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  THE CONTRACT OF CARSON CARRUTHERS, by William P. McGivern

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, Jan. 1942.

  When the Broadway musical Jumping Jive folded after a two days’ run, everybody but the cast agreed that it had lasted two days too long.

  The play was a stinker, but that did not mollify Carson Carruthers, a tall, broad young man, who had been one of the leading spear carriers in the production.

  “It is a damnable outrage,” he cried dramatically to the bare walls of his small room. “It might have been my golden chance, my supreme opportunity to prove my genius, my brilliant thespian artistry. But now,” he continued blackly, “all is over, all is past, all is dead!”

  Mr. Carson Carruthers was 99 and 44/100% pure ham.

  In the same dark mood he gulped a mouthful of coffee and slumped into a chair with the morning paper. Carson Carruthers was a good example of the law of compensation. For all of his magnificent physique and blonde handsomeness, the space between his ears might have been accurately described as an almost perfect vacuum.

  He read the comics avidly, then wistfully perused the drama sections, and finally, with a deep, martyred sigh, turned to the help wanted columns. Even artists must eat, and while Carson Carruthers fell far short of f
itting the accepted definition of an artist, he still had to eat.

  After a few moments his eye lighted on an advertisement that intrigued him. It read:

  “Interesting proposition for young man of commanding physique and refined handsome features. Must be exceptionally good-looking.”

  Carson rose to his feet and slipped into his coat. He placed his black Homburg carefully on his head and picked up his cane.

  Exceptionally handsome?

  He peered thoughtfully into the mirror. Yes, he decided judiciously, he was exceptionally handsome. With a last glance at the address listed in the advertisement he strode jauntily from the room.

  THE house which carried the address stated in the ad was a tall, brown-stone structure in lower Manhattan. It was the only building of its type in the block, and this singularity gave it a majestically foreboding appearance.

  Carson paused at the foot of the stone steps and checked the address, then trotted briskly up to the door. Before ringing the bell, he removed his hat and carefully smoothed his wavy hair, then squaring his shoulders, punched the button.

  The door was opened with a suddenness that surprised him. A small, fat man with ruddy cheeks and twinkling eyes smiled benignly at him over old-fashioned spectacles.

  “Come right in,” he said cordially. “I was expecting you.”

  “Were you now?” Carson said, pleased.

  With a slight bow that brought his best profile to bear on the fat little man, Carson stepped through the door. The man closed the door and pattered ahead of him into a comfortable room which opened off the hallway.

  “Please sit down,” he said breathlessly. “Very happy to welcome you to my humble quarters.”

  Carson sat down and carefully crossed his legs. He lighted a cigarette with a debonair gesture, hoping that the flame of the match brought out the lambent shades in his large gray eyes.

  The surroundings were as undistinguished as the fat little man who was bustling about behind a square desk set in one corner of the room. Carson noticed with faint distaste that his host was wearing a shiny serge suit and an atrocious high collar, but he managed to assuage his sartorial sensibilities by glancing briefly down at his own immaculately clad figure. This restored him somewhat.

  The fat little man had seated himself behind the desk and was staring at him with unfeigned admiration.

  “You’re Carson Carruthers, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Carson felt a warm glow stealing over him. If he had been a cat he would have undoubtedly purred.

  “That’s right,” he said chuckling contentedly. “Some of my fans aren’t quite as sharp in recognizing me without the grease paint.”

  The little fellow’s smile seemed to imply that such fans were unworthy of the name.

  “My name is Minion,” he said politely. “I am acting as agent for a very important person who is extremely desirous of purchasing a body. This might seem a little strange to you Mr. Carruthers, but I assure you it is a quite legitimate transaction.”

  Carson ran a finger about the inside of his natty collar, which had suddenly seemed a bit tight.

  “A body?” he said weakly.

  Mr. Minion smiled disarmingly. “That is correct. My client is prepared to pay exceedingly well for his purchase. His only stipulation is that it be a handsome body with a fine healthy appearance. A body, Mr. Carruthers, such as yours.”

  “Mine?” Carson echoed faintly. “But—”

  “Of course,” Mr. Minion went on unhurriedly, “when the transaction occurred you would naturally have no further use for your body yourself.”

  CARSON digested this in silence. For a few seconds his mind turned the idea over without much interest, until suddenly the whole proposition became clear as crystal.

  He smiled brightly.

  “I say,” he cried, “I just get what you’re driving at. It’s like those fellows who sell themselves to science because they’ve got two stomachs, or who have green skin or something like that.”

  Mr. Minion smiled and chuckled. “You’ve expressed it very graphically, sir.”

  Carson beamed.

  “Put the thing into a nutshell, didn’t I?” he said, pleased with himself. Then a disquieting thought struck him. His smile faded.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me,” he said dolefully. “Except for an attack of hiccups as a youth, I’ve been in tip-top shape all my life.”

  “That,” said Mr. Minion, “is precisely the reason you will be suitable. Not only is your physical well-being desirable, but even more important, your magnificent personal appearance makes you the ideal candidate for the proposition.”

  “Does it now?” Carson said genially. He found himself liking this little fellow more and more. “Of course it would be foolish for me to deny the obvious fact that I am quite exceptionally handsome. In my last review one critic was kind enough to say that in spite of everything I did, I looked the part of a matinee idol.”

  “How kind of him,” murmured Mr. Minion. “Now as to price. Would half a million be all right?”

  “Well,” Carson sighed, “if it’s the best—” His voice suddenly faltered as he realized what the other had said.

  “A half a million,” he gasped. “Y-you mean dollars?”

  “Naturally,” Mr. Minion said affably.

  After the first shock faded away, Carson’s well developed ego came to the fore. When all was said and done it was only a proper amount to pay for the remains of Carson Carruthers. If a man with two stomachs could get ten or twenty thousand, it was only logical that much more would be offered for such a perfect specimen as his own. Then a practical thought popped into his mind.

  “When do I get the money?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

  “Immediately after you sign the contract,” Mr. Minion answered pleasantly.

  “Cash?”

  “Of course.”

  Carson relaxed somewhat.

  “Usually my manager handles these tiresome affairs,” he said. “On my own part I can’t generate much enthusiasm over such sordid discussions. I am an artist, not a businessman. Will it be currency or check?”

  “Whichever you prefer,” Mr. Minion smiled. He was fussing with legal looking papers on his desk and now he shoved one toward Carson and held out a pen.

  Carson scratched his name hurriedly on the bottom line of the contract. A vast excitement was growing on him. A sense of elation was rushing through his veins.

  “There you are,” he cried, completing his signature with a awkward flourish. “All in order.”

  “You’re quite light-hearted about it,” Mr. Minion observed cheerfully.

  “It’s the gay carelessness of the true artist,” Carson said expansively. “Life’s to be lived and devil take the hindmost.”

  “He probably will,” Mr. Minion chuckled. He handed Carson a duplicate of the document which he had signed. “Your copy.”

  “And the money?” Carson demanded with unartistic bluntness, “when do I get that?”

  Mr. Minion opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out several crisp stacks of currency. He put five of them into a stack and shoved them toward Carson.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  Carson picked up one of the stacks and saw that it consisted of thousand dollar bills. He swallowed nervously. There was a hundred thousand dollars in each neat bunch.

  “All in order,” Mr. Minion said genially. “May it bring you much happiness.”

  Carson stuffed the duplicate contract in his outside pocket and then jammed the money into the inner pockets of his coat.

  He was desperately afraid that any instant he was going to wake up and find his landlady standing over him demanding her rent.

  “Awfully nice of you,” he said f
aintly. He backed toward the door. “Sure you know what you’re doing, and everything?” he asked anxiously. “I mean this is real money and everything. You aren’t going to ask for it back, or anything, are you?”

  “My dear sir,” Mr. Minion said genially, “we have made a bargain and I am sure my client will be delighted. If you are satisfied everything is eminently satisfactory.”

  “Ev-everything, everything is wonderful,” Carson stammered breathlessly. “And—er—thanks. Thanks a million. I mean thanks a half million. Ha! Ha!” he bleated moronically. “A joke! Thanks a half million. Ha! Ha!”

  “Very funny,” said Mr. Minion opening the door. “Until we meet again, Mr. Carruthers, I wish you the best of everything.”

  He closed the door quietly and Carson, with a dazed gleam in his eye, put his hat firmly on the head of his cane and wandered blissfully down the steps.

  * * * *

  With his miraculous wealth, Carson Carruthers proceeded to knock the cynical street of Broadway right on its cynical ear. He revived the languishing Jumping Jive with himself in the stellar role—and scored a smash hit!

  Then he installed himself and a retinue of servants in a sixteen-room duplex penthouse apartment that was like the realization of a Hollywood producer’s dream.

  He bought himself dozens of violently colored suits and a tam. He rode the three blocks from his apartment to his theatre in a specially built automobile which tourists often mistook for a runaway streamlined locomotive.

  The parties he gave were lavish affairs, set off by gallons of champagne and tubs of caviar and all the hams on Broadway. He was the life of every party, for he invariably managed to fall or get pushed into his specially constructed swimming pool in full evening attire and this accomplishment is no small one.

  There was but one small fly in the ointment.

  Her name was Renee.

  Into every successful man’s life a fiery little French girl must fall, and Carson was no exception to the rule. Renee was the feminine lead in Jumping Jive and she was nine-tenths devil cat and one-tenth dark, dangerous femininity.

  The minute she saw that Carson had stumbled onto a ready pile of the green stuff, she began to sharpen her claws. Under ordinary circumstances Carson would have been pleased to have such an attractive damsel panting for him, but with Renee it was different. Somehow he realized that if he ever became entangled with her it would take a dredging company to extricate him.