Grunzer shivered suddenly, and clenched his fist. “That’s pretty silly,” he said softly.
“The man died of a heart attack two months later.”
“Of course. I knew you’d say that. But there’s such a thing as coincidence.”
“Naturally. And our friends, while intrigued, weren’t satisfied. So they tried it again.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again. I won’t recount who the victim was, but I will tell you that this time they enlisted the aid of four associates. This little band of pioneers was the nucleus of the society I represent today.”
Grunzer shook his head. “And you mean to tell me there’s a thousand now?”
“Yes, a thousand and more, all over the country. A society whose one function is to wish people dead. At first, membership was purely voluntary, but now we have a system. Each new member of the Society for United Action joins on the basis of submitting one potential victim. Naturally, the society investigates to determine whether the victim is deserving of his fate. If the case is a good one, the entire membership then sets about to wish him dead. Once the task has been accomplished, naturally, the new member must take part in all future concerted action. That and a small yearly fee, is the price of membership.”
Carl Tucker grinned.
“And in case you think I’m not serious, Mr. Grunzer—” He dipped into the briefcase again, this time producing a blue-bound volume of telephone directory thickness. “Here are the facts. To date, two hundred and twenty-nine victims were named by our selection committee. Of those, one hundred and four are no longer alive. Coincidence, Mr. Grunzer?”
“As for the remaining one hundred and twenty-five — perhaps that indicates that our method is not infallible. We’re the first to admit that. But new techniques are being developed all this time. I assure you, Mr. Grunzer, we will get them all.”
He flipped through the blue-bound book.
“Our members are listed in this book, Mr. Grunzer. I’m going to give you the option to call one, ten or a hundred of them. Call them and see if I’m not telling the truth.”
He flipped the manuscript toward Grunzer’s desk. It landed on the blotter with a thud. Grunzer picked it up.
“Well?” Tucker said. “Want to call them?”
“No.” He licked his lips. “I’m willing to take your word for it, Mr. Tucker. It’s incredible, but I can see how it works. Just knowing that a thousand people are wishing you dead is enough to shake hell out of you.” His eyes narrowed. “But there’s one question. You talked about a ‘small’ fee—”
“It’s fifty dollars, Mr. Grunzer.”
“Fifty, huh? Fifty times a thousand, that’s pretty good money, isn’t it?”
“I assure you, the organization is not motivated by profit. Not the kind you mean. The dues merely cover expenses, committee work, research and the like. Surely you can understand that?”
“I guess so,” he grunted.
“Then you find it interesting?”
Grunzer swiveled his chair about to face the window.
God! he thought.
God! if it really worked!
But how could it? If wishes became deeds, he could have slaughtered dozens in his lifetime. Yet, that was different. His wishes were always secret things, hidden where no man could know them. But this method was different, more practical, more terrifying. Yes, he could see how it might work. He could visualize a thousand minds burning with the single wish of death, see the victim sneering in disbelief at first, and then slowly, gradually, surely succumbing to the tightening, constricting chain of fear that it might work, that so many deadly thoughts could indeed emit a mystical, malevolent ray that destroyed life.
Suddenly, ghostlike, he saw the ruddy face of Whitman Hayes before him.
He wheeled about and said:
“But the victim has to know all this, of course? He has to know the society exists, and has succeeded, and is wishing for his death? That’s essential, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely essential,” Tucker said, replacing the manuscripts in his briefcase. “You’ve touched on the vital point, Mr. Grunzer. The victim must be informed, and that, precisely, is what I have done.” He looked at his watch. “Your death wish began at noon today. The society has begun to work. I’m very sorry.”
At the doorway, he turned and lifted both hat and briefcase in one departing salute.
“Goodbye, Mr. Grunzer,” he said.
76
The Booster
Percy Spurlark Parker
I slipped the evening gloves in my purse as the sales clerk turned to get a few other pairs off the shelf. She laid them on the counter with the others she had already laid out.
“How are these, Miss?” she asked, her voice a little tired.
I frowned and picked though the gloves. “No, I’m afraid not. Thanks anyway.”
I walked away, smiling to myself. I had kept her occupied for a good fifteen minutes, had made her totally confused about what she was doing, and had gotten away with a twenty-dollar pair of gloves.
There were eight floors in the department store, and so far I’d made a score on the first five. Thank heaven for large shoulder bags. I’d actually gotten a four-slice toaster into mine once, but it didn’t leave room for much else.
It was Saturday and the store was pretty full — not so packed that you bumped into someone every two minutes, but full enough to lose yourself in the crowd. It was the ideal condition for a “booster” — or shoplifter in plain language — as long as you kept an eye on the security personnel. The store had both uniformed and plainclothes security people. Sometimes, like the guy standing at the elevators with his hands behind his back, the plain-clothesmen are more obvious than those in uniform.
“Oh, Miss.”
I turned, expecting to see the sales clerk with a security guard, but instead a white-haired gentleman was smiling at me.
“Yes?”
He stepped closer, speaking in a low tone. “That was really a very clumsy effort back there.”
Maybe he was from store security and I’d been caught after all.
“Look—” I started.
“Don’t raise your voice. You don’t want to make a scene.”
“What do you want?”
“To help,” he said. “You’re a pretty girl, but that’s not going to do you any good behind bars. And believe me, young woman, the way you’re going at it jail’s the only thing ahead for you. Look at yourself — jeans, a fatigue jacket. And that shoulder bag’s a dead givaway. That clerk would have had you back there if she hadn’t been totally blind.”
“Look, do you work security for this store or what?”
The smile broadened across his smooth face. “Not hardly, my dear.”
“Then bug off.”
He held up a hand, still smiling. “I said I wanted to help you, I know what I’m doing — now just watch me.”
He looked around, and headed for the cosmetic department. There were several displays of cologne and perfume standing free of the cosmetic counters. He mixed with the customers and made a pass by one of the displays. If he hadn’t told me to watch him I wouldn’t have caught it. It was one of the most fluid moves I’ve ever seen. When he started back toward me he had pocketed two bottles of cologne.
“Now do you believe I know what I’m talking about? I was making a living at this long before you got out of diapers. I usually don’t display my talents this way, but you are a lovely girl and I’m curious to see what you look like in a proper dress. Would you join me for dinner tonight? I can teach you a great deal.”