few weeks in hot water of your own brewing.”

  George grinned and pointed to where Dora was now sitting with Mrs. Pembroke in the otherwise unoccupied jury box, their hands pointing and fluttering over their bodies as if they were performing some form of hootchie-cootchie dance.

  “She’s got another interest in life now,” said George. “They’re discussing symptoms.”

  A Coffin for Mr. Cash

  Robert Arthur

  Outside, in the sky, thunder bowled a strike. The dock on the wall said twelve—midnight, that is. I yawned and turned another page of my western. My swivel chair was old, the office wasn’t big, but I was satisfied. The work was easy, I had plenty of time to myself, and I had a staff to order around.

  The staff was outside, mopping the marble floor of the reception room. He was Danny Miggs, ex-pug. Danny did the cleaning up and any work that didn’t require thinking. His brains had all been knocked out in the ring. You might not have cared to have Danny around—his conversation was sometimes a little morbid—hut I liked him. He was always anxious to be helpful and he never lost his temper. How many people can you say that about?

  Then I heard the front door open. Thunder grumbled and a cold breeze blew back and made me shiver before the door dosed again.

  I hoped whoever had come in wasn’t on business—was maybe just Officer Hunt, or his sidekick O’Connell, who tooled a prowl car around this dark, empty warehouse district all night, and sometimes dropped in to vary the monotony by gabbing with me. I didn’t feel like working. Sometimes we had to handle customers at night, but this wasn’t the busy season.

  Oh yes, I was night superintendent of the Middle City Municipal Crematorium.

  I craned my neck to look out the door. I could see someone in a dripping wet gabardine raincoat that looked expensive, shaking water onto the floor off an expensive Borsalino hat. Not a reporter—too well-dressed. Not a plainclothes dick—same argument. Not a cop, obviously. Not an undertaker—mortician, that is. And not somebody who had just dropped in out of the rain either. For no reason at all, I shivered again.

  Danny pushed his mop over and asked, very politely like I’
d taught him, “Can I help you, mister?”

  Just then the storm outside threw another strike. Lightning came in the windows, looked around, and went out again. The stranger jumped.

  “Did you see that?” he asked. “Bright enough to be Judgment Day.”

  Danny nodded hard. The stranger didn’t know it, but he’d hit on Danny’s favorite conversational subject.

  “Well, I guess it is, all right,” he said. “For some people, that is. Did you know that just since you came in the door two people died?”

  “Died where?” The stranger turned and gave him a scowl, and then I knew why I had shivered those two times. Because it was Al Thomas. And that was the effect he had on me, even when I didn’t know it was him.

  “Died someplace in this country,” Danny said. “Now one more has died.”

  “That makes three,” Al told him.

  “That’s right,” Danny nodded again. “And now it’s four. That’s the mortality rate in this country. Four a minute. Now you take this city. It’s a big city. The mortality rate is one person every thirty minutes. That’s two persons an hour.’

  “Forty-eight a day,” Al Thomas said.

  Danny was tickled to find somebody who understood him. He leaned on his mop, prepared to talk about it all night.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding. ‘‘Forty-eight people a day pass away in this city. On the average, of course.”

  “Oh, sure, on the average,” Al answered, looking around him.

  “Some days it’s more, some days it’s less.”

  “It’s that way with everything.”

  “But on the average, one every thirty minutes. If you stay here twenty-seven more minutes, somebody someplace in this city will die. You can count on it.”

  “And if you don’t shut up, it’ll be you,” Al told him. “I’m looking for Pete Wilson. Get him out here.”

  Danny looked disappointed. Al hadn’t let him get to the part about what would happen if four people didn’t die every minute, how pretty soon we’d be so crowded we’d all be standing on each other’s shoulders like acrobats. Something about the idea fascinated Danny. He just put down his mop, still looking disappointed, and came for me.