Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “And so,” D’Artagnan said, spreading his hands expressively, “with the aid of his immense powers he entombed us in the manuscript of the great man whose fertile pen had transmitted our adventures to paper, the Dumas Pere.

  “The entombment,” he said wryly, “was supposed to be only a temporary sojourn, but several events beyond even the almost miraculous ken of His Eminence miscarried. Among these was the death of His Eminence. Since then we have waited long for our liberation, and it is to you we owe thanks for that happy event. Now do you understand how and why we are here?”

  Phillip swallowed and sank back weakly in his chair. His brain was wheeling in dizzy, spiralling circles. Nothing seemed to make sense, least of all himself. For despite his common sense, he found himself believing the incredible story of this slim assured young man. Why, he couldn’t say.

  “Now,” D’Artagnan said briskly, “you must tell us where we are and what year this is. And how far are we from Paris?”

  “You are in America,” Phillip said weakly. “A century and a half have passed since the period you speak of.”

  “America!” D’Artagnan frowned. “That is inconvenient. But,” he shrugged philosophically, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Anyway, I shall be glad to inspect the colonies of the good King.”

  The mighty Porthos shook his head worriedly.

  “This I do not like,” he said ponderously. “This is a new, strange world. I wish to return to my France as soon as possible.”

  PHILLLIP POINCARE looked at these sons and heroes of France and there was a sadness in his eyes. They didn’t know.

  “That is not possible now,” he said gently. “France has been at war with Germany for the past three years. It would be impossible for you to return there now.”

  “War!” D’Artagnan cried. His strong brown hand closed over the hilt of his sword. “Our France at war and we stand here idle!”

  “All the more reason for returning immediately,” Porthos said.

  “But you don’t understand,” Phillip said desperately. “France lost the war over two years ago. They are now a subject nation.”

  D’Artagnan’s blade leaped from its sheath. Its gleaming point swung to a stop, inches from Phillip’s heart.

  “Take care,” D’Artagnan said tensely, “or I will forget the debt I owe you.” Phillip looked at the glinting point of the sword and he saw the grimness in D’Artagnan’s eyes, but he felt no fear. Only a vast pity for these courageous adventurers from another time.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I am only telling the truth. France has been defeated.”

  “She will rise!” Athos said. His eyes were no longer warm and his full lips had flattened into a thin hard line.

  “‘Who was her enemy?” D’Artagnan demanded.

  “The Germans,” Phillip answered. “Ah!” D’Artagnan made a gesture of disgust. “To lose to those beer swilling swine is an insult to injury.” He wheeled about, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “Well, comrades, what shall we do?”

  “We return to France,” Athos said simply. “What else could we do?”

  Aramis nodded slowly and Porthos grunted in assent.

  “There is no way to return to France,” Phillip cried. “The sea lanes are no longer open. The entire world is at war.”

  D’Artagnan’s eyes danced with pleased excitement.

  “Excellent!” he cried. “My greatest fear has been that I would arise from my entombment in a world of dullness and peace. Comrades, we are in luck. From what our friend tells us we can step out this door and find enemies lurking in every street and alley.”

  “You will not find enemies here,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “The people of America are now at war with the Germans. Their sympathies are and have been always with France.”

  “This,” said D’Artagnan, “is becoming more complicated each minute.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you had better explain everything in detail to us.”

  Phillip Poincare spent that night and the better part of the next morning attempting to bring the Musketeers up to date and to interpret to them the international situation with all of its various ramifications. Whether he succeeded he couldn’t tell.

  Athos and Aramis dropped off to sleep in the middle of the narrative and Porthos was nodding wearily before it was completed. Only D’Artagnan listened eagerly to the entire recital, and when Phillip had finished his account of the modern world, he had but one question to ask.

  “Where can we find this man De Gaulle?” D’Artagnan said softly as his hand closed about the hilt of his sword.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE rays of the morning sun awoke Phillip Poincare on the following day. With a start he sprang to his feet. He was still fully clothed and he realized that he had fallen asleep in his chair. For a dazed instant his mind flickered back over the preceding night and his first thought was that he had suffered a weird nightmare.

  But a glance about the room convinced him that the previous night had not been a figment of his imagination. For stretched out on the floor, in various attitudes of slumber, were Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the dashing D’Artagnan, looking like an innocent child with his wavy brown hair falling over one eye and a peaceful smile curving his lips.

  Quietly Phillip prepared himself for work. He would have to leave them here during the day, and the thought of what possibly might happen caused a nervous perspiration to break out on his forehead.

  But he reckoned without his guests.

  He was tiptoeing toward the door, hat in hand, when D’Artagnan stretched and opened one eye.

  “Ah!” he cried. “The greetings of the day, my friend.”

  With a lithe movement he sprang to his feet, stretched his arms over his head and then drummed his fists against his chest. The three slumbering Musketeers awoke and sat up. Greetings were exchanged and Aramis called down the wrath of the Heavens on D’Artagnan for arousing them at such an unearthly hour.

  Phillip fidgeted uncomfortably. His eyes strayed to the clock.

  “I must leave you now,” he said hastily-

  “But no!” D’Artagnan cried. “We shall accompany you, Comrade. We need you to act as guide and interpreter in our wanderings. Come, you lazy dogs, on your feet. Our comrade waits impatiently.”

  “But you can’t come with me,” Phillip protested. “I have to go to work.”

  “Very well,” D’Artagnan said. “We shall go with you and help. After all, it is only fair.”

  Aramis and Athos climbed eagerly to their feet but Porthos shook his head, frowning.

  “Leave me here,” he said. “Things have happened too quickly for my poor tired brain to understand. I must think and I need solitude for that.”

  “Also,” D’Artagnan grinned, “you need something with which to think, my ox-like friend. But if you wish to remain behind, so be it.”

  “I must,” said Porthos. “I am puzzled.”

  “Then let us be off,” D’Artagnan cried.

  And in spite of Phillip’s feeble protests, the musketeers hurried him out the door, down the steps and into the street. His explanations of the night before had prepared them for the sights that met their eyes, but still they were highly amazed by the cars shooting by and the paved streets and brick houses.

  D’Artagnan stretched his arms in the sunshine.

  “But it is glorious,” he cried. He breathed deeply. “At least the sun and the wind and the birds and trees have not changed. They are familiar old friends.”

  “Come,” Phillip said nervously. “We must hurry.”

  “Lead on!” D’Artagnan cried. “Through hell’s fire we follow.”

  PHILLIP led them down the street to the street car line where he caught the car to work. With nervous apprehension he noticed the curious glances of pedestrians as they saw the cloaked and booted figures of the Musketeers.

  A fat, well-dressed man who was also waiting for a car studied the three musketeers for an incredulous moment and then broke into
a roar of laughter.

  He turned and nudged his companion.

  “Look,” he chortled, pointing a fat finger at the objects of his mirth. “I wonder what election bet they lost.”

  D’Artagnan’s lean face flushed angrily. His hand flashed to the hilt of his sword, but Phillip stayed his arm.

  “He meant no harm,” he whispered.

  The color faded from D’Artagnan’s face and his fingers slowly loosened their grip on his sword hilt. But his eyes were still as cold and hard as dagger points.

  “It would give me great satisfaction to spit him like a roasting hen,” he said softly.

  Fortunately at that moment the street car arrived. Phillip climbed aboard and the Musketeers followed his action, greatly excited with their new adventure. Phillip paid the fares and led his charges into the body of the car.

  The fat man who had been waiting managed to squeeze ahead of Phillip and settle himself in the last available seat with a smug pleased expression on his round, pompous face. Not only had he outmaneuvered Phillip, but he had reached the seat an instant ahead of a slim, red-haired young girl who had gotten on at the opposite end of the car. The girl was almost knocked off her feet by his bull-like dash to the seat and she grabbed a strap just in time to save herself from falling.

  The street car started with a lurch.

  Phillip, with dexterity born of long experience, clutched at a strap in the nick of time, but D’Artagnan and his two companions almost fell to the floor as they lost their balance.

  “Mon Dieu!” D’Artagnan cried, as he staggered back, “this is worse than that wild steed of mine.”

  Heads turned from one end of the car to the other and amazed glances were fixed on the three picturesquely clad musketeers, with the swinging swords and flopping hats. A running fire of whispered comment spread from person to person. Phillip felt acutely nervous for a while, but his worry abated slightly as he realized that most of the passengers regarded his companions as masquerading college youths. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  D’Artagnan tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Yes?” Phillip whispered.

  D’Artagnan nodded toward the red-haired girl who was hanging uncomfortably by one hand to the strap. As the car lurched and swayed she had difficulty keeping her balance. Phillip drew a nervous breath as he noticed the angry spots of color in D’Artagnan’s lean face.

  “Why is the girl left to stand?” D’Artagnan asked coldly. “What kind of gentlemen do you breed in this land? His eyes raked contemptuously over the men, seated comfortably, reading their morning newspapers.

  “Quietly,” Phillip whispered. “This is no concern of yours. Please, do not cause a scene here.”

  THE florid faced fat man and others had heard D’Artagnan’s remarks. They were looking at him with hostile glances and Phillip could hear mutterings from some of the men.

  “What’s it to you, buddy?” the fat man snapped. He settled himself more comfortably in his seat and glared angrily at the three Musketeers.

  D’Artagnan looked down at the man and a slow humorless smile curved his lips.

  “My fat friend,” he said gently, “your manners are exceeded in repulsiveness by your appearance, but only to a slight degree. While your legs are still able to carry your chubby body, I would advise you to leave. You have ceased to amuse me.”

  Phillip gripped D’Artagnan’s arm. “Please,” he whispered frantically. “You are only going to cause trouble for yourself.”

  The red-haired girl turned to D’Artagnan and her cool green eyes widened in amazement. She was tall and slender, with fine square shoulders tapering to a slim graceful waist. Her light, arched eyebrows were drawn together in a worried frown.

  She laid a gloved hand on D’Artagnan’s forearm.

  “Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” she said softly. “I am accustomed to standing.”

  “Trouble?” D’Artagnan said with mock incredulity. “I assure you, gracious lady, I consider service in your behalf the highest privilege.”

  Aramis moved forward, smiling ingratiatingly. His eyes moved over the girl’s lovely face and form in a slow admiring appraisal.

  “My companion,” he said smoothly, “is guilty only of an unpardonable understatement. Service for you would be Earth’s highest reward.” He waved his arm down the length of the crowded car. “Choose the location your heart desires and I, Aramis, assure you it will be yours within a very few seconds.”

  “College punks!” the fat man said loudly to the man next to him. “That’s all they are.”

  D’Artagnan raised one eyebrow and studied the man thoughtfully.

  “It was my impression,” he said quietly, “that I told you to leave some time ago. What is the delay, my obese friend?”

  “You ain’t bluffing me. I know my rights.”

  D’Artagnan sighed and slowly drew his sword.

  “Will you run him through?” asked Aramis, with polite interest.

  “I dislike doing it in public,” D’Artagnan said regretfully.

  “I see your point,” Athos said, entering the conversation for the first time. “He needs to be killed of course, but it should be done in a quiet secluded vale where he would not be able to boast of his death.”

  With a flick of his wrist D’Artagnan twirled his sword in the air and its gleaming point was suddenly grazing the fat man’s gullet.

  “Now, my fat one, are you still anxious to stay?” he asked.

  The fat man dropped his paper and strained against the back of the seat, his breath suddenly rattling in his throat. His distended eyes stared downward in horror at the point of the sword.

  “Watch what you’re doing,” he cried shrilly. “That thing is touching me. You’re liable to hurt somebody!”

  “Somebody?” mused D’Artagnan. “No, my corpulent one, it will be you who are hurt.”

  The fat man stared in horror at the calm icy depths of D’Artagnan’s eyes and suddenly he began to tremble like a bowl of quivering jelly.

  “I was only kidding, Mister,” he croaked. “The lady can have the seat, honest she can. Just take that sticker out of my adam’s apple.”

  D’Artagnan smiled gracefully.

  “I knew you would do the gentlemanly thing, my friend. You only needed a slight—er—prodding in the right direction. But you must remember to be more prompt in the future.”

  THE point of the sword withdrew from the man’s neck. With a grin D’Artagnan flicked his wrist and the flashing blade slashed through the man’s bright silk tie, cutting it completely in two.

  “Hey!” the man cried. “That was a new tie.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” Athos said. “A tie can be replaced but a jugular vein presents a more difficult problem.”

  D’Artagnan sheathed his sword. The fat man scrambled from the seat and ducked down the aisle, perspiration streaming down his neck.

  D’Artagnan bowed to the young girl with a flourish.

  “Our friend had a pressing appointment and was forced to leave,” he smiled. “I am sure he would be happy if you would take the seat he has vacated.”

  “Thank you,” the girl said uncertainly. “But you might have gotten yourself ino trouble on my account and it wouldn’t have been worth it.” She sat down and looked up at D’Artagnan’s tall figure with a peculiar expression in her eyes.

  “The days when a man’s sword defended a woman are gone,” she murmured. “But sometimes—”

  She dropped her eyes and D’Artagnan saw that her small shoulders were shaking softly.

  “What is it?” he asked gently. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, nothing,” the girl said in a small muffled voice. She raised her eyes and he saw that their cool green depths were misted with tears. “Thank you. I am grateful. Please leave me now.”

  Phillip took D’Artagnan by the arm. “Come,” he said. “This is our stop. We must get off here.”

  “But—” D’Artagnan looked down at t
he girl with the troubled eyes. “We can’t leave just now. I—”

  “Come,” Phillip said urgently. Unwillingly D’Artagnan followed Phillip down the aisle of the car, but he stopped at the door for one last look at the girl’s small figure. Then with a sigh he stepped off the car. When it rattled past them and disappeared around a bend in the street, he shrugged his shoulders.

  “I shouldn’t have left her,” he said gravely. “She was in trouble.”

  “She was also very beautiful,” Aramis said. “That would be sufficient reason for staying.”

  “We must hurry,” Phillip said, with an anxious glance at his watch. “I can’t afford to be late.”

  With the Musketeers at his heels he crossed the street toward the huge stone building that housed the offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company.

  CHAPTER V

  WHEN Phillip reached the glass doors that led to the main offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company, he paused. For the first time he began to wonder if what he was doing was wise.

  He swallowed nervously and glanced at the three musketeers. Their faces were beaming expectantly. Phillip thought of Mr. Harker and his probable reaction to an invasion of the office by three cloaked, be-plumed, swaggering young men and he winced. The thought of Mr. Harker’s reaction was not pleasant.

  He mopped his damp brow.

  “What is it?” D’Artagnan asked. You seem worried and nervous. Let us proceed.”

  “Of course,” Phillip said feebly. “It’s just that your presence here might not be understood.”

  “Then you will explain our presence,” D’Artagnan said, slapping him on the back. “That is all there is to it.”

  “Follow me,” Phillip said resignedly. He led the three musketeers into the office and to his own desk. He noticed with apprehension that the entrance of his companions did not go unnoticed. His fellow clerks dropped their pencils practically in unison and then their jaws dropped open as if they were synchronized.