The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  He leaned forward and held his temples in his hands. He tried to push the pain away but he couldn’t. And over and over in his mind went the past three hundred years. Murders, robberies, kidnappings, and a score of other crimes. And every one of them he had successfully manipulated. He was too smart for the police. He had always been. He had three hundred years experience at it. And he would have seven hundred more.

  Seven hundred more years. Seven hundred years of power. Seven hundred years of pain. More operations. There would be more. There would have to be. Dr. Gorson had already operated twice in the past twenty years. And soon he would have to get another doctor. It was always that way. People grew old around him. Things changed. New buildings, new faces, new life. But he never changed. He looked like a man of thirty-eight, and he would look that way until a thousand years were up.

  And after that? He thought grimly about his soul. Soul. A four letter word. Was there such a thing? He had seen many men in his three hundred years. He had killed many men. But he had never seen a soul. He didn’t care very much. What difference did it make? You lived, and you died. But so few men ever really lived. A few short years and then death. But he had a thousand. And a malignant brain tumor that made it seem like a million. Would it ever end? Could he stand it that long? Was there no way to beat the devil at his own game?

  The door opened and Blinky came into the room.

  “Everything’s set, boss. The boys are waiting. We’ve got a half hour yet before the bank examiners leave. Boy, what a haul this is gonna be. And what a casing we gave that place! I sure gotta hand it to you, boss, knowing just how long them examiners stay every month. We oughta get a half million out of this!”

  George Bollata nodded. “Yes, Blinky, I know all that. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  Blinky nodded, his eyes twitching.

  “Right, boss, and if you’re still feelin’ bad I’ll do the driving. You don’t want to take your life in your hands that way.”

  Bollata had started to get up. Suddenly he sat back in the chair. He stared at the little man in front of the desk. “What was that you said?”

  “Huh, boss? I didn’t say nothin’ except you shouldn’t take your life in your hands that way.”

  Bollata felt a tremor sweep through him. Something clicked in his mind. Something that he had been trying to remember.

  “What’s the matter, boss, ain’t you set to go?”

  Bollata waved his hand toward the door. “I’ll be along in a few minutes. Get down to the cars. See that everything is all set.”

  Blinky shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, boss. But we better get going—”

  “Do as I say!” Bollata snapped. Blinky hurried from the room, closing the door behind him.

  A slow smile spread over Bollata’s face. “So I shouldn’t take my life in my hands,” he said. And then he remembered what the devil had said: “Remember, you cannot die by your own hand…

  Yes, that was it. He had found it, the one thing he had been trying to remember. The one thing that the devil had said. The one thing that would enable him to break the pact. To release him from the bond he had made.

  “You cannot die by your own hand.” He repeated the words aloud. And the smile grew on his face. But he could die by somebody else’s hand! He could die if he were smart enough to arrange it!

  His thoughts flew to the bank job that was all set. It was fool-proof. Nothing could go wrong. He had planned it that way for months. It would go like clockwork. Once the bank doors were opened to let out the examiners, his men would rush inside. It would only take a few minutes to loot the vault, forcing one of the examiners to open it. He had even made sure with inside help that the automatic clock lock on the vault needed repairing. It would be opened manually. Of course there would be a chance of having to kill some of the bank men, but that didn’t matter.

  Not until now. For as he sat there his mind turned over a plan. A way to end the bargain he had made with the devil. A way to die. A way to die by someone else’s hand.

  Slowly his hand reached out for the phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear and after a moment said: “Operator, give me police headquarters…

  * * * *

  He sat in his car a half block from the bank entrance. A nervous tension swept through him as the minutes sped by. It was almost time.

  He could see, spaced at intervals along the block, the other two cars. His men would be waiting in them, waiting for the moment the bank doors opened. Beside him in the front seat, Blinky carefully fingered a forty-five automatic.

  “Nearly time, boss.”

  Bollata nodded, pulling the thirty-eight revolver from his shoulder holster. Yes, it was nearly time. His head throbbed as he thought. Throbbed and grew larger, swelling with pain. Yes, it was time.

  And then, slowly the bank doors started to open. He could see a small group of men in the opening. It was time.

  “Let’s go, boss!” Blinky said sharply and opened the car door.

  Bollata jumped from the car and saw men leaving the other two cars a short distance away. He saw the short barrels of sawed-off shotguns, and the snub, ugly muzzles of machine guns. His men were ready.

  They were traveling swiftly across the street now. Bollata raced ahead of Blinky. He wanted to be there first.

  He had a reason. His lips were thin and tight as he thought about it. He had the best reason any man ever had.

  Somewhere down the street came a long sharp blast of a police whistle. It was repeated from the opposite end of the street. At the same moment, police cars pulled around the corners at either end of the block and uniformed men started to pile out.

  “Boss! The Cops! It’s a trap—let’s get outta here!” Blinky screamed.

  And at the same moment a series of explosions shattered the air in front of the bank as men with guns fired from the open doors at Bollata and his men.

  Bollata gave a quick glance around him. His men were racing back to their cars. At the same time, the police opened fire from both ends of the street. He saw some of his men fall in their tracks as bullets smashed into them…

  A shout of triumph welled from Bollata’s lips as Blinky screeched in terror behind him.

  “Boss! Run for it, boss! Bo—”

  Blinky’s voice was cut off by the sharp chatter of a police machine gun. He crumpled on the pavement a few feet away from Bollata.

  A grim smile formed on Bollata’s face as he turned to face the oncoming police. He raised his gun in his hand and took careful aim.

  His gun blasted. Again and again. And he saw two policemen fall to the street. He screamed in glee at the top of his lungs: “Come and get me! I’ve got a bullet waiting for you! Come and get me!”

  He fired again. Another policeman fell. Savage triumph swept through him. It couldn’t be much longer now. They had seen him kill at least three men. And he was standing in the middle of the street, taunting them, waiting for the final barrage of fire that would cut him to pieces, that would smash the last vestige of life from his body.

  A machine-gun chattered. Rocks and splinters of rocks flew up from the street in front of him. He felt a sharp pain across his face as some of them cut into his flesh. He felt a gush of blood from a cut on his forehead that obscured his vision. Blindly, he pointed his gun and fired until it was empty.

  And then he saw, vaguely, the uniformed figure rushing up beside him.

  “Shoot me!” he screamed.

  But suddenly the firing stopped. He saw an arm raise, and the glint of a gun barrel coming down at his head.

  Then consciousness left him in a blinding flash of light and pain…

  * * * *

  George Bollata, you are accused of the murder of three police officers. Before I ask you how you plead, whether guilty or not guilty, I must ask
you if you are represented by your own attorney.”

  He heard the dull, flat voice of the judge. But he couldn’t see him. His head was swathed in bandages. He didn’t care. For nearly a week he had lain in the Bridewell hospital, awaiting his trial. At first he had lain amid the darkness of his bandages in frustrated fear. He had failed again. He had wanted to be shot. He had wanted to die. But they had taken him alive. And then, he knew that it really didn’t matter. He had killed. There had been many witnesses to his murders. And that meant one thing to him: Death in the electric chair. Death.

  “I want no attorney, your honor,” he said quietly.

  Behind him he could hear the rustling of feet from spectators in the courtroom. He could also hear the dull echoing of the stenograph machine, taking down every word. He heard the judge clear his throat.

  “Then it is the duty of the court to appoint a public defender for you. Counselor, are you ready to proceed for the defense?”

  He heard a man walk close beside him, and then heard a voice say: “Your honor, I haven’t had time to talk to the defendant before entering a plea. I—”

  Bollata’s voice cut in sharply: “Judge, I don’t want to waste your time or anybody else’s. I plead guilty and waive a jury trial.”

  Beside him, Bollata heard his attorney clear his throat. “If it please your honor, the defense has no objection to this entry of a guilty plea, but—”

  “Do I understand you correctly, Counselor?” the judge cut in. “You realize this makes the death penalty as requested by the state, mandatory.” Bollata smiled under his bandages at the judge’s words. That’s what he had been waiting to hear. There was no way out. And even the attorney appointed by the court knew it was hopeless. It was funny about that attorney, he thought. His voice. He was sure he had heard it somewhere.

  “As I was about to say, your honor, the defense does not object to a plea of guilty, but does so on the grounds of insanity at the time of the crime. And the defense requests a psychiatric examination before the court passes sentence. The defense also has in court the defendant’s own physician, Dr. Hugo Gorson, to present evidence in the case. We request examination in chambers, if the court pleases.”

  Bollata clenched his teeth harshly. Then he shouted: “I don’t need any examination, Judge! I’ve pleaded guilty as charged! I demand to be sentenced in accordance with the law!”

  The judge rapped his gavel. “The defendant will refrain from these outbursts. And the court sees no reason to object to the defense’s request. We will adjourn to my chambers. Bailiff, instruct the court psychiatrist at once.”

  Bollata was aware of a general murmuring around him as the court adjourned. But he was unaware of most of the clamor. He was thinking about the attorney. His attorney. That voice…

  He was seated in a comfortable chair. It was quiet in the room. But he knew there were others sitting around him even though he couldn’t see them. Then he heard the voice of the judge.

  “You may proceed with the examination Counselor.”

  The voice of Bollata’s attorney came smoothly, evenly, with assurance.

  “Your honor, the defendant is afflicted with a malignant brain tumor. He has had two brain surgeries performed in the past twenty years by Dr. Hugo Gorson, who is present now to substantiate the defendant’s case. Dr. Gorson, will you explain to the court what effect this tumor has had upon the defendant?”

  Bollata felt a cold chill run through him as the voice of his attorney came to him. And worse, he suddenly felt a foreboding. Deep amid the pressure inside his skull he seemed to hear a laugh. A deep, abysmal laughter.

  “What the Counselor has said is correct, your honor. The defendant is afflicted with a malignant brain tumor. A tumor of this type, where it is located, very often leads to dementia.”

  The voice of the judge cut in. “What sort of dementia, doctor?”

  Gorson’s voice came again. “It may take many forms. In the case of George Bollata, I would say the dementia was homicidal in character.”

  Bollata knew he had to stop this. If this kept up he would beat the murder charge. And he couldn’t let that happen. He had to die. He had to!

  He tried to speak. But somehow, his voice wouldn’t come. The words were there. But his voice would not say them. It was as if some evil hand had closed around his throat. His head roared. The pressure grew and grew. And along with it, the laughter.

  “If it please your honor,” Bollata heard his attorney say, “I will turn the defendant over to the court psychiatrist now to substantiate the claim of the defense.”

  Bollata tried again to speak but he couldn’t. Then he heard another voice. This time the court doctor.

  “What is your name?”

  Bollata gripped the sides of his chair. Now was the time. Now was his chance. He would show them,

  “My name is George Bollata,” he said,

  “Where were you born?”

  This was it. He could lie his way through. They weren’t so smart. “I was born in Chi—” His voice stopped. And then words formed in his throat. Words that he didn’t want to say. Words that were the truth. It was as if some evil force were guiding him, compelling him. “—in London!”

  “When were you born?”

  “In 19—” Again his voice stopped. Again the words slipped away and others took their place. “—in 1647.”

  He could hear a murmur of voices around him. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Deep within his head came the laughter again.

  “How old are you?”

  He ran his tongue over his lips. “I am thirty—” Again his voice stopped. Then words slipped out in a harsh rapidity. “I am three hundred years old.” Then he screamed. He screamed at the top of his lungs. “No! You fiend! You can’t force me to say the truth! I won’t! I pleaded guilty I demand the death penalty!”

  He felt arms grab him. And he heard the Judge’s voice over the turmoil of others. “If the State and the Defense are in agreement, I believe sentence can now be passed. Court will reconvene.”

  His arms were held as he stood before the bar. Behind the bandages his head swelled and throbbed. Over and over in his mind he thought: “They’ll have to electrocute me! They can’t release me on the grounds of a brain tumor! I won’t live a thousand years! I’ve beaten the devil! He can’t win! I’ll die I’ll die—I’ll die!”

  “George Bollata,” the voice of the Judge came dully. “You have pleaded guilty to murder in the first degree. I wish it were within my power to sentence you to the electric chair, but because of the evidence presented by your defense attorney, and substantiated by the court physician, I cannot exact the death penalty. But I hereby sentence you to the solitary confinement of a psychopathic institution for the rest of your life.”

  He heard the sentence and he trembled. Then he wrenched his arms from the men holding him and tore the bandages from his face.

  Light flooded into his eyes. He saw the courtroom, the judge, the police officers standing beside him.

  And he saw something else. He saw a fat smiling man bowing to the Judge. And then the fat man turned to him and he gazed into a pair of deep-set cold eyes.

  His mind screamed. A thousand years!

  And the fat face smiled at him and the deep-set eyes glared coldly.

  And George Bollata shouted at the fat man.

  “Mephisto! It was your voice! You were my attorney! You did this to me!”

  And the devil laughed…

  THE SHOEMAKER AND THE DEVIL, by Anton Chekhov

  It was Christmas Eve. Marya had long been snoring on the stove; all the paraffin in the little lamp had burnt out, but Fyodor Nilov still sat at work. He would long ago have flung aside his work and gone out into the street, but a customer from Kolokolny Lane, who had a fortnight before ordered some boots, had been in the pr
evious day, had abused him roundly, and had ordered him to finish the boots at once before the morning service.

  “It’s a convict’s life!” Fyodor grumbled as he worked. “Some people have been asleep long ago, others are enjoying themselves, while you sit here like some Cain and sew for the devil knows whom.…

  To save himself from accidentally falling asleep, he kept taking a bottle from under the table and drinking out of it, and after every pull at it he twisted his head and said aloud:

  “What is the reason, kindly tell me, that customers enjoy themselves while I am forced to sit and work for them? Because they have money and I am a beggar?”

  He hated all his customers, especially the one who lived in Kolokolny Lane. He was a gentleman of gloomy appearance, with long hair, a yellow face, blue spectacles, and a husky voice. He had a German name which one could not pronounce. It was impossible to tell what was his calling and what he did. When, a fortnight before, Fyodor had gone to take his measure, he, the customer, was sitting on the floor pounding something in a mortar. Before Fyodor had time to say good-morning the contents of the mortar suddenly flared up and burned with a bright red flame; there was a stink of sulphur and burnt feathers, and the room was filled with a thick pink smoke, so that Fyodor sneezed five times; and as he returned home afterwards, he thought: “Anyone who feared God would not have anything to do with things like that.”

  When there was nothing left in the bottle Fyodor put the boots on the table and sank into thought. He leaned his heavy head on his fist and began thinking of his poverty, of his hard life with no glimmer of light in it. Then he thought of the rich, of their big houses and their carriages, of their hundred-rouble notes.… How nice it would be if the houses of these rich men—the devil flay them!—were smashed, if their horses died, if their fur coats and sable caps got shabby! How splendid it would be if the rich, little by little, changed into beggars having nothing, and he, a poor shoemaker, were to become rich, and were to lord it over some other poor shoemaker on Christmas Eve.