Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “I love Steve,” Diana said.

  “A few last words, eh? Remember my auto accident? That happened on the way back from this lodge—I was hurrying to establish an alibi. A month in the hospital kept me from searching for the rubies—but I was willing to wait. After Diana threw me over, I realized I couldn’t get my hands on Gaunt’s money—but I could get the necklace, if I could find it. There was plenty of time, I thought.”

  I looked at Albertson. “Then you planned this party—with a treasure hunt! The worst thing that could have happened! I knew I had to find the necklace immediately, so I drove here yesterday. I couldn’t find it. I needed more time, and I didn’t want a gang of fools searching around the lodge!”

  “That man you killed tonight—”

  “Jim Nesbit? He’s a tramp; I found him in a hobo jungle last night. I paid him to frighten you all away, so I could have a free hand to look for the necklace.”

  “You killed him.” That was Diana.

  “Of course,” I said. “He couldn’t have gotten away from Steve and Albertson. So I made certain he wouldn’t talk.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Steve said.

  “Kill you,” I said. “You, Steve, and your father, and Albertson—and Diana. The rest of you won’t dare to stop me. Then I’ll get the necklace and disappear. It won’t be hard.”

  “Kill Diana?” he asked.

  I LAUGHED, very softly.

  “You don’t think I ever loved her, do you?”

  Steve moved so swiftly that I was almost taken by surprise. I saw his foot shoot out against the altar, and the hollow metal bulk toppled over clangingly.

  I fired. Mallory staggered.

  From the altar gushed a flood of coals. They buried my feet to the ankles. Sheer agony blazed through me.

  I leaped free, squeezing the trigger again and again. But pain blinded me.

  Pain and rage and red murder-lust. I felt hands clutching me, fought against them, fought as the gun was jerked from my grip, fought and fought till the crimson mists parted to show me Diana’s white face, and the trickle of blood that ran down her arm . . .

  * * *

  Tonight I die.

  In a week Diana and Steve will be married. My bullets had wounded, but killed no one.

  Tonight I die for the murder of two men.

  It is, of course, blind superstition to imagine that Simon Gaunt, who worshipped flame, came back from the grave to thwart me by means of the fire he served. And yet I know, quite clearly, that it was not burning pain alone that made me lose my head that night. The coals buried my feet to the ankles; well and good. But there was something else. I looked down, involuntarily, and I am willing to swear that I saw a face limned on those glowing embers. It was the burning face of Simon Gaunt, and it was laughing at me.

  I have told that to no one. I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in an asylum. In an hour, I shall walk to the chair, and another sort of fire will finish me.

  I have not seen Diana, though she came to the prison. I do not wish her pity.

  I am sorry I did not kill her. I want to die, so that I may forget her white face, and the trickle of blood on her arm.

  I never loved her. I played a clever game for Gaunt’s fortune, that was all. Over and over, from the very beginning, I told myself that I felt no emotion toward Diana Gaunt. But—only now, when it is too late . . .

  Why is it that I cannot forget the horror in her eyes when she knew the truth?

  It is horrible to remember—

  Soon I shall forget, forever. In an hour.

  But—oh, God!—how long an hour can be!

  LATER THAN YOU THINK

  Johnny Drake’s radio was a bit odd. It picked up the following day’s broadcasts

  JOHNNY DRAKE had his back to the wall. He always fought best that way. And, just now, the odds were heavy enough to bring a grim little smile to his lips. There was no way out of the flooded subway, of course, and his opponents—well, there were six of them, including a mad killer, several foreign agents, two frozen-faced gunsels, and a shadowy, Oriental figure who might be Fu Manchu himself. Most of the attackers had guns, but there was also a sword in evidence, and Fu Manchu had a flame-thrower. “Okay, rats,” said Johnny Drake. “You asked for it.”

  However, he did not fire. One of the menacing figures had became far more ominous than the others. In fact, the others dissolved back to the dreamworld whence they had come. Fu Manchu and his flame-gun were off to pester Nayland Smith. Nothing remained—not even the flooded subway.

  Well, Mr. Gensler remained, a fat, gopher-faced man who had sneaked up quietly behind Johnny and was peering over the young man’s shoulder at the true-crime magazine lying open on the counter. Mr. Gensler’s approach was not exactly unheralded. For some fantastic reason, he always smelled strongly of rhubarb.

  Forewarned, Johnny glanced furtively around the music store, to make sure no fugitive wisps of his day-dream were visible, and then began frantically to scrabble among stacks of phonograph records, in a futile endeavor to conceal the magazine beneath them. It was hard, he thought, that he, a young man of twenty-two, could find no other place in the sun than a clerkship in Gensler’s Music Shop. A year ago the prospect of a steady salary had been exhilarating. Johnny hadn’t known Gensler then.

  The rhubarb aura became more overpowering. Nervously Johnny fumbled at the records, and a high-priced album slipped from his hands and crashed down to the floor. Wincing at the thought of $6.50 being deducted from his salary, Johnny stooped to recover the remnants, and, in rising, met the pallid, baleful stare of Mr. Gensler.

  Johnny repressed an impulse to dive under the counter.

  To his astonishment, an abrupt change came over Gensler’s repulsive features. The man was actually smiling. At a customer, Johnny realized.

  “Good evening, Miss Moffatt,” Gensler said. “A new record today?”

  Johnny rose, slightly disheveled, as a pleasant voice responded. “I think so. There’s a new Bing Crosby disc out—”

  “Of course! Mr. Drake will take care of you.” And Gensler turned to the back office.

  “Hello, darling,” Miss Moffatt said, sotto voce.

  “Oh, honey! You look wonderful!” Johnny seemed on the verge of vaulting the counter, and the girl retreated hastily. She was pretty enough, in a soft, pink way—sweet rather than swing. Her name was Dinah. Perhaps Johnny was mistaken in thinking it the most beautiful name in the world. Who can say?

  They retreated to a small, glassdoored cubicle, where Johnny deftly slipped a record on the phonograph. Under cover of the music, he made several remarks, pertaining chiefly to Dinah’s virtues, visible and invisible. “I want to kiss you,” he added fervently.

  “Oh, dear! Not now, Johnny. Gensler’s looking. Do you think I should come here every night? You might get fired.”

  “I almost wish I would get fired,” Johnny said, looking morose. “We can’t get married on the dough he pays me.”

  “Well, I’ve a job,” Dinah told him practically.

  “But I want to support you,” Johnny said.

  “Oh, you’re so stupid!” Dinah murmured, and added, “But you’re a chivalrous darling. And I love you.”

  There was little time for more. Even in the cubicle, the vague scent of rhubarb was an ominous reminder of Gensler’. Johnny said, “I’ll meet you tonight. In the park. Same time.” And, presently, Dinah was on her way, carrying the Crosby record under one pink, delectable arm.

  GENSLER stared after her. “Steady customer, anyway. Well, close the shop. I’m leaving.” He had already donned his overcoat, and marched like a panzer division to the door, where he whirled and glared at Johnny. “The cost of those broken records comes out of your salary,” he said, and seemed slightly cheered by the thought. Thinking bad thoughts, he left . . .

  Johnny sighed. It was a hard life, but, if he could afford to marry Dinah he’d be happy regardless. Sadly he went about the business of closing the shop, clicking of
f switches and drawing the blinds. Then he found a duster and lovingly removed invisible notes from the various radio cabinets. Radio was Johnny’s third great love. Crime was another—but Dinah’s name, of course, led all the rest.

  He glanced at his wrist-watch. Five o’clock. Well, he really wasn’t hungry. If he went without dinner, he could spend at least two hours downstairs, tinkering with his homemade radio, built of spare parts he had purchased from the penurious Gensler, who had been careful to add the sales tax. Besides, with the fifty cents saved, he could, in lieu of dinner, buy Dinah a corsage.

  So Johnny went downstairs, to his destiny.

  He was a pleasantly ugly little chap, with a snub nose and mild blue eyes. Those eyes were the tip-off on Johnny. A more harmless man never existed. He had never been in a fight in his life—he didn’t think he was cowardly, but, somehow, fights had always passed him by. Real ones, that is.

  If Johnny’s day-dreams had ever materialized, his ugly little housekeeping room would have been a foot deep in the blood of spies, killers, mad doctors, and similar ruthless gentry. Also, he would have carried a G-man’s badge. For Johnny’s passion was crime, and everything that pertained to it. He would trudge miles to look at any spot marked X—not because he was morbid, but because first-hand knowledge added verisimilitude to his dreams, in which Johnny Drake, remorseless, fighting in the cause of justice and humanity, faced snarling human rats and mowed ’em down.

  But Johnny was also a tinkerer. The results of that tinkering were in the basement beneath the store, a homemade radio. It was originally constructed with some vague idea of picking up inaudible sound waves, or else signals from Mars—Johnny wasn’t quite sure. His technical knowledge was pretty sketchy. At any rate, the radio ought to get local stations, if everything else failed.

  HE switched on the basement light and went to work, humming happily under his breath. When he knifed a switch, there was a small, startled shriek from the recesses of the radio, and the sound of a rather insignificant object thrashing about in tiny frenzy. Johnny investigated, to discover a gray mouse which had been building a nest among the tubes and wires.

  For one startled second, he thought he had achieved the wireless transmission of matter. Then he forgot it, in the difficult task of rescuing the mouse. By the time the horrified little creature had been safely deposited behind a pile of rubbish, the interior of the radio was a chaos.

  Two weeks’ work spoiled! Johnny groaned, and, in a rare fit of fury, kicked the cabinet. A sepulchral voice said, “—bring to an end Uncle Billy’s Hour, and now you now why rabbits eat lettuce. We’ll see you again tomorrow, kiddies.”

  Johnny paused. This was the first sound that had come out of the radio, exclusive of the mouse’s frantic shriek of terror. He listened.

  “This is station WAZ, the voice of Glencoe. When you hear the musical note, it will be exactly five-fifteen.” Tink. “And now a quarter hour of Swing with Simon.”

  WAZ. That was the local station. Oh, well. Johnny reached for the dial, and halted abruptly at a new voice.

  “Flash! We bring you a special bulletin! Handsome Gallegher, the outlaw, whose career has topped Dillinger’s, has just been captured by government agents! Tracing Gallegher’s movements, the G-men broke into a rooming-house on the corner of Fifth and Flower, and found their quarry on the top story, where he had been in hiding for days, together with three of his fellow gangsters. After a dramatic gun-battle, Gallegher tried to escape by the window, and fell to death four floors below. The criminals had been holding captive an unidentified young man, who was found unconscious, but otherwise unharmed. Police state—”

  Johnny’s eyes gleamed. He switched off the radio, fled upstairs, and within three seconds was racing along the street, overcoat flapping about his calves. What luck!

  The career of Gallegher, of course, Johnny had followed, in all the papers. More than once he himself had come face to face with that snaky-eyed, tight-lipped killer, and always, in those pleasant dreams, Johnny had been victorious. Reeling back from the impact of a bullet crashing through his shoulder, he had snapped up his vicious little automatic and . . .

  But this wasn’t a dream. Johnny knew where that rooming-house was. And, if he hurried, he might get there in time to see the G-men—or even Gallegher’s body!

  There was the building, a delapidated structure on the corner. Johnny’s heart sank. The street was deserted.

  No trace of Gallegher, G-men, or bystanders remained.

  Nevertheless, Johnny pushed open a creaky door and found himself in a dark hallway smelling of onions. He hesitated a moment, and then mounted stairs. The top floor, the radio announcer had said.

  ON the top floor, a squat, white-faced man with haggard eyes was leaning against the balustrade, twitching nervously. Johnny said, “Hello, there! All the excitement’s over, I guess.”

  The white-faced man scratched himself under his coat, and forgot to take his hand out. “Looking for somebody, bud?” he inquired gently.

  “Where’s Gallegher’s body?” Johnny asked hopefully.

  The other shot a swift glance down the stairs. His mouth was twitching.

  “What?”

  “Did they take him to the morgue yet?”

  The squat man swallowed convulsively. His hand appeared, with a gun in it.

  Johnny smiled. “You a G-man?”

  “No,” snarled the other, suddenly recovering his voice. “I ain’t a G-man! And I ain’t playing games, either. Who the hell are you?”

  Johnny had no time to answer. A door opened, and a low voice asked some inaudible question. The squat man said, “See if you can figure it out, Handsome,” and simultaneously seized Johnny by the collar and threw him across the threshold.

  The lights were blinding. All the shades were pulled down. The air was thick with cigarette-smoke and whiskey. There were several men who had arisen tensely at Johnny’s sudden appearance, but he had eyes for only one—a snaky-eyed, tight-lipped fellow who was—

  Who was Handsome Gallegher, in the flesh.

  “Look,” said the squat man. “This mug comes upstairs and starts asking for you. I don’t know him, see? He asks me if I’m a G-man.”

  Johnny saw no reason to rise from his sitting position. “It—it’s a mistake!” he gasped. “There was a radio flash—it said you were killed—” Gallegher’s face didn’t change. He jerked his head, and three of the men vanished from the room, while another went hurriedly to the window and peered out through a corner of the blind. For perhaps five minutes the tableau held, Gallegher looking down impassively at the horrified Johnny.

  At last the henchmen came back. “All clear,” one of them reported. “This guy came in alone.”

  “Okay,” Gallegher said softly. “Now suppose you talk.”

  BUT Johnny found it difficult to make explanations, especially since he didn’t know the answers himself. He kept going back to that radio announcement—an announcement that couldn’t possible have been made, under the existing circumstances.

  “What’s he talking about, Bundy?” Gallegher asked of a small, mild-faced man who wore pince-nez. He looked incongruous among the killers.

  “Blamed if I know,” Bundy shrugged. “For my money, he’s nuts.” Gallegher’s eyes hooded. “Think we better—you know?”

  The other shook his head. “Better not. Not yet, anyhow. Tie him up for a while.”

  Johnny squeaked faintly. He was feeling far from well. The foundations of the known universe seemed to have collapsed about his shrinking head. That impossible radio announcement—Gallegher gave a snort of impatience and lifted Johnny by his shirt-front. “Listen! Who sent you here, bud? Was it Spider?”

  “N-no! That radio—”

  Gallegher hurled Johnny into a chair. “Tie him up,” he snapped, and fell to pacing the floor, nervously puffing at a cigarette. At last he swung toward Bundy.

  “I’ve gotta get out of here. This place is driving me nuts. Why can’t you fix up a getaway for me
? A smart mouthpiece like you—”

  Bundy fiddled with his pince-nez. “I haven’t steered you wrong yet, have I?”

  “I don’t know,” Gallegher said slowly. “I’ve let you run this business—and now look at the spot I’m in.” Johnny stared at Bundy. So the little shyster was the master-mind of the gang! He remembered, now, that Bundy was a notorious criminal, a ruthless killer who was wanted in several states. But he had never been connected with Gallegher.

  By this time Johnny was bound securely to his chair and shoved back into a corner. The others began to play poker, except for Bundy, and one man who stood at the window, peering out. Johnny managed to glance at his watch. He would be unable to keep his date with Dinah.

  In fact, he might never see Dinah again. Johnny felt centipedes on his spine. He shut his eyes and tried to think. That radio—

  Then his eyes snapped open, a look of incredulous understanding in them. This was Wednesday night. Uncle Billy’s Hour went on the air Thursday night! And so did Swing with Simon!

  But—holy jumping catfish! How could the broadcasting company have made such a boner?

  Johnny began to sweat. His repairs on the radio, complicated by the mouse, had resulted in something obviously impossible. But it was the only conceivable solution.

  That radio had been tuned in on—tomorrow!

  Johnny fainted.

  HE woke in a dark and airless place, smelling of overshoes. Presently the overshoes and the lack of air became too much for him and he passed out again.

  Consequently he missed the exciting events which occurred about twenty-three hours later. At four-thirty Thursday afternoon government agents broke into the old rooming-house and fought a blazing gun-battle with Gallegher and his henchmen. Gallegher tried to escape by the window and fell to death four floors below. The criminals had been holding captive an unidentified young man, found unconscious but otherwise unharmed . . .

  Revived by cold water and brandy, the unidentified young man woke up and said his name was Johnny Drake. His first statement was greeted with such suspicion that he abruptly changed it. He had blundered into the gangsters’ hideout, he said, and had been made a prisoner. That sounded much more likely to his listeners.