Page:Amazing Stories Volume 15 Number 12.djvu/130

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The Man
Who Wasn't Himself

by ALEXANDER BLADE

An absolutely sure way to implicate another man in a murder is to commit it with his own body! And Jaques Perdeau knew such a way!

IN HIS laboratory that night Jacques Perdeau had to congratulate himself on his cunning. The scheme was clever. It was worthy of Perdeau, the dark, dapper, wax-moustached little scientist.

In addition to this, it was exquisitely ironic. For it would eliminate the man who stood between Jacques Perdeau and the hour in which he could safely announce his discovery. It would eliminate Mortain.

The thought of the bestial, bettle-browed thug brought a smile. For Perdeau was visualizing the stark, bewildered fear that would grip Mortain's drink-fogged senses when the gendarmes came to arrest the thick-witted swine for murder. A murder he never would have committed—in actuality.

It would be a murder committed only by Mortain's body—

Perdeau lit a cigarette and seated himself at his laboratory desk. In a moment he was busy pouring over a thick ledger of charts and findings from the important experiment. On the front of the ledger which the dapper little scientist paged was scrawled, "Final Investigations in Personality Transference."

The experiments had been completed for over a month now. Completed and definitely proven. Now they were ready for scientific investigation by the Academy in open hearing. Fame, wealth, and great honor waited for Perdeau the moment his findings were submitted to the Academy. And all these would already have been Perdeau's a month ago, except for the fact that Mortain had entered the scene then.

It had been an evening during the final week of Perdeau's experiments. Mortain was in the library of the dapper scientist's apartment when Perdeau returned from his laboratory. . . .


"GOOD evening, mon ami!" Mortain sat in an easy chair, a bottle of Perdeau's best whisky and a carton of his expensive cigarettes at his elbow. His face was hidden in the half-darkness—for there was only one light in the room—but the hulking bulk of his great body and the rasping harshness of his voice identified him instantly.

Perdeau fought for control, and with a hand that trembled more than slightly, found the wall switch and flooded the room with light. It was a moment before his vocal cords would act to the

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