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Synopsis
Offering indisputable evidence of the early talent that was to lead him to the top of the bestseller lists everywhere, these fourteen tales of crime and corruption, of sleuthing and suspense, of treachery, intrigue, and revenge, by the incomparable John D. MacDonald, were selected from the hundreds that originally appeared in the immensely popular pulp magazines of the late 1940s.
Superb entertainment from one of crime's most famous and accomplished writers.
'The stories share MacDonald's love of a buzz ending and the biting setup' Chicago Sun-Times
Release date: June 11, 2013
Publisher: Random House
Print pages: 288
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More Good Old Stuff
John D. MacDonald
IN THE FOREWORD to The Good Old Stuff I explained how Martin H. Greenberg and Francis M. Nevins, aficionados of the pulp mystery story, had
proposed a collection be made of my old pulp stories, how I had reacted—flattered, hesitant and dubious—and how they, with the invaluable aid of Jean and Walter Shine, had gone through
the hundreds of my stories published during the nineteen forties and fifties, and weeded the list down to thirty.
When I reread the thirty I was pleasantly surprised to find that twenty-seven of the thirty seemed to merit revival. A book with all twenty-seven would have been too long and hefty, so I divided
them into two groups, trying to keep the quality of both groups in balance.
The Good Old Stuff was published by Harper & Row in 1982, and the paperback edition was published by Fawcett in November 1983. It has done far better in the marketplace than any of
us expected. In September 1983, Collins, Ltd., purchased the rights to publish in Britain, and possibly Pan Books will bring out a paperback edition as well.
In my foreword to The Good Old Stuff I explained that I had resisted the temptation to edit the florid patches of prose, but had taken the liberty of updating such mechanical matters as
taxi fares, pay scales, phone procedures and the price of a drink in those stories which did not depend upon the particular year in which they were placed to achieve their effect. Also, I took the
liberty of changing those words in common usage which over the years have acquired a flavor I did not intend. “Gay” is an example of one of these unfortunate changes.
I received a few score letters of objection, saying that I should have left these period pieces alone. I still do not think so. I want my stories to entertain. If a story captures and entertains
a reader, one certain way of breaking the spell is to make him conscious of the fact that he is reading a story. If the hero rushes into a candy store and puts a nickel in a pay phone, it jars. If
he buys a quart of milk for twenty cents, the spell is broken.
Had these stories been written a hundred years ago it would perhaps be a sin against history to update them in this fashion. But the events of these stories are in a past so recent they could
just as well have been written today. And that is a portion of my intent, to show how little the world really changes.
Some of the stories—for example, “Death for Sale”—could not be pulled forward into the present time, and so it was left relatively unaltered, though I must confess I was
tempted to clean up some of the very stilted dialogue, and I wanted to invent a more plausible gimmick than the cigarette lighter in the purse. Also, the relationship between the hero and the woman
is too cute-trite at the end. I would handle it very differently today. But it would be unfair to excise the warts to make myself look better than I was.
“Secret Stain” is another period piece that could not be reasonably updated, as it dealt with the numbers racket the way it used to be set up, with the stitched, tear-off tickets,
the candy store outlets.
I decided it would be best to leave “The Night Is Over” back in 1947, when it was written, because the chronology gives an almost adequate reason for the protagonist’s
bleakness and despair. This is one of the two longest, and perhaps one of the clumsiest, because in my early innocence I handicapped myself by making the motivations unreal.
“Neighborly Interest” is an example of how I updated the stories which could have taken place today or tomorrow. I turned a 1938 Plymouth into a 1968 Plymouth. I increased a $150,000
ransom to $400,000. But while I was at it, I changed the name of one of the three lead characters. In the original 1949 story they were Stan, Steve and Art. In those days I was careless about
unnecessarily confusing the reader. So they have become Stan, Howie and Art.
I have used the same device with the titles as was used in The Good Old Stuff. My original title is the one used on each story. The table of contents gives the magazine editor’s
title in parentheses whenever my title was changed, along with the name of the magazine and the date of publication.
I am grateful to the four editors who presented me with this project, Greenberg, Nevins and the Shines, and I wish to assure them and you, kindly reader, that there will be no additional
versions of More Good Old Stuff. This is the end of the mother lode.
WHEN SHE HAD awakened that morning, she had looked at her husband in the other bed. Howard’s slack mouth was open, there was a stubble of beard on
his chin and he was puffy under the eyes. It was at that moment she realized how bored she was.
Howard Goodkin bored her and so did the little city of Wanderloo, Ohio. As had happened so many times before, the plot and lines and scenery failed to wear well.
When he came down to breakfast she kissed him warmly, smiled up into his eyes—and wondered if he should be buried in the blue suit or the gray one.
The gray would go with his eyes, she decided. The gray suit and one of the new white shirts and the blue silk tie with the tiny pattern of white triangles. While she talked casually with him
about the weather, the state of the flower garden and the leaking faucet in the upstairs bathroom, she mentally decided on the Gortzen Funeral Home. They seemed to do the best job. Mrs. Hall had
looked so lifelike. She thought of it all, and she could almost hear the soft music, the sonorous words of the service. She wanted to hug herself with excitement.
Finally Howard stood up, patted his mouth with the napkin, leaned over to kiss her good-by and left. She stood at the window and waved to him, wondering how much she would get for the year-old
car. She decided that she’d try to get seventeen hundred.
She hummed to herself as she finished up the breakfast dishes. The house was pleasantly warm. She kicked off her slippers and walked through the dim rooms of the pleasant house.
When she passed the full-length mirror in the hall, she jumped. Then she smiled at her own foolishness.
She stood near the mirror and looked at herself. She thought it was odd how young her figure remained. Absurd the way it was still the figure of a young girl. She frowned as she tried to
remember her true age. Forty? No. Born in 1908 in Wilmington. That would make it forty-one. Howard thought she was thirty-two. She was a small woman with an erect carriage, shapely legs, a tiny
waist. There was no trace of gray in her rich brown hair, and her large eyes were a pleasant deep blue, almost a lavender.
She assumed the exaggerated pose of a model, then laughed at herself with her voice of throaty silver and tripped prettily up the stairs. She took the heavy suitcase from the back of the closet,
lugged it out into the room.
With a needle, she picked the stitches out of a place where the lining had been ripped and mended. Reaching through the rent, she pulled out the heavy packet, took it over to the bed and opened
it with excited fingers. The packet contained three envelopes. That was the secret. To be systematic.
The first envelope contained small pictures of varied sizes. Five of them. Five pictures of five men. On the back of each picture, in neat, dainty printing, were a few facts. The name of the
man. The city or town where they had lived. The name she had used each time. A guarded phrase to indicate the manner of death. A tiny figure to indicate the net gain, in thousands, by his
death.
Humming once more, she went to her bureau drawer, took out the small picture of Howard Goodkin, took it back to the bed along with her silver fountain pen. Resting the picture face down, she
printed certain facts neatly on the back of it.
She put it in the envelope with the other pictures. In the second envelope was a listing of several Chicago banks. Following the name of each bank was the name she had used to open the
safety-deposit box, and a statement of the amount of cash in each box.
The third envelope contained the keys to the boxes, each one carefully tagged. On the back of each tag was the date when the box rent would be due. In the beginning she had paid ten years’
rent in advance, and each box had been renewed through the payment of a second ten years’ rental.
She sat on the bed and thought of the wonderful massive vaults, the tightly locked boxes, the neat bundles of cash in each box. A great deal of cash. An enormous amount, she thought, considering
the ease with which it had been obtained.
She replaced the packet in the suitcase under the lining, repaired the rent with clean, tiny stitches.
Already there was great delight in thinking ahead to the wreath on the door, the neighbors bringing baked things, the quiet words of comfort. It was so easy to cry when they spoke to
her—so easy to play the part of the stricken widow.
Then, after several months of wearing black had gone by and she had begun to tire of her practiced role of widow, she would go to a few selected friends, the ones who would talk, and she would
explain how she could no longer remain there where her memories of Howard were so clear and so sharp. She would sell everything and go away. Some letters, a few postcards—and then
silence.
They would forget. They always did. Then she would be ready for a new little city, a new man, a new background, carefully memorized so that there would be no slip-up. The eternal delightful
gambit of courtship, marriage, setting up a home and making friends. Then, in a year or two—death. It always ended in death.
To be such a friend of death gave her a feeling of power that she bore with her wherever she went. She looked on the dull, tidy little lives of the women in the small cities in which she lived,
and she felt like a goddess. She could write all manner of things on the black slate of life, and then, with one gesture, wipe the slate clean and begin all over again. New words, new love, new
tenderness and a new manner of death.
She had read of stupid women who poisoned one husband after another. That was the most spectacular stupidity. Through such methods the police were enabled to establish pattern. No, murder, to be
successful, must be done with infinite variety—and in ways that could not be connected with the heartbroken little woman who sobbed out her grief to the coroner and to the police.
Whenever she read articles which proclaimed that there was no such thing as a perfect murder, she laughed inside. She sat and laughed without any change of facial expression. And inside of her
she felt a glow of triumph.
It was good to kill men. Only one thing sometimes bothered her. To get such joy out of killing men must indicate some psychotic condition. She was a well-read woman, but it was not until after
the fourth death that she managed to connect her joy with that half-forgotten incident in the woods near her home when she had been fourteen.
The man had caught her by the wrist, reaching out from beyond a patch of brush as she walked slowly by. He was ragged and he stank of liquor and his filthy hand had muffled her screams.
Sometimes she would wake up in the night and once again feel the hand pressing on her lips.
They had sent him to jail. Shortly after that both of her parents died. As she had looked on their faces she had thought that they were dead and yet that horrible man still lived.
It bothered her that her hatred of men had to be based on a particular incident. She would rather it had been hatred without apparent cause, because it would have seemed cleaner that way.
She married at seventeen. A boy named Albert Gordon. After the first week with him, she knew that one day she would kill him. In killing him she would somehow be exacting her just vengeance.
She married him under her own name—Alicia Bowie. For two years she planned. For two years she endured him, and got delight out of being able to successfully play the part of the happy
bride.
Two days after her nineteenth birthday, the papers announced that tragic death of Albert Gordon while on a swimming picnic with his young wife at Lake Hobart. According to the newspaper
accounts, Albert Gordon had dived from the high limb of a tree and had misjudged the depth of the water.
She could still remember exactly how it was. The late-afternoon sun slanting across the water. Albert was near her, waist deep in water, looking out across the lake. The tree was above them. She
had fumbled on the rocky bottom, found a loose boulder of about ten pounds’ weight. She had held it poised. The shore dropped steeply, and the water, while up to his waist, lapped gently
around her legs. She had brought it down on the top of his head. Some of Albert’s blond hair adhered to the rock. She had carefully placed the rock in three feet of water under the limb of
the tree, bloody side up. That’s where they had found it.
With Albert’s insurance, she had moved eight hundred miles away. She had changed her name. She had established the pattern.
Now she got up from the bed, showered, put on a crisp cotton dress and raised the shades, filling the house with sunshine. As she listened with part of her mind to a morning radio program,
another part, a cold mechanical part, was weighing, discarding, considering alternate methods of accomplishing the sudden death of Howard Goodkin, successful manager of a chain of grocery stores in
and around Wanderloo, Ohio.
By lunchtime she had cut the feasible methods down to two. Neither of them duplicated any of the previous murder methods. Both of them were carefully selected to fit the habits of Howard
Goodkin.
Howard came in for lunch, smiling. He kissed her, patted her affectionately and said, “Anything exciting happen this morning?”
I decided to kill you, Howard. “Not a thing, darling. That dog across the street chased the Robinsons’ cat up into our maple tree and Betty was standing around wringing her hands.
When she was about to call the firemen, the dog went away and the cat came down. When she picked it up, it scratched her wrist.”
Howard grinned, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Big morning, huh?”
It won’t be hard to weep for you, Howard. In many ways you’re quite nice. “A nice, quiet morning, darling. Is the salad all right?”
“Wonderful, honey! I love it with onion.”
Cristofer, Florida, was a small, inland town, sleepy in the hot sun. Because it was not near the sea, the prices at the tourist courts, shabby hotels and cabins were low. Many old people came to
Cristofer to live out what remained of their lives. The men, their work-gnarled hands resting on their thin thighs, dozed in the sun. The buxom and indestructible old ladies lifted shrill voices
throughout the endless days and the monotony of the sun.
Ben Lawton, wearing ragged khaki shorts, his bronzed back knotted with muscle, trudged with the wheelbarrow down to where the truck had dumped the load of small, gleaming white shells, filled
the wheelbarrow and pushed it back up the slope to the Komfort Court—Cabins by the Season—Reasonable Rates.
There had been a time, just before the war, when Ben Lawton had sat behind a blond streamlined desk in a New York office. His novel sales promotion ideas had caught on, and he was looking
forward to a great deal of money.
In the middle of 1947 Benjamin G. Lawton had been released from the Veterans Hospital. The parting words from the resident psychiatrist had been: “Emotionally, Lawton, you’re not
able to resume your prewar activities. We recommend some quiet and isolated spot—manual labor—no worries. Any sort of tension will tie you in knots that we may not be able to untie.
Maybe, someday . . .”
And so Ben Lawton had ended up doing manual labor for Jonas Bright, proprietor of the Komfort Court. After more than a year, Ben thought of the outside world with a fear that chilled him
through.
The Komfort Court consisted of sixteen two-room cabins. Jonas Bright, a semi-paralytic, was a blunt, gruff but fair employer. Ben took care of maintenance and the odd jobs that came up. Serena
Bright cleaned the cabins, replaced the sheets, towels, pillowcases. She was the nineteen-year-old motherless daughter of Jonas.
Ben jammed the shovel into the barrowload of white shells, spread them along the path to Cabin 8. He straightened up for a moment, watched Serena carrying fresh sheets over to Cabin 11. It was
only while watching Serena that Ben felt as though he were coming alive once more. Whenever he thought of Serena, whenever he watched her tall, slim, young figure, her proud walk, her warm
strength, he thought of how wonderful it would be to take her to the New York shops he knew so well, to have the clever clerks transform her back-country charm into a city splendor that would halt
the casual male in his tracks.
In spite of Serena’s lack of advantages, lack of breeding and education, there was a fine sensitivity about her, an alert awareness of her surroundings.
He watched her, saw how the thin cotton dress clung to the lines of her body. When the screen door of the cabin slammed behind her, he sighed, returned to his work.
He knew that he had no chance with Serena. She had looked too long and too often on the gilded faces on the Bijou screen, and on the sleek automobiles, the shining clubs and bars. A subdued,
solemn psycho case, a man fresh out of a PN hospital, held no charms for her. Sure, she would laugh and joke with him, but always he saw that faint withdrawal in her eyes, and sensed that she was
saving herself for someone who could give her the things she read about and saw in the movies.
Jonas Bright was pathetically proud of his daughter.
By the time Ben had worked his way down to the walk that led up to Cabin 11, Serena came out, perspiration beaded on her upper lip.
“Don’t hit me, Ben,” she said, “if I ask you if it’s hot enough for you.”
“If you were standing closer, I’d hit you, honey,” he said, grinning.
“Phoo!” she said, sticking her underlip out, blowing a wisp of silverblond hair away from her forehead. Every visible area of her was honey brown.
“Tonight,” he said, “would seem to be a good night for you to walk a half mile with me and drink beer which I can barely afford. Okay?”
There had been many evenings like that. Gay and happy evenings, with lots of laughter and no hint of emotional entanglements.
There was a hint of amusement in her soft brown eyes. “Laddie,” she said, “you are talking to a girl who has better plans. Mr. Kelso is taking this kid to the Palm
Club.”
Ben was surprised at the amount of annoyance he felt. “Works fast, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman!” she snapped.
“He’s a perfect phony!” Ben said angrily.
She lifted her chin, gave him a cool stare and said, “And how would you know, Lawton? You’ve never traveled in his league.”
She pushed by him, carrying the laundry down to the main building to be picked up by the truck. He watched her go, saw the indignation that she managed to express with each step.
For a moment he was tempted to call her, to tell her that Jay Kelso could never have made the league that he once traveled in. But he had never talked of his past to the Brights, and this was no
time to start. Probably she wouldn’t believe him anyway.
He wheeled the barrow down toward the pile of shells. He frowned as he thought of Jay Kelso. The man had arrived in a flashy convertible some three days before, had rented Cabin 3 for an
indefinite period.
It was impossible to guess what his business was. To Ben Lawton, Kelso looked like a racetrack tout who had cut himself a piece of a killing. He wore loose-weave sports shirts in pearl gray,
lemon yellow and powder blue. His neckties were knotted into great bulky triangular knots. His luggage was of shining aluminum. His faun and pearl slacks were knife-edged, and his sports shoes were
obviously elevators.
His face was thin, with a deep tan over the sallowness, dark hair pompadoured with a greasy fixative, his facial expression a carefully trained imitation of a movie tough guy.
He carried his wad of bills in a gold money clip, and he went out of his way to adopt an air of patronizing friendliness with Jonas, Serena and Ben. He ignored the other tenants, and his every
action said, “I’m one hell of a smart and pleasant guy. I know all the angles and I’m giving you people a break just by being around. See?”
Ben had seen Jay Kelso practically lick his lips the first afternoon when Serena had walked by. The program was clear. With Kelso’s motives and Serena’s ambition to be a city girl,
the end result seemed more than obvious.
Ben wondered how much longer Jonas Bright would be able to be proud of his daughter. . . .
The sun was low by the time Ben Lawton had finished his work. He took the barrow and shovel to the toolhouse, walked slowly down to his room in the west wing of the main building. Business was
slow. He saw that Tommy, the boy, was pumping gas into a big car covered with road dust. The tourists from the car were in at the counter, and Beth Bronson, the fat high school girl, was serving
them Cokes.
He took a long shower to clean off the dust and sweat. When he turned his shower off he heard the roar of the shower on the other side of the thin partition, in the portion where Jonas and
Serena lived. He guessed that Serena was getting ready for her date. He changed to white slacks and a T-shirt and went to his front door, sat on the concrete step and lighted a cigarette.
Within ten minutes Jay Kelso came wheeling down in his canary convertible, parked near the pumps and bleated the horn. Serena came hurrying out in a matter of seconds. Her linen suit was a bit
too short and a shade tight across the shoulders. She climbed into the car and Kelso reached across her, pulled the door shut. He roared it out onto the highway in a cloud of dust. Ben saw the
setting sun brighten her fair head, Kelso’s dark one—and the two heads were close together.
He sighed and stood up.
Jonas was beside him. Jonas spat, the brown tobacco juice slapping into the dusk. He said softly, “She’s too old to give orders to, Ben.”
Not believing his own words, Ben said, “She’s smart enough to find out for herself.”
Jonas sighed. “I hope so. I surely hope so.” He turned and limped dejectedly away.
The investigator looked so much like a depressed bloodhound that she wanted to laugh at him. But of course that would be a silly thing to do. The room was darkened and he sat
across from her, obviously ill at ease. The tiny wadded handkerchief was damp in her palm. She inhaled, a long, shuddering sound, and mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“I know how tough this is for you, Mrs. Goodkin, but we just have to ask these questions so that our reports’ll be complete. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand,” she said in a small, weak voice.
“It was Howard’s practice to do minor repairs on the car?”
“Yes, it was. He was always doing something or other to it. He loved to—to get all greasy, and he said that he was saving money by doing things himself. He always said he—he
should have been a mechanic.”
“And then yesterday afternoon, after he finished work, he went right to the garage?”
“Yes. I remember he said something about repacking the rear wheels and adjusting the rear shocks, whatever that means, Mr. Brown.”
Mr. Brown sighed. “Well, it’s a pretty clear case. He jacked the car up and took off both rear wheels and blocked the axle with bricks. It was a damn fool thing to do. Probably when
he was tightening a nut or something, he moved it enough off balance so that it—”
She suddenly covered her face with her hands and sobbed hoarsely. In a matter of seconds, she felt his heavy hand on her shoulder, patting her gently.
“There, there, Mrs. Goodkin,” he said. “Sorry I had to upset you this way. Howard wasn’t in any pain. He never felt a thing. That differential came right down and killed
him instantly.”
As she sobbed, as she felt his comforting arms around her, she relived those few moments in the garage. She had bent over, looked under the car, said, “How are you doing, honey?”
His face was smeared with grease. “Just about another twenty minutes ought to do it.”
He was in the right position, his face under the bulge of the differential. She had straightened up, walked to the side of the car, picked up a dust rag, used it to shield her hands as she
pushed the car with all her strength.
It had swayed and the bricks had cracked in warning. Howard had given one startled gasp as the car had come down heavily.
Screaming wildly, she had run out into the street. As soon as she was certain that neighbors were running toward her, she had slowly and gracefully collapsed in a mock faint.
Yes, this one had been smoother than most of them. Less questioning. She could leave sooner, cover her tracks, go to some quiet resort place and start over again.
Seventeen hundred for the car and at least twelve thousand for the house. Counting incidentals and insurance, you could figure on twenty-six thousand after all expenses.
Through her sobs she said, “Mr. Brown, I—I can’t stay here. The—the memories. I won’t be able—to stand it.”
“I understand,” he whispered. “We’ll all understand.”
Mr. Davis, the vice-president of the Wanderloo National Bank, coughed a few times and said, “This is—well, it’s rather a large sum of money for a woman to
take away in cash, you know. We could establish a trust for you and send you the income every—”
She lifted her chin bravely. “Mr. Davis, I’m sorry, but I want to cut all strings tying me to Wanderloo. If you’d authorize the cashier to give me the cash
balance—”
“Possibly traveler’s checks, Mrs. Goodkin?”
“No one but you and the cashier and myself will know I’m taking that amount of cash with me. And I certainly don’t plan to advertise it. If you must know, Mr. Davis, I plan to
pin the major share of it inside my girdle. I rather imagine it will be safe there until I decide where I want to settle.”
Mr. Davis blushed, scratched his chin and sighed. “How do you want it, Mrs. Goodkin?” he said, standing up.
“Twenty one-thousand-dollar bills and the balance in fifties, hundreds and twenties.”
“I may have to contact the other two banks.”
She glanced at her watch. “Please hurry. My train leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes.”
With the money on her person, she bought her ticket to Detroit. She carried one suitcase containing her best clothes and the all-important packet. In Detroit she could shake off any possible
pursuit and then take a train to Chicago. The large bills would go into one of the four boxes. The remaining four thousand and something would give her a new start with a new name in a new place.
Resort places were best.
She decided that this time she would look for a younger man. They felt so flattered when an older woman became interested.
The trip from Chicago to whatever resort she decided on could be used in devising a new name and new background. A new identity was the easiest thing in the world to establish. It was merely a
case of arranging to take out a driver’s license, opening a checking account and a few charge accounts.
She would be forgotten in Wanderloo. “I wonder what happened to that sweet little Mrs. Goodkin. She left town, you know, after her husband died. Tragic affair. They had a perfect marriage.
A good thing there were no children, you know.”
As she waited for her train to be announced, she looked at herself in the oval mirror in her compact. The off-lavender eyes stared back at her with clarity—innocence—and an uncanny
youthfulness. It was good to be free again. Free for adventure . . .
Jay Kelso sat like a scrawny Buddha in his bed, clad only in blue silk shorts that were too big for him. The afternoon was hot and he was bored and troubled. A pair of faun
slacks were slung over the back of a straight chair not far from the bed. He knew without looking that there was but forty-two dollars in the gold money clip in the pocket of the slacks.
He had intended to stay a week in this hole called Komfort Court, but the week had turned into six weeks. That was bad.
By now the finance company in New Jersey would have turned the license number over to the skip tracers and they would be hunting the yellow wagon. He knew from experience that his equity was
just large enough so that they would enjoy repossessing the wagon.
And maybe that Myra dish in Camden had hired lawyers. That would be bad, because they could make trouble and he didn’t have the money to buy the legal talent to squeak out of it. He had
always felt wonderfully independent of the female sex.
And here he was stuck in inland Florida just because a hick babe was keeping him on the hook.
He wondered if he should run out, make some dough and come back this way for a second attempt. No, that tan bruiser, Lawton, had too eager a look in his eye when Serena—what a hell of a
name—walked by. It would be a sad thing to come back and find that Lawton had nailed her on the rebound.
He knew that the longer he stayed, the worse shape he would be in. He knew that already his stake was too small.
He smacked his fist into his palm and glared at the far wall. Suddenly a startling thought entered his mind. Maybe he wanted to marry the gi
proposed a collection be made of my old pulp stories, how I had reacted—flattered, hesitant and dubious—and how they, with the invaluable aid of Jean and Walter Shine, had gone through
the hundreds of my stories published during the nineteen forties and fifties, and weeded the list down to thirty.
When I reread the thirty I was pleasantly surprised to find that twenty-seven of the thirty seemed to merit revival. A book with all twenty-seven would have been too long and hefty, so I divided
them into two groups, trying to keep the quality of both groups in balance.
The Good Old Stuff was published by Harper & Row in 1982, and the paperback edition was published by Fawcett in November 1983. It has done far better in the marketplace than any of
us expected. In September 1983, Collins, Ltd., purchased the rights to publish in Britain, and possibly Pan Books will bring out a paperback edition as well.
In my foreword to The Good Old Stuff I explained that I had resisted the temptation to edit the florid patches of prose, but had taken the liberty of updating such mechanical matters as
taxi fares, pay scales, phone procedures and the price of a drink in those stories which did not depend upon the particular year in which they were placed to achieve their effect. Also, I took the
liberty of changing those words in common usage which over the years have acquired a flavor I did not intend. “Gay” is an example of one of these unfortunate changes.
I received a few score letters of objection, saying that I should have left these period pieces alone. I still do not think so. I want my stories to entertain. If a story captures and entertains
a reader, one certain way of breaking the spell is to make him conscious of the fact that he is reading a story. If the hero rushes into a candy store and puts a nickel in a pay phone, it jars. If
he buys a quart of milk for twenty cents, the spell is broken.
Had these stories been written a hundred years ago it would perhaps be a sin against history to update them in this fashion. But the events of these stories are in a past so recent they could
just as well have been written today. And that is a portion of my intent, to show how little the world really changes.
Some of the stories—for example, “Death for Sale”—could not be pulled forward into the present time, and so it was left relatively unaltered, though I must confess I was
tempted to clean up some of the very stilted dialogue, and I wanted to invent a more plausible gimmick than the cigarette lighter in the purse. Also, the relationship between the hero and the woman
is too cute-trite at the end. I would handle it very differently today. But it would be unfair to excise the warts to make myself look better than I was.
“Secret Stain” is another period piece that could not be reasonably updated, as it dealt with the numbers racket the way it used to be set up, with the stitched, tear-off tickets,
the candy store outlets.
I decided it would be best to leave “The Night Is Over” back in 1947, when it was written, because the chronology gives an almost adequate reason for the protagonist’s
bleakness and despair. This is one of the two longest, and perhaps one of the clumsiest, because in my early innocence I handicapped myself by making the motivations unreal.
“Neighborly Interest” is an example of how I updated the stories which could have taken place today or tomorrow. I turned a 1938 Plymouth into a 1968 Plymouth. I increased a $150,000
ransom to $400,000. But while I was at it, I changed the name of one of the three lead characters. In the original 1949 story they were Stan, Steve and Art. In those days I was careless about
unnecessarily confusing the reader. So they have become Stan, Howie and Art.
I have used the same device with the titles as was used in The Good Old Stuff. My original title is the one used on each story. The table of contents gives the magazine editor’s
title in parentheses whenever my title was changed, along with the name of the magazine and the date of publication.
I am grateful to the four editors who presented me with this project, Greenberg, Nevins and the Shines, and I wish to assure them and you, kindly reader, that there will be no additional
versions of More Good Old Stuff. This is the end of the mother lode.
WHEN SHE HAD awakened that morning, she had looked at her husband in the other bed. Howard’s slack mouth was open, there was a stubble of beard on
his chin and he was puffy under the eyes. It was at that moment she realized how bored she was.
Howard Goodkin bored her and so did the little city of Wanderloo, Ohio. As had happened so many times before, the plot and lines and scenery failed to wear well.
When he came down to breakfast she kissed him warmly, smiled up into his eyes—and wondered if he should be buried in the blue suit or the gray one.
The gray would go with his eyes, she decided. The gray suit and one of the new white shirts and the blue silk tie with the tiny pattern of white triangles. While she talked casually with him
about the weather, the state of the flower garden and the leaking faucet in the upstairs bathroom, she mentally decided on the Gortzen Funeral Home. They seemed to do the best job. Mrs. Hall had
looked so lifelike. She thought of it all, and she could almost hear the soft music, the sonorous words of the service. She wanted to hug herself with excitement.
Finally Howard stood up, patted his mouth with the napkin, leaned over to kiss her good-by and left. She stood at the window and waved to him, wondering how much she would get for the year-old
car. She decided that she’d try to get seventeen hundred.
She hummed to herself as she finished up the breakfast dishes. The house was pleasantly warm. She kicked off her slippers and walked through the dim rooms of the pleasant house.
When she passed the full-length mirror in the hall, she jumped. Then she smiled at her own foolishness.
She stood near the mirror and looked at herself. She thought it was odd how young her figure remained. Absurd the way it was still the figure of a young girl. She frowned as she tried to
remember her true age. Forty? No. Born in 1908 in Wilmington. That would make it forty-one. Howard thought she was thirty-two. She was a small woman with an erect carriage, shapely legs, a tiny
waist. There was no trace of gray in her rich brown hair, and her large eyes were a pleasant deep blue, almost a lavender.
She assumed the exaggerated pose of a model, then laughed at herself with her voice of throaty silver and tripped prettily up the stairs. She took the heavy suitcase from the back of the closet,
lugged it out into the room.
With a needle, she picked the stitches out of a place where the lining had been ripped and mended. Reaching through the rent, she pulled out the heavy packet, took it over to the bed and opened
it with excited fingers. The packet contained three envelopes. That was the secret. To be systematic.
The first envelope contained small pictures of varied sizes. Five of them. Five pictures of five men. On the back of each picture, in neat, dainty printing, were a few facts. The name of the
man. The city or town where they had lived. The name she had used each time. A guarded phrase to indicate the manner of death. A tiny figure to indicate the net gain, in thousands, by his
death.
Humming once more, she went to her bureau drawer, took out the small picture of Howard Goodkin, took it back to the bed along with her silver fountain pen. Resting the picture face down, she
printed certain facts neatly on the back of it.
She put it in the envelope with the other pictures. In the second envelope was a listing of several Chicago banks. Following the name of each bank was the name she had used to open the
safety-deposit box, and a statement of the amount of cash in each box.
The third envelope contained the keys to the boxes, each one carefully tagged. On the back of each tag was the date when the box rent would be due. In the beginning she had paid ten years’
rent in advance, and each box had been renewed through the payment of a second ten years’ rental.
She sat on the bed and thought of the wonderful massive vaults, the tightly locked boxes, the neat bundles of cash in each box. A great deal of cash. An enormous amount, she thought, considering
the ease with which it had been obtained.
She replaced the packet in the suitcase under the lining, repaired the rent with clean, tiny stitches.
Already there was great delight in thinking ahead to the wreath on the door, the neighbors bringing baked things, the quiet words of comfort. It was so easy to cry when they spoke to
her—so easy to play the part of the stricken widow.
Then, after several months of wearing black had gone by and she had begun to tire of her practiced role of widow, she would go to a few selected friends, the ones who would talk, and she would
explain how she could no longer remain there where her memories of Howard were so clear and so sharp. She would sell everything and go away. Some letters, a few postcards—and then
silence.
They would forget. They always did. Then she would be ready for a new little city, a new man, a new background, carefully memorized so that there would be no slip-up. The eternal delightful
gambit of courtship, marriage, setting up a home and making friends. Then, in a year or two—death. It always ended in death.
To be such a friend of death gave her a feeling of power that she bore with her wherever she went. She looked on the dull, tidy little lives of the women in the small cities in which she lived,
and she felt like a goddess. She could write all manner of things on the black slate of life, and then, with one gesture, wipe the slate clean and begin all over again. New words, new love, new
tenderness and a new manner of death.
She had read of stupid women who poisoned one husband after another. That was the most spectacular stupidity. Through such methods the police were enabled to establish pattern. No, murder, to be
successful, must be done with infinite variety—and in ways that could not be connected with the heartbroken little woman who sobbed out her grief to the coroner and to the police.
Whenever she read articles which proclaimed that there was no such thing as a perfect murder, she laughed inside. She sat and laughed without any change of facial expression. And inside of her
she felt a glow of triumph.
It was good to kill men. Only one thing sometimes bothered her. To get such joy out of killing men must indicate some psychotic condition. She was a well-read woman, but it was not until after
the fourth death that she managed to connect her joy with that half-forgotten incident in the woods near her home when she had been fourteen.
The man had caught her by the wrist, reaching out from beyond a patch of brush as she walked slowly by. He was ragged and he stank of liquor and his filthy hand had muffled her screams.
Sometimes she would wake up in the night and once again feel the hand pressing on her lips.
They had sent him to jail. Shortly after that both of her parents died. As she had looked on their faces she had thought that they were dead and yet that horrible man still lived.
It bothered her that her hatred of men had to be based on a particular incident. She would rather it had been hatred without apparent cause, because it would have seemed cleaner that way.
She married at seventeen. A boy named Albert Gordon. After the first week with him, she knew that one day she would kill him. In killing him she would somehow be exacting her just vengeance.
She married him under her own name—Alicia Bowie. For two years she planned. For two years she endured him, and got delight out of being able to successfully play the part of the happy
bride.
Two days after her nineteenth birthday, the papers announced that tragic death of Albert Gordon while on a swimming picnic with his young wife at Lake Hobart. According to the newspaper
accounts, Albert Gordon had dived from the high limb of a tree and had misjudged the depth of the water.
She could still remember exactly how it was. The late-afternoon sun slanting across the water. Albert was near her, waist deep in water, looking out across the lake. The tree was above them. She
had fumbled on the rocky bottom, found a loose boulder of about ten pounds’ weight. She had held it poised. The shore dropped steeply, and the water, while up to his waist, lapped gently
around her legs. She had brought it down on the top of his head. Some of Albert’s blond hair adhered to the rock. She had carefully placed the rock in three feet of water under the limb of
the tree, bloody side up. That’s where they had found it.
With Albert’s insurance, she had moved eight hundred miles away. She had changed her name. She had established the pattern.
Now she got up from the bed, showered, put on a crisp cotton dress and raised the shades, filling the house with sunshine. As she listened with part of her mind to a morning radio program,
another part, a cold mechanical part, was weighing, discarding, considering alternate methods of accomplishing the sudden death of Howard Goodkin, successful manager of a chain of grocery stores in
and around Wanderloo, Ohio.
By lunchtime she had cut the feasible methods down to two. Neither of them duplicated any of the previous murder methods. Both of them were carefully selected to fit the habits of Howard
Goodkin.
Howard came in for lunch, smiling. He kissed her, patted her affectionately and said, “Anything exciting happen this morning?”
I decided to kill you, Howard. “Not a thing, darling. That dog across the street chased the Robinsons’ cat up into our maple tree and Betty was standing around wringing her hands.
When she was about to call the firemen, the dog went away and the cat came down. When she picked it up, it scratched her wrist.”
Howard grinned, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Big morning, huh?”
It won’t be hard to weep for you, Howard. In many ways you’re quite nice. “A nice, quiet morning, darling. Is the salad all right?”
“Wonderful, honey! I love it with onion.”
Cristofer, Florida, was a small, inland town, sleepy in the hot sun. Because it was not near the sea, the prices at the tourist courts, shabby hotels and cabins were low. Many old people came to
Cristofer to live out what remained of their lives. The men, their work-gnarled hands resting on their thin thighs, dozed in the sun. The buxom and indestructible old ladies lifted shrill voices
throughout the endless days and the monotony of the sun.
Ben Lawton, wearing ragged khaki shorts, his bronzed back knotted with muscle, trudged with the wheelbarrow down to where the truck had dumped the load of small, gleaming white shells, filled
the wheelbarrow and pushed it back up the slope to the Komfort Court—Cabins by the Season—Reasonable Rates.
There had been a time, just before the war, when Ben Lawton had sat behind a blond streamlined desk in a New York office. His novel sales promotion ideas had caught on, and he was looking
forward to a great deal of money.
In the middle of 1947 Benjamin G. Lawton had been released from the Veterans Hospital. The parting words from the resident psychiatrist had been: “Emotionally, Lawton, you’re not
able to resume your prewar activities. We recommend some quiet and isolated spot—manual labor—no worries. Any sort of tension will tie you in knots that we may not be able to untie.
Maybe, someday . . .”
And so Ben Lawton had ended up doing manual labor for Jonas Bright, proprietor of the Komfort Court. After more than a year, Ben thought of the outside world with a fear that chilled him
through.
The Komfort Court consisted of sixteen two-room cabins. Jonas Bright, a semi-paralytic, was a blunt, gruff but fair employer. Ben took care of maintenance and the odd jobs that came up. Serena
Bright cleaned the cabins, replaced the sheets, towels, pillowcases. She was the nineteen-year-old motherless daughter of Jonas.
Ben jammed the shovel into the barrowload of white shells, spread them along the path to Cabin 8. He straightened up for a moment, watched Serena carrying fresh sheets over to Cabin 11. It was
only while watching Serena that Ben felt as though he were coming alive once more. Whenever he thought of Serena, whenever he watched her tall, slim, young figure, her proud walk, her warm
strength, he thought of how wonderful it would be to take her to the New York shops he knew so well, to have the clever clerks transform her back-country charm into a city splendor that would halt
the casual male in his tracks.
In spite of Serena’s lack of advantages, lack of breeding and education, there was a fine sensitivity about her, an alert awareness of her surroundings.
He watched her, saw how the thin cotton dress clung to the lines of her body. When the screen door of the cabin slammed behind her, he sighed, returned to his work.
He knew that he had no chance with Serena. She had looked too long and too often on the gilded faces on the Bijou screen, and on the sleek automobiles, the shining clubs and bars. A subdued,
solemn psycho case, a man fresh out of a PN hospital, held no charms for her. Sure, she would laugh and joke with him, but always he saw that faint withdrawal in her eyes, and sensed that she was
saving herself for someone who could give her the things she read about and saw in the movies.
Jonas Bright was pathetically proud of his daughter.
By the time Ben had worked his way down to the walk that led up to Cabin 11, Serena came out, perspiration beaded on her upper lip.
“Don’t hit me, Ben,” she said, “if I ask you if it’s hot enough for you.”
“If you were standing closer, I’d hit you, honey,” he said, grinning.
“Phoo!” she said, sticking her underlip out, blowing a wisp of silverblond hair away from her forehead. Every visible area of her was honey brown.
“Tonight,” he said, “would seem to be a good night for you to walk a half mile with me and drink beer which I can barely afford. Okay?”
There had been many evenings like that. Gay and happy evenings, with lots of laughter and no hint of emotional entanglements.
There was a hint of amusement in her soft brown eyes. “Laddie,” she said, “you are talking to a girl who has better plans. Mr. Kelso is taking this kid to the Palm
Club.”
Ben was surprised at the amount of annoyance he felt. “Works fast, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman!” she snapped.
“He’s a perfect phony!” Ben said angrily.
She lifted her chin, gave him a cool stare and said, “And how would you know, Lawton? You’ve never traveled in his league.”
She pushed by him, carrying the laundry down to the main building to be picked up by the truck. He watched her go, saw the indignation that she managed to express with each step.
For a moment he was tempted to call her, to tell her that Jay Kelso could never have made the league that he once traveled in. But he had never talked of his past to the Brights, and this was no
time to start. Probably she wouldn’t believe him anyway.
He wheeled the barrow down toward the pile of shells. He frowned as he thought of Jay Kelso. The man had arrived in a flashy convertible some three days before, had rented Cabin 3 for an
indefinite period.
It was impossible to guess what his business was. To Ben Lawton, Kelso looked like a racetrack tout who had cut himself a piece of a killing. He wore loose-weave sports shirts in pearl gray,
lemon yellow and powder blue. His neckties were knotted into great bulky triangular knots. His luggage was of shining aluminum. His faun and pearl slacks were knife-edged, and his sports shoes were
obviously elevators.
His face was thin, with a deep tan over the sallowness, dark hair pompadoured with a greasy fixative, his facial expression a carefully trained imitation of a movie tough guy.
He carried his wad of bills in a gold money clip, and he went out of his way to adopt an air of patronizing friendliness with Jonas, Serena and Ben. He ignored the other tenants, and his every
action said, “I’m one hell of a smart and pleasant guy. I know all the angles and I’m giving you people a break just by being around. See?”
Ben had seen Jay Kelso practically lick his lips the first afternoon when Serena had walked by. The program was clear. With Kelso’s motives and Serena’s ambition to be a city girl,
the end result seemed more than obvious.
Ben wondered how much longer Jonas Bright would be able to be proud of his daughter. . . .
The sun was low by the time Ben Lawton had finished his work. He took the barrow and shovel to the toolhouse, walked slowly down to his room in the west wing of the main building. Business was
slow. He saw that Tommy, the boy, was pumping gas into a big car covered with road dust. The tourists from the car were in at the counter, and Beth Bronson, the fat high school girl, was serving
them Cokes.
He took a long shower to clean off the dust and sweat. When he turned his shower off he heard the roar of the shower on the other side of the thin partition, in the portion where Jonas and
Serena lived. He guessed that Serena was getting ready for her date. He changed to white slacks and a T-shirt and went to his front door, sat on the concrete step and lighted a cigarette.
Within ten minutes Jay Kelso came wheeling down in his canary convertible, parked near the pumps and bleated the horn. Serena came hurrying out in a matter of seconds. Her linen suit was a bit
too short and a shade tight across the shoulders. She climbed into the car and Kelso reached across her, pulled the door shut. He roared it out onto the highway in a cloud of dust. Ben saw the
setting sun brighten her fair head, Kelso’s dark one—and the two heads were close together.
He sighed and stood up.
Jonas was beside him. Jonas spat, the brown tobacco juice slapping into the dusk. He said softly, “She’s too old to give orders to, Ben.”
Not believing his own words, Ben said, “She’s smart enough to find out for herself.”
Jonas sighed. “I hope so. I surely hope so.” He turned and limped dejectedly away.
The investigator looked so much like a depressed bloodhound that she wanted to laugh at him. But of course that would be a silly thing to do. The room was darkened and he sat
across from her, obviously ill at ease. The tiny wadded handkerchief was damp in her palm. She inhaled, a long, shuddering sound, and mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“I know how tough this is for you, Mrs. Goodkin, but we just have to ask these questions so that our reports’ll be complete. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand,” she said in a small, weak voice.
“It was Howard’s practice to do minor repairs on the car?”
“Yes, it was. He was always doing something or other to it. He loved to—to get all greasy, and he said that he was saving money by doing things himself. He always said he—he
should have been a mechanic.”
“And then yesterday afternoon, after he finished work, he went right to the garage?”
“Yes. I remember he said something about repacking the rear wheels and adjusting the rear shocks, whatever that means, Mr. Brown.”
Mr. Brown sighed. “Well, it’s a pretty clear case. He jacked the car up and took off both rear wheels and blocked the axle with bricks. It was a damn fool thing to do. Probably when
he was tightening a nut or something, he moved it enough off balance so that it—”
She suddenly covered her face with her hands and sobbed hoarsely. In a matter of seconds, she felt his heavy hand on her shoulder, patting her gently.
“There, there, Mrs. Goodkin,” he said. “Sorry I had to upset you this way. Howard wasn’t in any pain. He never felt a thing. That differential came right down and killed
him instantly.”
As she sobbed, as she felt his comforting arms around her, she relived those few moments in the garage. She had bent over, looked under the car, said, “How are you doing, honey?”
His face was smeared with grease. “Just about another twenty minutes ought to do it.”
He was in the right position, his face under the bulge of the differential. She had straightened up, walked to the side of the car, picked up a dust rag, used it to shield her hands as she
pushed the car with all her strength.
It had swayed and the bricks had cracked in warning. Howard had given one startled gasp as the car had come down heavily.
Screaming wildly, she had run out into the street. As soon as she was certain that neighbors were running toward her, she had slowly and gracefully collapsed in a mock faint.
Yes, this one had been smoother than most of them. Less questioning. She could leave sooner, cover her tracks, go to some quiet resort place and start over again.
Seventeen hundred for the car and at least twelve thousand for the house. Counting incidentals and insurance, you could figure on twenty-six thousand after all expenses.
Through her sobs she said, “Mr. Brown, I—I can’t stay here. The—the memories. I won’t be able—to stand it.”
“I understand,” he whispered. “We’ll all understand.”
Mr. Davis, the vice-president of the Wanderloo National Bank, coughed a few times and said, “This is—well, it’s rather a large sum of money for a woman to
take away in cash, you know. We could establish a trust for you and send you the income every—”
She lifted her chin bravely. “Mr. Davis, I’m sorry, but I want to cut all strings tying me to Wanderloo. If you’d authorize the cashier to give me the cash
balance—”
“Possibly traveler’s checks, Mrs. Goodkin?”
“No one but you and the cashier and myself will know I’m taking that amount of cash with me. And I certainly don’t plan to advertise it. If you must know, Mr. Davis, I plan to
pin the major share of it inside my girdle. I rather imagine it will be safe there until I decide where I want to settle.”
Mr. Davis blushed, scratched his chin and sighed. “How do you want it, Mrs. Goodkin?” he said, standing up.
“Twenty one-thousand-dollar bills and the balance in fifties, hundreds and twenties.”
“I may have to contact the other two banks.”
She glanced at her watch. “Please hurry. My train leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes.”
With the money on her person, she bought her ticket to Detroit. She carried one suitcase containing her best clothes and the all-important packet. In Detroit she could shake off any possible
pursuit and then take a train to Chicago. The large bills would go into one of the four boxes. The remaining four thousand and something would give her a new start with a new name in a new place.
Resort places were best.
She decided that this time she would look for a younger man. They felt so flattered when an older woman became interested.
The trip from Chicago to whatever resort she decided on could be used in devising a new name and new background. A new identity was the easiest thing in the world to establish. It was merely a
case of arranging to take out a driver’s license, opening a checking account and a few charge accounts.
She would be forgotten in Wanderloo. “I wonder what happened to that sweet little Mrs. Goodkin. She left town, you know, after her husband died. Tragic affair. They had a perfect marriage.
A good thing there were no children, you know.”
As she waited for her train to be announced, she looked at herself in the oval mirror in her compact. The off-lavender eyes stared back at her with clarity—innocence—and an uncanny
youthfulness. It was good to be free again. Free for adventure . . .
Jay Kelso sat like a scrawny Buddha in his bed, clad only in blue silk shorts that were too big for him. The afternoon was hot and he was bored and troubled. A pair of faun
slacks were slung over the back of a straight chair not far from the bed. He knew without looking that there was but forty-two dollars in the gold money clip in the pocket of the slacks.
He had intended to stay a week in this hole called Komfort Court, but the week had turned into six weeks. That was bad.
By now the finance company in New Jersey would have turned the license number over to the skip tracers and they would be hunting the yellow wagon. He knew from experience that his equity was
just large enough so that they would enjoy repossessing the wagon.
And maybe that Myra dish in Camden had hired lawyers. That would be bad, because they could make trouble and he didn’t have the money to buy the legal talent to squeak out of it. He had
always felt wonderfully independent of the female sex.
And here he was stuck in inland Florida just because a hick babe was keeping him on the hook.
He wondered if he should run out, make some dough and come back this way for a second attempt. No, that tan bruiser, Lawton, had too eager a look in his eye when Serena—what a hell of a
name—walked by. It would be a sad thing to come back and find that Lawton had nailed her on the rebound.
He knew that the longer he stayed, the worse shape he would be in. He knew that already his stake was too small.
He smacked his fist into his palm and glared at the far wall. Suddenly a startling thought entered his mind. Maybe he wanted to marry the gi
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