Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Well, well,” he said aloud.

  The door of his room opened then, and his valet, a thin, impeccable, imperturbable little man, entered, bearing a tray in one hand and an ice pack in the other.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said.

  “Is it?” Duncan was still rocking about on the bed and his mind was occupied with that problem. He didn’t care whether, it was a good morning or not.

  “Look here, Beetle,” he said abruptly, “am I bouncing around on this bed, or am I not?”

  Beetle set the tray down and considered the situation.

  “Yes, sir,” he said gravely.

  “Yes, what?”

  “You definitely seem to be bouncing.

  Do you find it diverting?”

  “Hang it, Beetle,” Duncan said plaintively, “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  “Really sir,” Beetle’s tone was politely astonished, but not particularly interested.

  Duncan continued to bounce on the mattress. “Was I very drunk last night, Beetle?” he asked.

  “No more than usual, sir.”

  “I presume I made an utter fool of myself,” Duncan said gloomily.

  “I presume so, sir.”

  Duncan climbed from the bed. The solid floor felt comforting, but his shoulders and body were still shaking in an annoyingly rhythmic fashion. Even though he was absorbed with this disturbing phenomenon, he gradually became aware that Beetle was waiting to tell him something. And one look at the strained lines on the man’s normally impassive face was enough to warn him that the news he bore was unpleasant. “Well, Beetle,” he said resignedly, “what is it?”

  “Your aunt has arrived, sir.” Beetle’s voice was quietly despairing as he added, “She is waiting for you in the sitting room. If I may say so, sir, she seems a most determined woman.”

  “Hah!” Duncan cried bleakly. “That’s a classic understatement. Is she alone?”

  “There is a young lady with her,” Beetle stated. “Her name is Elvira Scragg.”

  “Lovely name,” Duncan said bitterly. “Reminds one of a riveting factory during the rush hour. Elvira Scragg! Bah!”

  “Shall I tell them you will see them right away?” Beetle asked.

  DUNCAN sat gloomily on the edge of the bed, and although he was still bouncing about, his mind was on other matters. His aunt, a majestic creature named Agatha, was here for the express purpose of cutting him out of any share in her estate. Duncan gnawed nervously on his finger nails. That was a pretty situation. If he couldn’t keep on the right side of her during her stay, there was no chance of her changing her mind. He sighed heavily.

  “Tell them I’ll be right out. Ask them if they’ve had breakfast. Be nice to them Beetle. Remember the old Digit fortunes hang in the balance.”

  A half hour later Duncan, dressed and shaved and looking reasonably, fresh, strode into the sitting room of his apartment a desperately cheery word of welcome on his lips.

  “Dear old Auntie!”

  His full-throated bellow brought a flicker of annoyance to the face of the large, granite-visaged female who was sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair.

  Duncan’s Aunt Agatha looked up at him in faint disgust.

  “How do you do, Duncan,” she said, with a commendable attempt at civility. “This,” she said, waving a careless hand at a large, lumpy girl who was looking anxiously at Duncan, “is Miss Elvira Scragg, the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend—for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Duncan’s shoulders were still bouncing and jogging about and there was nothing he could do to improve the situation.

  His aunt was peering closely at him with a slightly alarmed expression on her face.

  “What is it? St. Vitus Dance?”

  “Oh, no, no,” Duncan said quickly, “nothing like that. How do you do, Miss Scragg.” He changed the subject and nodded to the young lady and was rewarded by a toothsome grin and an awkward mumble in acknowledgment.

  But his aunt was not to be distracted.

  “Duncan!” she said sharply. “You don’t seem well. Why are you shaking and bouncing about? Stop it this instant, I say!”

  It was a time for desperate measures.

  Duncan executed a hippety-hop dance step and writhed his shoulders like a snake with prickly heat.

  “Just a little dance step I picked up,” he explained glibly. “It’s the rage of the town now. They call it the Jive Bomber. Everybody’s doing it.”

  “Oh,” Miss Elvira Scragg cried, “it looks exciting. Can we do it together?”

  From the firing pan into the fire, Duncan thought miserably.

  “It’s strictly a solo,” he said rapidly.

  “Oh.”

  At that fortunate moment Beetle entered the room to announce breakfast.

  “Fine,” Duncan cried. “I’m starved. Would you care for a spot of bacon and eggs, auntie?”

  “At three in the afternoon!” Aunt Agatha was aghast.

  “Oh,” Duncan said.

  Elvira and his Aunt followed him into the breakfast nook that commanded a sweeping, inspiring view of the park. It was a cozy spot but Duncan was in no mood to enjoy his breakfast or the esthetic appeal of the scenery.

  As Beetle brought in the coffee, Aunt Agatha cleared her throat impressively. Duncan was still bouncing around on his chair, wondering when the hell the crazy nonsense would stop.

  “Duncan,” Aunt Agatha said, “I have good news for you. Frankly, at one time, I considered disposing of my fortune to charity, instead of leaving it to you, my sole relative.”

  Duncan listened hopefully and forgot about his jouncing, bouncing body.

  “But I have changed my mind,” Aunt Agatha continued. “I feel that my money should stay in the family. While I do not consider you competent to handle my affairs, I believe that if you selected a proper marital partner, one who would exert a temperate influence over your irresponsible nature, the steadying result of such an arrangement might transform you into the sort of person to whom I could safely leave my property. In short Duncan, you must marry; and you must marry a girl who will be a rock of caution and prudence and firmness. A rock to which you can anchor yourself forever.”

  DUNCAN gagged slightly on his coffee. The horrible vision his aunt’s words called up was bad enough; but he had a terrible premonition of the “rock” his aunt had in mind.

  Again Aunt Agatha cleared her throat.

  “Such a girl,” she declared impressively, “is Elvira Scragg, daughter of my dearest friend. She would be a wonderful wife for any man, but for you Duncan she would be absolutely perfect.”

  Duncan’s terrifying premonition had not been wrong. He allowed himself a quick glance at Elvira Scragg. God! Things were far worse than he had imagined. If he wanted any slice of his aunt’s vast estate, and he certainly did, he would have to link himself with this lumpy, streaky-haired, toothsomely grinning creature.

  So perturbed was he by this dreadful thought, that he didn’t notice it immediately when his peculiar bouncing and shaking suddenly ceased.

  When he did realize that once again he was his normal stable self, he felt immensely relieved. It was difficult enough to face Aunt Agatha and her strategems, without having the thing complicated by an attack of whirling dervish tantrums.

  Elvira Scragg noticed his sudden immobility; the sudden cessation of his twitching torso apparently fascinated her.

  “Oh,” she said, “is that the end of the Jive Bomber dance?”

  “What?” Duncan asked blankly. Then: “Oh yes, that’s the wind-up. There’ll be a slight wait for the next show.”

  “I do not intend to be unreasonable,” Aunt Agatha continued, impervious to the interruptions. “I will give you and Elvira a period to become acquainted before you become betrothed. I am sure Duncan, that you appreciate the wisdom of my decision in this matter. Even if you don’t, it does not matter. Aunt Agatha knows best.”

  Elvira looked hungrily at Duncan.

 
“I’m sure she does,” she said in a voice that practically gloated.

  Duncan felt suddenly faint. Like a condemned man he slowly began to eat his bacon and eggs . . .

  AT THE same time, but in another section of the city, a taxi driver-by the name of Mike Rafferty, climbed from his cab before a wooden building which housed his favorite saloon.

  Mike Rafferty was feeling in a very glum state of mind as he opened the rear door of the cab to make his usual morning inspection for chance dimes or nickels sometimes dropped on the floor of his cab.

  He was feeling glum because the last of his passengers had been a drunken young playboy, who had passed out before Mike could get him to his destination. It had been necessary for him to practically carry the young sot up to his apartment, and the young bum was not a light load.

  Grumbling morosely to himself he opened the door. The first thing he saw on the floor of his cab was a small rag doll. He remembered then that the drunken playboy had been holding the doll in his arms when he got into the cab, but in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten to take it with him.

  The thing was of no value at all, Mike decided. Just a cheap rag doll the young man had taken a drunken fancy to. The young drunk, he remembered, had placed it carefully on the seat beside him, but it had fallen to the floor.

  “Sure,” Mike said aloud, “it must have taken a bouncing around here on the floor of the cab.”

  Disgustedly he picked up the doll and entered the saloon. The bartender was wiping the bar with a damp rag when he saw Mike walk in, carrying the rag doll in one hand.

  “So you finally reached your second childhood, eh?” he jeered. “Started carrying dolls, have you?”

  Mike sat wearily on a bar stool and ordered a drink. He tossed the doll onto the damp bar.

  “Some drunken young fool left it in my hack last night,” he explained. He shook his head gloomily. “What’s the young generation comin’ to, I wonder.” He looked more closely at the doll, “Sure, and that’s funny,” he said. “What is?” the bartender said, sliding a stein of, suds along the bar.

  “I just noticed,” Mike said, “that this little raggedy doll looks surprising like the young man who left it in my hack.” The bartender bent over and joined in the scrutiny.

  “Well,” he said, “the young fool couldn’t’ve looked like much, is all I can say.”

  “He didn’t,” Mike said gloomily. “What’re you goin’ to do with it?” the bartender asked.

  “Me? What would I be doin’ with it? Throw it out, that’s what, and good riddance.”

  The bartender picked up the doll and tossed it carelessly under the bar.

  “That’ll save you the trouble,” he said. “My sweeper will throw it into the garbage when he cleans up tonight.”

  The two men went on talking and the doll was forgotten.

  Neither of them noticed that it had landed under the beer spigot and that the steady drippings from the spigot splashed across its head. In a very few moments the doll had become a soggy beer-saturated mess . . .

  DUNCAN ate his breakfast without relish. Even though the bacon was succulently crisp and the eggs were smoothly golden, he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm.

  His Aunt Agatha and Elvira regarded him unwinkingly as he ate, and that didn’t help his composure particularly.

  The ultimatum which his aunt had delivered left him with a limp battered feeling. The gruesome proposition boiled down to one of two things. Marry this repulsive girl, Elvira, and be in the money; spurn her and face the world a pauper.

  Duncan shuddered. It was ghastly. He opened his mouth to pop in a piece of toast, but before he could do so, he suddenly hiccoughed, unmistakably, loudly and clearly.

  There was a moment of startled silence in the room.

  Aunt Agatha looked at him as if he were a bug under a microscope slide.

  Duncan mumbled an apology and went back to his food guiltily.

  But something was terribly wrong!

  The fork fell from his suddenly clumsy fingers. He knocked over a glass of water reaching for it. In the middle of this confusion he hiccoughed again.

  Aunt Agatha and Elvira were peering at him in startled amazement.

  “What is the matter?” Aunt Agatha demanded.

  Duncan hiccoughed gently and the knife fell from his fingers with a strident clatter.

  The room seemed to be whirling about before his eyes. There was a dull roaring sound between his ears and a hot ball in his stomach.

  The signs were unmistakable.

  He was drunk! Absolutely. There could be no doubt of it. In another few minutes he would fall on his face. But he hadn’t taken a drink since he’d climbed out of bed.

  What was the matter with him?

  Even in his foggy state he realized that there was something monstrously peculiar about the whole situation: How could he have suddenly become blind drunk without so much as having smelled a cork? It was impossible! It was incredible! Still—it was a fact!

  He glanced owlishly from Aunt Agatha to Elvira. He noticed with dismay that they were both looking at him in frozen horror.

  That wouldn’t do. This wasn’t the way to creep into their hearts and impress them with his sterling virtues.

  He’d have to show them the true Duncan. The gentleman and scholar, the bon vivant, the hail-fellow-well-met.

  He leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. His eyes shifted lewdly from Aunt Agatha to Elvira.

  “What a pair of bags,” he muttered thickly.

  “What!” cried Aunt Agatha, rising to her feet.

  “No offense, no offense,” Duncan said in a vain attempt at mollification. “Just a slang expression I picked up in the pool room. Neat, isn’t it?”

  He also rose to his feet, but he knocked his chair over backwards in the effort. He swayed slightly on the balls of his feet, while the room swayed with him.

  AT THAT point Beetle entered. To his credit he took in the situation in one rapid glance.

  Gently, but firmly, he took Duncan’s arm and led him from the room. Duncan’s last memory was sprawling on a comfortable bed and licking his lips contentedly. Then the scene faded into oblivion.

  When he opened his eyes again Beetle was standing beside the bed, arms folded, face expressionless and eyes sternly disapproving.

  “Whash a matter?” Duncan said thickly,

  “Are you feeling better?” Beetle asked frigidly.

  “What happened?” Duncan demanded. “How did I get drunk?”

  “Is the modus operandi important, sir?” Beetle asked icily.

  “Yes,” Duncan said, making an effort to sit up. “How I got drunk is the most important thing of all. I didn’t take a drink. I didn’t even look at a bottle. And still I suddenly pass out. Maybe it was something I ate.”

  Beetle sniffed the air significantly. “The aroma you notice, sir,” he said, “is hardly that of bacon or eggs. If I may suggest sir, it is the fumes of strong ale that permeate the room.”

  Duncan sniffed. Beetle was right. The room smelled like a brewery. A sudden ghastly thought struck him.

  “Aunt Agatha!” he cried. “Is she still here?”

  “Yes,” said Beetle. “I succeeded in persuading her that what she witnessed was a violent attack of Septileam Injectorius. I explained that you had been subject to its malign effects for several weeks.”

  “What the hell is Septileaum Injec—whatchamecallit?” Duncan demanded anxiously.

  “Nothing, as far as I know, sir. It is merely a name I coined on the spur of the moment to meet the emergency.”

  “Thank you, Beetle,” Duncan said gratefully.

  “You’re quite welcome, sir.”

  “You’ve got to help me, Beetle. This thing is driving me crazy. Why should I get drunk when I haven’t been drinking? And do you remember this morning? The way I bounced around like a roulette ball and couldn’t help myself? Something’s happening to me, I tell you. Beetle, you’ve simply got to p
ut the brain to work on this thing, before I go completely potty.”

  Beetle frowned faintly and tweaked his nose. Duncan took heart. That was one of the infallible signs that Beetle was thinking. Duncan had great faith in Beetle’s mental equipment. He waited humbly while Beetle turned the matter over.

  “It might help, sir,” Beetle said, at last, “if you would tell me in detail what you remember of last night.”

  DUNCAN told everything he remembered talking stimulated his own memory and finally the incident of the Gypsy and the doll came back to him. He had forgotten that completely. Now he unburdened-himself of the entire story, feeling quite sheepish.

  But Beetle was not amused. Instead he tweaked his nose again reflectively.

  “A doll, was it?” he said softly. “How extremely interesting. And did I understand you to say that the Gypsy warned you not to leave the doll out of your possession?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said, “she seemed quite insistent about that.”

  “Where is the doll now?” Beetle asked.

  “Hang it, I don’t know,” Duncan said. “What difference does it make?”

  “Have you ever heard of Voodooism, sir?” Beetle asked.

  “Certainly,” Duncan said. “It’s that nonsense they put on for the tourists down in Harlem.” He paused and looked uncertainly at Beetle. “Isn’t it?” he asked weakly.

  “While serving Lord Hummerly in Haiti,” Beetle said, tweaking his nose thoughtfully, “it was my pleasure to learn something of the rites of the Voodoo clan. One of the most common means a native employs to rid himself of an enemy is to construct a doll that resembles the intended victim and then stick pins into this doll until the enemy is—ah—no more. Quite interesting, what?”

  “Damn it, what’s interesting about it?” Duncan said nervously. “It sounds perfectly silly.”

  Beetle smiled and stroked his chin.

  There was a mellow, reminiscent light in his eyes.

  “I remember as if it were yesterday the case of Lord’s gardener and the native cook. The gardener angered the cook and the cook took a very neat revenge through voodoo. Ah! Those were the days.”

  “Well, what happened?” demanded Duncan. He felt a touch of perspiration on his forehead.