Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  All men in whom greatness is dormant will one day be recognized for their true worth. A truly dominant spirit might manifest itself, even after years of timidity and uncertainty.

  It came as a shock for Mortimer to realize that he was the dominant type and that people were beginning to appreciate him for his true worth. He stood up at his desk, his eyes focused on some far distant horizon and unconsciously his shoulders squared, his chin thrust out.

  “Today,” he whispered dramatically, “I am a man.”

  HE looked about him, seeing the office as it was for the first time. He saw the mole-like clerks at the desks, the cringing, frightened people waiting for their requests to be considered and he took another deep breath. About the third in his entire life.

  Walking toward him he saw Bennie, the office boy, a lanky, callow youth, one of the minor banes of Mortimer’s existence. Mortimer’s head tilted defiantly, a stern, cold look froze on his face.

  “Bennie,” he snapped, and his voice would have delighted the author of the volume of will power, “come here.”

  Bennie turned, the impudent expression on his face gradually changing to one of dazed, helpless deference.

  “Yes,” he gulped, “right away.”

  He hurried to Mortimer’s desk.

  “What is it, sir?” he asked obediently.

  “In the future,” Mortimer said icily, “you will address me as Mr. Meek. And as for the present, get me a glass of water and be quick about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bennie gasped. “Immediately, Mr. Meek.”

  He wheeled and with one last bewildered, frightened look over his shoulder, scurried away.

  Mortimer sat down, a strange, intoxicating glow spreading over him. He was the dominant type. The book was right. “Assert yourself,” it said, “and respect and obedience are yours for the asking.”

  Well, he had asserted himself—and it worked!

  Bennie was back with the water and Mortimer seized the glass in one firm hand and stood up again.

  “To the new Mortimer Meek,” he cried, and then he tilted the glass and drained the water in one long gulp.

  You cannot go about a modern business office drinking toasts to yourself without attracting a certain amount of undesirable attention, and, in this respect, the Snappy Service office was no exception.

  “What is the meaning of this?” a chilled voice inquired behind him.

  Mortimer spun around to face the formidable figure of Jeremiah Judson, president of Snappy Service. Under the stare of Jeremiah’s gimlet-like eyes, his confidence melted away, like putty before a drill.

  “Heh, heh,” he laughed weakly, in an attempt to convince Mr. Judson that the whole situation was very droll. “Heh, heh, just a little joke. Think nothing of it.”

  Jeremiah’s frown faded and a blank look stole over his lean face.

  “Think nothing of it,” he muttered. “Very well,” he said dully. Turning, he strode away, his face as empty and expressionless as an idiot.

  Mortimer sagged into his chair, his breath whistling through his teeth like steam from a leaky radiator. This was too much. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with a shaky hand. He, Mortimer Meek, had cowed the boss, Jeremiah Judson.

  Why . . . why, anything was possible now. If his will power had been developed to the extent that he could bluff a hard, flinty-eyed old warrior like Jeremiah Judson . . . then he could do anything with it. Nothing was impossible!

  Judson was halfway across the office by the time Mortimer reached this conclusion. Intoxicated by the sudden surge of power that swept over him, he sprang to his feet, squared his shoulders.

  “Mr . . . Judson,” he shouted, come back here.”

  Jeremiah Judson stopped in his tracks and then turned, the expression of a sleep walker stealing over his face.

  “Yes . . . y . . . yes, sir,” he stammered, hurrying to Mortimer’s desk.

  Mortimer felt a moment of panic. Maybe he had gone too far. But it was too late to stop now. He had to carry the thing off.

  “Judson,” he said loudly, “I’m not at all satisfied with my present salary. If you aren’t in a position to pay me what I’m worth I shall be forced to tender my resignation. Effective immediately.”

  “How . . . how much do you want?” Judson gasped weakly.

  MORTIMER staggered back, his brain reeling. He tried twice to speak, but he succeeded only in producing an incoherent squawk. This was incredible—but it was happening. Judson was waiting patiently, meekly, for his answer.

  Mortimer started to ask for two dollars, but suddenly a wild, rash confidence took hold of his tongue.

  “Four dollars,” he stated. “Four dollars a week.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Judson even bowed slightly. “That will be arranged. Is that all?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Mortimer snapped. Gone was his hesitation, his timidity, his lack of confidence. Mortimer Meek had arrived.

  He swept a majestic eye over the awed and open-mouthed employees who were regarding the scene. He turned back to Jeremiah Judson.

  “I want you to give every one of your employees a two-dollar-a-week raise. And,” he waggled a stern finger under Jeremiah’s nose, “this slave driving nonsense is a thing of the past. Get me?”

  Mr. Judson mopped his perspiring forehead.

  “Yes, sir,” he managed to squeak. “Two dollars a week for everybody.”

  “And another thing,” Mortimer said reflectively, “I don’t particularly like the position of my desk. There’s not enough light for one thing, and on top of that, it’s dusty as the dickens. It’s bad for my hay fever. Let’s see,” he looked critically about the office, “I think you’d better have it moved over there next to the window.”

  “But that’s where Mr. Debaere’s desk is,” Judson’s voice was incredulously horrified.

  Mortimer smiled maliciously. Mr. Debaere was out to lunch with Betty, his girl. Probably sitting across from her right this minute in some dimly lighted cocktail bar,

  “That’s a pity, isn’t it?” he said casually. “Nothing to do but put Mr. Debaere’s desk where mine is. He hasn’t got hay fever. He won’t mind it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Judson said helplessly. “I’ll have the maintenance department take care of it right away.”

  “That’s a good fellow,” Mortimer said. “Snap into it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Judson bowed again and scurried away.

  A few minutes later he was back with two husky laborers trailing in his wake. Mortimer took charge of things.

  “Move that desk away from the window,” he ordered, “and we’ll shove mine right in its place.”

  The two laborers nodded, moved to follow Mortimer’s instructions.

  Mortimer watched them clear the papers off the desk with a happy, gratified smile. At last one of his long-sought dreams was about to be realized. The laborers carried the desk to the middle of the office and then one of them turned a flushed, perspiring face to Mortimer.

  “Where to now, bud?” he gasped. “Set my desk down,” a voice cried. The words, angry and loud, had not issued from Mortimer. He looked up to meet the indignant gaze of Jon Debaere, who stood inside the office door, his face mottled with fury. With him was Betty.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted, advancing on the laborers. “Who gave orders to move my desk?”

  Mortimer coughed.

  “I did,” he said.

  “You?” Jon cried unbelievingly. “Who do you think you are?”

  Mortimer threw back his head defiantly and raised an arm dramatically over his head.

  “Hah,” he cried. “I am Mortimer Meek.”

  “So what?” Jon snapped. “I’m telling you, Meek, you’re liable to get yourself into a mess you hadn’t figured on.”

  “Ain’t it de truth?” a horribly familiar voice rasped in Mortimer’s ear.

  A CLAMMY, cold sweat broke out on Mortimer’s brow and his thin hair tried to stand up and walk away. He didn’t need to lo
ok around to know that the voice belonged to Slug McNutty the gangster any more than a man has to look around to know that he has been slugged in the head with a baseball bat.

  It was Slug McNutty, accompanied by a dark, dapper little man, carrying a violin case under his arm,

  “Didja tink over dat little deal,” McNutty snapped, “or are you still goin’ to play dumb?”

  Mortimer felt Betty’s hand tugging at his sleeve.

  “Who are they?” she whispered. “They . . . they look dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mortimer heard Jon’s voice in the background. “They’re just a couple of his cheap friends. I’ll take care of you, darling, never fear.”

  “How about it, chum?” McNutty’s voice was ominously impatient. “Are ya ready to spill?”

  “I have to settle one thing at a time,” Mortimer cried. “Don’t rush me.”

  He glared wildly about from one couple to the other. Here were all his troubles, concentrated and localized, dumped suddenly onto his neck. This, he knew, was his Thermopylae. If he failed now everything was lost. He clenched his fists and jerked himself up to his full height. He recalled fleetingly the comforting words of the book:

  In times of great stress, when the outlook is darkest, strike with the cunning of the fox; the strength of the lion; the savageness of the tiger, and the battle is won.

  It was a large order for Mortimer, who had spent but one afternoon in the city zoo in his life, but it was now or never, and Mortimer’s soul was rising to the occasion. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth.

  “Looks like a hooked bass, doesn’t he?” Jon cut in maliciously.

  The impatience, the humiliation, the anger that had bubbled in the crucible of Mortimer’s soul, frothed over at this last slur.

  “Oh!” he exploded. “Go . . . go to blazes!”

  He wheeled to the grim figures of the gangsters, his head snapping back in a defiant tilt, his features cold and stern.

  “Now,” he snapped belligerently, “what the hell are you thugs hanging around here for?”

  “Don’t get tough,” McNutty whispered menacingly. “You know what I want. Where’s dat truck goin’ to be at t’ree o’clock tomorrow aftanoon?”

  “It’s going to be at Plaza and Fifth,” Mortimer snapped, “but that information is never going to do you any good.”

  McNutty’s companion glanced nervously about the office.

  “I don’t like it,” he whined. “Dis guy sounds like he stooled. Let’s get outa here.”

  “You little rat,” McNutty snapped at Mortimer. “Did ya tip the coppers off?”

  Mortimer threw back his head and laughed loudly. He had seen this gesture used innumerable times in the movies and he had longed secretly for an opportunity to use it himself. He threw back his head and laughed again.

  “You flatter yourself,” he sneered. “I don’t need the police to attend to the likes of you. You cheap cads have met your match in Mortimer Meek.” Drawing himself up he launched into the finale of the bridge scene, chapter twelve, page 443. “Because you are powerless to resist my commands. Do you hear? Helpless!”

  It was at this point that Jeremiah Judson chose to inject himself into the scene.

  “What do you men want?” he cried, waving his arms at the gangsters. “What’s the idea of standing around my office like a pair of . . . of gangsters?”

  Mortimer experienced a pang of jealousy. What did Judson mean stealing the spotlight from him that way? His voice had a distinctly frozen edge as he said:

  “I’ll take care of things, Jerry, just—”

  “But I demand to know,” Judson interrupted, “what—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Mortimer cut him off exasperatedly. “Go climb a flagpole, you old fossil, and I’ll take care of these crooks. These cheap hoodlums have met their match in—”

  Two things cut off Mortimer’s harangue.

  One was Betty’s shrill scream and the second was the beefy fist of Slug McNutty crashing into the side of his head.

  MORTIMER hit the floor and bounced twice before he settled for good on the back of his neck, his fingers and legs twitching spasmodically.

  “Mortimer,” Betty screamed. “Mortimer.”

  Dimly Mortimer heard the clamor in the office, the shrill cries of the women, the rasping voice of Slug McNutty.

  “Don’t anybody make a move,” he heard him yell. “Spike, get out the chopper. We’ll shoot our way outa here.”

  And then he felt soft, cool hands on his face and heard Betty’s anguished voice in his ear.

  “Mortimer, darling,” she moaned, “you’re hurt, bleeding.”

  Mortimer felt a surge of returning confidence.

  “Hah,” he said thickly. “What’s a little blood to Mortimer the mighty?”

  He struggled to his knees but Betty pulled him back. “Don’t,” she begged. “You’ll be killed.”

  “So what?” Mortimer snarled for the first time in his life. “So what?” His courage returned with a rush as the defiant phrase rolled off his tongue. He pulled free from Betty’s grip and struggled to his feet, his lackluster eyes trying hard to flash commandingly.

  The situation was one that would ordinarily call for a riot squad, tear gas and a dozen or so husky cops.

  Slug McNutty was backing toward the door, a heavy automatic clenched in his right fist. His companion had unsnapped the violin case and dragged out a stubby, vicious looking tommy gun, which he pointed menacingly at the huddled group of frightened employees.

  “Stop,” Mortimer cried, advancing toward them. “Stop, you . . . you thugs.”

  The tommy gun swung around, its black barrel aiming at Mortimer’s midsection and Slug McNutty’s finger tightened on the trigger of the automatic.

  “You’re beggin’ for dis,” McNutty rapped.

  “Drop those guns,” Mortimer cried desperately. “Drop them, I say.”

  An instant later, to the astonishment of Mortimer and the terrified employees, the gangsters released their grip on the guns and let them drop with a clattering crash to the floor.

  An awed, incredulous murmur rose from the trembling office workers as the gangsters stared helplessly down at their guns and then looked dumbly and dazedly to Mortimer.

  It was a sweet, soul-satisfying moment for Mortimer. He filled his lungs and swept a triumphant gaze over the breathlessly silent office.

  “That’s better,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking with relief. “Much better.” He turned to the white and shaking figure of Jeremiah Judson. “Nothing to worry about now, Jerry,” he said loftily. “I have things under control.”

  “Oh, Mortimer,” breathed Betty. “You’re . . . you’re wonderful!”

  “Sure I am,” Mortimer agreed. “The dominant type.”

  He turned back to the gangsters, his features hardening, his head snapping back defiantly.

  “Come here,” he cried, in a tone of voice that sounded like the bark of an anemic pekinese. “Come here, and make it snappy.”

  The gangsters obeyed numbly, their eyes staring glassily.

  “Now get this,” Mortimer said when they cowered before him. “I’m not going to be hard on you fellows. You don’t deserve any mercy, but I think you’ve learned the futility of crossing swords with Mortimer Meek.”

  “Jeez,” said Slug McNutty humbly, “ya mean ya ain’t goin’ to turn us over to de cops?”

  “No,” said Mortimer, “I’m not. You’ve learned your lesson.” He paused, delighted with his new role of kindly benevolence. “If you ever need any advice or inspiration feel free to call on me. Now go on about your business, like real men.”

  “Jeez,” said Slug McNutty. “We sure will.”

  TWENTY seconds after the door had closed upon the sheepish exit of the gangsters, a mild sort of pandemonium broke loose. The employees surged about Mortimer, pumping his hand, slapping his back, almost tearful in their relief and happiness. But Mortimer heard only one voice, saw only one fac
e.

  “Oh, darling,” Betty was crying, “I’ve been such a fool.”

  The words trickled over Mortimer like cool water on a parched plain. He looked about for Jon, his erstwhile rival, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  But he did see something that made him start like a prodded horse.

  The metal door that led to the incinerator chute was swinging gently, and caught on an edge of metal was a piece of light gray cloth; light gray cloth of the same shade as the suit that Jon had been wearing.

  “I don’t know where Jon went,” Betty rushed on, “and I don’t care. He certainly got out of here in a hurry when he saw those guns.”

  Mortimer heard the sound of Betty’s voice but the words were not registering. He was looking at the piece of cloth with horrified eyes while his brain recalled the last thing he had said to Jon.

  Go to blazes, that’s what he had told him. The incinerator chute led to the furnace. Could it be . . . had Jon, impelled by his powerful will, taken the command literally? The evidence pointed that way.

  He remembered with a feeling of relief that it was summer—there was no fire in the furnace. At least he hoped there wasn’t.

  “He certainly proved himself a coward,” Betty said indignantly, “when things got too hot for him.”

  “I hope they haven’t by now,” Mortimer answered.

  “Oh, you were splendid,” Betty rushed on. “The way you bluffed those gangsters was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Mortimer held up a deprecating hand and smiled modestly.

  “A little firmness now and then,” he said, “is useful.”

  “But the most wonderful thing of all,” Betty gushed, “was the charitable way you gave them another chance and then calmly told them to go on about their business. That was big of you, Mortimer.”

  “I didn’t want to be too hard . . .” Mortimer’s voice choked off as his heart began to tumble around like an egg in boiling water. A phrase of Betty’s had suddenly leaped across his brain, glaring like a bright neon sign.

  Told them to go about their business!

  The words sprang before his eyes in letters a foot high. That’s what he’d told the gangsters to do, to go on about their business. And the business of the gangsters had been to rob the special truck. He had told them, commanded them with his new, powerful will to hijack the armored truck!