Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Manrico stood with Marie under the main archway, waiting to file into the center ring. Tony stood a little apart from them, silent and haggard. Not once did he so much as glance at them.

  Manrico noticed with satisfaction the flushed face and burning, feverish eyes. Tony had been drinking.

  Suddenly the band struck up the march which was their cue. Their appearance was greeted with cheers and laughter from the well-packed stands. Manrico smiled thinly beneath his paint. A clown suit might mean fun and comedy to the spectators but they didn’t realize how deceptive were the costumes and grease paint of the Laughing Carillos this night.

  The master of ceremonies introduced them lavishly, and then they were ascending the ladders that led to the trapezes, high above the heads of the crowd, in the tip-top peak of the big top.

  Tony and Marie ascended one side and Manrico went up alone. When he reached his platform he tested the trapeze carefully. He glanced down and saw that the net was being removed. That was part of the act. He smiled. Tony would have a nice straight drop—onto the hard-baked earth.

  The drums of the band were rumbling a spine-tingling crescendo and the cries of the crowd had faded to a tense, excited murmur.

  Manrico looked and saw that Marie had reached her platform which was a dozen feet above Tony’s. He waved to her and he could see her white smile.

  Tony’s face was set in rigid lines, completely devoid of expression. Manrico experienced a grim pleasure from the thought of how that expressionless face would change and writhe when it started downward . . .

  After a last check of the trapeze ropes, Manrico swung out into the air. Marie and Tony both stepped from their platforms and swung in sweeping arcs toward him—Marie a dozen feet above his head, Tony exactly parallel.

  They swung back and forth gathering momentum while the band below built a pulse-quickening pillar of sound beneath them. Their first maneuver was actually their climax for it was the most spectacular in their repertoire.

  Manrico caught Tony and Marie somersaulted to the trapeze vacated by Tony—that was the trick. It required perfect timing and precision.

  Manrico smiled as he swung higher and higher. There was no danger for him in this maneuver. Ordinarily he caught Tony. Tonight, it was even simpler—for he wasn’t going to catch Tony.

  Two more swings and then Tony would be sailing through the air, hands extended, grasping—

  What would he think as he missed and plummeted downward?

  There wouldn’t be time for thought, Manrico knew.

  HE FELL backwards and hung by his knees as he completed the first swing. Above him he could see Marie arcing gracefully downward. Her long, slender body streamed through the air, a vibrant, beautiful poem of motion.

  Manrico completed his second swing and his eyes flashed the cue to Marie and Tony. They both nodded imperceptibly and he knew that they were ready.

  Tony swung forward to meet him, hanging by his hands. Manrico could see his face clearly. And he saw that Tony was smiling. Smiling exultantly, triumphantly, happily.

  Manrico had no time for thought for at that same instant Tony’s hands released the trapeze bar—and with a flash of instinctive reckoning Manrico knew that Tony had released the bar a split second too soon, six feet before he should have!

  And he was not flying toward Manrico’s outstretched hands as he should have been! He was falling swiftly and certainly to the hard-baked earth a hundred and fifty feet below. And the triumphant, exultant smile was radiant on his face as he dropped.

  It happened too quickly for thought. But quicker than thought were Manrico’s instinctive reflexes. And even as Tony started to fall, his horrified eyes flashed up to Marie’s trapeze and a shout of warning clawed at his throat.

  For Marie had left her trapeze and was dropping in a graceful, soaring arc to Tony’s trapeze—Tony’s trapeze which his deliberate fall had thrown six feet out of place.

  The full import of Tony’s act crashed into Manrico’s brain with the speed of light. There was no time to think, less in which to act.

  Marie was falling through the air—and Tony’s trapeze was swinging tantalizingly away from her clawing fingers.

  With cat-like quickness Manrico grabbed his trapeze bar with one hand, slipped his knees from the bar and swung forward in a desperate lunge.

  His free hand caught Marie about the waist as she hurtled by—and his other hand tore away from the trapeze with a savage wrench.

  Marie’s shrill scream beat at his ears and her arms clutched about his waist as they fell.

  The cards had not lied.

  They were to have each other’s arms until death parted them.

  And Manrico had been wrong about one thing. There was time to think on the way down.

  THE VOICE

  First published in the October 1942 issue of Amazing Stories.

  It’s a startling thing to find your fake séance room invaded by the real thing—but even worse when the ghost is a liar!

  ENRICO ALVIRA was a tall dark young man with soulful brown eyes and the face of an angel. From the top of his be-jeweled turban to the tips of his black felt slippers he was a physical embodiment of the glamour and mystery of the East.

  He was lounging comfortably in a silk cushioned chair, smoking a cigarette in a foot-long holder and admiring with complacent satisfaction the exotic luxury of his office, when his secretary entered and bowed low.

  His secretary was a brown, inscrutable little man, dressed in severely cut dark clothes and wearing a white turban.

  His secretary, Ali, bowed again.

  “A woman to see you, Sahib.”

  Enrico blew a cloud of incensed smoke toward the ceiling and closed his eyes wearily.

  “Must there always be this demand on my psychic powers?” he murmured.

  “The woman is very expensively dressed,” Ali said softly. “She wears very interesting jewels. It is not difficult for this poor one to surmise that she is abundantly blessed with those temporal riches for which the Prophet had such disdain.”

  Enrico opened his eyes and a fleeting smile touched his face.

  “So?” he said idly. “Jewels, eh?” He stood up and inserted a fresh cigarette in the ivory holder.

  “You may tell the woman, Ali, that she is fortunate. I will see her.”

  “Yes, Sahib” Ali said. He bowed and withdrew.

  Enrico straightened his turban carefully, glanced in the mirror to reassure himself that he looked sufficiently grave and inscrutable, then left his office and proceeded to the chamber where he interviewed his clients and held his séances.

  The walls of the chamber were covered with heavy red drapes and a soft blue illumination was provided by a small lamp in each corner.

  A woman rose to her feet as Enrico entered the room.

  “I’m so glad you’ve decided to help me, Mr. Alvira,” she said, almost tremulously. “Many of my friends have told me how greatly you’ve been able to help them.”

  Enrico bowed slightly.

  “I am happy to be able to use my powers in aiding those in distress,” he said quietly. “Perhaps, when you tell me your problem, I shall be able to help you.”

  “Oh, I feel sure you will,” the woman cried.

  ENRICO motioned for the woman to resume her seat, then sat down himself. He studied the woman carefully and arrived at a few encouraging conclusions.

  She was wealthy, that was evident. And equally important, she had reached the stage of life where gullibility seems to be an automatic reflex. She was in trouble; and judging from her soft features, and from her presence in a spiritualist’s parlors, she lacked the character and will to solve her own dilemma. All of these factors were excellent, from Enrico’s viewpoint. They made the kill a certainty.

  “Please unburden yourself,” he said.

  The woman leaned forward in her chair and her soft eyes met his beseechingly.

  “Don’t think me just a silly old woman,” she said. “I’m not just looking
for a thrill or something like that. I am in trouble and I feel if I could talk to my husband for just a few moments, it would help wonderfully. I’ve never believed that the living could communicate with the dead; but I’m willing to believe anything now, if only there’s a chance of talking with my husband.”

  “When did your husband pass over?” Enrico asked somberly.

  “Four years ago,” the woman answered.

  Enrico shook his head sadly.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said.

  “Why, what’s the matter? Can’t you help me?”

  The woman almost sobbed the last question.

  Enrico held up one hand in gentle remonstrance.

  “It is too soon to decide that. But establishing contact with those who have passed over is always a difficult, hazardous undertaking. And the longer the spirit has been absent from his corporeal body and surroundings, naturally, the more difficult is the establishment of contact.”

  “N—naturally,” the woman said slowly.

  “Four years is a long time,” Enrico said. “The process of establishing communication with your dead husband might be a long and tedious one. We can only try. If we fail, we must try again.”

  “Can we start today?” the woman asked eagerly.

  “Unfortunately, no. There are certain preparations which I must make before we may undertake to communicate with your husband. I must prepare myself for the exacting ordeal by fasting and solitude. When these things are arranged, and I am in the proper psychic mood, we may proceed. However, you may tell me the nature of your trouble now. It is necessary that I know.”

  Enrico closed his eyes and allowed his features to relax into stolid immobility. He waved a limp hand gracefully.

  “Proceed.”

  “My husband and I married quite young,” the woman began. “We did not have any children, and as the years passed we became closer and closer to each other. We were inseparable. Many times I prayed that I would die first. I could not face the prospect of life without him.”

  THE woman dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “But he died first,” she said tremulously. “It was pneumonia. He was sick only three days. His death left me to face a bleak, bitter loneliness that is worse than anything I could have imgained.”

  “Dot iss too bad,” a guttural voice said sadly.

  “What did you say,” the woman said, looking in surprise at Enrico.

  Enrico sat up straight in his chair and looked about the dim, red-draped room. Who had spoken?

  “N—nothing,” he said hastily.

  “But I heard a voice,” the woman persisted.

  Enrico’s eyes moved automatically and guiltily to the corners of the room where the loudspeakers were concealed.

  The loudspeaking system was used during séances in which a “voice” from the “beyond” was necessary. Ali, his secretary, provided the “voice”.

  But the voice he’d heard a moment ago wasn’t the voice of Ali. And the loudspeaking system wasn’t connected, now. It was only hooked up when needed.

  Enrico felt cold sweat breaking out under the band of his turban. The room suddenly seemed very warm. Had he only imagined that voice with the guttural, German accent? Impossible! The woman had heard it, too.

  She was looking at him with bewildered eyes.

  “Who was it?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  Enrico realized that he must advance some explanation. What kind of a medium would she think him, if he allowed mysterious voices to barge in and out of the discussion?

  “It is nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, with what he hoped was convincing suavity. “Sometimes there is a sort of spiritual, er, hangover after a séance. There is at times a kind of, er, astral,” he fumbled for the word, “echo, that hangs over in the immediate vicinity of its re-materialization.”

  “Dot sounds cwazy!” the voice that spoke the words seemed to emanate from the very air of the room. The guttural German voice was very disgusted, if its tone was any indication.

  The woman looked fearfully at Enrico.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  Enrico was, too, but he couldn’t admit it. He clasped his hands together to hide their trembling, and attempted a weak smile.

  “It is nothing,” he said feebly. “Just a trick of the imagination.”

  The woman stood up slowly, a wondering expression illuminating her face.

  “That voice,” she whispered. “It was from the—the other side, wasn’t it?”

  “Dot’s right,” the guttural voice answered.

  The woman stood straight, her hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes moved pleadingly, desperately, about the room.

  “Can you help me?” she said in a low tense voice that was but a whisper. “Do you know my husband, John Reynolds?”

  “Dot’s hard to say. Dere is such a lot of peepul here.”

  ENRICO slumped back in his chair and clasped his hands to his forehead. He was going mad! Or it was a trick!

  He sprang from his chair and dashed from the room. He heard the woman call after him, but he didn’t stop. He hurried to the basement and jerked open the door of the room where the microphone was set up.

  The room was empty! The microphone was not even plugged into its socket. Enrico felt a black moment of horror. This meant that the voice he had heard in the room above was not the effect of some mechanical device; it was ho trick; it actually emanated from—

  Enrico felt his mind reeling. In all the years he posed as a spiritualist, he had never seriously believed in any sort of after-life. But here was indisputable evidence that the phenomena which he had publicly exploited and privately derided did actually exist.

  Trembling and shaken, he returned to the chamber where he had left the woman, drawn by a strange compulsion he could not name.

  She was still standing in the center of the room, almost transfigured with the hope and feeling that blazed in her eyes and face.

  “Please, please,” she implored, “you must help me. My husband was a tall man, with gray hair. Maybe you know of him. Please, you must help.”

  Enrico realized that she was not speaking to him, but rather to the “voice.” The knowledge gave him a strange chill. He looked behind him nervously and swept the gloomy corners of the room with apprehensive eyes.

  “Please,” the woman whispered.

  “It’s a big chob,” the voice said, and there was a dubious, worried tone in the guttural accents. “Dere are so many here. Und I only know the big shots. Napoleon, Alexander the Great—Alex, I call him—Genghis Khan, Voodrow Vilson; men like dot; big shots.”

  Enrico glared about the deep gloom of the chamber.

  “This is some kind of a joke,” he cried. “One of my competitors must have installed a loudspeaker in here to make me look ridiculous. It’s a put-up job.”

  The woman turned to him and the exaltation and hope had died in her eyes. She regarded him levelly and coolly.

  “I made a mistake to come here,” she said quietly. “It was foolish of me. I don’t quite know what I expected, but I did not anticipate being made the butt of a cheap, contemptible joke.”

  She walked quickly from the chamber.

  “Vait,” the guttural voice cried. “I vas not making jokes.”

  “Oh shut up!” Enrico cried in desperation. “You’ve ruined everything, you fake. That woman will tell others. This might ruin my business.”

  HE rushed from the room after the woman, but when he reached the street she had disappeared. Returning, he met Ali, his secretary.

  “What is the matter, sahib?” Ali inquired, with a discreet bow.

  “Come with me,” Enrico ordered crisply, and strode back to the red-draped chamber. “Somebody has installed a loudspeaker in here,” he said, glaring angrily about. “One of my competitors, probably. We can’t interview any more clients in here until that speaker is found and destroyed.”

  Ali was looking at him bewilderedly. “But how
could there be a speaker, sahib?” he asked. “No one has been in here today or yesterday. If someone attempted to install a loudspeaker here, I would know of it.”

  “I don’t want arguments,” Enrico almost screamed. “I want that loudspeaker. You find it. It’s got a German accent.”

  Ali shrugged and looked furtively at his employer. “Yes, sahib,” he said quietly.

  But half an hour later, after all the draperies had been torn down, when all the walls had been examined, when the floor and ceiling had been minutely inspected, there was no evidence of any mechanical speaking system, other than the establishment’s own apparatus.

  “I tell you, there must be a loudspeaker somewhere in this room,” Enrico said, clenching and unclenching his fists spasmodically.

  “Vat makes you so sure?”

  It was the voice again. The same guttural, German voice, traceless and all-pervading, seeming to materialize in the atmosphere of the room.

  “Ali!” Enrico demanded tensely. “Did you hear that?”

  Ali glanced about the room, his eyes rolling.

  “I am afraid I did, sahib,” he said weakly. “You will excuse me, please.” He left the room hurriedly, his face white. Enrico never saw him again.

  “Vy are you so skeptical?” the heavy voice asked plaintively.

  Enrico stared about the room, listening to the last echo of that thick voice.

  “You—you are from—from over There?” he said in a whisper.

  “Uf course,” the voice said impatiently. “I haff been for years and years. I vanted somevon to talk mit so I broke all the rules to come here and talk mit you. Dot is always the trouble; nobody believes me . . .”

  “I—I believe you,” said Enrico weakly.

  He sat down in a chair and lighted a cigarette with a trembling hand. His mind was confused and distraught; it refused to function properly. But after a moment, his opportunist tendencies rallied to his aid, and brought a semblance of order to his thoughts.

  If he were actually and really in contact with a being from the Beyond, there must be some way to take material advantage of the situation. Finally an idea occurred to him.