Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“This poor devil,” said the doctor with dramatic effect, “is allergic to paper money. Whether it is something in the paper itself, or some dye in the ink used in the engraving, I can’t say. But I can say this: he can no more touch paper money, his own or somebody else’s, without having this happen to him, than I can fly out of that window.

“You will remember from the detective’s own testimony that this man had only coins on him at the time he was arrested. That was the result of instructions I myself gave him — a prescription, as a matter of fact, as much as if I had given him pills or capsules. His wife breaks a dollar or two every day — bills, you understand — and hands him the change when he leaves the house. That way he can make whatever small purchases are required without falling into the lamentable condition you see him in now.”

Al’s forehead was a ripple of parallel ridges. He wasn’t making believe either. No actor could have simulated the wish, the yearning, the compulsion to scratch that so obviously possessed Al. “And finally,” concluded the doctor, “I only wish to point out that had my patient actually taken the money he is accused of stealing, he could not have run as he did and then later stood perfectly still while being searched. He would have been squirming uncontrollably, scratching himself all over, as you see him doing right now. The arresting officer admitted nothing of the sort took place.”

The judge cleared his throat.

“It seems fair enough to assume, in view of what we have all witnessed with our own eyes, that the money could not possibly have been taken by the accused. It must have been taken by some other, unknown person, who somehow made good his escape in the crowd.” He addressed Al in an almost fatherly manner.

“You can thank Dr. Timmons for getting you out of what might have been very serious trouble. But you brought all this on yourself, Albert. Next time, don’t run from a parole officer when you see him coming towards you. These men are your friends, not your enemies. They are only trying to help you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Al meekly. He looked at his friend the detective, and his friend the detective looked at him. It was a most undecipherable look — as a cat looks at its friend, the mouse, and a mouse looks at its friend, the cat.

“Charges dismissed,” said the judge, with self-satisfaction.

Outside Joe walked a few steps with Al, toward where Rose was waiting. Joe had one arm slung over Al’s shoulder, giving him sound medical advice. “And from now on, see that you keep your hot little mitts off any stray money that happens to be floating around. I his is a trick that will work only once.”

“For Pete’s sake, what’d you do to me?” Al demanded.

Joe murmured, “A solution of itching powder, mixed with something to delay the action a few minutes, so I’d have time for my spiel.”

“How come it didn’t get you?”

“Skin-colored plastic gloves. I soaked them in it. You can’t tell unless you look close — they have the nails painted on, and I wore my ring on the outside. Dunk yourself in a hot tub when you get home,” he added. “It ought to wear off in about half an hour.” Al and Rose went walking off arm in arm, like the devoted man and wife they were.

“Mr. Bunker!” an urgent voice suddenly called out behind them.

Rose nudged Al sharply. “Better tum around and see what he wants. It’ll look funny if you don’t.”

“Ung-ung,” said Al in a calamitous undertone. He turned slowly.

It was the clerk of the court, panting with an inscrutable look on his face — a look impossible to describe unless you actually saw it.

“Would you mind — his Honor — I’m glad I caught up with you — you forgot to return his Honor’s ten dollars.”

He didn’t premeditate it, and yet, he told himself afterward, it all turned out better than if he had. Much better. He might have done all the wrong things, he told himself. Picked the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong weapon. Too much careful planning ahead might have made him nervous, as it had many another. In the effort to remember not to forget something, he might have forgotten something else. How often that had happened!

This way, there was nothing to forget — because there had been nothing to remember in the first place. He just walked through the whole thing “cold,” for the first time, without having had any rehearsal. And everything just seemed to fall into place — the right place, by itself. These hair-split timetables are very hard to stick to. Impromptu, the way he did it, the time element doesn’t become important. You can’t trip over a loose thirty seconds and fall flat on your face when there aren’t a loose thirty seconds to trip over.

The situation itself was old and trite. One of the oldest, one of the tritest. Not to him, of course, and not to her — it never is to those involved. It’s always new, first-time new.

To begin with, he was single, and had no troubles whatsoever to deal with. He had a car, he had a job, he had health, and he had good looks. But mainly, he had freedom. If he came home at ten o’clock or if he came at two, if he had one drink or if he had a few, there was no one but himself to keep score.

He was the personification of the male spirit, that restless roving spirit that can only get into trouble because it didn’t have any trouble to start with, that had no other way to go but — from lack of trouble into a mess of trouble.

And so we find him one star-spiked May evening, in a $95 suit, with $75 in his wallet, with a new convertible waiting outside to take him in any direction he wanted to go, and with a girl named Corinne in his arms — a very pretty Corinne too, dexterously dancing and spinning around together, breaking apart, coming together again, and above all (a favorite step of theirs) making an overhead loop of their two hands so that she could walk through it, turn, then go back through it again. All in excellent time and in excellent rhythm to the tune of The Night They Invented Champagne , played by an excellent band.

Beautiful to watch, but what a fatal dance that was, because — it was their first together. They should have turned and fled from each other in opposite directions.

Instead they went out to the car. She patted it admiringly as he beamed, proudly possessive as only a young male car-owner can be. Then they drove to where she lived, sat a while and watched the stars, and kissed and kissed, and watched the stars... and that was it.

Another night, another dance, same car, same stars, same kisses — or same lips, anyway. She got out to go in. He got out to keep her from going in. Then they both got in the car again and went to a motel... And that was it again.

After some time had gone by she asked him about marriage. But she didn’t get much of an answer. He liked it the way it was. She hadn’t asked him soon enough, or in the right order of things. So, afraid that she would lose him altogether, and preferring to have him this way rather than no way at all, she didn’t ask him again.

It was a peaceful, comfortable existence. It was definitely not sordid she was not a sordid girl. She was no different, in effect, from any other girl on her street who had stepped out and married. Only she had stepped out and not married. He was the first man she had ever loved, and it stopped there. The only thing was, she had left freedom of action, freedom of choice, entirely in his hands — which was a tactical error of the worst sort in the never-ending war between the sexes. She was a very poor soldier, for a woman. They were not actually living together. They were keeping company, one might say, on a permanent basis.