I ate more bread, and kept watching from all the windows, but no one else came. Then my stomach hurt from the hot bread I’d eaten and I had to lie down, doubled up, and when the hurting quit, I slept.
Harley woke me up, and it was dark. He said, “Let’s get going; you should be far away from here before it’s daylight.”
I knew he was right, but I didn’t hurry away. I was becoming, as you see, very clever now. I knew there were things to do first. I found matches and a lamp, and lighted the lamp. Then I hunted through the shack for everything I could use. I found clothes of the man, and they fitted me not too badly except that I had to turn up the cuffs of the trousers and the shirt. His shoes were big, but that was good because my feet were so swollen.
I found a razor and shaved; it took a long time because my hand wasn’t steady, but I was very careful and didn’t cut myself much.
I had to hunt hardest for their money, but I found it finally. It was sixty dollars.
And I took the knife, after I had sharpened it. It isn’t fancy; just a bone-handled carving knife, but it’s good steel. I’ll show it to you, pretty soon now. It’s had a lot of use.
Then we left and it was Harley who told me to stay away from the roads, and find railroad tracks. That was easy because we heard a train whistle far off in the night and knew which direction the tracks lay. From then on, with Harley helping, it’s been easy.
You won’t need the details from here. I mean, about the brakeman, and about the tramp we found asleep in the empty reefer, and about the near thing I had with the police in Richmond. I learned from that; I learned I mustn’t talk to Harley when anybody else was around to hear. He hides himself from them; he’s got a trick and they don’t know he’s there, and they think I’m funny in the head if I talk to him. But in Richmond I bought better clothes and got a haircut and a man I killed in an alley had forty dollars on him, so I had money again. I went on to Philadelphia by bus, and Harley wanted me to stay there a while. So I got a job in a little printing shop. I got fired pretty quick, but the next job I held for a week. I wanted to go on to New York right away. I’ve got to find Bull Mallon, which will be easy, and the two men who helped him, which will be a little harder because I know only their first names.
But Harley keeps telling me to wait, that I need practice, that those fellows are big time and know their way around. Harley says we should travel around, too, and we’ve been doing that. Now we’re here. I’ve learned a lot of things. I can hold a job down now, for one thing, and people don’t think I’m too strange; they don’t get scared when I look at them. I don’t talk to Harley except in our room, and then only very quietly so the people in the next room won’t think I’m talking to myself. And I’ve learned how to use the knife quickly and efficiently. You’ll hardly feel it.
The bet I told you about came up because Harley kept telling me it’s one thing to kill someone who isn’t looking for it, and another thing to get a man who’s on the alert, like Bull Mallon, and Harry and Carl. He said I wasn’t ready for them yet, and I told him I bet I could warn a man I was going to use the knife on him, and tell him all about it, and why, and approximately when, and that I could still get away with it. And he bet me I couldn’t.
That’s where he’s going to lose a bet, because I’m going to do just that. You see, I know you don’t believe this. You think it’s just another story in a magazine.
People are like that; you won’t believe that this is the only copy of this magazine that contains this story. Even when I tell you how it was done.
That’s where I’m putting one over on Harley; he didn’t think of doing it this way. He never thought how easy it will be for a good all-around printer to counterfeit one story in a magazine. I’m setting this up now on the Linotype late at night in the shop where I work days. I even have the boss’ permission — told him I was going to set up a story a friend of mine had written as a surprise for him and that I’d melt the lead back once I’d taken a proof for him.
I know the magazine I’m going to use, picked it because this shop can match the type-face and size perfectly. We’ve got a paper stock here that will match closely enough that you can’t tell the difference. I’ve got a copy of the current issue here.
When I’ve finished this, I’ll make up the type in pages, and then pick out a story that takes up just that many pages in the magazine. I’ll folio these pages to match the ones of the story I’ll substitute it for. And run off one backed-up copy on the proof press. There’ll be a minute difference in type size because of mat shrinkage, but you won’t notice that unless you’re a printer.
It’ll be just as easy to print a new title page, and to write myself a blurb to fit the story. Not really necessary and maybe you think I’m going to a lot of trouble, but Harley will get a kick out of it if I do a really artistic job, and so will I.
I’ll cut the new pages to fit and bind them in; you won’t be able to tell the difference, even if a faint suspicion may cause you to look at it. Don’t forget I made five and ten dollar bills you couldn’t have told from the original, and this is kindergarten stuff compared to that job.
Tomorrow I’ll go to some newsstand or drug store — you know which one by now — and plant this copy with the others like it. I’ll be watching when you buy it.
The rest I can’t tell you, yet. You can be sure I followed you wherever you went after you bought this magazine. You can be sure I know who you are by the time you’re reading this.
The rest depends on circumstances I won’t know until I follow you. Maybe — if it’s possible — I’m in the house with you right now. Maybe I’m in this very room, hidden, watching until you finish the story. Maybe I’m sitting near you on the streetcar or train, if you’re reading it there. Maybe I’m on a fire escape outside your hotel room. But I’ll be with you, or near you; you can count on that.
That little shiver of cold running down your spine — maybe it’s a window opening silently.
Don’t look around; you’ll be happier if you don’t know, if you don’t see the knife coming. I’ve killed people from behind and they don’t seem to mind so much.
Go on, just a little while, thinking this is just another fiction story. Don’t look behind you. Don’t believe this — until you feel the knife.
Challenge to the Reader
by Hugh Pentecost
About the Author: Hugh Pentecost won the Dodd, Mead “Red Badge” Prize Competition in 1939 with his excellent novel, CANCELLED IN RED. He was born in a city in Massachusetts, now lives in upstate New York except for winters which he usually spends in New York City. His father was an opera singer, his mother an actress. When asked why he became a writer, Mr. Pentecost replied that his father would not let him sing, his mother would not let him act, and he had to get it out of his system somehow! He has been writing since the age of ten, and has never done anything else. He has written for pulps, for slicks, for newspapers, and for his own radio show — all under different names. Before graduating from a well-known university, Mr. Pentecost traveled all over Europe with his parents. “Having been brought up in a hotel bureau drawer as a child,” he comments wryly, “I now have a particular passion to stay put in my own home.” His hobbies include riding, cross country hacking (whatever that may be), and at one time he was the proud possessor of a golf handicap of 4... All the above was supplied to your Editor by Mr. Pentecost’s publisher. It tells something of the writer known as Hugh Pentecost; it tells little of the man. To know the man you have to sit with him at Board of Directors and Council meetings of the Mystery Writers of America; talk with him at his favorite restaurant or bar. Then you discover his charm, his quick smile, his genuine desire to help the underdog. The real Hugh Pentecost is forthright, deep-principled, and an advocate that right is might. To know even more of the real Hugh Pentecost, drop in at “The Inkwell” on Third Avenue near Grand Central Station, New York City, and hear Jud (that’s what we call him) play the upright piano just beyond the bar and sing old songs of the days that used to be...