John D. MacDonald
For Murder — or Worse
Chapter One
The Wrong Corpse
It happened just like this, and I want to state with the utmost emphasis that I was minding my own business. Except when I find it necessary to exert my rather unique gift of salesmanship, I am by nature shy and retiring. I have been employed for some time by the Idle Hour Novelties Company. Mr. Max Idelhaur, my employer, trusts me with the introduction of new products to our distributor areas.
At the time this trouble started I was on my way west to our distributor area seven, which includes Pacific City and some fifty miles of coast line. I was traveling on the Red Chieftain, a train which I usually find to be very comfortable and suited to my purposes. I spent considerable time en route studying my ‘gag’ book. Mr. Max Idelhaur has frequently criticised me on the basis that I seem to lack a sense of humor. He seems to feel that a person in my position — introducing novelties to the trade — should be somewhat of a jokester. Thus I have been attempting to remedy this deficiency by copying down what show people, I believe, call ‘bits of business.’
I was fondly assuming that this trip would be a success. I was positive that our Mr. Darben would be entranced with the Wiggly, a glittering and life-like cockroach animated by a small and efficient rubber band motor. Indeed, I believed that our new Super-Dribble Glass would please him. It is based on a new principle. Instead of the fluid in the glass merely dripping through holes onto the user’s necktie, the entire bottom of the glass is false and activated by a concealed spring, so that once the glass is tipped up the bottom slide, up sharply, thrusting the entire contents of the glass into the user’s face with considerable force. But the third item I was introducing seemed to have sure-fire possibilities for the small-fry trade. It is a very lifelike reproduction of the Army Colt.45 automatic pistol. When the trigger is pulled it fires eight of our loudest caps in rapid succession, makes a very lifelike reproduction of the sound of a fire siren, and gives off a sharp odor of cordite.
As usual I had a compartment. On the night before our arrival in Pacific City a most peculiar thing happened. Had I known then what I now know, I would most certainly have denied that peculiar man’s request. He was a most unwholesome type.
Just as I was about to retire, he tapped at my door. I admitted him. He said, “Jack, I wonder’f you’d do a guy a favor.”
“My name,” I said, “is not Jack. It is Omar Dudley.”
“Omar, you look like a nice guy.” I thanked him for that comment. He was weaving a bit more than the motion of the train should have caused. He gave off a distinct odor of hard spirits. As I feel a salesman should keep his wits about him, I seldom drink. When I do, I prefer a white mint frappe after a good dinner.
“I saw you come in this compartment, Omar.” Though he kept smiling, he seemed to be under considerable strain. “Some people I don’t want to meet up with have got hold of my compartment number, Omar. Maybe they’ll be piling on the train at the next stop to wake me up, and I’m a fella needs his sleep. Now if they can’t find me, I’ll be all set. I’m dead for sleep. So I wonder’f you’d do a guy a favor and trade compartments.”
“People who awaken other people are most inconsiderate,” I said.
“They sure are,” he agreed, “and here’s twenty bucks for your trouble.”
“My good man, I do not want to accept money for a little favor like this.”
“As I said before, you are a nice guy, Omar.”
He seemed to be the type that it is easier to humor than it is to get rid of, so we traded compartments with what seemed to me to be unseemly stealth. He brought his single bag to my compartment and I took my bag and my box containing our three new items to his compartment. When it was done, he seemed overcome with enormous relief.
Nothing would do but I had to accompany him to the club car for a nightcap. His compartment was near mine and the club car was four cars toward the head of the train.
I sat beside him in the club car and ordered a ginger ale. He had an offensive laugh. He was in gay spirits until suddenly two other men entered the club car. They seemed to be of the same type as my new friend, who had told me his name was Smith. As soon as they entered he became exceptionally nervous. He licked his lips repeatedly.
When he departed, he was must rude. He did not pause to say goodnight. He merely bounded up and scurried back the way we had come. The two men followed him quickly and quietly.
Without giving the matter any more thought, I retired to my compartment.
I awakened in the morning when the train had already stopped under its long shed in the yards of Pacific City. I whistled as I shaved at the compartment sink, because I was in high good spirits. Our Mr. Darben would expect me to address a meeting of all salesmen, and I was well prepared for the task.
There was a tap on the door and I reached over and unlatched it. Two rather frail looking young men came in. They both wore lurid examples of the more distasteful California style shirts.
“Yes?” I said politely.
They sat side by side on my unmake berth and one of them supplied cigarettes for both. “Take your time,” said the slightly more sallow one.
“I certainly shall, my good man. But I am slightly confused as to your purpose.”
“You expected an escort, didn’t you?” the other one said.
I said, “When my employment has taken me to other areas, an escort has not been considered necessary.”
“This is hotter than you might think,” the sallower one said.
“Really? I thought Pacific City was quite cool this time of year.”
They both slapped their legs and guffawed. I blushed with pleasure.
They watched me finish dressing. I put my toilet articles in. my suitcase and fastened the straps. The sallower one said, “I didn’t notice no artillery.”
It took me a moment to figure out what he meant. And then I was intensely disappointed. There had been a leak somewhere. Our Zing-Bang Pistol was to have been a complete surprise.
I tapped the box, and sighed deeply. “It’s in there, gentlemen. I’m sorry you know about it.”
They both stared at me. “Know about it! What you think we’re playing out here? Marbles, maybe?”
“The turnover on marbles has been so disappointing that we’ve dropped the line,” I informed them.
Again they both dissolved into helpless laughter.
“Geez, you’re killin’ me,” the one with goldfish on his shirt said.
“Shall we go?” I asked.
They stood up.
One of them was kind enough to take my bag. I carried the package, of course. They accompanied me out through the station. One action struck me as quite peculiar. Just as we were about to go into the station proper, the goldfish one touched my arm and held me back while the other walked into the station, took a long look around, then turned and motioned to us.
“Can’t be too careful,” the goldfish one said.
I saw at once what he meant. Our strongest competitor in that area is the E-Z Fun Company. Though I have long know that any company which got its start through itching powder would probably stoop to any deviltry, I had not heretofore realized that they would employ actual violence in order to wrest from us our newest developments.
“Would they try anything right here in the station?” I asked.
“Brother, there’s enough at stake so they’d pot you right off the governor’s lap.”
I can only say that this did not astonish me too much, because I realized that this was our major California sales area — and in our business we have found that the residents of California, more than those of any other state, are willing to pay huge sums merely to disconcert and humiliate their fellow citizens. In one year alone we sold seventy-three thousand six hundred and forty rubber cocktail pickles in California.