Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  This was too much for Quaggle. He flew from the room . . .

  WHEN J. Thaddeus Throckmorton, vested in the person of John Brown, arrived on the floor of the washing machine section he was humming happily. It was almost with a sort of fondness that he gazed at the gigantic display washer which had been the cause of his present state. There were worse fates than being a washing machine salesman. Washing machine salesmen had small worries and smaller salaries. But they were better off, far better off, than department store executives about to be thrown into bankruptcy.

  Mr. Throckmorton threw John Brown’s thin shoulders back and inflated John Brown’s chest. For the first time in many moons there was a swagger in John Brown’s manner. “Jesta minute, fella!”

  Mr. Throckmorton felt a hand jab him forcefully between the shoulder blades, and he turned to face a thin, sharp-nosed, moustached individual wearing a belligerent smile.

  “Yuh’re John Brown, ain’t yuh?” Mr. Throckmorton hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” he acknowledged.

  “Well, Brown,” the thin man’s beady eyes gleamed triumphantly and he pulled a notebook from his pocket, “I’m from the Acme Loan Company.”

  “So,” said Mr. Throckmorton icily, “so?”

  The false smile faded from the crooked mouth. “Don’t git uppity, Brown. I ain’t no vassal. I’m here to see that you make yer payment fer last month, or else.”

  It occurred to Mr. Throckmorton that he had been stupid to imagine John Brown had no debts. Oh, well, probably some piddling thing. Write out a check for the fellow and clear it up. In the next instant Mr. Throckmorton recalled that he could no longer write out checks.

  “Or else what?” said Mr. Throckmorton. He rather liked that. He had heard the phrase once in a gangster movie, but had never been able to use it inasmuch as no one ever said “or else” to Thaddeus Throckmorton. He almost had a warm feeling toward the collector for giving him the opportunity. “Or else what?” he repeated.

  “Or else—” The irritating collector moved in closer and pushed his forefinger against his debtor’s chest “—we’ll have to garnishee yer wages! It might mean yer job, Brown.”

  Mr. Throckmorton wrinkled John Brown’s forehead in perplexity. He would have to find out more about this. “How much do I owe?” he asked.

  “Two hunnert bucks is the principal. Yer interest fer this month and last month is fifteen bucks.” The collector had opened the pages in his notebook and was running a grimy thumb down a column of figures.

  “Here.” Mr. Throckmorton grabbed the book from the fellow’s paws. “Let me see that.” In the next moment his jaw fell open in sheer astonishment. “Why,” he blurted, “this debt is over four years old!”

  “No foolin’,” said the leering collector.

  “And I’ve paid, that is, he’s paid—”

  “You’ve paid, Brown. Don’t give me none of that he business,” the collector corrected.

  “I’ve paid the Acme Loan Company well over four hundred dollars in that time!” finished the astounded Mr. Throckmorton.

  “So what?” said the collector, scratching his scraggly moustache nonchalantly.

  “That’s twice the amount originally borrowed! Which amounts to nothing more or less than sheer banditry!” stormed Mr. Throckmorton.

  “Look,” said the collector with feigned boredom, “are yuh gonna pay up yer installment, or aren’t yuh? Make up yer mind, Brown. If yuh don’t pay, we’ll take the matter up wit yer boss!”

  John Brown would have trembled under such circumstances. But Thaddeus Throckmorton was not used to trembling under any circumstances. Mr. Throckmorton’s personality directed. John Brown’s body acted. In the next several minutes the patrons of Throckmorton’s Department Store were amazed to see a drab, somewhat moth-eaten little salesman ushering a terrified and bewildered collector out of the premises by the scruff of the neck.

  “And if I see you around here again,” bellowed Throckmorton with a well-directed kick at the collector’s nether extremities, “I’ll have you put in jail!” Having concluded an unpleasant matter, Mr. Throckmorton rubbed John Brown’s hands together with some degree of satisfaction, turned and retraced his steps to the washing machine section.

  “Now to get down to work,” he muttered, striding onto the display floor . . .

  “NOW to get down to work,” said the small, white-haired, sour little man at the head of the gleaming conference table. John Brown, seated at the opposite end of the table, shivered apprehensively. The rasping voice of the white-haired gentleman had jerked him back to reality. For the past hour he had wandered aimlessly about the spacious offices of Thaddeus Throckmorton in a sort of semi-stupor, half-dazedly, half-frantically trying to figure out a solution to his dilemma. But only two solutions had offered themselves—one to confess the incredible body-swapping of the past hours, the other to commit suicide. The first was out of the question, and he lacked the courage for the second.

  And now, somehow, he found himself sitting at the ringside of his own Waterloo. The sour little gentleman, Pearson, president of the bank, was looking balefully at John Brown, letting the silence of the room weave into a cold blanket around him. At length he spoke.

  “Throckmorton, I, for one, have had about enough of your eternal twaddle. Your bullying, blustering stupidity, your confounded unreasonable egotism, have just about bankrupted this store.”

  “But—” protested Mr. Brown. “Never mind the ‘buts,’ ” Pearson continued acidly. “You’re not bullying us any longer. Your high-handed methods and your refusal to take advice are the reasons why we won’t trust you with another cent of our money.”

  In all of John Brown’s forty-three years of existence he had never bullied anyone. In fact it had never even occurred to him to bully anyone. He felt he was being unfairly treated. Instinct brought him to his feet, opened his mouth in protest.

  Mr. Pearson sensed the beginning of another Throckmorton tantrum. He was determined to nip it in the bud. “Sit down,” he bellowed. “I have the floor!”

  Everyone in the room, including Mr. Pearson, was amazed to see the portly, frock-coated figure slump meekly into his chair. Mr. Pearson was surprised and gratified by the easy victory. In a kindlier tone he continued:

  “After all, Thaddeus, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. If you had taken our advice, as well as our loans, the last two times, you wouldn’t find yourself with your back against the wall now. Under the circumstances, we can’t renew the loan.” Mr. Pearson sat down with an air of finality.

  Everyone in the room regarded the frock-coated figure of the department store owner half-fearfully, half-expectantly. It had never been the nature of Thaddeus Throckmorton to take a blow sitting down. Seconds ticked into a minute, and still there was silence.

  Mr. Pearson cleared his throat. “Well?”

  Every eye in the room was fixed on John Brown as he rose to reply. “You are quite right,” he said simply, resuming his seat.

  IF he had ridden into the room naked on a tricycle, John Brown could not have created a greater furor. Out of the sudden tumult and babble of voices, Mr. Pearson’s thin cry for order was heard. When the room had at last quieted, the white-haired little banker spoke.

  “Did I—did I hear you rightly, Thaddeus?” There was shocked astonishment in Pearson’s voice. “Do you actually agree with us?”

  The portly figure rose again. “I not only agree with you, I might add to your statements. Thaddeus Throckmorton—that is to say the old Thaddeus Throckmorton—was also an overbearing, asinine know-nothing.” John Brown then resumed his seat, feeling a certain vicious satisfaction in having so humbled the body of the man who had been his overlord for eighteen years. Come what may, he had gotten even with Thaddeus Throckmorton,

  Mr. Pearson’s voice was unsteady as he spoke. “This is incredible. If you can stand before us, Thaddeus, and openly admit your shortcomings, you’re a better man than any of us had imagined.” There were murmurs of assent throughout the
group. “It’s obvious that you’ve changed, how or why is unimportant. The fact that you have, is all that counts.”

  There was a general murmuring of assent, with only a few protesting voices breaking through. When Pearson resumed, Mr. Brown was stunned by the drastic reversal of fortune. It was so unexpected—so impossible—he couldn’t believe his ears. “We had made up our minds not to advance a nickel to the old Thaddeus Throckmorton, but the situation is drastically reversed. We’ll give you your loan!”

  There was a brief, dramatic silence, immediately followed by a wild burst of applause. Then the directors were surrounding John Brown, slapping him on the back, pumping his hand. He struggled to his feet, dazed. Out of the sea of beaming faces swimming in front of him, he saw Mr. Pearson. “Congratulations, Thaddeus. Whatever made you change so?” the banker smiled.

  “I wish I knew,” said John Brown mournfully. “I only wish I knew!”

  * * *

  THADDEUS THROCKMORTON, in the person of John Brown, stood on the floor of the washing machine department. He raked his eyes over the circle of curious customers drifting about.

  “By thunder,” he shouted, “you need washing machines and I’m going to sell ’em to you. You need washing machines more than any crowd I have ever seen.” He paused to let this sink in and then suddenly pointed dramatically to a large florid-faced gentleman who blushed painfully as Throckmorton glared at him.

  “You,” Throckmorton said bitterly, “look as if you haven’t laundered that shirt you’re wearing for two weeks. It’s a disgrace. I doubt very much if the management would allow me to sell you a machine. After all,” he said frigidly, “a Throckmorton washer has a certain position to maintain.”

  “Is that so?” the florid-faced gentleman said belligerently. “If you think I’m not good enough for your machines you’re nuts. I’ll buy a machine—I’ll buy two machines and you won’t stop me. If you try it I’ll sue you and the company for plenty.”

  “If you’re small enough to take advantage of a legal technicality,” Throckmorton said icily, “there’s nothing I can do about it. Take the machines. Both of them,” he added with a peculiar gleam in his eye.

  In a minute the florid-faced gentleman was signing the order blank which Throckmorton had thrust contemptuously into his hands.

  “I know my rights,” he said loudly. “These big stores can’t make a monkey out of me.” Holding his receipt aloft like a victory banner he struggled through the growing crowd and disappeared.

  Throckmorton paused only long enough to insert a fresh order blank in his book before singling out the next victim. His greedy eye fastened on a pale, thin young man in the front row.

  The intended victim began to cast about for an avenue of escape as Throckmorton bore down on him.

  “Young man,” Throckmorton began pleasantly enough, “you need a washing machine.”

  The prospect retreated a step. “No,” he said feebly, “I don’t.”

  “Don’t contradict me,” Throckmorton said sharply. He extended the order blank inexorably. “Right on the bottom line.”

  “We send our laundry out,” the thin young man protested.

  “Stop changing the subject,” Throckmorton said irritably. “You’re trying my patience. I warn you, don’t push me too far. No more nonsense. Sign right here.”

  “But,” the young man repeated wildly, “we send our laundry out.”

  “Oh for the Lord’s sake,” Throckmorton exploded, “will you stop drooling about what you do with your laundry? You’ve just about exhausted the possibilities of that subject.”

  “But what’ll I do with a washing machine?”

  “This is not the information desk,” Throckmorton said witheringly. “But since you are apparently incapable of thinking for yourself, I’ll tell you. You can wash the dishes in it.”

  The young man looked dubious. He also looked desperate.

  “Won’t they break?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not if you use cardboard dishes,” Throckmorton said in the tone one uses with a backward child. “Now,” he continued ominously, “any more objections?”

  The young man shook his head weakly. He signed falteringly and scuttled away shaking his head foolishly.

  CUSTOMERS, attracted by the crowd, were hurrying to the scene, jostling one another and overflowing into the aisles and adjoining sections.

  Throckmorton was in his element. He was always at his best before a large audience. And now he proceeded to go to town.

  “Take your time,” he said in a voice that would have done justice to a circus barker. “There’s one for everybody. No one will be disappointed.” He ran an eye over the crowd and at that minute a happy inspiration occurred to him. It was so simple that he wondered why he had not thought of it at once.

  “To save time,” he announced pompously, “I shall have to ask you to form a line, starting at this counter and extending back as far as necessary. In that way I won’t be bothered running about from person to person.” He clapped his hands together smartly. “Quickly now, double file. A little snap to it, please.”

  A lieutenant, perhaps even a general, would have envied the authority Mr. Throckmorton put into these last commands.

  Those on the fringes of the crowd began to melt away, but the majority, hypnotized by Mr. Throckmorton’s Napoleonic manner, filed meekly into line.

  Like a bossy traffic cop, he harangued them until an orderly procession wound snake-like out of the washing machine department and into the rest of the store. Then, pompously and importantly, Mr. Throckmorton strode to the head of the line. Rubbing his hands gloatingly he went to work.

  It was mass production for the masses. Assembly line selling. As the line filed past Mr. Throckmorton the stack of signed order blanks grew higher and higher. The few who demurred were contemptuously dismissed and subjected to a violent storm of abuse as they departed.

  Mr. Throckmorton was enjoying himself immensely. He was enjoying himself to such an extent that he didn’t feel the tap on his shoulder until it was repeated for the third time.

  He swung around, rather annoyed, to meet the stern and disapproving presence of Mr. Codger. Mr. Codger was floor manager. Mr. Codger stared at the crowd, at the apparent confusion and finally at what he thought to be Mr. Brown. He tweaked his sharp nose, a habit of his when he was not pleased.

  “We are not,” he said coldly, “conducting a rummage sale. Your sales tactics are definitely out of line with our policy. If it happens again, Brown, you’re through.”

  “To blazes with our policy,” Mr. Throckmorton bellowed. “I’m selling washing machines.”

  He picked up the thick pile of orders and shoved them into Codger’s hands. “Take these down to the stock room. Be back in an hour for more.”

  Mr. Codger leafed through the blanks with widening eyes. Then he jerked a long form blank out of his pocket and ran a finger down a column. He grabbed Mr. Throckmorton by the arm, spinning him around.

  “Don’t sell any more machines,” he hissed. “You’ve already sold more than we have in stock. It’ll be two weeks before we can get another supply. Now get these people out of here.”

  “All out, eh?” observed Mr. Throckmorton with no little regret. “And just when it was getting to be such fun.” He was turning away from Mr. Codger when a gleam leaped into his eye, caused by the sight of the huge display washer.

  “How about that one?” demanded Mr. Throckmorton. “Is it sold yet?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Brown.” Codger’s voice was scornful. “That is merely for advertising purposes.”

  “Is that so?” said Mr. Throckmorton in the tone of one who has accepted challenge. His eyes darted over the remaining line of curious customers. Then he rubbed his hands, moving off in the direction of a new victim . . .

  IT took John Brown a little while to get down to the washing machine section, and on arriving there he found bedlam.

  John Brown managed to push his way through the jamming aisles.
By the time he had reached the group crowded in front of the washing machine department, he was perspiring and out of breath.

  Mr. Darnell, of neckties and ribbons, was futilely wringing his hands and fluttering around the fringes of the scene. Mr. Brown grabbed the fellow’s arm, drawing him aside from the commotion.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Mr. Darnell was decidedly agitated. “It’s Brown,” he almost squealed. “The little fool, oh the little fool, it’s the second time today!”

  John Brown had to shake the trembling Mr. Darnell to make him continue. “Come, come,” he shouted. “What happened?”

  “Brown was trying to sell a customer the gigantic washer. He had sold out all the others—guess it went to his head—and he tripped, just like he did this morning. Now Brown and the customer are whirling around inside the machine!”

  Time hung motionless as the full import of Darnell’s words came crashing in on John Brown—Throckmorton—in his body—was whipping about in the washing machine with a strange customer. Supposing—supposing—Mr. Brown hated to think of it—SUPPOSING IT HAPPENED ONCE MORE!

  From a distance, Mr. Darnell’s terrified voice came to him. “It’s awful, sir.

  The poor customer and that crazy little salesman. The poor customer, she’s—”

  “She,” bellowed John Brown. “Did you say ‘she’ ?”

  “Yes, sir,” bleated Darnell. “It’s a lady customer.”

  But John Brown hadn’t waited to hear the last of Darnell’s statement. With a hoarse yell he was up the steps to the platform around the huge washer. His mind was made up. There was only one thing to do.

  Mr. Darnell, standing stricken and helpless in front of the excited crowd, caught a glimpse of the expansive bottom and flying coat-tails of his employer as they disappeared into the whirring machine. And as he vanished into the thick of things, Mr. Darnell thought he heard him say: