Collected Fiction, page 255
Then Johnny phoned Dinah, and soon afterward was in her apartment, gorging himself on steak and French fries. Dinah was greatly distressed, and sat on Johnny’s lap while he ate.
“I thought you didn’t love me any more, darling. I waited in the park for hours, and a horrid man spoke to me—”
“Oh, honey,” said Johnny, and stopped eating temporarily. It was quite awhile before a sudden memory interrupted proceedings.
“Oh-oh,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Nearly a quarter after five.” He reached out for Dinah’s small radio and turned it to WAZ. His mouth full of steak, he listened with a half-incredulous hope.
Uncle Billy was just ending his informal chat with the kiddies. Johnny recognized the signature. His eyes gleamed as the radio went on:
“This is station WAZ, the voice of Glencoe . . .” Exactly as he remembered it from last night! “. . . a quarter hour of Swing with Simon.” Then—“Flash! We bring you a special bulletin! Handsome Gallegher, the outlaw, whose career has topped Dillinger’s, has just been captured by government agents . . . found their quarry on the top story . . . fell to death . . . an unidentified young man, who was found unconscous . . .”
“What is it, darling?” Dinah asked.
Johnny gulped. “N-nothing, I guess. Only—listen!”
The voice continued: “We have just received word that the man held prisoner by the Gallegher gang is John Drake, clerk in a local music store. His story—”
“Johnny!” Dinah gasped. “That was you!”
“Sure . . . Sure.” But Johnny really wasn’t listening. He kissed Dinah firmly. “Honey, I think we’re going to town from now on. You can quit your job—we can get married—we’ll be rich—”
“Oh, honey,” Dinah said impractically. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”
HALF an hour later Johnny was unlocking the front door of Gensler’s Music Shop. He could scarcely wait to get his hands on the radio and assure himself that he wasn’t dreaming. But the set still sat quietly in the basement, an intricate tangle of wires surrounding it. Johnny’s hands were trembling as he clicked the switch and listened to the growing hum of power through the tubes.
Music came, low and sweet. That might mean anything. Johnny twirled the dial, but blank silence was the only response. Apparently the set could tune in on only one station and that a local one. He turned back to WAZ.
Camptown Races was being played. Johnny scurried upstairs, found a weekly radio program, and thumbed to the page he wanted. Presently he read: WAZ—6:00—Stephen Foster Melodies. And that was scheduled for Friday night.
Tonight was Thursday.
He scanned the pages feverishly. WAZ—6:15—The Whozit Quiz. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to wait.
At 6:15 the radio announced the Whozit Quiz.
“Jeepers!” Johnny gasped, finding it oddly difficult to believe. “I’m tuned in on tomorrow!”
“That’s swell,” said a familiar voice from the gloom of the staircase. “Lucky for me I always play my hunches.”
Johnny turned in time to see a slim, top-coated figure move slowly toward him—a mild-faced little man who wore pince-nez. He said tonelessly, “Bundy.”
“Why, sure,” the shyster criminal smiled. “I wasn’t with Gallegher when the G-men walked in. I had a hunch—” He waved toward a chair. “Sit down, bud. We’re going to have a talk.”
Johnny sank down, wetting his lips. “You’re going to k-kill me? So I won’t talk?”
“Relax,” Bundy said pleasantly. “You’re not going to be hurt. Not if that gadget of yours is as wonderful as I think it is. Now look.” He sat down facing Johnny, and put one hand confidingly on the young man’s knee. “I’m not one of these guys who don’t take stock in science. And when you busted in last night and started talking about your radio, I had a hunch. It was screwy, sure. But you knew Gallegher was in that hideout—and how could you know that?”
Johnny silently pointed to the radio. “Uh-huh. Now you might have got a tip-off somewhere, but you couldn’t know Gallegher would jump out the window when the cops closed in. So I just took a powder and waited to see what would happen.”
“You knew—I mean you left your pals there to be killed—”
Bundy smiled. “They were getting to be a nuisance. They were too hot. So I used ’em for guinea pigs. And it worked. Now I figure you’ve got something in that screwy radio of yours—and I want the dope.”
“Well—” Johnny said.
HE TALKED. Bundy listened, and also cocked an ear to the radio. It was not until seven o’clock that he was convinced. That was when Kate Smith came on, a day ahead of time.
“How the hell does it work?” Bundy asked.
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “It was just a lucky accident. I couldn’t do it again—I wouldn’t know how.”
“Well, don’t go fooling around with the connections!” Bundy’s voice was sharp. “You’ve got a gold mine there!”
“If I could only figure out the theory,” Johnny mumbled. “The way I see it—well, space is curved, Einstein says.”
“Oh, Einstein!”
“Yeah . . . A wave-impulse would eventually get back to its starting place. But it’d take billions of light-years. It’d have to travel around the entire universe. And this set receives programs sent out twenty-four hours in the future. Maybe—well, Einstein says time is a dimension, doesn’t he?”
“Why not?” Bundy remarked.
“Maybe time is curved too. And the radio waves make a full circle in time and keep going. They reach their starting point and then continue backwards in time.”
“The music goes round and round,” Bundy said. “And it comes out here. That’s the real point. Fair enough. I don’t understand the thing, and I bet you don’t either. But it doesn’t matter. We’ve got this radio, and it’s tuned in on tomorrow. So we’re going in partnership.”
Johnny gulped. “Look, Mr. Bundy—”
“Shut up. I’m thinking . . . I could take the radio with me, but I’m afraid to touch it. It’s set up just right now. And if we broke a connection—ouch! No, you’d better keep it right here. I move around a lot, anyway, and I couldn’t pack the thing with me. The cops would never get any ideas about you.”
Johnny felt vaguely insulted. “The radio’s mine!”
“And you’re too much of a sap to use it. What’s the set-up here?” You work in this place? Got a key, haven’t you?”
There were explanations. Bundy nodded. “I don’t need a key to get into this rattletrap store—I used a pick-lock tonight. But you’d better have a duplicate key made for me, anyway. From now on, we’re partners.”
The radio said, “We bring you the latest news bulletins.” Bundy whipped out pencil and paper. “Listen!” he said.
THERE wasn’t much news. But Bundy jotted down a few entries. White Star, an outsider, had won a big purse at Saratoga. A family named Brokaw had been killed in an auto accident . . .
“Fair enough,” Bundy said, pocketing the paper. “See the idea.”
“You’re going to place a bet on White Star?”
“Sure. And he’ll win tomorrow, won’t he?”
“Well—”
“We’ll see,” Bundy said confidently. “And this guy Brokaw—I’m going to look him up and take out an accident insurance policy on him. See?”
“But—” Johnny felt sick. There was something very nasty indeed in this ghoulish business. It was almost like murder.
Bundy said, “We’ll clean up. Now listen. I’ll give you a phone number, and you can call me whenever your boss is out. We’ll listen in on that goldmine—” He nodded toward the radio—“and find out what’s going to happen. But—don’t get any funny ideas. Because if I find any cops waiting for me here, it’d be just too bad for you. I’ve got friends who’ll do jobs for me—any sort of jobs.” The pale eyes glittered behind the pince-nez.
Johnny nodded weakly. “Okay. But—I’d rather not—”
“If you’d rather be dead—” Bundy chuckled and took a deck of cards from his pocket. “We’ll be here till midnight, anyway. There’ll be more news coming in. What’ll it be—blackjack or stud?”
“Stud, I guess.” Johnny watched dazedly as Bundy removed his topcoat, hung it on a convenient hook, and drew up a small packing-box.
The radio said, “Here comes Ben Bernie!”
Johnny felt sick.
WEEKS passed. Johnny was utterly miserable. His life had become one of furtive terror. Suppose Gensler found out? Suppose the police got on the trail? Suppose—a million things.
Bundy thrived. He was sporting diamonds now, as he took advantage of every important news item. And he kept Johnny’s nose to the grindstone, making him spend his nights chained to the radio. Johnny almost came to hate the device.
As for Dinah—she didn’t say much, but she was hurt, because Johnny neglected her. Explanations were impossible, and apologies were useless. Dinah didn’t argue, but her eyes were often pink.
Johnny felt like murdering Bundy. The man was a killer, ruthless and vicious. When the radio announced the secret arrival of a fortune in diamonds, delivered from Amsterdam to the city’s chief jewelry shop, Bundy smiled. The next day a truck was held up, its driver killed, and the diamonds stolen.
“I don’t see it,” Johnny said. “We heard Station WAZ announce that the diamonds arrived safely. But they haven’t arrived. You stole them today.”
Bundy laid down a tray. “One for me . . . You’re wrong. That radio never makes a mistake. I’ve got the message here.” He fished out an envelope. “I’m not saying I got those diamonds, of course, but . . . here’s the announcement. Quote. “The Franzen Jewelry Company today told a reporter that they expected a secret shipment of diamonds from Amsterdam. ‘By this time’ Mr. Franzen said at his home, ‘they should have arrived safely, so I can safely reveal the information.’ Unquote.”
“But—”
“Come on upstairs.” Bundy led the way to the back office and fiddled with a radio there. He got WAZ immediately. “Here’s what we heard last night. Just about this time.”
There were the usual news announcements, which they had heard before. Then—“The Franzen Jewelry Company today told a reporter—”
In the gloom they waited silently, but the announcement was identical in every respect. “See?” Bundy said. “You can’t change the future. Let’s go down. We might be spotted here.”
At midnight Bundy threw down his cards and went to get his overcoat. “I’m flying to Florida far a few days,” he said. “Be good while I’m gone. And keep records of the news.”
“Sure,” Johnny said dully. “Sure.
THE next day brought catastrophe.
Gensler, in a malignant cloud of rhubarb, told Johnny to clean out the cellar. “And get that home-made radio of yours out,” he snapped. “It’s using up too much electricity.”
“B—but I pay you for that—”
“Don’t argue,” Gensler requested. “Just take it away.”
Johnny felt his stomach nosedive. “Look, Mr. Gensler,” he said desperately. “I’ve got it connected just right now. I can’t duplicate those connections at home. If I take the radio out, I’ll ruin it!”
“Good!” said Gensler. “Then perhaps you’ll pay more attention to the business.”
All that day Johnny walked about in a daze. He thought of wiring Bundy, but he didn’t know where in Florida the man was. He knew Bundy would blame him for the dismantling of the radio. And Johnny felt quite certain he couldn’t connect the set a second time to get tomorrow’s broadcasts.
Hoping against hope, that night he listened to every newscast. There was only one that might help. The finals in the Indianapolis Speedway were being run, and Number Seven had taken prize money. Number Seven.
Johnny spent a sleepless night. The next day he was late to work. He had managed to raise three hundred dollars, by putting himself in debt for the next three hundred years.
Gensler was furious. “Loan companies phoning me all morning! Good God, Drake, what are you up to?”
“I want to buy the store,” Johnny said.
“Buy the—what? You’re crazy.”
“Look. How much would you take for the business?”
Gensler told him.
“Well, suppose I give you six hundred dollars tomorrow, for an option, and the rest in—uh—thirty days.”
“You can’t get the rest in thirty days,” Gensler said. “And I certainly won’t return that six hundred.”
Greed ultimately triumphed, and Johnny got his option. Time passed. Bundy did not return. The thirty days raced on toward their ruinous close. And Johnny haunted the radio.
ALMOST too late, the Santa Anita reports came in. Johnny had no capital. He begged, borrowed, and scrimped, laying dollar bets here, five dollar wagers there. He bet on baseball, regattas, golf, tennis, boxing, wrestling, and the annual frog-jumping contest in Calaveras. And, of course, he invariably won. But even by pyramiding his winnings, the total take mounted with horrifying slowness.
Yet Johnny came out on top, with a narrow margin to spare. He paid Gensler in full, took a bill of sale, and relaxed, safe for a time. Safe? Ha!
A few months ago, the thought of owning the music store would have been pure ecstasy. It meant nothing now. For he did not dare marry Dinah—it would mean making her a bride and a prospective widow at the same time. And—
“Johnny,” Dinah said once. “Tell me the truth. I won’t mind. Do you want to break off our engagement?” Under the impact of that, poor Johnny’s heart quivered convulsively and almost broke.
Then Bundy got back from Florida, bronzed, smiling, and full of plans for the future. He was delighted to hear that Johnny now owned the store.
“I should have thought of that before,” he said. “I’d have bought it for you. It’ll be a lot easier now that Gensler’s out of the way.”
“Sure,” Johnny said listlessly. “Listen, why don’t you let me give you the store and the radio? I want to get out of this racket.”
“Sorry. You’re too good a front. I couldn’t afford to lose you. And you know too much, anyway.” Bundy rubbed his hands together. “We’re going places from now on.” He hung his topcoat on its hook and then searched for cigarettes. “Hell, I’m out of smokes. Got any?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Well, I’ll run down to the corner and get a pack. Keep listening to that radio. From now on, no small-time jobs. Bruce Bundy’s on top, and he’s going to stay there.” The pince-nez glittered triumphantly as Bundy went lightly up the stairs and vanished.
Johnny stared at the radio, hating it, hating the music that drifted out from across the abyss of time. No way out. Things couldn’t get worse . . .
Oh—couldn’t they?
The hourly news broadcast came on. Johnny jotted down a few notes. Then he paused, his eyes widening.
“Run down today by a truck as he attempted to cross Fifth Street, John Drake, owner of a local music store, was killed instantly—”
“Oh my God!” said Johnny Drake, turning gray as an oyster. The radio had suddenly turned into an infernal machine. With horrified haste, Johnny switched it off and retreated into a corner, where he stared at nothing and wondered where that icy wind was coming from.
DINAH was surprised by his appearance the next evening. Johnny arrived whistling, bearing gifts of roses, wine, and candy. A hundred years seemed to have dropped from his face.
“Johnny!” she said. “What’s happened?”
“I’m in love,” he explained. “Make like a kiss! There!”
Dinah felt better than she had done in weeks. “Roses! And candy!”
“And champagne,” Johnny chuckled. “That isn’t all. Tomorrow, an engagement ring flowing with diamonds—dripping with ’em. Then we get married. Then I sell the store. Maybe we won’t be rich, but we’ll have enough to buy you ice cream cones every day.”
“No, you’re not crazy,” Dinah said thoughtfully. “But I don’t get it.” Johnny performed a few steps of a hornpipe. Then he dived for the radio. “Just about the right time. Listen to this, darling.”
Station WAZ was on the air, giving its hourly news broadcast. Johnny winked at Dinah. “Here it comes.”
“Run down today by a truck,” said the commentator, “as he attempted to cross Fifth Street, John Drake, owner of a local music store, was killed instantly—”
“Johnny!”
“It’s okay. Do I look dead?”
“No, but—you weren’t hurt?”
“I wasn’t near Fifth Street today, honey. Wait a minute. Listen to the rest of the broadcast. I didn’t hear any more last night—”
“What?”
“Why—n—nothing. Just listen.”
The radio was talking in a chattily informal manner. “This brings to a close our news summary. News of the hour on the hour. The next—one moment!” There was a pause.
“Flash! The man killed today by a truck on Fifth Street, erroneously identified as John Drake, has been recognized by police authorities as Bruce Bundy, notorious bandit and murderer! The error arose when a reporter on the scene examined the contents of Bundy’s topcoat pockets and found there papers, wallet, and an identification disk belonging to John Drake—”
Johnny switched off the radio. “So Bruce Bundy’s dead,” he murmured.
Dinah was staring. “Your wallet was found in his pocket? How—”
“Maybe somebody put it there,” Johnny said, smiling partly like Mona Lisa and partly like a Cheshire cat. “Anyhow, Bundy’s death was a pure accident. Nobody can blame me!”
“But why should they?”
For answer, Johnny stuffed a chocolate cream into Dinah’s mouth. “Never you mind. Just think about tomorrow. We’ve got to buy an engagement ring, look for a house, sell the store—” Dinah put her cheek against Johnny’s. “Do you think you should sell it? I could help you, and it’s a living.”
