The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

Double in Death

First published in Fantastic Adventures, April 1942.

The resident head of the New York State Insane asylum glanced from the release papers on his desk to the tall, middle-aged, intelligent looking man standing before him.

“Yours has been a most interesting case, Colegrave,” he said thoughtfully. “Six months ago I would have staked my professional reputation on the fact that you were an incurable inmate.

“Now,” the gray-haired alienist shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, “I find myself in the position of signing your release papers and offering you my congratulations on your extremely remarkable recovery.”

The tall, distinguished man facing the alienist bowed slightly, and smiled.

“Thank you doctor,” he said quietly. “You’ve done a great deal for me I know. Now that I am ready again to take my place in a normal world I find myself somewhat apprehensive. Are you quite sure that I am completely cured?”

The alienist stood up, chuckling.

“The fact that you can ask a question like that is the best indication that you are cured. I can say now, Colegrave, that when you first came into this sanitarium, you were the most advanced schizophrenic[3] I have ever observed. Your cleavage in personality and ego was almost absolute. Mentally, you were two persons. Each segment of your psyche was complete and whole as far as will, memory and temperament were concerned. As a rule when a person is a victim of schizophrenia the eventual result is terrible insanity. The two natures, the two persons you might almost say, are constantly warring for supremacy, and the outcome of such mental civil war is usually mental anarchy. By some miracle you escaped that fate.”

“I find it hard to believe,” Colegrave murmured. “I can remember what it was like when I was possessed of two distinct personalities. I can remember the terrible struggles that I underwent when my dual nature was fighting itself. Until three months ago my life was a living hell. Then, as you know, after my sickness, everything was different. I was a well man again and, somehow, my mental sickness was cured too.”

The alienist shook his head, and a puzzled line appeared over his eyes.

“It was very peculiar,” he reflected. “That sickness, with its horrible head pains of which you complained, apparently did what the best psychologists in the nation found it impossible to do. It destroyed the second party of your dual nature, leaving you free to enjoy a normal life again. Well, such is science. Infallible to a certain point, and then it goes just as crazy as the best of us do sometimes.”

Colegrave shook hands with the doctor then and walked to the door.

“Thanks again for everything,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” the alienist laughed. “You did all the work yourself.”

When Colegrave stepped through the door and walked rapidly down the gravel path that led away from the sanitarium. When he reached the iron gate, the doorman opened for him and he passed through onto a dusty, little-used road. This he followed for a mile or so, perspiring freely under the warm rays of the sun as he strode along.

At length he reached the main highway that led to the metropolitan section of New York. A car was waiting there for him and he got in.

The car moved away and Colegrave settled back against the cushions with a sigh of relief. The colored chauffeur was separated from the rear seat by a glass partition which was rolled up into place. Colegrave, however, was not alone. There was another man in the back of the car, a small, cunning looking man, who glanced sidewise at Colegrave and grinned wickedly as the car gathered speed.

“We did it, didn’t we?” he smirked. “No one has the faintest suspicion as to what happened to you. Or maybe I should say, what happened to me.”

Colegrave smiled, a thin, thoughtful smile.

“Since we are really one person, it is perfectly correct to speak of us in the singular. When I entered their crude sanitarium I was two persons mentally. Now I am two persons physically. Each of my dual natures has a physical manifestation, controlled by one intellect.”

The little man scratched his head. “If we’re the same person,” he said, frowning, “Why is it I can’t understand this situation, while you can.”

“Simple enough,” Colegrave said quietly. “Make an effort now to absorb what I am going to tell you. It may be important sometime. Ever since I was old enough to reason I realized that I possessed two distinct natures, that I was a schizophrenic. One-half of my nature was respectable on the surface, but quite coldly ambitious at the same time. This half of my nature compelled me to seek success by conventional means, which is the logical way for a man of ambition to advance in the world.

“My other nature was much more honest and direct than this respectable side of mine. It prompted me to gain wealth and recognition by any means that came to hand. This second side of mine would stop at nothing to achieve its ends. It demanded that I kill, that I steal, that I lie, that I do anything which would gain wealth and power for me.

“As a result, for the most of my life I have been engaged in a constant inner struggle. My respectable self would not object to ill-gotten gains or murder, but it did object to the possibility of exposure. My second half cared nothing for the hypercritical approval of the world. It was willing to take any and all consequences.”

Colegrave paused and glanced at the small, ruthlessly cunning man who was listening avidly to every word.

“It finally became obvious,” he went on, “that something had to be done. When I entered the state sanitarium it was hot by accident. I planned that deliberately and carefully. I realized that the only way I could achieve what I wanted from this world, would be to make the cleavage in my nature a physical one, so that my two natures could operate independently for the greater good of the single unit. This I accomplished at the sanitarium. It was simply a question of will power.

The stupid doctors imagined my headaches were organic in nature, but they were actually the result of intense, feverish concentration over a period of three months.”

“How could you create a physical manifestation of your secondary nature by will power alone?”

“It was not easy,” Colegrave replied. “Since I am Colegrave, the respected citizen, with the advantages of an excellent education, I am able to understand the process. You are my secondary nature, primitive, ruthless, and do not possess my intelligence.

“For that reason I doubt if you can understand what happened in the innermost depths of my psyche to cause the physical split in my schizophrenic condition.

“Suffice to say, I completely alienated the two halves of my natures, by blotting out all thought or awareness of my second half. This was where the will power was necessary. I concentrated, at white-hot heat for three months, on the one idea that my second nature was non-existent. Thus I eventually forced you from my conscious mind, into my subconscious. Then I administered the drug which I procured from the Viennese brain specialist before entering the sanitarium. It created a physical extension of my subconscious, which had to have another outlet since it was denied existence in my conscious mind by the power of my will.”[4]

“Well,” Colegrave’s subconscious manifestation shrugged eloquently, “if you say so, it’s okay with me. All I want to know is where do we go from here.”

Colegrave smiled again.

“That is really the important question, isn’t it? When you materialized I gave you certain instructions. Have you carried them out?”

“Yep,” the little man nodded. “I’ve got a place rented, and I’ve found the town you wanted me to look up. It’s a big place in the Middle West. The situation there is perfect.”

Colegrave lighted a cigarette and inhaled luxuriously.

“Fine. All my life I regarded schizophrenia as a curse, but now I will show the world a practical use for it. A very practical use.”

He glanced out of the window at the buildings and houses which were increasing in frequency as they neared the metropolitan area. A smile hovered over his lips. A gloating, anticipatory smile...

A week later Colegrave, immaculately attired in a conservative gray suit, approached the receptionist in an office labeled simply: Ruzzoni Enterprises.

“My name is Colegrave,” he said to the receptionist’s inquiring glance. “I should like to see Mr. Ruzzoni.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Colegrave smiled frostily.

“No. But I think he’ll see me. Tell him it’s regarding the indictment the district attorney and mayor of your delightful town are bringing against him.”

The receptionist’ scrambled to her feet and, with one puzzled glance at Colegrave’s imperturbable figure, disappeared through a heavy oak door. She returned several minutes later.

“Mr. Ruzzoni will see you,” she murmured. “Go right in.”

“Thank you,” Colegrave smiled. Then he sauntered through the oak door which had been left ajar, into a sumptuously furnished office. In the center of the room was a magnificent mahogany desk, fully eight feet long, and behind it hunched a fat, dark-skinned man with an unlighted cigar jammed into his face.

“Mr. Ruzzoni, I presume,” Colegrave said sarcastically.

“It ain’t nobody else,” the man behind the desk snapped.

His wicked black eyes glittered balefully and his hands balled into straining fists. Colegrave knew at a glance that the man was laboring under a terrific nervous tension.

“Well, whadda you want?” Ruzzoni rasped. “Are you from the D. A.’s office?”

Colegrave closed the door carefully behind him. Then he seated himself before the imposing desk, crossed his legs and lighted a cigarette.

“I am not from the district attorney’s office,” he said calmly. “I represent no one but myself. And I think I might be able to help you.”

Ruzzoni rose to his feet, his face flushing dangerously.

“What kind of a gag is this?” he demanded harshly. “If you think you—” Colegrave raised one slim hand protestingly.

“You are in trouble, are you not?” he asked quietly. “I think you are very stupid not to investigate any means which might help you.”

“I don’t believe in boy scouts,” Ruzzoni sneered. “Nobody’s goin’ to help me!”

“Maybe,” Colegrave said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, “and maybe not. I am not a boy scout. What I can do for you will be very expensive.

And nothing is too hot for me.” Ruzzoni settled back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his swarthy features.

“I’m listening,” he said perkily. “But I ain’t talking, see? I ain’t dumb enough to fall into that kind of a trap.”

“In the first place,” Colegrave said cheerfully. “As things stand you are slated for a long trip to prison, and possibly a detour to the chair if things turn up which shouldn’t turn up.” Ruzzoni swallowed painfully and a band of beaded perspiration circled his brow.

“The district attorney and the mayor,” Colegrave went on, “are after you, Ruzzoni, and they’ve got the goods on you. You’ve been running the organized graft and gambling in this town for eight years, and they figure that’s about long enough. If they get an indictment against you, you’re heading for the chair. When one witness spills his story, it’ll start them all talking.

“The only possible out for you is to eliminate the mayor and the district attorney in such a way that no suspicion falls on you. Then, in the chaos that will result, you can move some men you control on the judicial benches into the offices of the mayor and district attorney. It will be a simple matter then to squash the indictment. Don’t you agree that it’s a sensible plan?”

“It’s lovely,” Ruzzoni snapped bitterly. “But who’s goin’ to commit suicide by trying to rub out the mayor and D.A.? Even if he did get ’em, he wouldn’t have a chance to get away. I’ve offered my own boys as high as fifty grand, but they won’t touch it. The bunch of yellow rats!”

“I’ll handle that end of things,” Colegrave said softly. “But it’s going to cost you exactly one million dollars.”

“You’re crazy,” Ruzzoni cried. “There ain’t that much money in this whole town!”

Colegrave stood up.

“I’m not here to haggle,” he said coldly. “A million — in cash. I’ll collect after I do the job.”

“After you do the job?” Ruzzoni said craftily. “Well that’s a little different. I think we can make a deal.”

“Don’t bank on my not being here to collect it,” Colegrave said mirthlessly. “I have a habit of keeping dates. I’ll meet you here the day after his honor and the district attorney keep their date with the gentleman with the scythe. Is that agreeable with you?”

Ruzzoni licked his lips.

“Yeah, it’s okay by me.”

“Fine,” Colegrave said smoothly. “I’ve drawn up something in the nature of a contract for you to sign. Just a little precaution in case you forget our little deal after I do the job. I wouldn’t like you to be troubled with amnesia when I come around to collect. An incriminating paper in my possession would prevent anything like that.”

“I ain’t signing nothin’,” Ruzzoni snarled. “How do I know you’re on the level?”

“You don’t,” Colegrave said quietly. “It’s a chance you’re going to take. Of course, if you prefer not to take that chance—”

He shrugged his shoulders and started for the door.

“Wait!” Ruzzoni cried. “I–I’ll string along.”

Colegrave smiled and pulled a paper from his breast pocket.

“Just sign this, please...”

Three days later Theodore Colegrave paused before the imposing edifice of the city hall, glanced casually up and down the street, before turning to the small, grim looking man who was with him.

“Quite sure of things, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

The little man — the physical manifestation of Colegrave’s duality — nodded.

“The mayor and the district attorney are together now examining witnessess for the Ruzzoni hearing. I get into the office with my fake message and plug ’em both. Then I either get shot or captured on the spot. Right?”

“Right,” Colegrave said. “And be sure and not miss. There’s a million dollars hanging on the accuracy of your shots.”

“I won’t miss,” Colegrave’s secondary nature promised. “This is the kind of thing I enjoy doing.”

“Then get going, Colegrave. And good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Colegrave turned and, without a backward glance, strolled off down the street. A block from the city hall he increased his pace until he had covered a half mile. Then he turned into a restaurant and ordered a glass of wine.

“And bring me the next edition of the afternoon paper,” he told the waiter who took his order.

As he sipped his wine he went over his scheme step by step and could find no flaws. It was a masterful plan, he was forced to admit. His secondary self would commit the assassination and receive the penalty. Thus he, Colegrave, would be rid of his schizophrenic double, and, at the same time, he would be earning a million cool dollars from the vice lord, Ruzzoni. And that would be only the start. With a million dollars in his power, and forever rid of his dual nature, there were no heights to which he might not aspire.

He had no compunction about the fact that his subconscious double would be eliminated forever. Just as his secondary nature had no qualms about sacrificing his physical life.

It was the really choice part of his plan. The two natures acting independently to advance the single unit. No possible suspicion could ever fall on him for his part in the crime; The double murder would be attributed to a crazed madman, and after the assassin was killed, the affair would be forgotten.

Colegrave drank his wine with relish and ordered another glass. He was a brilliant man, there was no doubt of that.

Forty five minutes later, the waiter came rushing to his table with a copy of a paper on which the ink was still damp.

“Will yuh look at that?” he cried, spreading the paper on Colegrave’s table. The headline read:

“Terrible, isn’t it?” Colegrave murmured.

Then he finished his drink, picked up his change and sauntered out of the restaurant.

The next morning Ruzzoni paid off.

If there was any thought of a double-cross in his mind, it was dispelled when Colegrave informed him that the incriminating contract was locked in a safety deposit vault, with instructions to disclose the contents if he should meet with any violent accident.

“I’m paying off,” he said grinning. “It’s worth it to me, in the first place, and I can’t get out of it in the second place. With the mayor and the D.A. out of the way, that indictment is a thing of the past. I’m in the clear and in the saddle from now on in.”

“One thing you can do for me,” Colegrave said as he was leaving. “Arrange it for me to see this fellow that did the job for me.”

“I’ve been wondering about him,” Ruzzoni said softly, “What’s to prevent him from singing? He must’ve been an awful chump to take the chance he did, but still he might be bright enough to start popping off what he knows.”

“That’s just it,” Colegrave smiled. “He doesn’t know anything at all. Even if he did I doubt if he’d talk.”

“It’s your neck if he does,” Ruzzoni said. “I’ll arrange for you to see him. They’ll rush through his trial, but I’ll get you an interview with him the day of the frying party. It shouldn’t be more than a few weeks off.”

One month later Colegrave was admitted into a barred, heavily-guarded room, in which a small, surly looking man sat hunched on a stool. The head of the man was shaved and his trouser legs were split. When he saw Colegrave his ugly yellow teeth showed in a grin.

“Everything’s jake, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Be careful of what you say,” Colegrave murmured. “Yes, everything’s jake. The last act takes place tonight when the part of me that is you dies. It is strange that I must die to live, but that is the fact.”

Little more was said. When Colegrave left some minutes later, he felt he was leaving a part of himself. But this thought only elated him. It was part of himself that he could well do without, now that its usefulness was over. It was like a man with a withered arm having it amputated. With the death of his subconscious manifestation, he would be free forever to live his own life, with the position and power that his money would assure him.

At twelve o’clock that night Colegrave was seated in a smart night club, formally attired in evening clothes, a magnum of the finest quality champagne set before him.

Sweet strains of music floated through the smoke-laden air, and the dulcet laughter of pretty girls caressed his ears.

This was the life that would be his to enjoy completely in just exactly — he glanced at his watch — two more minutes.

The execution was scheduled for 12:03.

He poured himself a drink of the sparkling wine and lighted a cigarette. In a minute and a half he would be released forever from all worries. He watched the second hand of his wrist watch complete one circle and start on the next. Just a matter of seconds now...

As the second hand started on the last quarter of the minute, Colegrave rose to his feet, glass in hand. It was only fitting that he drink a toast to the exit of his secondary nature.

He was raising his glass as the second hand swept past 12:03.

“A toast to one who—”

They were his last words.

A bolt of white-hot pain seemed to crash into his brain, even as the words echoed in his ears.[5] The glass in his hand splintered as his hand closed spasmodically, and the wine splashed over his shirt front.

Then he crashed to the floor.

A woman screamed, and the music jerked to a ragged stop. A crowd clustered about Colegrave’s lifeless figure, until the manager arrived and had the body carried to his office.

Then the police were called.

The coroner called it a heart attack, although he said it should more accurately be called a mind attack. The tissues of the brain were seared and shattered into shapeless shreds.

From the standpoint of the police there was one very fortunate angle to the mysterious death. For, when a certain safety deposit box corporation learned of it, they handed to the guardians of the law a document which convicted beyond all doubt a certain Mr. Ruzzoni as being behind the double killing of the mayor and the district attorney.

Ruzzoni, however, saved the state a job by committing suicide while the police were smashing in the door of his apartment.