Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Read online

  “Sales improved any since this has been installed, Brown?” inquired Mr. Throckmorton in a tone of voice which implied that sales damned well should have improved.

  “Yes,” said the breathless Mr. Brown. “Yes, sir.”

  “Harrumph,” the owner made a pleasurable noise in his throat. “Harrumph, quite naturally.” He strode to where the machine stood in the center of the section and, raising himself on tip-toe, peered into its depths.

  “Pardon me, sir,” ventured Mr. Brown. “Pardon me, but you can obtain a much more satisfactory view of the inner workings from the special platform on the other side.”

  “Capital,” said Mr. Throckmorton. “Very interesting exhibit. My own idea, I might add.”

  Mr. Brown led his employer to the other side of the machine where they ascended a series of wooden steps leading to an elevated platform from which they could gaze comfortably down into the bowels of the machine.

  “Big, isn’t it?” said John Brown, peering over his employer’s shoulder.

  “Quite,” said Mr. Throckmorton proudly. “Biggest of its kind. Turn it on, please.”

  John Brown bent over and his hand found the switch that started the huge machine revolving. As the noise of the motor picked up momentum he stared in rapt fascination at the giddying whirl of paddles and discs inside the spacious stomach of the washer. By the time he straightened up the humming had grown to a smooth roar. He stepped forward to gaze downward. Then, like a bursting bomb insofar as results were concerned, the terrible thing happened.

  His feet tangled with the electric cord that ran along the platform, and in the next instant he lost his balance and lunged forward. His bony shoulder drove into Mr. Throckmorton’s wide back, and for an awful minute they staggered on the brink of the machine.

  And the next instant, with a hoarse bass bellow from Mr. Throckmorton and a shrill soprano scream from John Brown, they tumbled into the whirring machine.

  THE screaming whistle of the revolving demonstrator, the roar of the motor, the wild shrieks and shouts that issued from the washer all blended together in a weird crescendo, instantly creating a commotion in the store.

  Salesmen and clerks, floorwalkers and customers, all raced to the spot. Mr. Darnell, of neckties and ribbons, arrived first. He ran up the steps in back of the machine and yelled over his shoulder, “Get a stretcher. Somebody fell into the big washer.” He threw off the switch and stared with anticipatory horror as the huge disc began to slow down, expecting to find a tangled mass of arms and legs. But instead, as the revolutions decreased, he was amazed to see both occupants unscathed and unharmed.

  It was a further shock when he recognized the portly frock-coated figure of the store’s president. Mr. Throckmorton seemed to be all right and was making a ludicrous attempt to rise to his feet in spite of the rotating machine. The other figure in the machine was sitting up with his hand pressed tightly over his eyes.

  The frock-coated figure of Mr. Throckmorton staggered a little and then collapsed in a very undignified heap. He stared wildly about, then threw an arm about his face.

  “Please,” he wailed, “it was an accident. I couldn’t help it. I stumbled. Please forgive me,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Please, don’t fire me!”

  The small figure in the sack-like brown suit sat up with a jerk, shaking his head. “You stupid clumsy fool,” he bellowed. “You damned near killed me. I’ll have you fired so fast it’ll take your breath away!”

  Mr. Darnell, of neckties and ribbons, opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish. Was he crazy, or was Brown really giving Throckmorton hell? And was Throckmorton begging Brown not to fire him? It was incredible.

  The large impressive figure in the frock-coat was on his knees almost crying over the rumpled little man in the baggy brown suit.

  “Oh please,” Mr. Throckmorton begged, “give me another chance.” He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, wiping a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t help it,” he wailed again. “It was an acrid—” His voice broke, faltered and stopped in his throat.

  He stared incredulously at the large diamond cuff links that were attached to his shirt. Like a man in a dream his eyes traveled up his fat arms and down his expansive front. Diamond stickpin, figured cravat, silk shirt, expensive English suit. Horror-stricken, he felt his face. Soft smooth skin, double chin, fat bulging jowls. Panic-stricken he climbed to his feet.

  “What’s happened to me? My body . . .!” cried the frock-coated figure wildly.

  “Everything’s all right, Mr. Throckmorton,” Mr. Darnell said, his face pale with anxiety. “I’ve sent for a ladder. It’s coming directly.”

  “But I’m not Mr. Throckmorton,” he protested wildly. “I’m John Brown.” Mr. Darnell tried to smile understandingly, but only succeeded in looking very bewildered. “Of course, Mr. Throckmorton. You’re a little shocked. Terrible experience to go through.”

  “Stop calling me Throckmorton,” John Brown said hysterically. “I just look like him. This is his body, but I’m really me.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Darnell, “you’re you. You’re Mr. Throckmorton.” He pointed to the machine. “There’s Mr. Brown.”

  JOHN BROWN looked and found himself looking at himself. Not as he was now, but as he should be. Baggy brown suit. Thin brown hair. Weak blue eyes. John Brown closed his eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. And John Brown abruptly realized the truth.

  “We’ve changed bodies—somehow!” he said to himself in an amazed, hoarse whisper.

  The figure on the floor was still rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. “Help me up,” he shouted. “Try and kill a man and then refuse to help him, eh? I tell you, Brown, you’ll regret this day as long as you live. You can’t trifle with a Throckmorton and get away scot free.”

  John Brown stooped over and helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he began, breathless with unaccustomed effort, but the other cut him off.

  “Sorry!” he exploded. “A fine thing to tell a man after you’ve nearly killed him. I. . .” His mouth fell open. His eyes bulged out until they looked like huge marbles. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly once—twice—then fainted quietly away.

  Someone was sliding a ladder into the machine and in a few seconds Mr. Darnell and two of the uniformed maintenance men were descending into the washer.

  “Terrible experience,” said Mr. Darnell. “But everything’s all right now.”

  John Brown stared at his strange fat body and heaved a terrified sigh. As the brisk men in uniform picked up his limp and sagging body, he felt like crying.

  “Everything is all wrong,” he said unhappily.

  “Terrible experience,” said Mr. Darnell for the third time. “Mr. Brown will be all right I’m sure. They’re taking him to the employees’ washroom for first aid.”

  “They can’t do that,” John Brown cried, suddenly horrified.

  “It’s a pleasant enough washroom,” Mr. Darnell said timidly. “Couch, first aid—”

  “You’d better take him to his office.”

  “But, Mr. Throckmorton, Mr. Brown has no office.”

  John Brown stared strangely at his new body again, then made a sudden decision.

  “But of course,” he amended. “For a moment I didn’t think. Have Mr. Brown brought to my office.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  In all of John Brown’s drab, colorless forty-three years of existence no one had ever called him “sir” and waited expectantly and diffidently for another order. It was a heady intoxicating feeling. Like strong wine. John Brown took a deep breath, fingered his heavy gold watch chain.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Be quick about it.”

  “Oh yes, sir.” Mr. Darnell bobbed his head and ducked off down the aisle.

  JOHN BROWN watched him hurry off and there was a strange speculative light in his eye. It was the first time in his life that he had ever known the thrill of power.

&
nbsp; In spite of the delightful feeling of importance that his new presence gave him John Brown was glad to see his old body being carried into Mr. Throckmorton’s office. He turned to the curious crowd in the doorway and fixed them with a cold stare.

  They melted away.

  He instructed the attendants to stretch their burden on a comfortable daybed that was placed against the wall and then dismissed them.

  He surveyed the luxurious surroundings with satisfaction. Not half bad. He seated himself at Mr. Throckmorton’s gleaming mahogany desk and waited for the president to come around. It was a very odd situation. It was more than odd. It was unbelievable, incredible, amazing and unimaginable. Still it had happened.

  He, John Brown, was J. Thaddeus Throckmorton and the pompous department store head was now an ordinary wash machine salesman. Poetic justice, that’s what it was!

  John Brown opened a teak wood humidor and selected a fat perfecto cigar. He was just touching the flame from the silver desk lighter to it, when the figure on the couch groaned, and struggled to a sitting position. Throckmorton, in John Brown’s body, stared blankly about the room for an instant, then leaped to his feet. He looked down at himself, felt his face and then rushed to the desk.

  “It’s some kind of a trick,” he shouted. “Get away from my desk, you impostor.”

  “It’s no trick,” John Brown said. “Something happened to us in the washer. We switched bodies.”

  “That doesn’t give you any right to sit there smoking my dollar cigars. I am J. Thaddeus Throckmorton. Nothing can change that.”

  “Sure,” John Brown admitted. “You’re Throckmorton. I’m Brown. But only two people in the world know that. If I wanted to I could call the building police and have you thrown out of my office. If you kept insisting that you were me they’d lock you up in the booby hatch. I don’t like this any better than you do, but we’ll have to make the best of it until something straightens us out.”

  Throckmorton collapsed in a chair as if his legs were suddenly filled with water. “But what am I going to do?” John Brown blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before answering. “There’s a job in the washing machine department that needs a good man. You can have that. You see, I don’t need it any more.” He leaned back in the cushioned swivel chair and smiled complacently. “I seem to have been promoted a little.”

  Mr. Throckmorton was gazing at John Brown with a sort of dawning apprehension. When at last he found his voice he spoke in a husky whisper. “You, you mean you’re going to let this continue?” he gasped.

  JOHN BROWN folded his thick hands over his new stomach and gazed benignly at the figure he used to be.

  “Why not?” he inquired with cold matter-of-factness. “What is there that we can possibly do about it?” Then he smiled thoughtfully. “Besides, with the exception of my rather absurd new body, I think I rather like what has happened. I’m a lot wealthier, have a lot more power at this minute than I had fifteen minutes ago.”

  Mr. Throckmorton, from his new but very drab body, could only sputter in futile rage. “What,” he managed to blurt after a moment, “is wrong with my body?”

  “Which,” asked John Brown with devilish amusement, “your new body, or the one I’m wearing at present?”

  “My own, my honest-to-goodness, genuine body!” spat Mr. Throckmorton. “What’s wrong with it, I say?” Mr. John Brown looked thoughtfully at his portly new figure. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it’s horribly fat to begin with. Then, you’re not the handsomest devil in the world, y’know.” He held up a warning hand as Mr. Throckmorton began to protest. “And your taste in clothes is much too loud, too pretentious. You dress, if you’ll pardon my candor, in a more or less hideous fashion.”

  “Damn you, Brown,” snarled the store owner, “I resent your remarks. I ought to fire you!”

  “Tsk,” admonished John Brown. “Remember your new station, Mr. Throckmorton. You are now a washing machine salesman. If there’s any firing to be done, I’ll take care of it. I’m president, remember.”

  Thaddeus Throckmorton, speechless with rage, could only glare helplessly at John Brown as he continued.

  “Yes,” said Brown reflectively. “I am going to outfit you—that is, myself, in some decent raiment. Something less ridiculous than what I’m wearing at present.”

  “Leave my body alone,” shrieked Thaddeus Throckmorton. “It’s dressed in the best of taste, and I won’t have it looking foolish! Leave those clothes exactly as they are, do you understand me?”

  “It’s my body, now,” declared John Brown. “At least my personality is inhabiting it at the moment. I refuse to have my personality dashing about in such ludicrous garments. The body is bad enough, Lord knows, but I don’t have to look like a circus clown on top of it.”

  Mr. Throckmorton turned the matter over to the gods, and once his choice selection of epithets was concluded he buried his face—or rather, John Brown’s face—in his hands. “Ohhhhh,” moaned the president of Throckmorton’s Department Store, “oooooohhh!”

  “Come, come,” demanded John Brown after several minutes of this, “stop all that carrying on. You don’t hear me complaining, do you? After all, I haven’t got the best bargain in the world from this. There isn’t any sense in crying over spilled personalities.”

  Mr. Throckmorton gave him the benefit of an anguished glance. “It’s easy for you to talk,” he sobbed. “But I’m the one to get the worst of this deal!”

  “Tush,” cried John Brown. “I think you’ll do well selling washing machines, once you get the knack of it. They’re a lot of fun. Besides, think of the twenty percent commission you’re working on. A man can do a lot on twenty percent commission. In no time at all you ought to be department head.”

  “Yes?” said Mr. Throckmorton dubiously.

  “Absolutely,” John Brown assured him. “There is plenty of room for promotion in Throckmorton’s. It’s a sort of a slogan, y’know. So you shouldn’t feel amiss starting as a washing machine salesman. There’s plenty of room for promotion.”

  “Fluuumph,” said Mr. Throckmorton. “I’d almost forgotten that slogan.”

  “I’ve never forgotten it,” said John Brown casually. “I remember hearing it eighteen years ago when I started selling washing machines here.”

  Mr. Throckmorton broke out in a new series of groans, and John Brown, smiling quietly to himself, exhaled expensive blue clouds of smoke thoughtfully at the ceiling.

  Quite suddenly, Mr. Throckmorton seemed to calm down. Noticing the swift transition of manner, John Brown looked at him in perplexity. Something was wrong somewhere. Throckmorton, in Brown’s body of course, was almost looking pleased. He was whistling a half-tune through his teeth, an old habit of John Brown’s when secretly happy about something.

  “Remind me,” John Brown told Mr. Throckmorton, “to discard that irritating whistle when I get my own body back. It’s extremely annoying.”

  “I’m very pleased,” smirked Mr. Throckmorton. “Very, very pleased at what I have just remembered.”

  “So I gather,” John Brown acknowledged dryly. “I seem to remember my own face well enough to know when it is registering signs of pleasure. Might I ask what it is that makes you look like a cat at a banquet of canaries?”

  Mr. Throckmorton rose swiftly. “Nothing,” he lied easily. “I was just thinking, that’s all. Just thinking.” With that, Mr. Throckmorton crossed to the door and turned momentarily to face John Brown. “Have to be getting downstairs, I suppose. Washing machines to sell, and all that,” he smirked. “Toodle-oo!”

  FOR three minutes John Brown, in his new body, sat staring thoughtfully at the door. Mr. Throckmorton’s exit had left him rather bewildered and vaguely uneasy. What was the expresident so damned pleased about? Why had the sudden change come over him? John Brown was not long in finding out.

  There was a precise tapping on the door, startling Mr. Brown out of his mental misgivings. “Come in,” he snapped. “Come in and stop that d
amned rat-tat-tat.”

  A short, thin, bespectacled young man whom Mr. Brown remembered as being secretary and aide-de-camp to Mr. Throckmorton, stepped into the room. John Brown remembered that his name was Quaggle and that he was a sort of junior executive in the store.

  “Well, Quaggle?” Mr. Brown forced his voice to carry the coolness commonly associated with authority.

  Quaggle cleared his throat noisily, inserting a thin finger beneath his stiff collar. “Frankly, sir, I’m worried,” he declared throatily. “The situation is serious.”

  “What situation?” Brown asked blankly.

  Quaggle choked back his amazement, and with reproach dripping from his every word, replied, “Why, THE situation, sir, concerning the bank’s refusal to extend your loan.”

  If John Brown had been sitting in an electric chair, he couldn’t have been more shocked. Loans, Debts, Trouble, the Three Musketeers of Mr. Brown’s past life, were once more cropping up to plague him in his new existence!

  Quaggle continued, apparently unaware of the hunted look that had suddenly crept into the other’s eyes. “What do you plan to do about it, Mr. Throckmorton?”

  John Brown realized that a reply was expected—swift, sure, and decisive. John Brown could think of nothing swift, sure, or decisive to say. But he tried.

  “It’s an ill wind that hasn’t got a silver lining, Quaggle,” he said reassuringly. “Remember that!”

  “Why?” Quaggle asked logically enough.

  Brown had a sudden inspiration, remembering a poem from his high school days. “Yours is not to reason why, yours is but to do and die!” he blurted triumphantly.

  Quaggle backed toward the door visibly impressed. “Yes, sir. Quite right. It is a pleasure to realize that you are ready to face them!”

  John Brown paled. “Face who?” he heard his voice saying weakly.

  “Why, the gentlemen from the bank. At the board of directors’ meeting, at two o’clock this afternoon.” He stopped to stare apprehensively at his employer. “What’s wrong? Do you feel ill, sir?” John Brown was clutching miserably at Throckmorton’s overstuffed midriff. “I have a headache,” he wailed, “and he has to pick this moment to get indigestion. Between the two of us we’re driving me mad!”