Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Athos smiled modestly.

  “There is nothing about the making and using of swords we do not know. In the good old days we made our own swords and they were unsurpassed in all France. So please do not worry anymore about us, Phillip.”

  “Well,” Phillip said, “we won’t worry any more about it now. We can talk the situation over in the morning. Now I suggest we talk of other things and plan to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Excellent,” Porthos said, reaching happily for the bottle.

  The next morning Phillip awoke with an unaccustomed dark brown taste in his mouth. He was lying on the floor, on top of his overcoat and with one blanket over him. He remembered that that had seemed the most feasible sleeping arrangement when he had gone to bed the previous night. Athos and Porthos had shared the bed, while he and Aramis, losing the toss, had turned in on the floor.

  He raised himself to a sitting position, groaning slightly. He was chilled and stiff. And he had the beginnings of a nasty hangover. They had finished the bottle of cognac, and then nothing would do but they get another. That process had been repeated several times before they finally went to bed.

  He put his hands to his aching head and looked about the room.

  For a moment he didn’t notice anything unusual, but when he did, he sprang to his feet in alarm.

  The Musketeers were gone!

  He strode across the room and jerked open the bathroom door. They weren’t there, of course. He looked anxiously about the room, trying to think of where they might have gone.

  The job, that was it!

  But where was the newspaper clipping? That had the address of the firm that wanted swordsmiths. Maybe he could trace them, find them before they got themselves into some sort of trouble. He remembered with a shudder the first time, years before, when they had ventured out into modern society.

  He looked frantically about the room. Under the bed, on top of the tables, in the closet, bathroom, in the rumpled bedclothes, but then he remembered that the clipping had been in the evening edition of the Express. Maybe he could call them and get the address of the firm that had posted the ad.

  He hurried out to the hall phone and in a few seconds, that seemed like years to him, he was talking to a bored girl in the classified ad department.

  He told her what he wanted and she said she’d do what she could, and a few minutes later he was frantically scribbling down an address that was located on the west side of the city.

  It was only about a half hour’s ride from his room. He didn’t bother shaving, just splashed cold water on his face and hurried out.

  Phillip’s imagination worked overtime on the short street car ride. He knew the Musketeers and he knew the things that might happen to them in this new and bewildering environment.

  With a prayer that he wasn’t too late, he swung off the street car and hurried to the entrance of the small factory building which bore the same address as the ad.

  HE OPENED the door and stepped into a dingy reception room, which boasted one battered desk, two rickety chairs and a calendar dated nineteen forty-three. Seated behind the desk, with a newspaper before him, was an untidy, gray-haired little man with a gray hat on his head.

  “I beg your pardon,” Phillip said breathelessly, “but I’m looking for some friends of mine who might have come here by mistake. One is very big and one is quite plump. I’m sure you’d remember them if they’ve—”

  The weasel-faced man was looking at him with interest.

  “What makes you think they came here by mistake?” he asked.

  Phillip was stopped short. “They aren’t quite what you want I’m sure,” he said. “They saw an ad of yours and I think they may have come here, but—”

  The little man waved his sentence aside with a small, grimy hand.

  “They been here,” he said.

  “Where did they go?” Phillip demanded.

  “Go? They ain’t gone nowhere. We put ’em to work.”

  Phillip sat down slowly on the vacant chair, trying to get his thoughts assembled. “You put them to work,” he said hoarsely.

  “Sure,” the little man said. “We need men. They needed the job. What’s so funny about that?”

  “Could I see them a moment?” Phillip asked.

  The little man frowned. “What are you so excited about? You act like there might be something funny about this deal.”

  “I’m—I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Phillip said. “Please, may I see them just a minute?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, during which he eyed Phillip sharply, the little man finally stood up and walked to a door leading out the rear of the office.

  “Come along,” he said over his shoulder.

  Phillip followed him into a small shop in which six or eight men were working. There were benches along the walls, and several pieces of precision grinding equipment in the center of the floor. These were not operating. The men were bent over the benches, but Phillip noted that none of them seemed to be doing anything more important than polishing their tools. The shop in general had an untidy, unbusinesslike, idle look.

  As they passed the presses in the middle of the room, Phillip saw another bench which had been hidden from sight, and at it were standing the three Musketeers, talking animatedly with a florid-faced, dark-haired man, whose beautifully tailored clothes and buttonaire seemed incongruous with the grimy atmosphere of the shop.

  Athos was holding a sword, a fine gleaming blade, in his hand and the attention of the little group was centered on it. They didn’t notice Phillip until he tapped Aramis on the arm.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but I was worried. You should have told me where you were going.”

  The Musketeers looked properly downcast for a moment, but then their cheerful smiles returned.

  “We thought you would worry less if we just slipped out, Phillip,” Athos said, good-naturedly. “And you see? Your fears were groundless.” He nodded to the impressively dressed gentleman on his right. “Soleri, may I present our friend, Phillip Poincare.”

  The prosperous looking Mr. Soleri extended a huge, well-manicured paw, which Phillip shook dutifully.

  “Mr. Soleri has put us to work,” Porthos said triumphantly. “And you with your talk of unions and service men!” He laughed cheerfully and slapped Phillip on the back.

  Phillip thought he detected a slight start on the part of Mr. Soleri. Perhaps it was his imagination but when Porthos had mentioned unions and service men Mr. Soleri’s twinkling, but unexpressive eyes had narrowed slightly.

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Phillip said.

  “We are helping him with the design of his sword,” Athos said. He displayed the sword he was holding to Phillip. “This is a very bad blade. Poorly balanced, poorly tempered. It would do nicely for some farm hand to use it sticking pigs.”

  “Well,” Mr. Soleri said, speaking for the first time, “we don’t really want to use them for anything so bloodthirsty. As I explained to your friends,” he went on, glancing at Phillip, “they are to be used as symbols of membership in an organization in which I’m interested. Naturally we want good looking blades, but we don’t intend to fight with them.”

  “What are you going to fight with?” Phillip asked. He wasn’t conscious until he’d spoken of the implications of his questions. But it seemed a natural enough question under the circumstances.

  Mr. Soleri smiled, displaying a set of brilliant teeth. But there wasn’t any humor in his voice as he said: “Rather an awkward question, I should say. Who is there to fight now?”

  “No one, I hope,” Phillip said.

  “Precisely,” Mr. Soleri nodded.

  Phillip felt there was something wrong with the situation, but it wasn’t anything he could put his finger on. Mr. Soleri seemed to be on the level, but it simply wasn’t reasonable that the Musketeers, without references, without union cards, without even citizenship papers, should find a job so easily.

  �
��Have you,” he asked Athos, “made any arrangements with the union?”

  Athos shrugged indifferently.

  “It is not necessary. Mr. Soleri has taken care of everything for us.”

  “And now,” Mr. Soleri said, with a bland smile, “I think it’s time to get to work. Will you excuse us, Mr. Poincare?”

  Phillip felt the unmistakable touch of the brush-off and there was nothing he could do but make as graceful an exit as possible.

  HE SPENT the day in his room, obsessed with a vague, intangible worry. When he heard the tramp of the Musketeers on the stairway he felt a quick surge of relief.

  “Is everything all right?” was his first question, as they entered the room.

  “But of course,” Athos said.

  Porthos poured himself a drink from the remains of the cognac and sat down tiredly.

  “We must tell Phillip,” he said. “There is no point in deceiving him.”

  “What happened?” Phillip asked.

  “Our plant is on strike,” Athos said. “This afternoon a gentleman from the unions came and told us all that we must stop working. Everyone left but us.”

  Phillip shook his head. He knew with a dull certainty that the rest of the story was not going to be good.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well,” Athos said, crossing his legs, “about a half hour after that three men came in the shop. They were big, capable looking fellows. They told us that we must stop working. Porthos, Aramis and I were busy. We told them to go away. They again insisted we stop.” He paused and lifted one shoulder eloquently.

  “What happened then?”

  Porthos set his glass down with a bang.

  “What do you think? We threw the dogs out into the street. We are honest men, working hard, and they tell us we must not work. We threw them out and went back to our work.”

  “This is bad,” Phillip said.

  “And why?” asked Porthos. “Can we not work if we like?”

  “I wish you’d try to understand,” Phillip said. “There is an industrial and economic arrangement in this country that has been developed by a lawful, democratic process. You can’t just barge in and do things as you please.”

  “Mr. Soleri told us about the unions,” Porthos said darkly.

  “What did he tell you?” Phillip asked.

  “The truth,” Porthos went on. “He told us they were a great evil, that they must be destroyed, so honest men could work when and where they wanted.”

  “He told you all that, did he?” Phillip said thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” Athos said. He frowned down at the floor. “I did not like him at first, but he has treated us decently. And he seems to be speaking the truth.”

  “We have jobs,” Porthos said, “and we are going to keep them.”

  “You can’t go back to work,” Phillip cried. “Not until the strike is over. You’d be beaten to pulps if you tried.” Phillip realized instantly that he’d said the wrong thing. Such an approach would only strengthen them in their determination.

  “We have never dodged a fight,” Porthos growled.

  “We will be at work in the morning,” Athos said, with quiet finality.

  Phillip knew there was no point arguing with them. They knew what they were going to do. But he also knew what he was going to do.

  THE next morning he awoke early, dressed and left the house before his friends were stirring. It was a cold, raw morning, still dark.

  Phillip’s first stop was an all-night drug store in the neighborhood, where he made two telephone calls. It took a long time to get the parties he wanted, and longer still to explain his story and when he finished the first streaks of dawn were feeling their way through the dark.

  He called a cab then and drank two cups of coffee while he was waiting for it. He glanced at his watch when the cab arrived. It was going to be close.

  He gave the driver an address and told him to hurry . . .

  The address was a middle-class apartment building on Chicago’s North side. Phillip rang and the buzzer sounded immediately. He started up the steps and a voice said, “Second floor.”

  At the second floor a door was open, and a man stood in the doorway. He had obviously been dressing hurriedly when Phillip rang. His tie was still draped over his shoulder and his graying hair had been given a quick brushing which hadn’t completely removed its sleep-tousled look. He was a tall, slender man with square shoulders and a lean waist. He might have been forty-five, but he looked in excellent shape. His face was tanned and his hair had once been black but now it was streaked with gray.

  “Are you Poincare, the man who phoned me a while ago?” he asked.

  Phillip nodded. “And you’re Nelson, business agent of the Metal Workers, Local 3000?”

  “Come in,” Nelson said. “We haven’t too much time to talk.”

  Phillip followed him into a neatly furnished living room and took a chair. Nelson picked up a paper from a coffee table and handed it to him.

  “This is the morning paper. Your friends got quite a bit of publicity out of that deal yesterday afternoon.” Phillip spread the paper and read a front page story on the fight the Musketeers had had with the agents of the, Union. The story was a lurid, overemphasized account, which gave the impression that this was a very mild example of incidents which were occurring all over the country.

  “This is just the kind of thing the country can’t stand right now,” Nelson said. “Things are bad enough without publicity like this. Now tell me about these friends of yours and do it quickly. If they intend to go to work this morning—” He broke off and started tying his tie. “Tell me on the way. We’ve got to prevent them from crossing that picket line at all costs.”

  Racing across the city in Nelson’s car, Phillip told him as much as he could. He explained that the Musketeers were expatriated Frenchmen, who had wound up in America as the result of the war. They didn’t understand conditions in America. They were not trying to cause trouble. They were just simple men who wanted to work and couldn’t understand why anyone should tell them they shouldn’t. Nelson listened and nodded.

  “I hope I can talk some sense into their heads,” he said. “I may be able to if—”

  “If what?” Phillip said.

  “If we get there on time,” Nelson said grimly.

  They were nearing the address now. The car swung around the last corner on two wheels and a prayer. Ahead was the small building that housed the company where the Musketeers had gone to work. And Phillip’s heart sank as he saw the battle that was raging before the entrance.

  There were at least a dozen men fighting in a rocking, swaying group, in the middle of which Phillip could make out the battling figures of the Musketeers.

  “We’re too late,” he groaned.

  Nelson braked his car to a skidding halt.

  “Maybe not,” he snapped. “Follow me.”

  PHILLLIP piled out of the car and raced after Nelson’s tall figure. Nelson was shouting as he hit the fringes of the struggling group, but his voice was lost in the clamor of shouting voices.

  Phillip saw Porthos, with a wide happy smile on his face, pick up one of the men, lift him high above his head and hurl him straight at two others who were trying to close in. The man’s flying figure hit the other two like a battering ram, sending them sprawling.

  This created a breach in the solid wall of battling human figures and, before it could close, Phillip darted in and grabbed Porthos by the arm.

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  Porthos shook him aside impatiently.

  “Stop!” he bellowed. “I am only starting on these dogs.”

  But Nelson had been able by this time to get the attention of the attacking union men. With a crisp order that snapped like a cracking whip he backed them away from the Musketeers, but their angry flushed faces made it anybody’s guess how long his authority would restrain them.

  The Musketeers stood grimly silent, fists doubled, waiting and ready fo
r any development. The air was charged and tense.

  Nelson turned to Phillip.

  “Can you do anything with them?” he asked.

  “I’ll try,” Phillip said. He turned slowly to the Musketeers. “I want you to listen a moment to me, my friends. Then you may do what you like.”

  “The time for talking is over,” Athos said, almost gently.

  “Then just listen,” Phillip said. “This man with me is honest. He wants to say a few words to you. I want you to listen to him. Not because it will change your minds or keep you out of trouble. And not because it is right. But I ask you to listen simply as a favor to me.”

  Porthos scowled and looked at the ground.

  “You take an unfair advantage of us, Phillip,” he said. “How can we refuse you a favor?”

  Athos sighed. “The only appeal that would avail against our anger and he must use it.”

  Nelson turned to the strikers.

  “It’s all right now, men. Break it up.”

  When they had drifted back to their picket line he said to the Musketeers, “You didn’t need us to stop the fight. You’d have ended it yourselves in a few more minutes.”

  Phillip thanked his stars that Nelson apparently was a better than average psychologist. That touch of flattery would do more to soften the Musketeers than a two-hour lecture based on reason and logic.

  The Musketeers, pleased as always when their fighting prowess was recognized, smirked at each other like big kids. It was obvious that they were ready to recognize Nelson as a man of discernment, at least.

  Nelson began talking to them. He wasn’t eloquent, but he managed to be impressive, something which was far more difficult. He didn’t talk about Labor and Capital. He simply talked about human beings. And he made his point.

  When he stopped talking Phillip could tell from the faces of the Musketeers that they were impressed.

  “What,” Athos said slowly, “do you wish us to do?”

  Nelson smiled. “I was hoping you would ask that. I’m not sure but I think this outfit you started to work with is far from being on the level. I think they’re a front for someone bigger who is interested in promoting discord between labor and capital. But you can help us. Your escapades yesterday and this little fracas just now haven’t helped things. So this is what I’ve got in mind. There is a union rally tonight and I’d like you all to be there, say a few words. I’ll see that the newspapers are there, and if you can do a good job it will help a lot to counteract the bad publicity we’re going to get because of this thing this morning and the deal yesterday. How about it?”