DOUBLE IDENTITY
By Charles F. Myers
Grant Dermitt's stories showed remarkable
creative ability. His hero, Fleetwood Cassidy,
was the greatest fictional character—alive!...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1951
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He demonstrated again that rangey reach of his and slammed a fistfulof hard knuckles into the putty face in front of him. Mario went downon the thick carpet, his fat nose spurting blood like a drinkingfountain for vampires. He was just another one of those larded slobsand, true to the type, he began to blubber. The blonde in the cornerfroze in place like a lead statue in a snow storm.
"Wait!" Mario whined. "Wait a minute, Cassidy. I'm not stalling. Ijust want to make a deal, that's all."
"You've made a deal," Fleetwood snapped. "How do you like it, fatboy? Now where's the stuff?"
Mario lolled his head to one side, holding his hand to his nose.Fleetwood raised his foot, and he came around fast.
"Don't!" he said. "Over there on the mantle, in the ivory box."
Fleetwood kept them both covered and crossed to the mantle. He pickedup the box and flipped back the lid. Expensive fire, the cold kind offire that comes from stones, flashed out at him. He closed it again anddropped it into his pocket.
"Look, Cassidy," Mario said, still sitting on the floor, "look, I tookthe rocks, I admit that, but I didn't rod Blanchard. Somebody elsecooled him before I ever got to the dump...."
"Sure, Mario, sure," Fleetwood nodded, "you're the neat type. You justran over in your dust cap to tidy up the death room. My client will betickled to pieces to find out what a nice orderly vulture you turnedout to be." He swiveled around toward the blonde. "And you'd better getyourself a new playmate, lamb-chop. This one won't even be able to keepyou in rompers from now on." He gave Mario one last glance, to warn himto stay down, and legged it for the door. This was the kind of placeand the kind of people he loved to leave behind.
She must have pole-vaulted across the room to have made it so fast; hewas just reaching for the knob when her perfume pressed in on him frombehind. He turned around, left his hand resting on the knob.
"Yeah?" he said.
"What you said," she drawled in a lazy, boudoir voice, "I mean aboutme getting myself a new playmate. You're right about that, Cassidy...."She held the idea out to him, waiting for him to take it up on thebeat. He let it lay. She smiled, but her eyes turned as hard as abride's biscuits. "Anyway, you could be right."
"And so...?" Fleetwood asked.
The smile stayed fixed, but she shrugged. "So maybe the music we'dmake together wouldn't exactly be Brahms. But it wouldn't be GuyLombardo, either. You've got the rocks, but your client doesn't know athing about that unless you tell her. I have ... other things. And Ican be sweet when I want." She moved closer and planted an arm aroundhis neck, leaning in to make herself comfortable. "I can be so sweetyou almost couldn't stand it. Almost."
"So can a cyanide soda," Fleetwood said dully. "Sweet and final." Helifted her arm away from his neck, and it might have been a noose. Helet it drop.
When he went out the door her smile had got itself all bent.
The hallways of the Gran