I Will Fear No Evil Read online

  “My machine is instructed to spell that word as ‘scoundrel,’ Mr. Smith.”

  “Thank you, Eunice.”

  “Where is he now, Johann?”

  “In Buenos Aires.”

  “Can you travel that far?”

  “Oh, no! Well, perhaps I could, in a plane big enough for these mechanical monstrosities they use to keep me alive. But first we need that body. And the best possible medical center for computer-assisted surgery. And a support team of surgeons. And all the rest. Say Johns Hopkins. Or Stanford Medical Center.”

  “I venture to say that neither one will permit this unfrocked surgeon to operate.”

  “Jake, Jake, of course they will. Don’t you know how to bribe a university?”

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “You do it with really big chunks of money, openly, with an academic procession to give it dignity. But first you find out what they want—football stands, or a particle accelerator, or an endowed chair. But the key is plenty of money. From my point of view it is better to be alive and young again, and broke, than it is to be the richest corpse in Forest Lawn.” Smith smiled. “It would be exhilarating to be young—and broke. So don’t spare the shekels.

  “I know you can set it up for Boyle; it’s just a question of whom to bribe and how—in the words of Bill Gresham, a man I knew a long time ago: ‘Find out what he wants—he’ll geek!’

  “But the toughest problem involves no bribery but simply a willingness to spend money. Locating that warm body. Jake, in this country over ninety thousand people per year are killed in traffic accidents alone—call it two hundred and fifty each day—and a lot of those victims die of skull injuries. A fair percentage are between twenty and forty years old and in good health aside from a broken skull and a ruined brain. The problem is to find one while the body is still alive, then keep it alive and rush it to surgery.”

  “With wives and relatives and cops and lawyers chasing along behind.”

  “Certainly. If money and organization weren’t used beforehand. Finders’ fees—call them something else. Life-support teams and copters equipped for them always standing by, near the worst concentrations of dangerous traffic. Contributions to highway patrol relief funds, thousands of release forms ready to sign, lavish payment to the estate of the deceased—oh, at least a million dollars. Oh, yes, nearly forgot—I’ve got an odd blood type and any transplant is more likely to take if they don’t have to fiddle with swapping blood. There are only about a million people in this country with blood matching mine. Not an impossible number when you cut it down still further by age span—twenty to forty—and good health. Call it three hundred thousand, tops. Jake, if we ran big newspaper ads and bought prime time on video, how many of those people could we flush out of the bushes? If we dangled a million dollars as bait? One megabuck in escrow with Chase Manhattan Bank for the estate of the accident victim whose body is used? With a retainer to any prospective donor and his spouse who will sign up in advance.”

  “Johann, I’m durned if I know. But I would hate to be married to a woman who could collect a million dollars by ‘accidentally’ hitting me in the head with a hammer.”

  “Details, Jake. Write it so that no one can murder and benefit by it—and suicide must be excluded, too; I don’t want blood on my hands. The real problem is to locate healthy young people who have my blood type, and feed their names and addresses into a computer.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Smith, but have you thought of consulting the National Rare Blood Club?”

  “Be darned! I am growing senile. No, I hadn’t, Eunice—and how do you happen to know about it?”

  “I’m a member, sir.”

  “Then you’re a donor, dear?” Smith sounded pleased and impressed.

  “Yes, sir. Type AB-Negative.”

  “Be darned twice. Used to be a donor myself—until they told me I was too old, long before you were born. And your type—AB-Negative.”

  “I thought you must be, sir, when you mentioned the number. So small. Only about a third of one percent of us in the population. My husband is AB-Negative, too, and a donor. You see—well, I met Joe early one morning when we were both called to give blood to a newborn baby and its mother.”

  “Well, hooray for Joe Branca! I knew he was smart—he grabbed you, didn’t he? I had not known that he was an Angel of Mercy as well. Tell you what, dear—when you get home tonight, tell Joe that all he has to do is to dive into a dry swimming pool . . . and you’ll be not only the prettiest widow in town—but the richest.”

  “Boss, you have a nasty sense of humor. I wouldn’t swap Joe for any million dollars—money won’t keep you warm on a cold night.”

  “As I know to my sorrow, dear. Jake, can my will be broken?”

  “Any will can be broken. But I don’t think yours will be. I tried to build fail-safes into it.”

  “Suppose I make a new will along the same general lines but with some changes—would it stand up?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said it yourself. Senility. Any time a rich man dies at an advanced age with a new will anyone with an interest in breaking it—your granddaughters, I mean—will try to break it, alleging senility and undue influence. I think they would succeed.”

  “Darn. I want to put Eunice down for a million so she won’t be tempted to kill her AB-Negative husband.”

  “Boss, you’re making fun of me again. Nasty fun.”

  “Eunice, I told you that I do not joke about money. How do we handle it, Jake? Since I’m too senile to make a will.”

  “Well, the simplest way would be an insurance policy with a paid-up single premium . . . which would cost, in view of your age and health, slightly more than a million, I surmise. But she would get it even if your will was broken.”

  “Mr. Salomon, don’t listen to him!”

  “Johann, do you want that million to revert to you if by any long chance you outlive Eunice?”

  “Mmm . . . no, if it did, a judge might decide to look at the matter—and God himself doesn’t know what a judge will do these days. Make the Red Cross the residuary. No, make it the National Rare Blood Club.”

  “Very well.”

  “Get it paid up first thing in the morning. No, do it tonight; I may not live till morning. Get an underwriter—Jack Towers, maybe—get Jefferson Billings to open that pawnshop of his and get a certified check. Use my power of attorney, not your own money, or you might be stuck for it. Get the signature of a responsible officer of the insurance company; then you can go to bed.”

  “Yes, Great Spirit. I’ll vary that; I’m a better lawyer than you are. But the policy will be in force before night—with your money, not mine. Eunice, be careful not to kick those hoses and wires as you go out. But tomorrow you needn’t be careful—as long as you don’t get caught.”

  She sniffed. “You each have a nasty sense of humor! Boss, I’m going to erase this. I don’t want a million dollars. Not from Joe dying, not from you dying.”

  “If you don’t want it, Eunice,” her employer said gently, “You can step aside and let the Rare Blood Club have it.”

  “Uh . . . Mr. Salomon, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Eunice. But money is nice to have, especially when you don’t have it. Your husband might be annoyed if you turned down a million dollars.”

  “Uh—” Mrs. Branca shut up.

  “Take care of it, Jake. While thinking about how to buy a warm body. And how to get Boyle here and get him whatever permission he needs to do surgery in this country. And so forth. And tell—no, I’ll tell her. Miss MacIntosh!”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith?” came a voice from the bed console.

  “Get your team in; I want to go to bed.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Dr. Garcia.”

  Jake stood up. “Good day, Johann. You’re a crazy fool.”

  “Probably. But I do have fun with my money.”

  “So you do. Eunice, may I run you home?”

&n
bsp; “Oh, no, sir, thank you. My Gadabout is in the basement.”

  “Eunice,” said her boss, “can’t you see that the old goat wants to take you home? So be gracious. One of my guards will take your Gadabout home.”

  “Uh . . . thank you, Mr. Salomon. I accept. Get a good night’s sleep, Boss.” They started to leave.

  “Wait, Eunice,” Smith commanded. “Hold that pose. Jake, pipe those gams! Eunice, that’s obsolete slang meaning that you have pretty legs.”

  “So you have told me before, sir—and so my husband often tells me. Boss you’re a dirty old man.”

  He cackled. “So I am, my dear . . . and have been since I was six, I’m happy to say.”

  2

  Mr. Salomon helped her into her cloak, rode down with her to the basement, waved his guards aside and handed her into his car. Shotgun locked them in, got in by driver-guard and locked that compartment. As she sat down Mrs. Branca said, “Oh, how big! Mr. Salomon, I knew a Rolls was roomy—but I’ve never been in one before.”

  “A Rolls only by courtesy, my dear—body by Skoda, power plant by Imperial Atomics, then Rolls-Royce pretties it and backs it with their reputation and service. You should have seen a Rolls fifty years ago, before gasoline engines were outlawed. There was a dream car!”

  “This one is dreamy enough. Why, my little Gadabout would fit inside this compartment.”

  A voice from the ceiling said, “Orders, sir?”

  Mr. Salomon touched a switch. “One moment, Rockford.” He lifted his hand. “Where do you live, Eunice? Or the coordinates of wherever you want to go?”

  “Oh. I’ll go home. North one one eight, west thirty-seven, then up to level nineteen—though I doubt that this enormous car will fit into the vehicle lift.”

  “If not, Rocky and his partner will escort you up the passenger lift and to your door.”

  “That’s nice. Joe doesn’t want me to ride passenger lifts by myself.”

  “Joe is right. So we’ll deliver you like a courier letter. Eunice, are you in a hurry?”

  “Me? Joe expects me when I get there, Mr. Smith’s working hours being so irregular now. Today I’m quite early.”

  “Good.” Mr. Salomon again touched the intercom switch. “Rockford, we’re going to kill some time. Uh, Mrs. Branca, what zone for those coordinates? Eighteen something?”

  “Nineteen-B, sir.”

  “Find a cruising circle near nineteen-B; I’ll give you coordinates later.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Salomon went on to Eunice. “This compartment is soundproof unless I thumb this switch; they can talk to me but can’t hear us. Which is good as I want to discuss things with you and make phone calls about that insurance policy.”

  “Oh! Surely that was a joke?”

  “Joke, eh? Mrs. Branca, I have been working for Johann Smith for twenty-six years, the last fifteen with his affairs as my sole practice. Today he made me de-facto chairman of his industrial empire. Yet if I failed to carry out his orders about that insurance policy—tomorrow I would be out of a job.”

  “Oh, surely not! He depends on you.”

  “He depends on me as long as he can depend on me and not one minute longer. That policy must be written tonight. I thought you had quit fretting when you learned that you could step aside for the Rare Blood Club?”

  “Well, yes. Except that I’m afraid I might get greedy and take it. When the time comes.”

  “And why not? The Rare Blood Club has done nothing for him; you have done much.”

  “I’m well paid.”

  “Listen, you silly child, don’t be a silly child. He wanted you to have a million dollars in his will. And he wanted you to know it so that he could enjoy seeing your face. I pointed out that it is too late to change his will. Even this insurance gimmick is chancy if his natural heirs get a look at the books and discover it—which I shall try to prevent—as a judge might decide it was just a dodge—as it is—and require the insurance company to pay it to his estate. Which is where the Rare Blood Club comes in handy; they would probably fight it and win, if you cut them in for half.

  “But there are other ways. Suppose you knew nothing about this and were invited to the reading of his will and discovered that your deceased employer had bequeathed you a lifetime income ‘in grateful appreciation of long and faithful service.’ Would you turn it down?”

  “Uh—” she said, and stopped.

  “ ‘Uh,’ ” he repeated. “Exactly ‘uh.’ Of course you wouldn’t turn it down. He’d be gone and you’d be out of a job and there would be no reason to refuse it. So, instead of a lump sum so big it embarrasses you, I’m going to write a policy that sets up a trust to pay you an annuity.” He paused to think. “A safe return, after taxes, on a trust is about four percent. What would you say to around seven hundred and fifty a week? Would that upset you?”

  “Well . . . no. I understand seven hundred and fifty dollars much better than I understand a million.”

  “The beauty of it is that we can use the principal to insure against inflation—and you can still leave that million, or more, to the Rare Blood Club when your own Black Camel kneels.”

  “Really? How wonderful! I never will understand high finance.”

  “That’s because most people think of money as something to pay the rent. But a money man thinks of money in terms of what he can do with it. Never mind, I’ll fix it so that all you need to do is spend it. I’ll use a Canadian insurance company and a Canadian bank, as each will be stuffy about letting a U.S. court look at its records. In case his granddaughters find out what I’ve done, I mean.”

  “Oh. Mr. Salomon, shouldn’t this money go to them?”

  “Again, don’t be silly. They are harpies. Snapping turtles. And had nothing to do with making this money. Do you know anything about Johann’s family? Outlived three wives—and his fourth married him for his money and it cost him millions to get shut of her. His first wife gave him a son and died in doing so—then Johann’s son was killed trying to capture a worthless hill. Two more wives, two divorces, a daughter by each of those two wives resulting in a total of four granddaughters—and those ex-wives and their daughters are all dead, and their four carnivorous descendants have been waiting for Johann to die and sore at him because he hasn’t.”

  Salomon grinned. “They’re in for a shock. I wrote his will so as to give them small lifetime incomes—and chop them off with a minimal dollar if they contest. Now excuse me; I must make phone calls, then take you home and run over to Canada and nail this down.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you mind if I take off my cloak? It’s rather warm.’”

  “Want the cooling turned up?”

  “Only if you are too warm. But this cloak is heavier than it looks.”

  “I noticed it was heavy. Body armor?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m out by myself quite a lot.”

  “No wonder you’re too warm. Take it off. Take off anything you wish to.”

  She grinned at him. “I wonder if you are a dirty old man, too. For another million?”

  “Not a durned dime! Shut up, child, and let me phone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Branca wiggled out of her cloak, then raised the leg rest on her side, stretched out, and relaxed.

  Such a strange day! . . . am I really going to be rich? . . . doesn’t seem real . . . well, I’m not going to spend a dime —or let Joe spend it—unless it’s safe in the bank . . . learned that the hard way first year we were married . . . some men understand money—such as Mr. Salomon, or Boss—and some don’t, such as Joe . . . but as sweet a husband as a girl could wish . . . as long as I never again let him share a joint account . . .

  Dear Joe! . . . those are pretty ‘gams’ if you do say so as shouldn’t, you bitch . . . ‘Bitch—’ . . . how quaint Boss is with his old-fashioned taboos . . . always necessary not to shock him—not too much, that is; Boss enjoys a slight flavor of shock, like a whiff of garlic . . . especially necessary not to annoy him with language ev
erybody uses nowadays . . . Joe is good for a girl, never have to be careful around him . . . except about money—

  Wonder what Joe would think if he could see me locked in this luxurious vault with this old goat? . . . probably be amused but best not to tell him, dearie; men’s minds don’t work the way ours do, men are not logical . . . wrong to think of Mr. Salomon as an ‘old goat’ though; he certainly has not acted like one . . . you had to reach for that provocative remark, didn’t you, dear? . . . just to see what he would say . . . and found out! . . . got squelched—

  Is he too old? . . . hell, no, dear, the way they hike ‘em up with hormones a man is never ‘too old’ until he’s too feeble to move . . . the way Boss is . . . not that Boss ever made the faintest pass even years back when he was still in fair shape . . .

  Did Boss really expect to regain his youth by transplanting his brain? . . . arms and legs and kidneys and even hearts, sure, sure—but a brain? . . .

  Salomon switched off the telephone. “Done,” he announced. “All but signing papers, which I’ll do in Toronto this evening.”

  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, sir.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I do appreciate it. And I must think about how to thank Boss—didn’t thank him today but didn’t think he meant it.”

  “Don’t thank him.”

  “Oh, but I must. But I don’t know how. How does one thank a man for a million dollars? And not seem insincere?”

  “Hmm! There are ways. But, in this case, don’t. My dear, you delighted Johann when you showed no trace of gratitude; I know him. Too many people have thanked him in the past . . . then figured him as an easy mark and tried to bleed him again. Then tried to knife him when he turned out not to be. So don’t thank him. Sweet talk he does not believe; he figures it’s always aimed at his money. I notice you’re spunky with him.”

  “I have to be, sir, or he tromps on me. He had me in tears a couple of times—years back—before I found out he wanted me to stand up to him.”