"George?"
"Rather incredible, isn't it? Always seemed like such a stolid, unimaginative fellow, too. You've seen a bit more of him than I did, and I'm sure you wouldn't say he was the sensitive type, would you?"
"Tell me what's wrong, what's happened—"
"If you wish. As I get it, friend George came bursting into the sheriff's office with an utterly fantastic story. At first they thought he'd been drinking, but apparently he was in a state of actual hysteria. It seems he was accusing me of murdering you and walling your body up in the cellar."
"You're joking!"
"That's what the sheriff told George, at first. Until he realized the poor fellow was almost out of his head with fear. Naturally, the sheriff called me and I told him to try and locate you. I'm glad he did. I'd hate to have us involved in any trouble just as we're ready to leave."
I couldn't see her face in the dusk, so I got up and went over to her. She tried to turn away, but I held her and patted her shoulder. "There, there," I murmured. "I didn't want to upset you. Nothing to worry about. It's all over."
"George!" Her voice started to break, but she controlled it. "How is he?"
I sighed. "Stark staring, according to the sheriff. They called Doc Silvers right away. Unless he snaps out of it, he'll be committed. A pity, too—somebody said he was planning to take a ranger's job in Montana."
Louise was shaking, but her voice was firm. "Did he say anything else?"
"No. What more is there to say?"
"Why did he think you'd try to kill me?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Funny about these strong, silent types. Once their imagination runs away with them, they can't seem to control it. They get keyed up to a certain pitch and then snap, all at once. I'm just it didn't happen when he was out here with you. There's no telling what he might have attempted." laughed. "It may sound far-fetched to you, darling, but he could even have tried to assault you. Can you imagine being made love to by a lunatic?"
She shuddered and buried her head against me.
"Let's talk about something more cheerful," I said. "Here, have a beer." could feel her sob.
"Don't cry," I told her. "We're going away tomorrow, remember? Back to town. Just you and I. You needn't worry about George—they'll take care of him. You'll never have to see him again. Why, in a little while you'll forget all about him."
"Y-yes ... "
"We're going to have a lot of fun together," murmured. "That's a promise. I've got it all planned."
* * * *
And I have, of course.
I wasn't lying to her.
I intend to have quite a lot of fun with Louise, tonight. She's in the bedroom right now as I write this, sleeping. I gave her quite a strong sedative, but it will wear off in another half hour or so. Then she'll be wide awake again. And I want her to be wide awake.
I want her to be wide awake when I take her in my arms, and I want her to be wide awake afterwards, when I hold her ever so gently, but ever so firmly, and tell her just what really happened. I want her to know how clever I am, and how strong, and how wise. I want her to know that I'm stronger and wiser than George could ever be.
She must realize the cleverness that brought everything to perfection. She must come to appreciate that I'm the better man after all. And of course I am.
It would have been stupid to confront them both with their guilt; what could I possibly have gained? And it would have been equally stupid for me to kill George and run the risk of discovery. As things worked out, as I planned to work out, George is disposed of forever. I've sealed him behind the walls of a madhouse for life. He'll live on and suffer, thinking Louise is dead and that he killed her. And of course the sheriff and the folks around here know differently. They know she's alive, and that there's nothing behind the cement wall. They'll remember talking to her and to me, and that she was to go away with me. Neither the new owners nor anyone else will ever tear down that wall.
I'm going to make all this very plain to Louise. I'm going to tell her exactly what happened. In fact, that's why I'm writing this. I don't trust myself to find the exact word to convey the meaning of the moment.
I'll let her read what I've written.
Have you read this far, Louise?
Do you understand now? Do you understand what I've done?
And do you understand what I'm going to do, in just another moment? That's right, Louise.
I'm going to bind and gag you. And I'm going to carry you down into the cellar, and tear the wall open once again. I'm going to thrust you into the darkness and let you scream away your life and your sanity while I wall you up again with fresh cement—wall you up forever, until your body rots to match your rotten soul.
I'll be standing right behind you when you've read this far, so you won't have a chance to scream. And you won't have a chance to beg, or plead, or try any of your stupid feminine tricks with me. Not that they would do any good. No use telling me I'll be caught, either. You know better than that.
The alibi is already set. I'll leave here alone in the morning. And you'll stay here forever.
That's because everything was planned, Louise. Because, you see, I am a better man than George. He was only an animal, really. And the difference between an animal and a man is really very simple.
It's all a matter of knowing how to use your imagination.
FOUNDING FATHERS
First published in Fantastic Universe, July 1956
1
Early on the morning July 4th, 1776, Thomas Jefferson poked his peruked head into the deserted chamber of what was to be known as Independence Hall and yelled, "Come on, you guys, the coast is clear!"
As he stepped into the big room he was followed by John Hancock, who puffed nervously on a cigarette.
"All right," Jefferson said. "Ditch the butt, will ya? You wanna louse us up, creep?"
"Sorry, boss." Hancock glanced around the place, then addressed a third man who entered behind him. "Dig this," he murmured. "Not an ashtray in the joint. What kind of a setup we got here anyway, Nunzio?"
The third man scowled. "Don't call me Nunzio," he growled. "The name's Charles Thomson, remember?"
"Okay, Chuck."
"Charles!" The third man dug John Hancock in the ribs. "Straighten that wig of yours. Ya look like somethin' out of a Boy Scout pageant yet."
John Hancock shrugged. "Well, whaddya expeck? Guy can't even smoke, and these here britches are so tight I'm scared to sit down in 'em"
Thomas Jefferson turned and confronted him. "You ain't gonna sit down," he said. "All you gotta do is sign and keep your yap shut. Let Ben do the talking, remember?"
"Ben?"
"Benjamin Franklin, schmoe," said Thomas Jefferson.
"Somebody mention my name?" The short, fat, balding man hurried into the room, carefully adjusting square-lensed spectacles to the bridge of his nose.
"What took you so long?" Thomas Jefferson demanded. "You run into trouble back there?"
"No trouble," Benjamin Franklin replied. "They're out cold, and the gags are holding. It's just these glasses—the lenses distort my vision. I'd forgotten I'd have to wear them."
"Can't you ditch 'em?"
"No. Somebody might get suspicious." Franklin peered at his companions over the tops of the spectacles. "They're likely to get suspicious anyway, if you don't do what I told you." He glanced around the room. "What time is it?"
Thomas Jefferson fumbled with the ruffles at his sleeves and gazed down at the face of his wristwatch. "Seven-thirty," he announced.
"You're sure?"
"Checked it with Western Union."
"Never mind that Western Union talk. And take off that thing—put it in your pocket. It's stuff like that can get us into trouble."
"Trouble." John Hancock groaned. "These here shoes are killin' me. They ain't nearly my size."
"Well, wear them and be quiet," Benjamin Franklin told him. "I wish to God you'd remembered to shave, too. Fine thing—the Presid
ent of the Continental Congress on the most important day of our history, coming in without shaving."
"I forgot. Also they was no place to plug in an electric shaver."
"Well, never mind now. The main thing is just to be quiet and remember what you're supposed to do. Mr. Jefferson, do you have the Declaration?" Nobody answered. Franklin strode up to the tall man in the peruke.
"Jefferson, that's you I'm talking to."
"I forgot." The big man smiled sheepishly.
"You'd better not forget. Now, where is it?"
"Right here in my pocket."
"Well, get it out. We've got to sign right away, before anybody else shows up. I expect they'll start drifting in around eight at the latest."
"Eight?" Jefferson sighed. "Do you mean to tell me they go to work that early here?"
"Our friends in the back room looked as if they'd been working all night," Franklin reminded him.
"Ain't they never heard of union hours?"
"No, and don't you mention it, either." Franklin surveyed his companions earnestly. "That goes for all of you. Watch your tongues. We can't afford a slip-up."
"Telling me?" Charles Thomson took the parchment from Thomas Jefferson and unfolded it.
"Careful with that," Franklin warned.
"Pipe down, will ya? I just wanna take a look at it," Thomson replied. "I ain't never seen that there thing." He glanced at the manuscript curiously. "Hey, dig this crazy hanwriting. It's all lettering, like."
He spread the Declaration on a table and squinted down at it, mumbling aloud.
"When inna course a human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connecked them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate—hey, what kinda double-talk is this, anyway? Whyn't these guys write English, huh?"
"Never mind." Ben Franklin took the parchment from him and strode to a desk. "I'm going to revise it right now." He rummaged around in the drawer, finding fresh parchment and a quill pen. "I'm not up to copying the lettering style, I'm afraid, but I can explain that to the Congress easily enough. I'll tell them that Jefferson here made his last-minute changes in a hurry. The hurry part of it is no lie."
He bent over the blank parchment and studied the Declaration as it rested alongside. "Got to keep the style," he said. "Very important. But the main thing is to add the provisions at the end."
"Provisions?" John Hancock brightened. "We gonna have some grub, hey? I'm starved."
"That can wait," Jefferson snapped. "Now keep still and let the guy work. This is the most important part of the whole caper, understand?"
Then there was silence in the room—silence except for the busy scratching of the quill pen as Benjamin Franklin wrote.
Jefferson stood over his shoulder, nodding from time to time. "Don't forget to put in that part about me being temporary boss," he said. "And stick in that we need a treasurer."
Franklin nodded impatiently. "I've got it all down here," he answered. "Nothing to worry about."
"Think they'll sign?"
"Sure they'll sign. It's only logical. Right after the part about being free and independent states there should be a mention of a temporary governing arrangement. They can't object to that. Wonder why it was left out in the first place."
"Search me." Jefferson shrugged. "How would I know?"
"Well, you're supposed to have written it."
"Oh, yeah, that's right."
Franklin finished, sat back, and poked at Jefferson's chest with his quill. "Cough," he said.
Jefferson coughed.
"Again. Louder."
"What's the big idea?"
"You've got laryngitis," Franklin told him. "A bad case. That's why you're not talking. Anybody asks you any questions, you just cough. Right?"
"Okay. I didn't want to talk anyway."
Franklin gazed at Hancock and Thomson. "You two better sign and disappear. When the gang arrives, you go in the back room and keep an eye on our buddies there. I'll make up some excuse why you're not around—can't take the risk of having you cornered and questioned. Got it?"
The two men nodded. Franklin extended the quill pen. "Here. You two are supposed to sign first." As John Hancock reached for the pen, Franklin chuckled. "Just put your John Hancock right here."
Hancock signed with a flourish. He gave the pen to Charles Thomson.
"Remember, you're the secretary," Franklin said, as Thomson dipped the quill in the inkwell. "What's the matter, that quill too clumsy for you?"
"Sure it's clumsy," Thomson said. "And these clothes are murder, and none of us guys knows how to talk. We can't get away with this, Thinker. We're gonna make mistakes."
Benjamin Franklin stood up. "We're going to make history," he declared. "Just follow orders and everything will be all right." He paused and lifted his hand. "In the immortal words of myself—Benjamin Franklin—we must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately."
2
They had hung together for a long time in Philly—Sammy, Nunzio, Mush and Thinker Tomaszewski. They shoved a little queer, peddled a few decks, but mostly they made book.
It was a nice setup for all of them, particularly since the Thinker came into the deal. The Thinker was a genuine shyster, with a degree and an office and everything, and he fronted for the outfit. The funny part of it was, Thinker Tomaszewski had a regular law practice too, and he could have made a pretty nice piece of change without cutting corners.
But he worked with them for kicks, at first.
"The only way I can explain it," he told them, "is that I don't seem to have a superego." Always with the two-dollar words, that was the Thinker.
And it was his two-dollar words that finally got them into trouble. In the beginning, everything was fine. Using his law office as a front, he had no difficulty in getting acquainted with a better class of mark—not the two-bucks-on-the-nose working stiff, but heavy bettors. He steered them to Sammy or Nunzio or Mush, and they made a big book.
They made a big buck, too. So big that they just had to place a few bets of their own, with some of the top wheels like Mickey Tarantino. Playing it smart, of course, and working only on inside tips, when they were sure of a horse getting the needle.
Came an afternoon when the needle stuck. And they were stuck for twenty grand. Mickey Tarantino held out his hand and smiled. But the smile vanished when Sammy went to him and said he needed time to pay up.
"Whaddya mean?" Mr. Tarantino had inquired. "You guys are loaded. Look at all the rich suckers you make book with."
"All we got to show for it is markers," Sammy confessed. "It's like your old man's delicatessen. The poor guys pay and the high-class trade puts it on the cuff. You know how those big operators work. Well it's the same in our line. You can't collect from them."
"You damn well better collect," Mr. Tarantino advised. "Because you got until tomorrow morning. Or else you wind up in Plotter's Field, or wherever."
So Sammy went away and called a meeting at Thinker Tomaszewski's office and broke the news.
Thinker had news for them too. "Tarantino isn't the only one who thinks we're rolling in the stuff," he announced. "Uncle Sam is looking down our throats for a little matter of back income taxes."
"Great!" Sammy groaned. "Tarantino's hoods in front of us and the Federal finks behind us. Which way do we turn?"
"I suggest you turn to our clients," Thinker answered. "Call on some of our investors and ask them to redeem their markers."
So Sammy and Nunzio and Mush called. And early that evening they assembled and pooled results.
"Three grand!" Sammy snorted. "Three lousy grand!"
"Is that all?" The Thinker was genuinely mystified. "I should have thought you'd get more than that."
"Sure we got more. Excuses we got, promises we got, brush-offs we got. But here's the moola. Three grand, period."
"How about Cobbett?" Thinker asked.
"Professor Cobbett? He's yo
ur baby, isn't he?"
The Thinker nodded. Professor Cobbett was indeed his baby. One of the upper crust.
"What's he into us for?" Sammy demanded.
"About eight, I think."
"Eight and three is eleven. Not so hot. But if we could get it fast, maybe Tarantino would hold off for a while."
"Let's get it fast," Mush suggested. "Let's go out and see old Cobbett right now."
So they all piled into Sammy's car and went out to see old Cobbett. The Professor had a country place—a nice layout for a man who lived all alone and he was cordial and pleasant when he greeted the Thinker on the front porch.
He was not quite so cordial or pleasant when he learned what the Thinker wanted, and he was downright inhospitable when the Thinker beckoned and his three companions appeared out of the darkness.
They had to stick their feet in the door and they had to stick their heaters in his ribs.
"No foolin'," Nunzio told him. "We want our loot."
"Oh dear!" said Professor Cobbett, as they marched him backwards into his own parlor. "But I have no money."
"Don't con us," Mush told him. "Look at this joint, all this fancy furniture."
"Mortgaged," the Professor sighed. "Mortgaged to the hilt, and past it."
"What about this here school where you teach at?" Mush asked. "You could maybe brace them for some advance dough on your salary, huh?"
"I am no longer connected with the university."
"What gives here?" Sammy wanted to know.
"Yes," Thinker added. "I thought you were a wealthy man."
The Professor shrugged and ran his hand through his graying hair. "Things are not always what they seem," he said. "For example, I considered you to be a reputable professional man. And when I innocently inquired about the possibilities of placing a small bet on the races, I never dreamed you were associated with these ruffians."
"Watch that talk," Sammy warned. "We ain't no more ruffians than eight grand is a small bet. Now whaddya mean about things ain't always what they seem?"
"Well, it's like this," the Professor answered. "I did have a certain sum of money set aside—yes. And I did have a position of some eminence at the university. The fact that both money and position are gone today can be attributed to one thing—my private research project.