Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Nothing sensational,” Beetle said. “The gardener, poor chap, died a raving madman a week or so later. I remember to this day how distressed m’Lord was over the whole affair. You see, this gardener was the only fellow in the neighborhood who could make tulips grow in that climate. Naturally, he was missed.”

  “Naturally,” Duncan croaked.

  “Do you see,” Beetle smiled, “why I think it is rather necessary that we learn the whereabouts of this doll the Gypsy gave you. If it is a true voodoo doll the situation is rather serious. For anything that happens to the doll will likewise happen to you.”

  “Oh,” groaned Duncan. “This is terrible. Why did she give it to me anyway?”

  Beetle shrugged.

  “Gypsies have a rather nasty sense of humor, sir. Of course, had you kept the doll in your possession, nothing could have harmed you. Since you have lost the doll you are in a somewhat serious predicament.”

  “Well, we’ve got to find it,” Duncan said desperately. “The last thing I remember about last night is getting into a cab.”

  “Ah!” Beetle cried. “You see it is working already. The bouncing, jostling sensation that affected you this morning was undoubtedly a result of the doll’s bouncing about in the rear of the cab. This narrows down our field of speculation quite considerably. Now in what club did you encounter this Gypsy? I think it expedient that we contact her without delay. Really, I find this problem quite absorbing.” Duncan was feeling quite sick. The thought of a dreadful doll, his alter ego, lost in the wide city where it could be stepped on, kicked around, torn apart or thrown into the lake, was unnerving. The unnerving thought was that whatever happened to the doll would happen to him. Some brat might pick it up and pull the stuffings out of it!

  He lay back weakly, while his insides performed a complete flip-flop. A sheen of perspiration beaded his forehead.

  “It was at the Scimitar club,” he said faintly. “And for God’s sake hurry!”

  “Righto, sir. Cheerio.”

  With that Beetle left.

  FOR THE next hour Duncan tossed from one side of the bed to the other, his imagination running riot. Every possible assault and indignity that could be perpetrated on the human frame leaped before his mind’s eye, and was only banished by the thought of some more horrifying possibility.

  Supposing a car ran over the doll!

  He could almost feel the pressure on his chest and for several seconds he could hardly breathe. Or maybe someone, would decide to use the doll for a pin cushion!

  This anguishing idea was replaced by the thought of what would happen to him if the doll were discarded into a garbage can somewhere.

  When Beetle finally returned Duncan was bathed in a pool of nervous perspiration, and his body was limply exhausted. Beetle’s first remarks did not cheer him.

  “It’s very odd, sir, but the Gypsy seems to have disappeared,” he said. “No trace of the woman at all. That complicates matters a bit. Incidentally, your aunt and the young lady are still waiting in the sitting room. Have you any word for them?”

  “Nothing printable,” Duncan muttered. “We’ve got to do something about this—” He broke off suddenly.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Beetle,” Duncan cried in a strangled voice. “Something is happening to me.”

  “Excellent,” Beetle beamed. “Perhaps the symptoms will afford a clue as to the whereabouts of the doll.”

  Duncan unknotted his tie and opened his collar.

  “I’m getting warm,” he gasped. “No! I’m getting hot! All over. Do something!”

  Beetle tweaked his nose agitatedly.

  “That is a rather vague symptom,” he pointed out. “Couldn’t you give me something more definite?”

  “I’m starting to roast!” Duncan howled. “What more do you want? A barbecued arm with salt and pepper?” With sudden decision Beetle reached for the phone.

  “I think I have something,” he said. “Operator, will you give me the fire department, please.”

  Duncan swallowed nervously.

  “Fire Marshal?” Beetle inquired pleasantly, a moment later. “How do you do, sir. This is the residence of Duncan Digit. What? No, we do not have a fire here. Yes, that is fortunate.”

  “Cut out the play-by-play description,” Duncan shouted.”

  Beetle looked coldly at Duncan and then turned back to the receiver. “Perhaps you can tell me, sir, if there have been any fires reported within the last few moments. It is rather urgent. Yes, I’ll wait.”

  “What did he say?” Duncan yelled. His shirt was hanging damply to his shoulders and he felt as if he were sitting on a griddle.

  “He said,” Beetle replied slowly, “that he would find out. Compose yourself, sir.” He turned back to the receiver. “Yes? A tavern? Will you repeat that address, please? Thank you, I have it. Thank you, very much.”

  He hung up.

  “What’s the dope?” Duncan demanded.

  “A tavern sent in an alarm not three minutes ago,” Beetle said triumphantly. “This is capital, sir. Your drunken orgy this morning is now understandable. Somehow, the doll was taken to a tavern. There it became saturated with ale—a poor grade, I might add—and your subsequent inebriation was the result. Now that tavern is burning to the ground. It is a wooden frame and I understand that it is going quite rapidly. That accounts for your uncomfortable feeling at the moment.

  Can’t you see how undeniably logical the chain of events is, sir?”

  “Damn the logic,” Duncan shouted. “What’s going to happen to me when that infernal doll goes up in smoke?” Beetle cleared his throat delicately. “Hasn’t it always been your wish to be cremated, sir?”

  Duncan leaped from the bed and struggled into his coat.

  “Yes, damn it,” he said, “but not until I’m dead.”

  “What are your plans, sir? Do you wish a change of clothing? A light snack, perhaps.”

  “Hell no,” Duncan exploded. “I’m going to save that doll if I have to become a one-man fire department. And you’re coming with me. You’ve got the address. Snap into it.”

  HE TORE out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the sitting room like a race horse. Aunt Agatha and Elvira leaped to their feet as he burst into the room.

  “Where are you going?” Aunt Agatha demanded shrilly. “I demand that you remain here. I forbid you to leave. Your manners are positively barbarous. Elvira has been waiting two hours to talk to you and now you are trying to rush out of the house like a madman. I won’t have it, I say. I refuse to be treated like a sack of ashes.”

  Duncan continued his-sprint for the door. Over his shoulder he shouted: “That goes for me, too!”

  He practically flew down the three flights of steps to the street. Beetle was at his heels, panting but grim.

  “A cab! A cab!” Duncan shouted. He waved wildly at the whizzing traffic. Even in the cold spring air Duncan was as warm as toast—burnt toast. “If we don’t get a cab soon, it’ll be too late,” he moaned.

  As if in answer to prayer a Yellow Cab noticed his frantic gestures and slashed over to the curb with a shrieking wail from protesting brakes.

  “Hop in, buddy,” the cabby snapped.

  Duncan jumped into the cab and dragged Beetle after him. Beetle gave the driver the address. It was at the lower end of town and a good distance away.

  “We would appreciate it,” Beetle said, settling back comfortably, “if you take the shortest route. We are in somewhat of a hurry. However, I. shouldn’t advise you to drive recklessly.”

  Duncan grabbed the cabby by the shoulder before he released the clutch.

  “Listen, Buddy,” he said tensely, “I don’t care how you drive but get us there in three minutes and it’ll be worth a hundred bucks to you. I’ll take care of any tickets you get for speeding.”

  “For a hundred bucks I’d take you to Mars,” the driver yelled over his shoulder. “But don’t worry about tickets for speeding. Any tickets we get will be
for flying too low!”

  The cab shot away from the curb like a scorched rabbit. Horns blasted angrily as the cab sliced through the traffic like a broken field runner and streaked down the left side of the street through a red light and onto the boulevard.

  Beetle covered his eyes with his hands and sank against the cushions. The ride was a nightmare. Over safety islands, through red lights, around redfaced policemen, the cab scurried across the town like something inspired from Dante’s Inferno.

  And Duncan continued to sweat. As the minutes passed his condition grew worse. Any minute he expected blisters to start popping out on the back of his neck.

  Finally the cab swung off the boulevard, raced down a side street and came to a shuddering stop before an intersection that had been roped off by the fire department.

  “Close as I can get,” the cabby panted.

  “Close enough,” Duncan snapped. He kicked open the door of the cab and raced toward the roped-off crowd that was watching the dramatic and fiery destruction of the wooden frame building that housed the tavern.

  USING his elbows, his knees and his voice, Duncan jammed and fought his way to the front of the line, but there he was stopped by a shouting cop, who placed a heavy hand on his chest and shoved him backward.

  “We got our orders,” he snarled. “Nobody goes through and that means you, mister.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Duncan shouted.

  With all his strength he kicked the cop squarely in the shins. The cop doubled over with an agonized bellow and Duncan slipped under the rope and sprinted across the cleared area that surrounded the burning building.

  The heat was intense. In fact, it would have been unbearable had not Duncan been practically burning up himself. As it was, he hardly noticed the blasts of scorching air that billowed against his face and body.

  He dashed through the raging flames that forked tongue-like from the blazing interior and staggered into the main room of the tavern. Instinct led him unerringly through the inferno to the bar. He knew the doll must be there, for it couldn’t have made him drunk unless it was close to the liquor supply—

  Not liquor. Ale!

  He clambered over the charred and burning bar and dropped behind it. Choking and blinded he fell to his knees and crawled toward the ale tape. His hands swept over the floor in circles as he inched painfully forward. Then a roaring draft of air swept along the bar blowing the dense billowing smoke away, and in that sudden instant of vision Duncan saw what he was looking for.

  The doll, badly scorched and smouldering was within inches of him. It took him only an instant to reach it and stuff it into his shirt.

  Then he staggered to his feet. He realized he was only barely in time. The heavy beams of the ceiling were already sagging dangerously. In another twenty seconds the whole building would probably give way with a crash.

  He was staggering toward the door when he heard a faint sound that stopped him in his tracks. Turning he peered into the swirling smoke and leaping flames.

  In the corner of the room a man was lying on his stomach, helplessly attempting to crawl to his knees. It was his moan that Duncan had heard. The man was huge and fat and a white apron he was wearing identified him as the bartender.

  Duncan lurched to the man’s side, knelt and hoisted him to his shoulder. It took all of his waning strength to struggle to his feet. Swaying perilously he moved toward the door, blinded by the acrid smoke and the perspiration that poured from his forehead.

  AS he reached the doorway he heard the timbers of the ceiling give way with a tremendous rending crash. A rush of scorching air swept over him, and long, greedily licking flames roared with suddenly increased fury about him.

  With his last rush of strength he charged through the doorway and fell into the cleared area that surrounded the building. He didn’t hear the building crash; he didn’t hear the sudden sharp roar from the crowd as they saw him stagger from the blazing doorway; he didn’t hear the popping of flashlight bulbs as quick-thinking photographers recorded for posterity the evidence of his heroism.

  He heard none of this, saw none of this. For he was completely out . . .

  THREE days later, swathed in bandages, Duncan was able to sit up in his comfortable bedroom. Scattered about the floor were dozens of papers carrying the story, complete with pictures of his daring rescue.

  Duncan was the city’s hero. If an election had been held that week Duncan could have been elected Mayor.

  Aunt Agatha tip-toed cautiously into the room and seeing that he was sitting up, hurried to his side.

  “My dear boy,” she cried solicitously, “are you feeling better? Is there something I can do for you? Something I can bring you?”

  “Nothing at all,” Duncan said. “Except for a general fricasseed feeling, I’m all right.”

  “That’s splendid,” Aunt Agatha said enthusiastically, “because I want to talk to you about a very important matter. I’ve definitely decided that you are just the type to handle all of my affairs. Your heroism has proven your true worth beyond a doubt.”

  Duncan beamed through the network of bandages that swathed his face. Things couldn’t be better.

  “But,” Aunt Agatha said, “I haven’t changed my mind about the necessity of choosing a suitable matrimonial partner for you. Elvira is still my choice and when you are well you will have the opportunity to become better acquainted with the dear girl. I’m sure you’ll agree with me then that she will make an ideal mate for you.”

  Duncan’s face frowned beneath the maze of bandages. Things couldn’t be worse! Had he gone through all of this only to wind up tied to Elvira for life. If he had known that was in store for him he would have stayed in the burning tavern. At least, he thought darkly, that wouldn’t have been permanent.

  A discreet knock sounded on the door then and, an instant later, Beetle entered, suave and imperturbable as always. With him was Elvira Scragg. She was beaming idiotically.

  “Elvira,” Aunt Agatha said, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Beetle took Elvira’s hand and smiled at Aunt Agatha.

  “Elvira and I,” he said succinctly, “have been to the City Hall. There a brief but touching service was performed which made One where once had been Two. In short, Elvira and I were married this morning. With both of us it was love at first sight.”

  With a sad bow he turned to Duncan. “As much as I regret the necessity,” he said, “I must ask you to accept my resignation.”

  “Elvira!” Aunt Agatha shrieked. “It isn’t true. It can’t be true.”

  “But it is,” Elvira said dreamily. “It was love at first sight—just like Beetle says—He’s wonderful!”

  DUNCAN leaned back against his pillow with a contented sigh. Things couldn’t be better. Not in a million, years. This removed for all time the menace of Elvira, and it probably would have an excellent effect on his aunt. It would prove to her the inadvisability of amateur match-making.

  A half hour later Beetle said goodbye to Duncan. Aunt Agatha was in her room with a bottle of smelling salts, prostrated.

  “Is there anything I can do before I leave?” Beetle asked.

  “Not a thing,” Duncan, said. “Oh, there is something at that.” He dug into the covers of his bed and pulled out the ragged, scorched doll. “This blamed thing has still got me worried. I might lose it again. I’m not the responsible type, you know. So I wish you’d keep it for me. With you it will be safe and I’ll have a little peace of mind.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Beetle took the doll and put it carefully in his pocket. “I shall keep it close to me always. Goodbye, sir.”

  Duncan watched him leave with regret. Good man, Beetle, hard to find another like him. He felt relieved that Beetle had the custody of that damned doll. Beetle wasn’t the type to shirk a responsibility like that. If he said he’d keep it with him, he’d keep it with him. All the time. That night Duncan woke from a sound sleep with a start. For a moment he was at a loss t
o determine what had awakened him. His face felt hot and flushed. It was a most peculiar and disturbing sensation.

  He switched on the light and picked up the hand mirror from his night table. For an instant he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  He was blushing!

  Then as understanding dawned on him he chuckled to himself and flicked off the light. After all, Beetle was just sticking to his word. Good fellow, Beetle.

  Anyway, honeymoons didn’t last forever.

  TINK TAKES COMMAND

  First published in the August 1942 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  American soldiers were in Ireland, homesick and unhappy. Tink and Jing, little leprichaun fairy-creatures, decided to do something to cheer them up. But Nastee threw a monkey wrench into things.

  THE SKY above Central Park was an azure canopy dotted with the white puffs of vagrant clouds. The air was as intoxicating as rare wine. In short, Nature was in one of her most benign and delightful moods. Everything was glorious.

  Tink sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. He was lying in the comfortable cup of a soft green leaf-completely at peace with himself and creation.

  Tink’s tranquillity could be traced to circumstances other than the balmy weather. For one thing he was rid of Nastee, his incorrigibly troublesome companion, for a while at least. And that was a distinct relief.

  But there was another thing that gladdened Tink’s heart even more than Nastee’s blessed absence. And that was the presence of Jing, the tiny, exquisite leprichaun-girl whom he’d met a few weeks before.

  He opened his eyes lazily and looked up at her. She was sitting on a toadstool swinging her legs and humming softly. As always he was struck with the piquant allure of her delicate, gracefully molded features and the slim lines of her body that seemed made for flowing, dancing motion.

  She shook her long blonde curls and stretched luxuriously. Then, with a lithe motion, she sprang to her feet and pirouetted brilliantly.

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” she cried. “What is?” Tink asked.