Death Is the Answer

The commercial was through. Tom was on again, saying, “And remember that the last question, folks, is the jackpot question. All money not won during the rest of the program gets loaded on the jackpot question. Mary here will write the growing amount of the jackpot on this blackboard. Keep watching it. Tonight we’re starting it off with a hundred dollars. Watch it grow. Now for the first question. Stan?”

Stan depressed the switch on his hand mike. “A young lady here would like to try one, sir. Your name and address, Miss. Please speak directly into the microphone.”

A shy monotone. “Winifred Higby. Eleven Tyler Crescent.”

“Now, Winifred,” Tom said, “your question will pay you five crisp one-dollar bills if you answer it correctly. It’s a music question. What well known jazz musician, a guitarist, recently opened a restaurant in New York? He is famous for his unique use of the English language. Come, now. Ten seconds.”

The girl flushed and chewed her lip, looking up at Stanley hopelessly.

“Quickly, now,” Tom said. “No prompting by you people seated near her. Don’t know? Winifred, it’s the one, the only, Eddie Condon. Give the girl a ticket, Stanley, entitling her to one bottle of that great Amoeba Mouthwash. Mary, add that five dollars to the jackpot. The jackpot is now worth one hundred and five dollars. Nick? Do you have someone?”

The half hour scurried by. Stan knew that his luck was out. Only two of the people he selected were able to answer correctly. Nick’s selections missed, too, but not so often. The prizes grew larger. Ten dollars. Twenty dollars. Fifty dollars. The audience was eager and excited. The two stand-ins in other parts of the theater didn’t have as much luck as Nick.

Stan glanced at his watch. The questions were over. Only the jackpot question was left. By mutual agreement, Nick and he left the jackpot question off the pool. There was too much money involved. Stan knew that he was silly to be so concerned about the five-dollar pool that it took his mind off his real work, that of gauging and analyzing the audience reactions to standard situations. He would have notes to write up when he got back to his room.

It didn’t bother him that Nick was Tom’s obvious favorite, was given the assignments to check theaters, to make lighting arrangements, to hire the additional men needed to cover the audiences, to make a lot of the travel arrangements. It was work that Stan wasn’t interested in. What did bother him was the way that Nick could consistently win their childish pool. Was it as Mary had hinted, that Nick had a better eye for people, a better ability to gauge intelligence by outward appearance? Possibly. But it wouldn’t do any good to dwell on that thought.

As always, Stan’s mind began to wander off the subject at hand. He didn’t have to pay much attention, Nick was always given the jackpot question assignment. By habit, he always devoted the last few minutes of the program to thoughts of Mary. She was easy to think about, and easy to see, standing up there, straight and slim, her smile deep and friendly. If only— But what was the use? She was show people. There would always be a gulf between them. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to travel with Nick, Tom and Mary, and watch Mary slowly fall in love with Nick. He wasn’t good enough to her.

Stan fought his way out of these depressing thoughts in time to hear Tom say, “Thank you, Nick, for finding us a brave man willing to tackle the jackpot question. Now hold that bale of money up where Mr. Bostwick, our candidate, can see it, Nick. Like the looks of that, Mr. Bostwick? It’s all yours if you can answer one little question I’m going to ask you. Four hundred and twenty dollars for thirty little seconds of effort. Ready? It’s a question on mathematics. Mental arithmetic. And it’s a toughy. Here is the question. Using four nines — the figure nine — can you arrange them in such a way that they will equal one hundred? Do anything you want with them, but use them all, and don’t use any other figures along with them. Thirty seconds, Mr. Bostwick. Go!”

The audience was hushed. They were all trying to work the problem. Mr. Bostwick mumbled into the mike, “Now if you took ninety-nine point nine nine that would be almost—”

“Almost isn’t good enough, Mr. Bostwick. Your time is running short. You’re warm though. Think hard now.”

“Lemme see now,” Mr. Bostwick mused. “Hey! What about ninety-nine and nine ninths?”

“What about it?” Tom roared. “Man, you got it! You got it! Nick, give Mr. Bostwick the four hundred and twenty dollars. Nice work, Mr. Bostwick.” He had to wait for the applause to die away. “And now folks, since that is all we have time for, I’ll turn you over to the announcer who wants to tell you something about our sponsor’s product and our plans for next week. Thank you all.”

Stan awoke with the telephone screaming at him. He felt as though he had been asleep a long time. He clicked on the reading lamp and groped for the phone, squinting.