Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He was peering near-sightedly at Bertie through his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “I say, Professor,” he said to Bertie’s brother, “this chap with the handcuffs on reminds me of your brother.”

  “He is my brother,” Bertie’s brother said bitterly. “What’s the charge, officer?” he asked, turning to one of the plain-clothes men.

  “Scalping football tickets, peddling without a license, disturbing the peace and probably grand larceny.”,

  “Grand larceny!” Bertie gasped in outraged indignation. “I haven’t stolen anything.”

  “Where’d you get them tickets?”

  “I found them,” Bertie said stoutly. Bertie’s brother shook his head grimly.

  “This,” he said, “is only a concrete example of what I told you yesterday. You are still mentally and physically incompetent. Anything which I can do to prevent your marrying some unsuspecting girl I most certainly will do. You have disgraced me completely, Bertrand. Continue with your duty, officers.”

  Bertie was shoved through the revolving door, his protests and promises flowing back over his shoulder. Outside, one more calamitous experience was awaiting him.

  Alighting from a cab at the entrance of the hotel was a slim, lovely blonde girl. As she turned to enter the hotel, Bertie staggered through the revolving door, his handcuffed hands extended before him to keep his balance.

  The lovely blonde girl paused for an instant, then with a sob she turned and stepped back into the cab.

  Only then did Bertie recognize her.

  “Ann!” he cried frantically. “Ann! Things aren’t as bad as they look. This is all a joke. I lost a bet. Ann! Come back.”

  But his words were practically smothered in the roar of the cab as it shot away from the curb and into the traffic.

  Bertie was left quite alone. Not quite, because the two gray-overcoated officers were still with him. But in spirit he was bleakly and desolately alone.

  “Madame Guillotine,” he said blackly, “I embrace you.”

  “He’s nuts,” one copper said.

  The other nodded.

  THE American jailing system, in Bertie’s opinion, had not been noticeably improved since last he had favored the institution with his presence.

  The cell was small, the doors and windows barred. This last was the worst feature. It gave everything such a definite look.

  He had been pacing the floor for five hours and now he gave up and slumped down on the cell’s narrow cot. With a touch of Yogi fatalism he had stopped worrying about Ann and his brother. For all practical purposes they were out of his life forever from henceforth onward. In later years when time had mellowed them, they might begin speaking to him again, but as for the present, he was a dead duck.

  It was late afternoon, he decided by glancing up at the window. The Homeric struggle between Mosswood and State was probably in its final period by now. Soon it would be history.

  He began pacing again. Of course losing the esteem and affection of his girl and his brother was a disastrous blow, but missing the annual game with State was no light matter in itself.

  The fact that almost a thousand dollars of his money was on Mosswood only increased his feeling of frustration.

  Overcome by anxiety he grabbed the bars and jerked at them foolishly.

  “I want to get out of here,” he shouted. “Let me out, do you hear?” There was a rustle behind him.

  “I hear you, Master!” a soft, toneless voice whispered.

  “What’s that?” Bertie said, startled. He peered through the bars into the empty corridor. “Who said that?”

  “I, Xanthos, have heard you and am here to do your bidding, Master.”

  This time Bertie turned around and saw a vague crouching shape in one dark comer of the cell. At the same time he remembered his experience with the demons the night before. Another thing dawned on him. He suddenly realized from where the football tickets had come. Xanthos, or one of his ghoul apprentices, had obviously been responsible for that. He was surprised that he hadn’t thought of this before.

  “Well, Xanthos,” he said sternly. “It seems that everything you do gets me into trouble. I can’t say as I like it either.”

  “I am sorry,” the cold lifeless voice said, “but I cannot help that. I must obey your commands.”

  “Supposing I give you a command right now,” Bertie asked cautiously. “What then?”

  “I would obey.”

  “Supposing I would tell you to get me out of this blasted jail?”

  “It would be accomplished.”

  “Then,” Bertie said contentedly, “your days of unemployment are over. Get to work.”

  “As you wish, Master.”

  THE dark shape in the corner flitted out of the range of his vision and the next instant he felt a pair of sharp claws resting on his shoulder.

  “Do not be alarmed,” Xanthos’ voice was almost in his ear. “I am on your shoulder. We will leave together.” Bertie started to turn his head but Xanthos’ voice, suddenly as chilling as ice, stopped him.

  “Do not look as you value your sanity!”

  “Why?” Bertie asked stubbornly. “Do not look,” Xanthos repeated. “You would not—like what you would see. I am not—pleasing to the eye.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” Bertie said, touched. “I know just how you feel. I was self-conscious when I had pimples on my face. All in the mind, though, all in the mind. Just forget about how you look and people won’t notice you.”

  “Let us leave,” Xanthos said.

  “Sure thing,” Bertie said eagerly. “Just how do we go about it? Ride away on a broom?”

  “Certainly not,” Xanthos answered. “My method is less involved.”

  Bertie heard a sharp metallic click, then the barred door of the cell swung open.

  “Well, well,” he exclaimed delightedly. “That is simple.”

  He stepped jauntily from the cell. With the confidence that Xanthos could handle any situation that might arise, he strode cheerfully down the corridor. The heavy steel door that separated the cell block from the jailer’s office looked impregnable. But before he reached it, it swung ponderously open.

  The warden was dozing comfortably before a pot-bellied stove when he heard the hinges of the massive door creak warningly. He opened his eyes and struggled to his feet just as Bertie sauntered nonchalantly into his office.

  His hand speared for the gun at his hip.

  Bertie felt an uncomfortable sensation at the pit of his stomach.

  “Now don’t do anything rash,” he said nervously.

  His admonition was unnecessary. For the warden’s bulging, incredulous gaze was riveted in horror at a point about five inches above Bertie’s left shoulder.

  His lips twisted and the gun slid from his limp fingers. Then with a soft moan he pitched forward to the floor.

  “That is fortunate,” Xanthos said drily. “When he comes to he will think this was just a nightmare. Had he remained conscious any longer he would spend the rest of his life in a strait jacket.”

  “You can’t be that bad,” Bertie scoffed. “You’ve got a touch of an inferiority complex, that’s all. You ought to read Dale Carnegie. He’d straighten you out.”

  “Nevertheless,” Xanthos said, “I shall make myself invisible for the rest of our trip. You may look now with safety.”

  Bertie turned his head and saw nothing. But he could still feel the grip of the claws on his shoulder.

  “What is your wish now?” Xanthos inquired.

  “I’ll let you know when we get to the game,” Bertie said, glancing through the window at the setting sun. “That is if we get there on time.”

  WHEN they arrived at the jam-packed stadium the minutes of the fourth quarter were ticking away and Mosswood College was trailing by six points.

  Bertie squirmed his way through the crowd to the middle of the field. One anguished glance told him that State was threatening to score again.

  They had the ball o
n the Mosswood’s thirty yard line. And on their first play from scrimmage a fleet-footed State back broke loose and streaked for the Mosswood goal.

  “Xanthos!” Bertie cried. “Do something!”

  “This seems beyond my ken,” Xanthos answered. There was a bewildered note in the demon’s voice. “Everything is so confused and upset. What is it you want me to do?”

  “Stop that man!” Bertie shrieked. “That man that the others are chasing. “Don’t let him get away.”

  “As you wish,” Xanthos muttered.

  Bertie felt the claws on his shoulders tighten. But his eyes were riveted on the sprinting State back. He was racing down the field, yards ahead of the nearest Mosswood player . . . Past the fifteen . . . the ten . . . the five

  “Xanthos!” Bertie screamed. “You’re a washout. You’re fired. You—”

  The words froze on his lips. For an incredible, unimaginable thing had happened on the field. Along the end of the gridiron, just before the goal line, a huge yawning pit had miraculously opened.

  From this black pit flames shot forth, forking their way through the belching waves of sulphur laden smoke which poured out with them.

  The touchdown-bound State back wheeled from this trench of hideous fire and brimstone and, with a wild bellow of fright, raced in the opposite direction.

  A solid roar of incredulous sound burst from the throats of the spectators. On the field the two teams milled about in hopeless confusion and bewilderment. All, that is, except the State back who was still legging it in the opposite direction, the ball held tightly under one arm.

  In the wild, screaming crowd there was only one person who had any idea of what had happened. And that was Bertie Crimmins. He knew that Xanthos had been the agency behind this miraculous demonstration-The knowledge brought him a warm glow of contentment. How could he lose with such forces backing him?

  Listening to the excited comments about him he realized that no one had an accurate idea of what had happened. There was a different and conflicting story on every pair of lips.

  Then a new roar broke from the crowd.

  The frantically fleeing State back was racing for the Mosswood College goal line! Those of his teammates who had recovered their senses started after him, shouting desperately.

  But the roar of the crowd drowned out their voices and amid a deafening volume of noise the State back galloped over the wrong goal line giving Mosswood six points and tying up the game.

  BERTIE relaxed, sighing happily.

  The game was tied up now and with a bit of assistance from Xanthos it would soon be in the bag. At least from the wreckage of his life he could salvage his bets and start anew.

  “Well done, Xanthos,” he said complacently. “Now just arrange things for a Mosswood touchdown and everything will be jake.”

  There was no answer.

  “Xanthos!” he said sharply. “Do you hear me?”

  Silence.

  A bead of perspiration stood out on Bertie’s forehead. There was a cold empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Xanthos!” he said pleadingly. “Don’t get in a sulk now. I really need you.”

  There was no answer. And when the game ended a few moments later, a tie twelve to twelve, there was still no evidence of Xanthos.

  Bertie’s head sagged forward against his chest. The crowd surged past his lonely figure but he hardly noticed. Time passed. It was almost dark before Bertie stood up and left the stadium.

  He realized with bitter clarity that his thoughtless dismissal of Xanthos had been final and definite. He had fired Xanthos. And Xanthos evidently meant to stay fired.

  There was only one bright spot in the otherwise gray scheme of things. He hadn’t lost all of his money. In the case of a tie all bets were off, but this was somehow negative compensation in the face of all he had lost.

  He hailed a cab dispiritedly and gave his brother’s address. With a moody sigh he decided to leave town and lose himself to society. Years later he might emerge from the Australian bush, calm and kindly, forgetting the slings and arrows that had driven him there. Now they pressed on his soul like a drab pall. Life was very sad.

  IN this same cheerless state of mind he entered his brother’s home. The light was on in the library and he could hear the low murmur of voices from the room. His hopes of slipping by unnoticed were blasted sky high as his brother suddenly appeared in the doorway, his face flaming with excitement.

  “Bertie!” he shouted in a most unscholarly voice. “Come in here.”

  With a fatalistic sigh Bertie entered the library. What devil’s brew was being hatched for him now he had no idea. Nor did he care. Nothing could ever bother him again.

  Professor Overton, president of Mosswood, was standing beside his brother’s desk.

  “It is absolutely incredible,” Bertie heard him murmur.

  “What is, sir?” Bertie asked blankly.

  “Bertie,” his brother said imploringly, “for once in your life think carefully. Did you write this?”

  He thrust an envelope before Bertie, on which was scrawled—in Bertie’s handwriting—the words he had copied from the parchment.

  “Why, I guess I did,” Bertie said.

  “You guess?” his brother shouted. “Don’t you know?”

  “Why yes,” Bertie said, a little startled by his brother’s vehemence, “I did write it. I copied it from the parchment that I found in the drawer of your desk.”

  “This parchment?” his brother asked, extending the ancient papyrus toward him.

  Bertie looked at it closely. Yes, it was the same one. Same paper, same ink—No! It wasn’t written in English as the other had been. It couldn’t be the same paper. The heiroglyphic scrawls on this parchment looked like the tracks of an inebriated chicken.

  “Bertie,” his brother said weakly, “This writing on the back of the envelope which you claim to have written is a perfect translation of this parchment document which the entire university has been working on for two years. How did you do it?”

  Bertie blinked as his brother’s words seeped into his brain. It didn’t really make sense even then. As far as he could gather he was being accused of having done something rather clever. This was so surprising that it rendered him speechless.

  He was sure he hadn’t translated the abstruse and unintelligible document. The parchment from which he had copied had been as easy to read as English. He was opening his mouth to deny any connection with the translation when a staggering thought struck him.

  Maybe he had actually translated it. At the time he had been under the influence of the Mystic Clarification formula and maybe the hieroglyphic symbols had only seemed to be English. That, undoubtedly, was it!

  HE PAUSED and lighted a cigarette nonchalantly.

  “How did I do it?” he repeated his brother’s question casually. “Well I hardly see how I can explain it to you. The principle involved is rather intricate. Tell me: Have you ever heard of the reverse double wing system?” His brother and Professor Overton shook their heads humbly.

  Bertie smiled patronizingly.

  “You see?” he said. “We just don’t have any common basis for discussion.”

  “Bertie,” his brother said in a strangled voice, “when did you take up the study of philology?”

  “Always liked the stuff,” Bertie said genially. “Sort of a hobby. Fine way to spend winter evenings.”

  The front door bell rang then, saving Bertie from more embarrassing and penetrating questions.

  A second later and Ann walked into the room, looking more blonde and more lovely than he had ever seen her. She stopped abruptly when she saw him.

  “I didn’t come to see you,” she said stiffly. “I only came to leave a message for you that I was leaving.”

  “Can’t all this wait a moment,” Professor Overton broke in testily. “Young man,” he said to Bertie, “I would be honored if you would consider joining the faculty staff of Mosswood College. Men of your erudition
and intelligence are all too few in this troubled world. Mosswood needs you.”

  Bertie’s brother laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve wronged you, Bertie. I can see that now. It makes me feel ashamed of myself. You can expect my blessing on anything you intend doing. Particularly if you are figuring on setting up a partnership.”

  Bertie turned toward Ann, and in three seconds flat she was in his arms.

  “Darling,” she murmured against his coat, “I don’t understand any of it, but you seem like a new person. I’m sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your having been arrested and everything.”

  “There certainly is,” Bertie said happily. “Fact is, they caught me with the goods. No! I mean it was all a case of mistaken identity.”

  He put his arms about the girl of his dreams and sighed happily. One minute he had been hopelessly crushed and the next thing he’d been transported to the clouds.

  He was conscious that his brother was beaming fondly upon him and that even Professor Overton was bestowing admiring glances in his direction. Everything was excellent. Except—“By the way,” he said casually, “there’s a leather bound book on your desk that kind of interested me. All about—demons and such. Anything to that stuff, you suppose?”

  His brother laughed heartily.’

  “I know the book,” he said. “It would take someone with the mind of a child to believe in the existence of such creatures. Demons. The very idea is ridiculous.”

  “So it is,” Bertie said. “So it is.” He laughed at the absurdity of it all and then he kissed Ann very soundly. Later, however, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that as he was kissing her a toneless voice whispered, “Very excellent effort, Master.”

  DAUGHTER OF THE SNAKE GOD

  First published in the May 1942 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Allan Curtis and Jo Matthews faced deadly danger even before they reached Peru; a murder, Nazi tanks—and Sacha!

  CHAPTER I

  “ALLAN! Do you hear me? AlIan!”

  The voice finally penetrated the fog of concentration that surrounded Allan Curtis and he looked up to see his secretary standing in the doorway of the stockroom.