Good! Short, even curt! And a distinct sneer, too.

  Uncle Ralph would sign it and off it would go. Leghorn would then find himself with a deep grievance against Ralph Gelderman and, in all likelihood, something of a suspicion that Ralph was himself part of the dangerous Communist conspiracy. If he wrote again, Sam would answer again—appropriately.

  It was perfect. Sam could use similar tactics on every letter of the sort that came in—one or two a week, usually.

  For two years now, Sam had followed this procedure—and he had enjoyed it. Each day’s mail was an adventure. Would a new letter come from an old name? Would a new crackpot make his appearance?

  Some stopped, but others started, and there were always half a dozen in being, with emotions to be played upon skillfully. Sam grew to admire his own light touch, his ability to irritate these people without seeming to be doing so deliberately. He didn’t answer too soon or too harshly, and he rejoiced every time he elicited an unreasonable response. The more unreasonable, the more he could hope.

  Leghorn himself, the first case, was the best. There were times when for a month at a time there would be nothing from him. Sam would decide that the crackpot had tired of the game, but then, eventually, there would come the familiar envelope with the hand-printed address.

  Nor did Ralph ever read the answers. He merely signed. He was so uninterested that he spoke of having a rubber stamp designed so that Sam could manage it all. Always, though, Sam put in a quiet objection to that. After all, Sam said, the actual authentic signature was precious to his readers. They should not be deprived of that. Ralph snorted, but complied.

  Sam, after all, needed the authentic signature. It must always be a reasonable assumption that Ralph had dictated the letters—there was the neatly-typed “RG/sg” at the lower left—that he read the answers once they were prepared, and that he signed them with his own hand. A stamp would ruin everything.

  And, after all, ninety-nine out of every hundred letters that were sent off to readers over his signature were totally harmless.

  Sam made sure that, at parties, he entertained different friends with stories of the odd letters Ralph received. Such stories were authentically amusing, and the friends laughed. Then, turning sober, Sam would, ever so gently, deprecate Ralph’s tendency to be cruel or cutting in his answers. He himself (he explained) did his best to soften the answers, but Ralph always objected to that.

  Sam did not do this too often. He did not overdo. Just once in a reasonable while; just enough to make it likely that someone would remember if the time should come when such remembering would be useful. It would all tend to indicate that it was clearly all Ralph’s fault—over Sam’s objections.

  At one time, a friend said, on such an occasion, “Isn’t that sort of thing dangerous? What if one of these crackpots gets mad enough to try to beat up your uncle? The return address must be on the stationery.”

  Sam rejoiced inwardly at that. He shook his head and said, “I do worry about that on occasion, but most of them live far away and the letters they write tend to blow off steam and reduce their internal pressure, I suppose. Just the same, I did try to warn Uncle Ralph once about that very point, and he all but bit my head off. I can’t cross him too much, you know. He’s the boss.”

  It was perfect. What if someone with murder in his heart did come to see Ralph? And if Ralph were killed?

  How on earth could any blame be attached to Sam in that case? He could produce the entire body of correspondence, and it would all pile the guilt on Ralph himself. Sam, everyone would say, had actually tried to save Ralph from himself.

  It was not just his own statements to his friends, either. On several occasions, Sam had written two letters, one blatantly and crudely provocative, and the other more diplomatic by several notches—yet not actually designed to cool the fires. Only the first was signed, but only the second, milder one was mailed, with a scrawled initial “G.” Copies of both remained in the files, and Sam could explain that he had hesitated to send the first, and had sent the second instead, on his own responsibility and at the risk of his job, and that he had scrawled the “G” himself.

  Far from being blamed, Sam would be overwhelmed with assurances that it was not his fault and that he must not blame himself. Even the police would surely say so.

  And the best part of this plan for the perfect murder was that nothing might happen. No madman might appear with the desire to kill gnawing at his heart. Ralph might safely live on indefinitely. This meant that Sam need not live on for years with the gnawings of conscience poisoning his life. He was just playing a game—not an innocent, harmless one, perhaps, but one that would probably turn out to be so in fact, if not in intent. It had, after all, been harmless for two years now.

  Indeed, the game did Ralph a service, for it kept Sam from longing uselessly for his uncle’s death, and perhaps being drawn to murder, eventually. As it was, the game gave Sam the feeling of doing something about his problem, and made him happy. It made it unnecessary for him to do anything else. In a way, it might be saving Uncle Ralph’s life, and it was that thought that enabled Sam to turn to the day’s mail with a light heart and to continue the game without feeling shame.

  He was about to turn to the mail now, when the house phone rang.

  Sam picked it up. Ralph was away at his publisher’s office, but it would have been Sam’s job to pick it up even if Ralph had been in his office upstairs.

  “Yes?”

  “Delivery, Mr. Gelderman, from Prime Publishers.”

  Sam groaned inwardly. It would be another bound galley of a book for which Ralph would be asked to compose a promotional statement. Ralph never did so, but neither did publishers ever give up. And it would be up to Sam himself to compose a tactful reply for the hundredth time. It wouldn’t do to irritate a publisher.

  “Is the delivery man still there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gelderman.”

  “Well, send him up.”

  The doorbell sounded its subdued chime two minutes later, and Sam went to the door.

  The delivery man at the door, middle-aged, nondescript, held out the package. “Mr. Gelderman?”

  “Yes,” said Sam impatiently. “Do you want me to sign something?”

  He was suddenly aware that the package, whatever it was, was empty. It squeezed together without resistance under his fingers. “What is this?—Hey what are you doing?”

  The delivery man had stepped inside, shouldering Sam to one side, and closed the door behind him.

  He said, “My name is Lawrence Leghorn, and I’m here to see you, Mr. Ralph Gelderman.”

  Sam’s stomach tightened. The crackpot! Possibly intent on assault and battery! He said huskily, “You’re wrong. I’m not Ralph Gelderman. I’m his secretary. Mr. Gelderman is not in.”

  Leghorn’s eyes narrowed, and he seized Sam’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “The doorman called you Gelderman, and you just told me you were Gelderman.”

  “I’m Sam Gelderman.”

  “You just said you were his secretary.”

  “I am his secretary. I’m also his nephew, so I have the same name. On the letters it says ‘RG/sg.’ I’m ‘sg.’”

  Leghorn hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “It’s your picture on the books.”

  “It’s an old picture and there’s a family resemblance, but he’s twenty years older than I am,” said Sam, wildly.

  Leghorn thought for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t believe you!” He pulled a handgun out of his pocket and fired—not at all wildly.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Isaac Asimov has written over 340 books on subjects ranging from the Bible and Shakespeare to math and alien encounters. He is perhaps the best known—and certainly the best loved—of all science fiction authors, with over ten million copies of his works sold worldwide. Foundation and Earth, Asimov’s fifth novel in the phenomenal Foundation series, will be published later this year. THE BEST MYSTERIES OF ISAAC ASIMOV is the companion volume to The Best Science Fiction of Isaac Asimov, also currently available. Dr. Asimov lives in New York City.

 

 

  Isaac Asimov, The Best Mysteries of Isaac Asimov

 

 

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