Read Online Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester by Alfred Bester - Free Book Online Page A

nodded. “I’m educated,” he murmured.
    “Anybody named Buchanan is a sucker for this setup. It’s a switch on the Spanish Prisoner routine. I send them a letter. Tell ’em there’s a chance they may be one of the heirs. Do they want me to investigate and protect their cut in the estate? It only costs a small yearly retainer. Most of them buy it. From all over the country. And now you—”
    “Wait a minute,” Warbeck exclaimed. “I can draw a conclusion. You found out I was checking the Buchanan families. You think I’m trying to operate the same racket. Cut in … cut in? Yes? Cut in on you?”
    “Well,” Herod asked angrily, “aren’t you?”
    “Oh God!” Warbeck cried. “That this should happen to me. Me! Thank You, God. Thank You. I’ll always be grateful.” In his happy fervor he turned to Joe. “Give me the towel, Joe,” he said. “Just throw it. I’ve got to wipe my face.” He caught the flung towel and mopped himself joyously.
    “Well,” Herod repeated. “Aren’t you?”
    “No,” Warbeck answered, “I’m not cutting in on you. But I’m grateful for the mistake. Don’t think I’m not. You can’t imagine how flattering it is for a schoolteacher to be taken for a thief.”
    He got out of the chair and went to the desk to reclaim his wallet and other possessions.
    “Just a minute,” Herod snapped.
    The thin young man reached out and grasped Warbeck’s wrist with an iron clasp.
    “Oh stop it,” the doomed man said impatiently. “This is a silly mistake.”
    “I’ll tell you whether it’s a mistake and I’ll tell you if it’s silly,” Herod replied. “Just now you’ll do as you’re told.”
    “Will I?” Warbeck wrenched his wrist free and slashed Joe across the eyes with the towel. He darted around behind the desk, snatched up a paperweight and hurled it through the window with a shattering crash.
    “Joe!” Herod yelled.
    Warbeck knocked the phone off its stand and dialed Operator. He picked up his cigarette lighter, flicked it and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. The voice of the operator buzzed in the phone. Warbeck shouted, “I want a policeman!” Then he kicked the flaming basket into the center of the office.
    “Joe!” Herod yelled and stamped on the blazing paper.
    Warbeck grinned. He picked up the phone. Squawking noises were coming out of it. He put one hand over the mouthpiece. “Shall we negotiate?” he inquired.
    “You sonofabitch,” Joe growled. He took his hands from his eyes and slid toward Warbeck.
    “No!” Herod called. “This crazy fool’s hollered copper. He’s legit, Joe.” To Warbeck he said in pleading tones, “Fix it. Square it. We’ll make it up to you. Anything you say. Just square the call.”
    The doomed man lifted the phone to his mouth. He said, “My name is M. P. Warbeck. I was consulting my attorney at this number and some idiot with a misplaced sense of humor made this call. Please phone back and check.”
    He hung up, finished pocketing his private property and winked at Herod. The phone rang, Warbeck picked it up, reassured the police and hung up. He came around from behind the desk and handed his car keys to Joe.
    “Go down to my car,” he said. “You know where you parked it. Open the glove compartment and bring up a brown manila envelope you’ll find.”
    “Go to hell,” Joe spat. His eyes were still tearing.
    “Do as I say,” Warbeck said firmly.
    “Just a minute, Warbeck,” Herod said. “What’s this? A new angle? I said we’d make it up to you, but—”
    “I’m going to explain why I’m interested in the Buchanans,” Warbeck replied. “And I’m going into partnership with you. You’ve got what I need to locate one particular Buchanan … you and Joe. My Buchanan’s ten years old. He’s worth a hundred times your make-believe fortune.”
    Herod stared at him.
    Warbeck placed the keys in Joe’s hand. “Go down and get that envelope, Joe,” he said. “And while you’re at it you’d