People do strange things—an example,
committing suicide for no apparent reason.
Unless it's time for a change of identity!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Fidwell," I said, "why don't you go lose yourself!"
He stared at me uncomprehendingly for a full three seconds. Then aglimmer of understanding leaped into his beady little eyes and he gotup from the chair before my desk and started happily toward the outerdoor of the office.
"Okay, Mr. Nelson," he said over a thin shoulder. "Just whatever yousay."
"Better still," I amended, tapping the glass top of my desk withmanicured nails, "go shoot yourself."
He nodded blithely. "Just as you say, T. J. Just as you say." Healways called me T. J. when he felt that I was giving him a measure ofattention.
"Wait," I said, as he reached the door. "Do you by any chance own agun?"
He turned, a frown spreading between his mousy brows. "No," he said,slowly, "I don't." Then he brightened. "But I could purchase one!"
"Fine," I said, tossing him a bill. "Buy a couple bullets for it, too."
He caught the money, smiled, nodded, and left—closing the door softlyand respectfully behind him.
Humming a merry little tune, I turned to the papers upon my desk. Thepartnership contract between James Fidwell and T. J. Nelson. If one ofthe partners should die from any cause, the other partner would becomesole owner of the Remey Company....
They seemed quite in order. I shuffled them into a neat pile and cutan intricate little dance step on my way to the files with them. Thepartnership was soon to reach a happy culmination.
Suicide has it all over murder, you know. No silly questions from thepolice. No mess to clean up. No body to get rid of. (The relativesusually take care of all that.) No bother at all, really.
I skipped back to the desk, flipped up the telephone, and began pokinga finger into the little holes in the dial.
"Mr. Pasquamine?" I chimed, after hearing the faint click at the otherend of the wire.
"Yes."
"This is T. J.," I said, chummily. "You still own that block offloating stock in the Remey Company, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Fine! Fine!" I complimented. "Bring it over to my office as soon aspossible. And, by the way," I added, casually, "have it transferred tomy name, you know."
"Yes."
He was in my office in less than an hour, his fat hulk sweating andpanting in the chair before my desk, the heavy lids drooping over hisblack eyes. The stocks were piled neatly before me. I thumbed throughthem. They seemed to be quite in order. I skipped across the room tothe files with them.
"Pasquamine," I said, returning to my desk and handing him a cheapcigar, "do you by chance own a gun?"
He shook his fat head. "No."
"Do you have at home, perchance, a rope?" I glanced at his obese body."A good stout one?"
"No."
"A knife, perhaps? A good sharp one?"
His oily face beamed quickly. "Ah, Mr. Nelson! That I have! Sharp forthe salami!" He kissed his thick fingers and made a flipping motioninto the air with them. "Sharp for the good big salami!"
"Excellent!" I nodded quick approbation. "Go home and cut your throatwith it."
He pushed his hulk up from the chair and walked toward the door.
"And don't bother about coming back to the office afterwards," Iadmonished.
He paused, hand on the knob, and turned. Then his roun