The Jack Finney Reader Read online

  The Jack Finney Reader

  All stories © stated year of original publication by Jack Finney.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  1943

  ''Someone Who Knows Told Me…'' (Cosmopolitan, December 1943)

  1947

  Manhattan Idyl (Collier's, April 5 1947)

  The Widow's Walk (Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, July 1947)

  I'm Mad at You (Collier's, December 6, 1947)

  1948

  Cousin Len's Wonderful Adjective Cellar (Ladies' Home Journal, April 1948)

  Breakfast in Bed (Collier's, May 15, 1948)

  It Wouldn't Be Fair (Collier's, August 28, 1948)

  Long-Distance Call (Collier's, November 6, 1948)

  1949

  Something in a Cloud (Good Housekeeping, March 1949)

  You Haven't Changed a Bit (Collier's, April 16, 1949)

  The Little Courtesies (Collier's, June 25, 1949)

  1950

  Sneak Preview (Collier's, April 29, 1950)

  Week-end Genius (Collier's, May 20, 1950)

  I Like It This Way (Collier's, June 24, 1950)

  My Cigarette Loves Your Cigarette (Collier's, September 30, 1950)

  The Third Level (Collier's, October 7, 1950)

  1951

  Such Interesting Neighbors (Collier's, January 6, 1951)

  Husband at Home (Ladies' Home Journal, April 1951)

  One-Man Show (Collier's, June 30 1951)

  Swelled Head (Collier's, July 14, 1951)

  Quit Zoomin' Those Hands Through the Air (Collier's, August 4, 1951)

  I'm Scared (Collier's, September 15, 1951)

  Sounds in the Night (Collier's, November 24, 1951)

  1952

  Stopover at Reno (Collier's, January 5, 1952)

  Obituary (with C.J. Durban, Collier's, February 2, 1952)

  Tiger Tamer (Collier's, May 31, 1952)

  There is a Tide..... (Collier's, August 2, 1952)

  Man of the Cocktail Hour (Collier's, September 20, 1952)

  Diagnosis Completed (with F.M. Barratt, Collier's, October 18, 1952)

  Behind the News (Good Housekeeping, November 1952)

  1953

  5 Against the House, Part One (Good Housekeeping, July 1953)

  5 Against the House, Part Two (Good Housekeeping, August 1953)

  5 Against the House, Conclusion (Good Housekeeping, September 1953)

  1954

  The Body Snatchers, Part One (Collier's, November 26, 1954)

  The Body Snatchers, Part Two (Collier's, December 10, 1954)

  The Body Snatchers, Conclusion (Collier's, December 24, 1954)

  1955

  Legal and Tender (Good Housekeeping, February 1955)

  Tattletale Tape (Collier's, March 4, 1955)

  Of Missing Persons (Good Housekeeping, March 1955)

  A Man of Confidence (Good Housekeeping, August 1955)

  1956

  Second Chance (Good Housekeeping, April 1956)

  House of Numbers (Cosmopolitan, July 1956)

  Contents of the Dead Man's Pocket (Collier's, October 26 1956)

  1957

  A Dash of Spring (The Third Level, 1957)

  Rainy Sunday (Good Housekeeping, April 1957)

  Expression of Love (Good Housekeeping, June 1957)

  Fast Buck (Good Housekeeping, September 1957)

  1958

  Vive La Différence (Good Housekeeping, June 1958)

  1959

  Seven Days to Live (The Saturday Evening Post, January 10, 1959)

  Bedtime Story (Good Housekeeping, May 1959)

  All My Clients Are Innocent (Cosmopolitan, July 1959)

  The Love Letter (The Saturday Evening Post, August 1, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Part One (The Saturday Evening Post, August 22, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Part Two (The Saturday Evening Post, August 29, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Part Three (The Saturday Evening Post, September 5, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Part Four (The Saturday Evening Post, September 12, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Part Five (The Saturday Evening Post, September 19, 1959)

  The U-19's Last Kill, Conclusion (The Saturday Evening Post, September 26, 1959)

  Take One Rainy Night (McCall's, October 1959)

  1960

  The Other Wife (The Saturday Evening Post, January 30, 1960)

  Crazy Sunday (McCall's, February 1960)

  I Love Galesburg in the Springtime (McCall's, April 1960)

  1961

  An Old Tune (McCall's, October 1961)

  1962

  Where the Cluetts Are (McCall's, January 1962)

  The Man with the Magic Glasses (McCall's, March 1962)

  Old Enough for Love (McCall's, May 1962)

  Hey, Look at Me! (Playboy, September 1962)

  The Sunny Side of the Street (McCall's, October 1962)

  Time Has No Boundaries (The Saturday Evening Post, October 13, 1962)

  1963

  No Time for the Billiard Ballet (Playboy, October 1963)

  1965

  Double Take (Playboy, April 1965)

  Foreword

  This book, unofficial though it may be, is certainly the culmination of many a Jack Finney fan's dreams. It brings together, for the very first time, the complete collection of short stories and novellas written by Jack Finney between 1943 and 1965 and published in some of what were once America's best-selling magazines: Collier's, McCall's, Cosmopolitan, The Saturday Evening Post, Ladies' Home Jourmal, Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and Good Housekeeping.

  During these golden years Finney sold some sixty stories to these publications, four of which (5 Against The House, The Body Snatchers, House of Numbers and The U-19's Last Kill) spawned motion picture adaptations as well as the expanded novelizations which began his career as an author of books. Many of these stories were also later rewritten or simply included for publication in a pair of anthology collections, The Third Level (1957) and I Love Galesburg in the Springtime (1962), which in turn were themselves condensed into a later collection, About Time (1986). One of these stories was itself rewritten further and expanded into a novel in its own right, The Woodrow Wilson Dime (1968), and elements of many of the other stories collected here were later incorporated into the author's subsequent novels.

  Dedicated readers of Jack Finney's books will find all of the author's well-explored themes on display herein: nostalgia, time-travel, romance, suspense, science-fiction and domestic comedy. That they all exist side-by-side in this collection is a testament to the range of Jack Finney as a spinner of yarns; a teller of tales. If Finney's predilection for self-plagiarism begins to seem evident, view it as the device of a writer searching for the proper vehicle for the chestnuts held within his personal idea bag. Jack Finney may not have been the most skilled of writers in a technical sense, but his affinity for storytelling was near the top of the game.

  While some of the stories within these pages may be familiar to the reader either from their appearances in Finney's short-story collections or their expanded, novel-length versions, rest assured that the versions herein are the versions as they appeared in their original magazine publication. Some of these early versions differ radically from their later renditions, most notably The U-19's Last Kill, which was reworked extensively by the author prior to its publication as the novel Assault on a Queen (1959).

  And now… put on your favorite pair of wash slacks, grab an ice-cold bottle of Coco-Coola, prop your feet up on the davenport (or is it the chesterfield?) and enter the world of Jack Finney.

  “Someone Who Knows Told Me …”

  Mrs. Richard Brown did not at
tend the memorial funeral services which were recently held for Sergeant Abbott. She's never even heard of Sergeant Abbott. But she should have been there, should have heard the whole service — should have listened to the sobbing of Sergeant Abbott's mother. Because Mrs. Brown helped kill the sergeant.

  She has almost forgotten the beautiful sight she saw in New York Harbor recently. You see, ferryboats have to use the harbor even in wartime. So do the Navy and Merchant Marine. And so, one morning, Mrs. Brown stood on the deck of a ferry approaching New York, and gasped in delight as twenty-five PT boats shot out of the Hudson and headed across the bay. She saw the first of those graceful PT boats loaded by crane into a huge, gray-painted cargo ship.

  No enemy agents happened to be on the ferry that morning. There were none around the harbor, either. So the enemy knew nothing about those boats.

  You should have seen them, Mrs. Brown said to her sister, later. Twenty-five — I counted them! Her sister told her husband about it. And her husband mentioned it that night to the boys on his team at the bowling alley. Doubtless they mentioned it too, somewhere else, saying, Someone who knows told me … But somewhere in that chain — no one will ever know where or when — an enemy agent learned about those PT boats.

  Two days before, near Des Moines, Iowa, David Redstone had a thrill. His car was stopped at a railroad crossing, and as the train passed, he saw it was filled — every car — with paratroopers. Over twenty cars! he said at work. Some of the men told friends about it that evening. And somewhere in the chain of talk David Redstone started and his friends kept up the news reached the ears of an Axis sympathizer.

  In Phoenix, Arizona, Frank Berry was feeling proud — and tired. And with good reason. He'd just finished working on a rush job for the Navy — a huge order for special night binoculars. The order was finished on time, shipped to Boston, and Frank Berry was proud of his part in the job. Not unnaturally, he bragged a little. And presently, somewhere in the chain he started — and which others kept up — the enemy learned of those glasses.

  A great many specialized things are needed for an invasion. PT boats, night binoculars, paratroopers. A long list of things — which the enemy knows as well as our generals.

  And so, because of Mrs. Brown who has a service star in her window, and David Redstone who puts fifteen percent of his pay into war bonds, and Frank Berry who wears a Navy “E” in his lapel, and a lot of other people like them, the enemy learned enough facts to spell “invasion.” From others who talked they learned when. From still others they found out where. And twelve hours before the attack, they were ready and waiting at the right place.

  The invasion succeeded, but the cost was terrible. Among those killed were Sergeant Abbott, Pfc. Abel, Pfc. Abramson, Sergeant Abruzzi, Major Accles — but you know how a casualty list reads. Many memorial services were held here. Sergeant Abbott's, among others at which Mrs. Brown, David Redstone and Frank Berry were not present. Because they'd never even heard of the sergeant. Never knew they'd killed him and the others. And they still don't to this day.

  Cosmopolitan, December 1943, 115(6):14

  Manhattan Idyl

  Mr. Timberlake Ryan frowned at his wife. A nickel buys my silence, he growled.

  She glanced up from her magazine, looked at him across the room without wonder, surprise, or any apparent emotion at all, and resumed her reading. Timberlake deepened his voice, chest and frown, and repeated, A nickel buys silence concerning your dread secret!

  Without lifting her head, Eve moved her hand in a vague gesture, I'm just at a good part.

  Timberlake accepted defeat gracefully. And temporarily. He rose and with exaggerated silence, tiptoed across the large living room. Quietly he closed his hand over the knob of the door to the kitchen, breathing deeply and audibly until he knew he again had Eve's attention. Then he flung the door open viciously, crashing it against the kitchen wall. Come out of there, you murdering spalpeen! he shouted, and plunged into the opening. He grunted as though struck, staggered back, rushed forward and stopped, shifting heavily about on his feet, apparently grappling with a large, invisible opponent. You will, will you! he muttered. Oh, no, you don't!

  What's the matter, Tim? Eve said quietly. Haven't you anything to read?

  The struggle stopped and Tim strolled back into the room. Nope, he said.

  Have you finished the book from the rental library?

  Yep — in Chapter One.

  Eve sighed, puffing out her cheeks with a tiny pop. She looked up at him, frowning, then suddenly smiled. He would never, he supposed, be quite prepared whenever that happened. He felt again his old, old wonder at the incredible smoothness a woman's skin could have, and the familiar surprise that her face and soft yellow hair really should be quite as attractive as they were. What would you like to do? Eve asked.

  Tim leered at her. She stuck out her tongue and stretched luxuriously. There's a good movie at the Beumont, she said.

  If it's a good movie it isn't at the Beumont, and if —

  Well, what do you want to do, then?

  Tim left the room and came back with his hat. Grab your bonnet, he said.

  I'll have to get fixed first. Eve rose. Tim opened the door to the hallway, ran rapidly to the elevator, pushed the button, and sprinted back.

  No time! he said. I rang the bell! Elevator's coming!

  Oh, Tim, you always —

  It is! he exclaimed. I can hear it! They'll revolt if we keep them waiting. Rise up against us! He pushed her gently through the door, kissing the back of her neck, snapped off the hall light, and closed the door behind them.

  My hair's a mess. She looked up at him reproachfully.

  A hurrah's nest, he agreed. In fact, he said, glancing over her head, there are two large white-breasted hurrahs circling to land. The elevator stopped behind the closed door, started again to adjust the floor levels, then stopped. Tim gently and expertly kicked his wife with his knee, where it would hurt least and annoy her most. She turned toward him, gasping, her arm raised.

  He'll see you! They could hear the inner grill sliding open; then the outer door rolled back. The operator spoke and Tim replied happily, bowing Eve in before him. She pinched him, hard, as he turned to face front.

  Well, now what, funnyman? she said when they reached the street.

  A little plundering, perhaps? He stepped into the street to wave at an approaching cab. A little looting and rapine in the unprotected parts of the city?

  We might go dancing, Eve said, from the curb.

  Exactly, he answered. The cab passed, ignoring them. My idea in the first place, for which you, no doubt, will attempt to claim credit.

  I like the Ambassador, Eve said. It's nice when you really want to dance.

  A cab rolled to a stop. Tim caught the door handle and helped his wife inside. I have already instructed the driver to take us to the Ambassador Hotel at Fifty-first and Park Avenue, my dear.

  Eve sank into the leather cushion. Tim slouched, ankles crossed, heels on the folded seat before him, his legs long and straight under the thin cloth of his summer suit. As always when they sat side by side, Eve was conscious of his impressive bulk. I wonder — the same silly notion always occurred to her — I wonder, she thought, how it feels to be two thirds again as heavy as I am and a good seven inches taller.

  She liked to study his profile secretly. It was long and angular, with a deep groove at the curve of the cheek. Nothing boyish there, she thought. It's a man's face. She put her arm through his.

  Tim grinned down at her. No use making up to me, woman. There's lots better-looking babes where we're going!

  The Ambassador was quiet, half filled. It had, Eve felt, a late-summer almost lazy atmosphere which just fitted her mood. The people who sat and those who danced seemed unhurried and content to be here, here in the city, unenvious of those who had escaped it. The music was unspectacular but good, and for a time they sat and enjoyed it in silence.

  I wish they'd play Remember the Dream, Eve
said.

  Our song, said Tim.

  Oh, really! I'd never even heard of you when that was new. As a matter of fact, I was seeing quite a lot of a very nice man then. Ellery Harris.

  Sure, said Tim, Ellery. I met him.

  That's right, isn't it? I was with him the night we met. He was nice, she said maliciously. Not clever, but —

  No, Tim interrupted gravely, he wasn't.

  Oh, Eve said, he was all right. Gentle, kind. And he wasn't stupid.

  Who said he was? He didn't drool when he talked, exactly. Although, Tim went on, you always had the feeling he'd just missed it by a hormone.

  Anyway, Eve said, he didn't kick over a lamp the first time he called on me.

  I remember that booby trap. Part of a plot to rattle me and trap me into marriage.

  I wish they would play Remember the Dream.

  I'll send them a thought wave. He put his head in his hands. I'm concentrating. Quiet.

  The music had stopped, and now the band leader brought down his baton. Softly the orchestra began Remember the Dream.

  You told them, Eve said.

  Honest — I didn't! I didn't tell them.

  But they haven't been reviving that; I haven't heard it for ages. Didn't you send a note?

  No, honest. I haven't thought of that song for years. It's thought waves; they really work. Anything else you'd like? A million dollars in nickels?

  It's amazing, Eve said. Maybe you really did. Isn't it nice? They listened and when the music slipped softly into Summertime, they gave themselves up to the yearning notes, eyes half closed, utterly happy. Tim looked at her then, and they rose and began to dance.

  Summertime … the high, sweet notes were clear, beautiful. Summertime — and the living is — eas-y. They danced slowly, effortlessly. Summertime … the music said, and Tim answered softly, Mmm, d-da-da … da, dee, dee …

  I love him, she thought, her cheek on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Summertime … I love him, I love him.

  When they returned to their table, they sat for a time sipping their drinks, but they were ready to leave. Tim got the check, paid it, redeemed his hat, and they walked out into the dark alive summer night.