Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

It Could Be Fatal by Clark Howard

One who adopts “the double standard” for himself may find that, like a swinging door, it can move in two directions.

The first call came on a Friday, at two o’clock in the morning.

The maid awakened Boyce Harper and told him the caller had said it was urgent.

“What is it, Boyce?” asked his wife, Jean, from the twin bed next to his.

“I don’t know.” He pushed himself up from the pillow and took the extension the maid was holding. “Hello,” he said sleepily.

“Mr. Boyce Harper? This is Carmichael Hospital calling. Is your mother Mrs. Eugenie Harper?”

“Yes. What is it? What’s happened?” He sat up now in alarm.

“I’m afraid she’s been in an accident, Mr. Harper. Can you get down here right away?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Boyce, already getting out of bed. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t think we’d better waste any time right now, Mr. Harper,” the caller replied. “It’s pretty serious. Just come to the receiving desk when you get here.”

“Certainly,” said Boyce. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”

His face had drained white by the time he replaced the receiver. “It’s mother,” he said to his wife. “She’s been in some kind of accident.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Jean, starting to get up.

“Don’t bother,” Boyce said coldly. “You don’t like mother; you never have. This is no time to start pretending you do.”

“All right,” his wife said, “have it your way.” She drew the covers back over her.

Harper dressed quickly and drove across town to Carmichael Hospital. When he arrived at the receiving desk, his hands were trembling and his stomach was jerking nervously. “I’m Boyce Harper,” he said. The hospital clerk looked at him incongruously.

“Who?”

“Boyce Harper,” he said impatiently. “My mother was brought here after an accident. They said I was to come right over.”

“They?” said the clerk, frowning. “Who do you mean?”

“Now look,” Boyce said hotly, “somebody called me an hour ago and said you had my mother here in serious condition and—”

“What’s your mother’s name?” the clerk interrupted.

“Eugenie Harper. Mrs. Eugenie Harper.”

The clerk flipped through a cardex file. “I’m sorry but I don’t have that name on the patient list. Maybe it was another hospital—”

“No, no, it wasn’t another hospital, it was this hospital. They said Carmichael Hospital.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but if her name isn’t in the patient index—”

“Let me speak to whoever’s in charge here,” Boyce demanded.

Thirty minutes later Boyce had been convinced by the hospital’s chief resident that his mother was not then nor had ever been in Carmichael Hospital. Completely confused, it now occurred to Boyce to telephone his mother’s house to see if she was there. She was — sound asleep, her housekeeper said. She had been in all evening.

Boyce stepped out of the booth and stood fuming in the hospital lobby. What a dirty, rotten trick to pull, he thought angrily. Who could be sadistic enough to do a thing like that to him? He swore softly and left the hospital.

Outside in the parking lot he found his right front tire flat. A thin four-inch nail had been driven into the casing.

And that had been the result of the first call.

Boyce Harper was a big man; big of body, big of face. He was handsome, with clean-cut features and dark, wavy hair slashed with steel gray. He had an engaging smile and an impressive manner. His bearing, his carriage, his dress, were all faultless.

At forty-one, Boyce was considered more than just successful. He operated a thriving real estate business and prided himself on being a self-made man. Actually, however, no description could have been farther from the truth. If anything had made Boyce Harper, it was his wife’s money and influence. Jean Harper was a successful lawyer. She had enjoyed a fantastic rise in the legal profession and might one day have been seriously considered for a judgeship. She had been a dedicated career woman, with no time for marriage. Then one day she decided to buy a house.

Boyce Harper had been the realty salesman who handled the transaction.

Jean had been the type of woman who was tailormade for the Boyce Harper smile, the Boyce Harper manner, the polished personality. She bought the house — and Boyce Harper.

It wasn’t long after they were married that Boyce began to capitalize on Jean. He used her money and he used her contacts. He began to build the Prestige Realty Company, Boyce Harper, President. He started becoming a big man, and he loved the part. Somehow it seemed right to Boyce that he should wear fine clothes and drive a fine car and rub elbows with fine people. He just seemed right for the role. In addition, he thoroughly enjoyed all the fringe benefits his position brought — the extra cash, the extra luxuries, the extra women. Particularly the extra women. Boyce Harper was living.

Then, with that first phone call, things began happening.

Exactly one week after the Carmichael Hospital incident, Boyce Harper was once again rudely awakened in the dead of night. This time it was not a simple telephone call. This time it was the eerie shriek of sirens, the glare of searchlights, the sounds of shouting voices and breaking glass.

Boyce leaped out of bed, his blood turning cold. Smoke! He smelled smoke!

He hurried out of the bedroom, giving no thought to the safety of his sleeping wife. The lights were on downstairs and he saw the maid talking with two rubber-coated firemen in the foyer. He ran downstairs.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“All under control now,” said one of the firemen. “Just some dead brush out back. A lot of smoke but not much fire. It could have blown into one, though. Lucky you called us when you did.”

“But — I didn’t call you,” Boyce said, frowning.

“Oh? Well, must have been one of your neighbors then. Say, we’re sorry we had to break your library windows like we did. It was hard to tell where all the smoke was coming from, and of course we can’t take any chances.”

Boyce shook his head dumbly. “No... no, of course not.”

“ ’Fraid we’ll have to write you a citation for all that dry brush, though,” said the other fireman. “It should have been cleaned out.”

“But I never saw any dry brush out there,” Boyce protested. “I don’t know anything about it.”

The fireman shrugged. “Sorry. It’s on your property. And it’s a violation.”

“Okay, okay,” Boyce said disgustedly. “Just give it to the maid.”

He left them in the foyer and went into the library. Broken glass littered the floor near the French doors. Cold night air was blowing into the room. He went over to the bar and poured himself a double portion of Scotch. His hand was trembling as he raised the glass to his lips. He hoped the liquor would calm his quaking stomach.

“Probably one of those crank clients of yours,” he accused his wife at breakfast the next morning. “I can’t think of anybody else crazy enough to do a thing like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jean said cooly. “Maybe it was one of your discarded girlfriends looking for a little revenge.”

“That’s not funny,” Boyce snapped.

“No, it isn’t,” she replied in a now icy voice. She threw her napkin down and left the table.

Boyce finished the meal alone. To hell with her, he thought. Let her think what she wanted. She was no further use to him anyway. He was made now; he didn’t need her. If it wasn’t for the publicity, the stigma attached to it, he’d discuss divorce with her. She probably wanted one as badly as he did. But he was afraid it would hurt the business. With prestige at stake one could not be too careful. He could not take a chance of blowing the whole thing now.

After breakfast Boyce left the house and drove to his office. “Fix me a Bromo,” he told his secretary first thing upon arrival. “My breakfast isn’t settling.”

“Yes, Mr. Harper. Incidentally, there was a call earlier about the Mitchell property. The message is on your desk. You said you wanted to handle that fisting personally.”

“Yes, I do. Thanks.”

Boyce found the message. It was from a Mr. Pierce and had a number for him to return the call. He dialed the number. Presently a voice answered: “Harry Pierce speaking.”

“Boyce Harper, Mr. Pierce. I understand you were inquiring about the Mitchell Building?”

“Yes, I was. I represent a group of businessmen who are interested in a building about that size. If we can work out a price, I am prepared to make a definite commitment at once. Can we get together this morning?”

“Well—” Boyce said hesitantly, “it’s pretty short notice.”

“I realize that, of course, and ordinarily I wouldn’t press the matter, but I’m due in St. Louis tonight and my plane leaves at two. And since I am authorized to close the deal myself, I thought you might—”

“By all means, Mr. Pierce,” Boyce said at once, sensing a quick sale of the quarter-million dollar property. “I’ll be glad to accommodate you.”

“Fine, fine. You can show me the property today, then?”

“Certainly. Suppose I meet you in the building manager’s office in an hour. That soon enough?”

“Yes, that’ll be fine.”

“You’ll find parking space in the rear if you’re driving,” Boyce added, already going into the merits of the building.

“Very good,” said Harry Pierce, “one hour then.”

Boyce hung up just as his secretary brought in the Bromo. “Postpone my appointments for this morning, Miss Lewis,” he told her. “I’ll be over at the Mitchell Building all morning.”

Forty minutes later Boyce parked behind the Mitchell Building and went into the manager’s office. The receptionist there told him that no one named Harry Pierce had arrived as yet. Boyce sat down to wait.

He waited a full hour. No one showed up. Boyce called his office and got the number Harry Pierce had left earlier. He called the number. The phone at the other end rang a dozen times before it was finally answered by a male voice.

“Harry Pierce, please,” Boyce said.

“Who?”

Boyce frowned. “Is there a Harry Pierce at this number?”

“You got me, Mac,” came the answer. “This here is a pay phone at Union Station.”

Boyce hung up. A clammy sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He hurried from the building back to the parking lot. Even before he got to the car he could see that another one of his tires was flat.

He stood there red-faced, looking down at the thin four-inch nail that had been driven into the casing. His stomach began to churn in outrage.

Boyce walked into his bedroom that night with a double bourbon-and-soda in his hand. Jean was just slipping into one of her cocktail dresses. Boyce sat down on the bed, glancing at the clock. It was after eight.

“Where are you going?” he wanted to know.

“Client conference,” Jean said easily.

Boyce grunted loudly. “What’s his name?” he asked sarcastically. She did not answer. Boyce took a long swallow from his glass. “I think you’ve found yourself a boyfriend,” he accused.

“And if I have?” she replied, turning to face him brazenly. “Don’t you think I should be entitled to one boyfriend? After all your girl friends?”

“What girl friends?” he demanded. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, of course I don’t,” Jean said acidly. “All those florist bills and jewelry bills and liquor bills; those are business expenses, I suppose.”

“Exactly!” he declared indignantly. “In real estate you have to do a certain amount of promoting. That’s business.”

“I’m sure it is,” she retorted. “Monkey business.” Jean Harper gave her hair a final pat and picked up her purse. “Don’t wait up for me, Boyce,” she said cooly. “I’ll probably be late. Very late.”

Boyce stared at the door his wife closed behind her. He flushed a deep red, then stood up suddenly and hurled his half-filled glass at the door. It shattered, spraying bourbon-and-soda all over the wall.

All right, he fumed silently. All right! Go ahead, my sweet wife, have a fling. But you’ll sure have to do some stepping to catch up with me. He picked up the bedroom phone and dialed a number.

“Hello,” said a female voice.

“Lana, this is Boyce. You alone?”

“Sure, Boyce, honey,” she said.

“Well, don’t go out. I’m coming over.”

He hung up and started changing clothes. Lana wasn’t much, he admitted; not beautiful by any means and certainly not the woman physically that his wife was; but she was easy, and that counted for something. She was at least better than being home alone.

He finished dressing and got his car out of the garage. It took him only a few minutes to drive to Lana’s apartment. She lived in a stucco court not far from his office and worked in the drugstore where he bought cigarettes sometimes. That was how he had picked her up.

He parked half a block down from her building and walked back. He should have picked up a present for her somewhere along the way, he thought. Lana was a sucker for little gifts; they always made her extra receptive. But to hell with it, he decided. It was too late now anyway.

She met him at the door, wearing tight capris and a turtleneck sweater that did not match, and with her mouth and eyes over-painted too much to suit him. Sometimes he wished Lana had a little more taste. But then, he reminded himself again, she was easy, and that counted too. Boyce took her in his arms and kissed her.

They sat on the sofa, each with a fresh drink. There was little talk; for some reason they never had much to say to each other. Lana sat wishing she had something to say, while Boyce was immersed in jealous thoughts of his wife. The only sound in the apartment was soft music filtering from the hi-fi speaker.

Then the phone rang.

Lana crossed the room to answer it. “Hello,” she said, then paused. After a few seconds she looked over at Boyce inquiringly and covered the mouthpiece with her palm. “It’s for you,” she said, puzzled.

“Me?” Boyce felt a flush of warmth creep up into his throat and his stomach leaped in four different directions. He went over and took the phone with a trembling hand.

“H-hello,” he said hesitantly, half expecting to hear Jean’s voice answering him. Instead he heard a male voice.

“Mr. Harper? This is the Ajax Garage. Understand you’ve been having a lot of flat tires lately. Wanted to let you know that we fix any flat for only one dollar and—”

“Listen, who is this?” Boyce demanded hotly. “What kind of game are you playing with me?”

There was a click at the other end. “Hello,” said Boyce. “Hello!” He hit the button several times to get a connection, but it was no use; the line was dead. Boyce slammed the receiver down.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, half to himself but loud enough for Lana to hear.

“But Boyce, honey,” the girl protested.

“Oh, shut up!” he snarled. He snatched up his coat and tie and hurried out of the apartment. Walking swiftly down the street he conjured up a mental picture of four flat tires. Just the thought of it made his stomach gurgle and jerk spastically. He cursed steadily under his breath.

When he got to his car, Boyce was surprised to see that all four tires were just as they should be; not one flat. Wrinkling his brow, he examined the vehicle inside and out. He found nothing unusual. The motor, he thought. Maybe whoever it is did something to the motor.

He got behind the wheel and cautiously turned on the ignition. The engine caught nicely and hummed quietly. Boyce shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. He drove slowly for two blocks, carefully testing the brakes, the lights, even the radio and horn. Everything worked perfectly. Sighing heavily, he settled back in the seat and depressed the accelerator, picking up speed.

Two blocks farther up the street the car began to smoke.

Fumes were seeping into the car through the heating system. Billows of smoke began trailing along both sides from beneath the hood. An acrid odor engulfed Boyce. He coughed several times and had to lower the window in order to breathe.

Luckily, there was an open service station at the next corner. Muttering new curses, Boyce pulled in and parked in front of the lube rack. The attendant came over to him.

“See if you can find out what’s causing all the smoke,” he said, wiping watery eyes with his handkerchief.

While his car was being checked, Boyce walked over to a vending machine and got a bottle of soda. By now his stomach was burning fiercely and felt as if it might erupt momentarily if he didn’t pour something cold into it.

Somebody must have followed him, he thought. There was no other way anyone could have known he was at Lana’s apartment. But who? And why? Could Jean possibly have a private detective on his tail? He doubted it. There was no reason for it. Jean couldn’t stand a divorce any more than he could; professionally, it would hurt her as much as it would him. Besides, a private detective wouldn’t pull all the stunts that were being pulled on him. No, there had to be some other explanation.

Boyce finished the drink and felt his stomach settle down a little. Maybe Jean had hit on it earlier, he thought. Maybe it was one of his extra-marital women trying to get even. There were enough of them. And he had certainly strung some of them along with pretty wild promises before finally dropping them when they called his bluff. Yes, it could be an old girl friend, all right. Of course, it was always a man who called, and it would have had to be a man to force those nails into his tires; still, a woman might be the instigator.

“Looks like somebody played a little joke on you, mister,” the station attendant said, walking over and interrupting Boyce’s thoughts.

“What do you mean?” asked Boyce.

“Well, there’s really nothing wrong with your car. All that smoke is just exhaust waste. Ordinarily it goes out the tailpipe, only your tailpipe is plugged up. Somebody shoved a potato in it.”

“A what?” Boyce said incredulously.

“Potato,” the attendant repeated. “The only sure-fire way to plug an exhaust is to shove a potato into it. Potatoes are moist under their skins; they stick to the inside of the tailpipe so no air can get through. Hard as the devil to get out, too. Have to scrape the inside with a knife. Probably take a while. You wanna wait?”

“No, I’ll come back for it,” Boyce said dully, his mouth agape slightly at the thought of a potato in his tailpipe.

The attendant moved away to begin work on the car. Boyce walked off the station lot and headed down the street, shaking his head in abject confusion. His stomach, temporarily cooled down by the soda, was on fire again. He turned in at the first cocktail lounge he came to.

At ten o’clock the following morning, Boyce lay stripped to the waist on an examination table in the offices of Dr. Phillip Redman. The doctor had just completed an examination of Boyce’s midsection and was making notations on Boyce’s medical record.

“Looks like an ulcer, Boyce,” Redman said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to make an appointment for you to have x-rays and a fluoroscope examination. In the meantime I want you on a bland diet, no fried dishes, no coffee, and, above all, no liquor. Understand?”

“How bad do you think it is?” Boyce asked, sitting up and putting on his shirt.

“Hard to say,” answered Redman non-committally. He made a few more notations, then put his pen aside and looked up openly at his patient. “How’s business, Boyce?” he asked. “You under any particular pressures, have any financial problems, anything like that?”

“No, of course not,” Boyce said. “I keep my business in perfect order. Why do you ask?”

Redman leaned back and lighted a cigarette. “An ulcer,” he explained, “is a breakdown of tissues, either of the skin itself or of the mucous membranes. It can stem from a variety of causes. The most common, ulcers are surface ulcers, such as coldsores. Then there are the internal types: gastric, peptic, duodenal and ordinary stomach ulcers. You probably have one of those four. All of them are normally caused by the action of acid gastric juices and nervous tension. It was nervous tension I had in mind when I asked if you had any unusual business worries.”

“I see,” said Boyce. “You think my nerves are causing all this?”

“Probably,” Redman admitted. He paused in thought for a moment, then said, “Boyce, I’m your doctor. I’m also Jean’s doctor. But more than that, I’m a friend. In both capacities, anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.”

“What are you getting at, Phil?” Boyce asked, smiling.

“Are you and Jean having domestic problems?”

Boyce forced a wider smile. “Certainly not!” he lied easily. “What ever gave you that idea?”

Dr. Redman shrugged. “It’s usually one or the other; either business or personal. I only want to help you, Boyce. I want to help you to help yourself. About seventy five per cent of curing an internal ulcer is up to the patient.”

“You just give the orders, Phil,” Boyce told him. “I’ll do whatever you say. Forget about what caused it.”

“All right,” Redman said, sighing heavily. He handed Boyce a printed sheet of paper. “For the time being follow this diet. Avoid alcoholic beverages and coffee. You might cut down on your smoking, too. But above all, Boyce, you’ve got to keep as calm as possible. No stress, no strain, no worry. An ulcer is like a volcano. When it reaches a certain degree of irritation, it’ll explode. We don’t want that.”

“I’ll watch myself, Phil,” Boyce assured him.

On his way out, Boyce noticed that Redman had a new receptionist. She was blonde and trim, very neat. He smiled engagingly as he passed her desk. As he expected, she smiled back. Young, he thought. He filed her away in his mind as a future possibility.

On the Monday morning after his visit to the doctor, Boyce called at the office of Ashton Graham, a wealthy broker who was planning to retire the following month. Graham intended to move to his villa in Nice and spend his declining years in the warm French sun. Before leaving, he wanted to dispose of several apartment buildings he owned on Park Avenue. The properties had a combined market value of over one million dollars.

For more than a week Boyce had been preparing to solicit the listing. He had arranged an appointment through a mutual friend. Then, brimming over with the Boyce Harper charm, he moved in for the kill.

“This certainly is a pleasure for me, Mr. Graham,” he said, smiling widely as he shook hands with the broker. “I’ve admired your firm in general — and you in particular — for quite a long time.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Graham, obviously pleased.

“I think it’s the prestige your firm has that sets it apart from the other brokerage houses,” Boyce went on. “I’ve always said there’s no substitute for prestige. And I’ve often wondered why Graham and Company had so much, while the other firms seemed to lack it. But now that I’ve met you personally, I think my question has been answered. It’s quite obvious now where that prestige came from.”

“Well,” said Graham, expanding a little as he soaked in the flattery, “I have tried to make my business just a little better than the rest. If I’ve been successful, it’s because I’ve prided myself on keeping the name of Graham and Company right up there on the top.”

“Pride,” Boyce said thoughtfully. “As always, it goes hand in hand with prestige.” He let his expression melt into a half-sad smile. “The business world is going to miss you, sir,” he added quietly.

“Well, we all have to quit sometime,” the broker replied in a melancholy voice. He fell silent for a moment, sighing reminiscently, then braced his shoulders and said, “But — right now we’re both still in business, so let’s get down to it. You wanted to discuss listing my buildings, I believe.”

“Yes, sir,” said Boyce, opening his briefcase. “I’ve drawn up a summary and outline of the services I can offer you, Mr. Graham. We have full advertising facilities and—”

Boyce was interrupted by Graham’s secretary entering the office. “Excuse me, Mr. Graham, but there’s a call for you. The party said it was urgent.” Graham nodded and picked up the phone. “Alton Graham speaking.” He listened quietly for a moment, then looked at Boyce with a frown. “What?” he said. “Is this some kind of joke?” Again he was silent, listening. Finally he said stiffly. “Yes, I’ll be happy to give him your message,” and hung up.

Alton Graham fixed Boyce Harper with a cold stare. “That was for you, Mr. Harper. It was a man. He said to tell you that you’d better stay away from his wife if you knew what was good for you.”

Wife! Boyce Harper thought frantically. Which one was he talking about? Then he suddenly recalled where he was and felt a warm flush creep into his face.

“Must be some practical joker, Mr. Graham,” he said nervously, forcing a smile.

“Possibly,” conceded Alton Graham, “but joke or not, it was in rather poor taste. Business is business, Mr. Harper.”

“Yes, I know, sir, but—”

“But nothing, Mr. Harper. I have the name of Graham and Company to protect. I’m sure you understand.”

Boyce’s shoulders sagged. He understood, all right. “I don’t suppose you’d care to have me leave this summary—?”

“I’m afraid not.” Alton Graham buzzed for his secretary. “Good day, Mr. Harper.”

Boyce fumbled with the papers and managed to get them back into his briefcase. He left Alton Graham’s office, still blushing. In the elevator, his stomach began to burn from the fresh acid being generated by his taut nerves. He dreaded going back to his car. He knew when he got there he would find a flat tire.

He was right. Right as rain.

“Now you listen to me, Boyce,” Dr. Redman said in an irritated voice, “you may be a couple of years older than me, and you may be a big shot businessman and all that, but I am your doctor and what I’m telling you is for your own good. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. I don’t know what your mental problem is but I do know what your physical problem is. It’s an ulcer and it’s a bad one!”

“You’re sure?” said Boyce.

“Positive. I’ve got all the results of your fluoroscopy and I’ve seen the X-rays on you. You’ve got a full-grown duodenal ulcer and it’s getting healthier every minute. And do you know why it’s getting healthier? Because you’re feeding it alcohol and caffein and nicotine and stomach acid. There’s a monster growing down there and you aren’t even trying to stop it!”

“I am trying, Phil,” Boyce said weakly.

“No, you’re not,” Redman accused. “Jean has told me how you’ve been drinking lately.”

Boyce’s mouth tightened. “You’ve got no right discussing this with Jean,” he said shortly.

Redman raised his eyebrows. “Oh? You’re my patient, aren’t you? She’s your wife, isn’t she? I think I have the right to try and find out what you’re killing yourself over.”

Boyce turned pale. “Killing myself—?”

“Exactly. You may not realize it, Boyce, but an ulcer can be a dangerous thing. At the rate you’re going, you’ll perforate the thing one of these days and then you will have had it.”

“What... what would happen?” Boyce asked nervously.

“That would depend on the circumstances. If they got you to the hospital in time, we could operate. If not, well—”

“I’d die?” Boyce swallowed down a dry throat.

“It’s quite possible,” Redman assured him.

“I see,” Boyce said slowly. He stared open-mouthed at Redman, nodding his head almost dumbly. Then he silently picked up his shirt and started dressing.

“Here,” Redman said, handing him a bottle of pills, “take one of these every time you start feeling tense or irritated. And for the last time, stay away from the liquor, understand?”

Boyce promised that he would. He slipped the bottle into his coat pocket and left. He did not even bother to smile at Redman’s new receptionist on his way out.

That night Boyce was alone in his library. He was slumped back in an easy chair with his feet propped up and a tall glass of milk on the table beside him. His face was relaxed — for the first time in days. He had just spent an hour forcing himself to calm down.

I’ve got to deal with this situation realistically, he told himself. Someone obviously hated him, was deliberately trying to cause him trouble. He did not know who or why, but that didn’t really matter at the moment. His primary concern right now was not to let it get him down. He had to prevent this — this scheme or whatever it was, from working. Later he would have time to find out who was doing it, and why. And when he did—

The phone rang. Boyce stretched over and picked up the extension. “Hello—”

“Good evening, Mr. Harper,” said a familiar voice. It was the same voice that had first called as Carmichael Hospital, later as Harry Pierce, finally as the Ajax Garage the night he had been with Lana.

“What do you want now?” Boyce asked wearily.

“Just wanted to inquire about your health,” the voice said pleasantly. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I have so many nice surprises planned for the future.”

Boyce’s stomach began to churn. “Who are you?” he said almost pleadingly. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Those are things you’ll never know,” the voice said. “I will tell you this much, though. In exactly one hour from now the worst thing yet is going to happen. So prepare yourself, old boy.”

There was a click then and the line went dead. Boyce sat holding the silent receiver, staring at it fearfully. The worst thing yet, he thought helplessly. One hour from now. He looked at the clock. It was one minute past nine.

Pain was slowly building up in his stomach. He fumbled in his pocket for the pills his doctor had given him. Quickly he swallowed one, drinking some of the milk after it. He leaned back in the chair, trying to make his body relax in spite of the turmoil in his mind.

The worst thing yet. One hour from now.

Boyce sat absolutely still for the next twenty minutes, but he was unable to calm either his thoughts or his ulcer. The pain increased steadily. He took out the bottle of, pills and read the label: ONE TO FOUR TABLETS AS NEEDED FOR PAIN. He shook a second pill into the palm of his hand and took it with another swallow of milk. Then he settled back and tried once more to relax. The hands on the clock moved down to nine-thirty.

What was going to happen? he wondered frantically. And who was causing it, who was doing these things to him? If he only knew who, then he would probably know why. For the next few minutes he concentrated his thoughts on who. He tried to think of all the people he had used badly. This led to thoughts of all the women he had deceived. Then to all those who had been cheated by him in one way or another. Then to others, detached persons, who had been hurt indirectly by the things he had done, the way he had lived. His head began to cloud with names and faces that multiplied as fast as he could think. The scope of his dishonor was endless.

It’s no use, he thought. There had been too many of them over the years. It would be easier to count those he had been honest with.

He looked at the clock. Ten before ten. He rubbed his stomach, wishing he could erase the pain. But he could not do that any more than he could erase the past. As the fury inside him increased, he bent forward in the chair, doubled over with pain. With shaking hands he managed to get two more pills into his mouth and down them with the last of the milk, seeking relief.

As the minute hand moved up toward the hour of ten, the pain in his stomach mounted to white-hot pitch and leveled off into sheer agony. Then it seemed as if all his internal organs ruptured and erupted at once, putting a torch to every nerve-end in his body. He fell forward onto his knees, his face draining of color. Into his mind came the memory of his doctor’s warning about the dangers of a perforated ulcer. A dread of death filtered through the pain and he struggled to his feet and managed to reach the phone. He dialed the operator.

“My name — is — Boyce Harper—” he said carefully, giving the girl his address. “Get — me — an — ambulance—”

At midnight Jean Harper was sitting in the hospital waiting room. She looked up as Phillip Redman walked in, still wearing his soiled surgical smock. He came over and stood next to her chair. She handed him a lighted cigarette she had been smoking and he took a long drag.

“Was the operation successful?” she asked.

Redman smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

“He’s dead then?”

Redman nodded again. “Yes.”

Jean Harper sighed heavily. “Do you think there’ll be any trouble?”

“I don’t see why there should be,” Redman answered. “I’m his doctor; I’ll make out the death certificate. You’re his lawyer; you’ll probate his estate.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “Did you destroy the rest of those pills I gave him?”

“Yes, down the drain.”

“Good.” He patted her hand reassuringly. “No, I don’t think there will be any trouble.”

Boyce Harper’s widow nodded her head slowly. “Well, that’s that.”

“You’re not sorry, are you?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation, “he had it coming.”

“He certainly did,” Redman agreed.

Jean Harper smiled up at the doctor. “Why don’t you change and we’ll drive over to the house for awhile. I’ll make some coffee.”

“I could use some,” Redman said, looking down at his bloody smock. “It was a nasty operation.”

“I suppose it would be,” she said, “with Boyce for a patient.”

Dr. Redman nodded in silent agreement.