Redman raised his eyebrows. “Oh? You’re my patient, aren’t you? She’s your wife, isn’t she? I think I have the right to try and find out what you’re killing yourself over.”
Boyce turned pale. “Killing myself—?”
“Exactly. You may not realize it, Boyce, but an ulcer can be a dangerous thing. At the rate you’re going, you’ll perforate the thing one of these days and then you will have had it.”
“What... what would happen?” Boyce asked nervously.
“That would depend on the circumstances. If they got you to the hospital in time, we could operate. If not, well—”
“I’d die?” Boyce swallowed down a dry throat.
“It’s quite possible,” Redman assured him.
“I see,” Boyce said slowly. He stared open-mouthed at Redman, nodding his head almost dumbly. Then he silently picked up his shirt and started dressing.
“Here,” Redman said, handing him a bottle of pills, “take one of these every time you start feeling tense or irritated. And for the last time, stay away from the liquor, understand?”
Boyce promised that he would. He slipped the bottle into his coat pocket and left. He did not even bother to smile at Redman’s new receptionist on his way out.
That night Boyce was alone in his library. He was slumped back in an easy chair with his feet propped up and a tall glass of milk on the table beside him. His face was relaxed — for the first time in days. He had just spent an hour forcing himself to calm down.
I’ve got to deal with this situation realistically, he told himself. Someone obviously hated him, was deliberately trying to cause him trouble. He did not know who or why, but that didn’t really matter at the moment. His primary concern right now was not to let it get him down. He had to prevent this — this scheme or whatever it was, from working. Later he would have time to find out who was doing it, and why. And when he did—
The phone rang. Boyce stretched over and picked up the extension. “Hello—”
“Good evening, Mr. Harper,” said a familiar voice. It was the same voice that had first called as Carmichael Hospital, later as Harry Pierce, finally as the Ajax Garage the night he had been with Lana.
“What do you want now?” Boyce asked wearily.
“Just wanted to inquire about your health,” the voice said pleasantly. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I have so many nice surprises planned for the future.”
Boyce’s stomach began to churn. “Who are you?” he said almost pleadingly. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Those are things you’ll never know,” the voice said. “I will tell you this much, though. In exactly one hour from now the worst thing yet is going to happen. So prepare yourself, old boy.”
There was a click then and the line went dead. Boyce sat holding the silent receiver, staring at it fearfully. The worst thing yet, he thought helplessly. One hour from now. He looked at the clock. It was one minute past nine.
Pain was slowly building up in his stomach. He fumbled in his pocket for the pills his doctor had given him. Quickly he swallowed one, drinking some of the milk after it. He leaned back in the chair, trying to make his body relax in spite of the turmoil in his mind.
The worst thing yet. One hour from now.
Boyce sat absolutely still for the next twenty minutes, but he was unable to calm either his thoughts or his ulcer. The pain increased steadily. He took out the bottle of, pills and read the labeclass="underline" ONE TO FOUR TABLETS AS NEEDED FOR PAIN. He shook a second pill into the palm of his hand and took it with another swallow of milk. Then he settled back and tried once more to relax. The hands on the clock moved down to nine-thirty.
What was going to happen? he wondered frantically. And who was causing it, who was doing these things to him? If he only knew who, then he would probably know why. For the next few minutes he concentrated his thoughts on who. He tried to think of all the people he had used badly. This led to thoughts of all the women he had deceived. Then to all those who had been cheated by him in one way or another. Then to others, detached persons, who had been hurt indirectly by the things he had done, the way he had lived. His head began to cloud with names and faces that multiplied as fast as he could think. The scope of his dishonor was endless.
It’s no use, he thought. There had been too many of them over the years. It would be easier to count those he had been honest with.
He looked at the clock. Ten before ten. He rubbed his stomach, wishing he could erase the pain. But he could not do that any more than he could erase the past. As the fury inside him increased, he bent forward in the chair, doubled over with pain. With shaking hands he managed to get two more pills into his mouth and down them with the last of the milk, seeking relief.
As the minute hand moved up toward the hour of ten, the pain in his stomach mounted to white-hot pitch and leveled off into sheer agony. Then it seemed as if all his internal organs ruptured and erupted at once, putting a torch to every nerve-end in his body. He fell forward onto his knees, his face draining of color. Into his mind came the memory of his doctor’s warning about the dangers of a perforated ulcer. A dread of death filtered through the pain and he struggled to his feet and managed to reach the phone. He dialed the operator.
“My name — is — Boyce Harper—” he said carefully, giving the girl his address. “Get — me — an — ambulance—”
At midnight Jean Harper was sitting in the hospital waiting room. She looked up as Phillip Redman walked in, still wearing his soiled surgical smock. He came over and stood next to her chair. She handed him a lighted cigarette she had been smoking and he took a long drag.
“Was the operation successful?” she asked.
Redman smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
“He’s dead then?”
Redman nodded again. “Yes.”
Jean Harper sighed heavily. “Do you think there’ll be any trouble?”
“I don’t see why there should be,” Redman answered. “I’m his doctor; I’ll make out the death certificate. You’re his lawyer; you’ll probate his estate.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “Did you destroy the rest of those pills I gave him?”
“Yes, down the drain.”
“Good.” He patted her hand reassuringly. “No, I don’t think there will be any trouble.”
Boyce Harper’s widow nodded her head slowly. “Well, that’s that.”
“You’re not sorry, are you?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation, “he had it coming.”
“He certainly did,” Redman agreed.
Jean Harper smiled up at the doctor. “Why don’t you change and we’ll drive over to the house for awhile. I’ll make some coffee.”
“I could use some,” Redman said, looking down at his bloody smock. “It was a nasty operation.”
“I suppose it would be,” she said, “with Boyce for a patient.”
Dr. Redman nodded in silent agreement.
New Gun
by Arthur Kaplan
A gun with a crooked bark can provide an explosive situation especially for a trigger man.
Breaking in a new gun can be tricky. I mean getting the feel of it, learning its quirks, how it weighs in your hand, whether it bucks or whether the grip sweats excessively — you’d be surprised how each gun sweats differently — and even picking out a good name for it. It’s hard, let me tell you.
You get the gun, a stub end .38 Special, all oily and untried, from Maxey who’s been supplying your guns ever since you ran away from home. It lies, a stranger, uneven in your pocket and then lumped in your shoulder holster. You go to the club that night and, just thinking about it, miss an easy chance to place the seven ball in a side pocket, to your extreme embarrassment. You apologize all the way around. You sit out for the rest of the night and go home about two, tired, but in bed you leave on the light and examine the gun once again and tell yourself you’ll have to try it a couple of times, get to know it before you use it.