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THE PERFECTIONISTS
THE PERFECTIONISTS
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_Is there something wrong with you?
Do you fail to fit in with your group?
Nervous, anxious, ill-at-ease? Happy
about it? Lucky you!_
Frank Pembroke sat behind the desk of his shabby little office over
Lemark's Liquors in downtown Los Angeles and waited for his first
customer. He had been in business for a week and as yet had had no
callers. Therefore, it was with a mingled sense of excitement and
satisfaction that he greeted the tall, dark, smooth-faced figure that
came up the stairs and into the office shortly before noon.
"Good day, sir," said Pembroke with an amiable smile. "I see my
advertisement has interested you. Please stand in that corner for just a
moment."
Opening the desk drawer, which was almost empty, Pembroke removed an
automatic pistol fitted with a silencer. Pointing it at the amazed
customer, he fired four .22 caliber longs into the narrow chest. Then he
made a telephone call and sat down to wait. He wondered how long it
would be before his next client would arrive.
* * * * *
The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation had
commenced on a dismal, overcast evening in the South Pacific a year
earlier. Bound for Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso, the Colombian
tramp steamer _Elena Mia_ had encountered a dense greenish fog which
seemed vaguely redolent of citrus trees. Standing on the forward deck,
Pembroke was one of the first to perceive the peculiar odor and to spot
the immense gray hulk wallowing in the murky distance.
Then the explosion had come, from far below the waterline, and the decks
were awash with frantic crewmen, officers, and the handful of
passengers. Only two lifeboats were launched before the _Elena Mia_ went
down. Pembroke was in the second. The roar of the sinking ship was the
last thing he heard for some time.
Pembroke came as close to being a professional adventurer as one can in
these days of regimented travel, organized peril, and political
restriction. He had made for himself a substantial fortune through
speculation in a great variety of properties, real and otherwise. Life
had given him much and demanded little, which was perhaps the reason for
his restiveness.
* * * * *
Loyalty to person or to people was a trait Pembroke had never recognized
in himself, nor had it ever been expected of him. And yet he greatly
envied those staunch patriots and lovers who could find it in themselves
to elevate the glory and safety of others above that of themselves.
Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke adapted quickly to the situation in
which he found himself when he regained consciousness. He awoke in a
small room in what appeared to be a typical modern American hotel. The
wallet in his pocket contained exactly what it should, approximately
three hundred dollars. His next thought was of food. He left the room
and descended via the elevator to the restaurant. Here he observed that
it was early afternoon. Ordering a full dinner, for he was unusually
hungry, he began to study the others in the restaurant.
Many of the faces seemed familiar; the crew of the ship, probably. He
also recognized several of the passengers. However, he made no attempt
to speak to them. After his meal, he bought a good corona and went for a
walk. His situation could have been any small western American seacoast
city. He heard the hiss of the ocean in the direction the afternoon sun
was taking. In his full-gaited walk, he was soon approaching the beach.
On the sand he saw a number of sun bathers. One in particular, an
attractive woman of about thirty, tossed back her long, chestnut locks
and gazed up intently at Pembroke as he passed. Seldom had he enjoyed so
ingenuous an invitation. He halted and stared down at her for a few
moments.
"You are looking for someone?" she inquired.
"Much of the time," said the man.
"Could it be me?"
"It could be."
"Yet you seem unsure," she said.
Pembroke smiled, uneasily. There was something not entirely normal about
her conversation. Though the rest of her compensated for that.
"Tell me what's wrong with me," she went on urgently. "I'm not good
enough, am I? I mean, there's something wrong with the way I look or
act. Isn't there? Please help me, please!"
Do you fail to fit in with your group?
Nervous, anxious, ill-at-ease? Happy
about it? Lucky you!_
Frank Pembroke sat behind the desk of his shabby little office over
Lemark's Liquors in downtown Los Angeles and waited for his first
customer. He had been in business for a week and as yet had had no
callers. Therefore, it was with a mingled sense of excitement and
satisfaction that he greeted the tall, dark, smooth-faced figure that
came up the stairs and into the office shortly before noon.
"Good day, sir," said Pembroke with an amiable smile. "I see my
advertisement has interested you. Please stand in that corner for just a
moment."
Opening the desk drawer, which was almost empty, Pembroke removed an
automatic pistol fitted with a silencer. Pointing it at the amazed
customer, he fired four .22 caliber longs into the narrow chest. Then he
made a telephone call and sat down to wait. He wondered how long it
would be before his next client would arrive.
* * * * *
The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation had
commenced on a dismal, overcast evening in the South Pacific a year
earlier. Bound for Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso, the Colombian
tramp steamer _Elena Mia_ had encountered a dense greenish fog which
seemed vaguely redolent of citrus trees. Standing on the forward deck,
Pembroke was one of the first to perceive the peculiar odor and to spot
the immense gray hulk wallowing in the murky distance.
Then the explosion had come, from far below the waterline, and the decks
were awash with frantic crewmen, officers, and the handful of
passengers. Only two lifeboats were launched before the _Elena Mia_ went
down. Pembroke was in the second. The roar of the sinking ship was the
last thing he heard for some time.
Pembroke came as close to being a professional adventurer as one can in
these days of regimented travel, organized peril, and political
restriction. He had made for himself a substantial fortune through
speculation in a great variety of properties, real and otherwise. Life
had given him much and demanded little, which was perhaps the reason for
his restiveness.
* * * * *
Loyalty to person or to people was a trait Pembroke had never recognized
in himself, nor had it ever been expected of him. And yet he greatly
envied those staunch patriots and lovers who could find it in themselves
to elevate the glory and safety of others above that of themselves.
Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke adapted quickly to the situation in
which he found himself when he regained consciousness. He awoke in a
small room in what appeared to be a typical modern American hotel. The
wallet in his pocket contained exactly what it should, approximately
three hundred dollars. His next thought was of food. He left the room
and descended via the elevator to the restaurant. Here he observed that
it was early afternoon. Ordering a full dinner, for he was unusually
hungry, he began to study the others in the restaurant.
Many of the faces seemed familiar; the crew of the ship, probably. He
also recognized several of the passengers. However, he made no attempt
to speak to them. After his meal, he bought a good corona and went for a
walk. His situation could have been any small western American seacoast
city. He heard the hiss of the ocean in the direction the afternoon sun
was taking. In his full-gaited walk, he was soon approaching the beach.
On the sand he saw a number of sun bathers. One in particular, an
attractive woman of about thirty, tossed back her long, chestnut locks
and gazed up intently at Pembroke as he passed. Seldom had he enjoyed so
ingenuous an invitation. He halted and stared down at her for a few
moments.
"You are looking for someone?" she inquired.
"Much of the time," said the man.
"Could it be me?"
"It could be."
"Yet you seem unsure," she said.
Pembroke smiled, uneasily. There was something not entirely normal about
her conversation. Though the rest of her compensated for that.
"Tell me what's wrong with me," she went on urgently. "I'm not good
enough, am I? I mean, there's something wrong with the way I look or
act. Isn't there? Please help me, please!"
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