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THE PERFECTIONISTS
By ARNOLD CASTLE
ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS
_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 overLemark's Liquors in downtown Los Angeles and waited for his firstcustomer. He had been in business for a week and as yet had had nocallers. Therefore, it was with a mingled sense of excitement andsatisfaction that he greeted the tall, dark, smooth-faced figure thatcame up the stairs and into the office shortly before noon.
"Good day, sir," said Pembroke with an amiable smile. "I see myadvertisement has interested you. Please stand in that corner for just amoment."
Opening the desk drawer, which was almost empty, Pembroke removed anautomatic pistol fitted with a silencer. Pointing it at the amazedcustomer, he fired four .22 caliber longs into the narrow chest. Then hemade a telephone call and sat down to wait. He wondered how long itwould be before his next client would arrive.
* * * * *
The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation hadcommenced on a dismal, overcast evening in the South Pacific a yearearlier. Bound for Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso, the Colombiantramp steamer _Elena Mia_ had encountered a dense greenish fog whichseemed vaguely redolent of citrus trees. Standing on the forward deck,Pembroke was one of the first to perceive the peculiar odor and to spotthe immense gray hulk wallowing in the murky distance.
Then the explosion had come, from far below the waterline, and the deckswere awash with frantic crewmen, officers, and the handful ofpassengers. Only two lifeboats were launched before the _Elena Mia_ wentdown. Pembroke was in the second. The roar of the sinking ship was thelast thing he heard for some time.
Pembroke came as close to being a professional adventurer as one can inthese days of regimented travel, organized peril, and politicalrestriction. He had made for himself a substantial fortune throughspeculation in a great variety of properties, real and otherwise. Lifehad given him much and demanded little, which was perhaps the reason forhis restiveness.
* * * * *
Loyalty to person or to people was a trait Pembroke had never recognizedin himself, nor had it ever been expected of him. And yet he greatlyenvied those staunch patriots and lovers who could find it in themselvesto elevate the glory and safety of others above that of themselves.
Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke adapted quickly to the situation inwhich he found himself when he regained consciousness. He awoke in asmall room in what appeared to be a typical modern American hotel. Thewallet in his pocket contained exactly what it should, approximatelythree hundred dollars. His next thought was of food. He left the roomand descended via the elevator to the restaurant. Here he observed thatit was early afternoon. Ordering a full dinner, for he was unusuallyhungry, he began to study the others in the restaurant.
Many of the faces seemed familiar; the crew of the ship, probably. Healso recognized several of the passengers. However, he made no attemptto speak to them. After his meal, he bought a good corona and went for awalk. His situation could have been any small western American seacoastcity. He heard the hiss of the ocean in the direction the afternoon sunwas 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, anattractive woman of about thirty, tossed back her long, chestnut locksand gazed up intently at Pembroke as he passed. Seldom had he enjoyed soingenuous an invitation. He halted and stared down at her for a fewmoments.
"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 abouther conversation. Though the rest of her compensated for that.
"Tell me what's wrong with me," she went on urgently. "I'm not goodenough, am I? I mean, there's something wrong with the way I look oract. Isn't there? Please help me, please!"
"You're not casual enough, for one thing," said Pembroke, deciding toplay along with her for the moment. "You're too tense. Also you're a bitknock-kneed, not that it matters. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Yes, yes--I mean, I suppose so. I can try to be more casual. But Idon't know what to do about my knees," she said wistfully, staringacross at the smooth, tan limbs. "Do you think I'm okay otherwise? Imean, as a whole I'm not so bad, am I? Oh, please tell me."
"How about talking it over at supper tonight?" Pembroke proposed. "Maybewith less distraction I'll have a better picture of you--as a whole."
"Oh, that's very generous of you," the woman told him. She scribbled aname and an address on a small piece of paper and handed it to him. "Anytime after six," she said.
Pembroke left the beach and walked through several small specialtyshops. He tried to get the woman off his mind, but the oddness of herconversation continued to bother him. She was right about beingdifferent, but it was her concern about being different that made herso. How to explain _that_ to her?
* * * * *
Then he saw the weird little glass statuette among the usualbric-a-brac. It rather resembled a ground hog, had seven fingers on eachof its six limbs, and smiled up at him as he stared.
"Can I help you, sir?" a middle-aged saleswoman inquired. "Oh, goodheavens, whatever is that thing doing here?"
Pembroke watched with lifted eyebrows as the clerk whisked the bizarrestatuette underneath the counter.
"What the hell was that?" Pembroke demanded.
"Oh, you know--or don't you? Oh, my," she concluded, "are you one ofthe--strangers?"
"And if I were?"
"Well, I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd tell me how I walk."
* * * * *
She came around in front of the counter and strutted back and forth afew times.
"They tell me I lean too far forward," she confided. "But I should thinkyou'd fall down if you didn't."
"Don't try to go so fast and you won't fall down," suggested Pembroke."You're in too much of a hurry. Also those fake flowers on your blousemake you look frumpy."
"Well, I'm supposed to look frumpy," the woman retorted. "That's thetype of person I am. But you can look frumpy and still walk natural,can't you? Everyone says you can."
"Well, they've got a point," said Pembroke. "Incidentally, just whereare we, anyway? What city is this?"
"Puerto Pacifico," she told him. "Isn't that a lovely name? It meanspeaceful port. In Spanish."
That was fine. At least he now knew where he was. But as he left theshop he began checking off every west coast state, city, town, andinlet. None, to the best of his knowledge, was called Puerto Pacifico.
He headed for the nearest service station and asked for a map. Theattendant gave him one which showed the city, but nothing beyond.
"Which way is it to San Francisco?" asked Pembroke.
"That all depends on where you are," the boy returned.
"Okay, then where am I?"
"Pardon me, there's a customer," the boy said. "This is PuertoPacifico."
Pembroke watched him hurry off to service a car with a sense of havingbeen given the runaround. To his surprise, the boy came back a fewminutes later after servicing the automobile.
"Say, I've just figured out who you are," the youngster told him. "I'dsure appreciate it if you'd give me a little help on my lingo. Also, yougas up the car firs
t, then try to sell 'em the oil--right?"
"Right," said Pembroke wearily. "What's wrong with your lingo? Otherthan the fact that it's not colloquial enough."
"Not enough slang, huh? Well, I guess I'll have to concentrate on that.How about the smile?"
"Perfect," Pembroke told him.
"Yeah?" said the boy delightedly. "Say, come back again, huh? I sureappreciate the help. Keep the map."
"Thanks. One more thing," Pembroke said. "What's over that way--outsidethe city?"
"Sand."
"How about that way?" he asked, pointing north. "And