Kill as Directed

Fifteen

Monday was the first day of August, and on Monday the first day of August, at ten minutes past two, the phone rang in the office of Dr. Harrison Brown and the operator said, “I have a person-to-person call from San Francisco for Dr. Harrison Brown.” His girl transferred the call, and Dr. Harrison Brown said, “This is Dr. Harrison Brown.”

“One moment, please. Go ahead, please.”

A voice said, “Dr. Harrison Brown?” It was a thick voice, deeply male, with a rasp in it.

“This is Dr. Brown.” He could feel the sweat spring out.

“Hi, Doc. This is Jackie Jill’s uncle, her Uncle Joe. Remember me? You treated me last year when I was in New York. Hiya, Doc.”

A snake of fear crept along the spine of Dr. Harrison Brown. He sat up straight. “Yes?” he said. “Yes?”

“I need a favor, Doc.”

“A favor?” He groped for a tissue, swabbed his forehead.

“My brother Ben died last week. In New York. He was cremated, see—”

“Yes?”

“It says in my brother’s will that he wants his ashes thrown into the ocean, the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I see.”

“I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m gonna be stuck here in Frisco for a long time and I couldn’t think of nobody in New York but you. Suppose you could pick up the package of ashes, the urn, or whatever it is, Doc, and as a special favor carry out my brother’s last wishes? I’d be awful grateful.”

Harry moistened his lips. “Where is it? Where do I pick it up?”

“Well, the funeral parlor is up in Yonkers. You know, where they got the race track, the trotters? It ain’t far from the track. Allerton Avenue. Smith and Smith Funeral Chapel. Ask for the head undertaker, Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith. Would you do this for me, Doc?”

“When? What time?”

“Tomorrow, one o’clock. I called Mr. Smith and I told him you’d probably be coming. After all, I did do you that favor, that time I was in New York, lending you the thousand bucks. Say, come to think of it, I could kill two birds with one stone, like they say. I heard you were doing pretty good now, Doc — could you possibly pay up that thousand you owe me? I mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I ain’t paid Smith and Smith yet for the funeral, and they won’t release my brother’s ashes till they get their money. By a coincidence, it comes to just a thousand bucks. You could pay them for me and pick up the ashes and we’d be all square. Okay, Doc?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I guess you better make it cash. Can you make it cash?”

“Yes. What name? The deceased, I mean?”

“Oh, my brother. I told you — Benny. Benjamin A. Smith. Common name, huh, Doc? Undertakers named Smith, stiff named Smith. Poor old Ben — he lingered a long time with that cancer. Well! We all set, Doc? You got the name and address?”

“I marked them down.”

“One o’clock tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring the money. And I thank you very much.”

And the wire went dead as Uncle Joe, in San Francisco, hung up.

That afternoon Dr. Harrison Brown called an associate, Dr. Manley Lamper, and arranged for Dr. Lamper to take over his practice during the months of September and October. He also drew up a letter notifying his patients that he would be away for the months of September and October and that his practice would be handled during that period by Dr. Manley Lamper, address and telephone number. He instructed his girl to go through the files and send a copy of the letter to all his patients, and to make a note to refer all calls beginning September first to Dr. Lamper.

The next morning, on his way to the office, he stopped into his bank and came out with a plain envelope containing ten $100 bills.