Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The next morning the outer office of Kirkland’s suite was crowded with a varied assortment of men—young, old, healthy, sick, weak, strong. They had just one thing in common; a desire to get on someone’s payroll. Kirkland sat behind his desk, smoking, studying them with cool, unimpressed eyes. He enjoyed watching the anxiety in their faces, and the way they shifted nervously when he looked at them directly. It gave him a sense of power, reaffirmed his faith in his own superiority.

  “I need six men for a difficult but interesting job,” he announced at last. “The salary will be one hundred dollars per week. Now line up so that I can look you over.”

  The men arranged themselves into a ragged file, and Kirkland strode up and down before them, mentally ticking off those who seemed strong and alert.

  “Very well,” he said, and walked back down the line nodding to the men he had selected. “You six are to report back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. The rest are excused. Good day, gentlemen.”

  When the room was clear, Kirkland walked into the inner office where Dr. Rilke was sitting at a desk on which his mind-destroying machine rested. Rilke looked pensive and worried.

  “Well?” he said, glancing at Kirkland with weak, wounded eyes. “Have you got the men?”

  “Of course.” Kirkland strode up and down the office, rubbing his hands together. “I have six fine specimens. They will be here at nine o’clock in the morning. See to it that you are here at that time. I will send them in and you will put them under the effects of the machine. Do you understand?”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Kirkland said blandly. “I have to decide that today. Never fear, I’ll have an interesting job for them.”

  “This is all very risky,” Rilke said. “Quite so,” Kirkland said, and strode from the office.

  IT TOOK a cab to the Fourth National bank and took up a position before a drug store opposite the bank. At ten o’clock his eyes brightened with interest as an armored car pulled up before the bank. An armed guard climbed out of the front seat, and another hopped down from the rear of the truck. They went into the bank together and returned about ten minutes later carrying sacks of currency. The money was put in the rear of the truck and one guard climbed in after it, while the second guard covered him with a drawn gun.

  Kirkland watched closely as this guard walked around to the front of the truck and got in beside the driver. Then the truck rolled off down the street. Kirkland frowned and was on the point of turning away.

  “Interesting sight, ain’t it?”

  Kirkland turned sharply. There was a man standing beside him, looking after the armored truck with a musing smile on his lips.

  “I beg your pardon?” Kirkland said.

  “I said it was an interesting sight,” the man said, smiling into Kirkland’s eyes. “A great big truck like that, loaded with money.”

  “It’s no more interesting than a great big truck loaded with oil barrels, or furniture, or washing machines,” Kirkland said.

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong,” the man said, smiling widely. He was a tall young man, with lean features and straight black hair. His clothes were in extremely dubious taste, Kirkland noticed. Padded shoulders, brightly figured tie, pointed suede shoes. Hardly a gentleman, Kirkland thought.

  “How am I wrong?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s something about a truckful of money that makes even the most honest citizen start speculating about it,” the young man said. “Now take oil barrels, or washing machines. Does anybody see a truck load of that stuff and start thinking how they could get at it? The answer is no. But with a money truck it’s different. Practically everybody at one time or other has figured out a way to knock off an armored truck.” The young man smiled disarmingly and took out a silver cigarette case. “All in good clean fun, you understand? They just think about it, and that’s that.”

  “Were you thinking about—ah—knocking off that armored truck?”

  The young man took a cigarette from his case and lit it with a silver lighter. The light from the flame brought a mocking glint to his bright steady eyes. “That’s a leading question, you know,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Maybe I was. Funny thing, I looked at your face when they was bringing that money out, and I said to myself, ‘Now, I’ll bet that fellow there, innocent as he looks and probably is—I’ll bet he’s wondering how he could get hold of that money.’ That’s what I said to myself, yes sir.”

  “Do you often hold these dialogues with yourself?” Kirkland inquired coldly. Something about this young man made him uneasy. He was too knowing, too sure of himself, too amused.

  “Not often,” the young man said. “By the way, the name is Clark.”

  “Nothing could interest me less than your name,” Kirkland said.

  “Now don’t be getting huffy,” Clark said, in an injured voice. “We’re just talking, you know.”

  Kirkland knew he should be on his way. He had learned nothing of value from watching the armored truck stop at the bank; and he was seriously doubtful now that he would ever find any gainful operation for his six potential human robots. Yet, while he knew he should leave, there was something about this young man that caught his interest.

  “Were you by any chance speculating on how to get at the money in the armored truck?” he said, in what he hoped was a bantering voice; but his ears caught cupidity in his tone.

  “Just as a sort of mental exercise, you mean?” Clark said, grinning.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Clark smiled and blew smoke into the air. “Now that’s very interesting because I was thinking about that truckful of money. Here’s how I’d go at it . . .”

  KIRKLAND listened with keen interest as Clark discussed the road-network leading out of the city, the time-table of the armored car, the guns the guards carried, and a host of things that would have never occurred to him to wonder about. He realized then that Clark had plotted every last detail in robbing the armored truck that took money away from the Fourth National bank. His heart was pounding a bit harder than usual, as Clark went into the details of cutting holes into the sides of the truck so the money could be removed.

  “All we need,” Clark concluded, “is five or six men who’d do just what they’re told. Simple, ain’t it?” he said, and rocked back and forth on his heels, a mocking little smile playing over his lips.

  “Let’s have a cup of coffee,” Kirkland said abruptly.

  When they were seated at the end of a counter, Kirkland turned and looked directly at Clark. “There is no need to carry on this masquerade any longer,” he said. “I am going to take that armored car tomorrow. I have the men. How much do you want for your plan?”

  Clark shrugged. “I’m not greedy. Ten per cent? That strike you as all right?”

  “Ten per cent will be all right. Understand one thing, however. I run things completely. You do as you’re told, the same as my other men.”

  Clark smiled. “I got no illusions. You’re the boss.”

  “You’ve been in this sort of business before?”

  “Yeah, in Chicago, and on the Coast. I know my way around, you’ll see. Now about this deal. Are you sure these men of yours will obey orders?”

  “To the letter.”

  “Well, that’s good. This thing depends on split-second timing, and a lot of guts.”

  “Don’t worry.” Kirkland gave him the address of his office. “Meet me there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Look, I’m going to need two cars and an electric torch.”

  “Very well, get them.”

  “How about some money?”

  Kirkland waved a hand casually. “I’ll take care of you after the payoff.”

  Clark looked dubious. “I don’t like investing my own money. It’s bad luck.”

  “Your association with me will be the luckiest thing that ever happened to you,” Kirkland said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

&nbs
p; “You sound like you’re heading for the big time,” Clark said, scratching his head. “We’ll see.”

  “Indeed we will.”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE NEXT morning at nine sharp Kirkland faced the six stalwart young men he had selected the day before.

  “First you will all be given—ah—an eye test,” he said. “The work I expect you to do requires better-than-average vision, so we’ll find out about that first. Follow me please.”

  He led them into the inner office, where Rilke was making an adjustment on his mind-destroying machine. The window shades were drawn, the room was in darkness. In the gloom

  Kirkland saw six chairs in a semi-circle in front of the machine.

  “Please find seats,” he told the men. Rilke had put a filter on the lens of the machine in order to take care of all the men at once. He snapped the switch and a beam of light, six inches wide and fanning out in a semi-circle, bathed the faces of the men.

  “This will take a few minutes,” Kirkland said. “Relax and reflect on your coming good fortune.”

  Within half an hour the six men were sprawled loosely in their chairs, unconscious. Kirkland snapped on the overhead light and inspected them with a triumphant smile. “Excellent, doctor. Now be good enough to pack up your machine and clear out. I’m expecting another party, and I don’t want him to see you.”

  “What are you going to do?” Rilke said nervously.

  “I’m going to get fifty or sixty thousand dollars so that you can perfect your machine. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, but we’re taking an awful chance.”

  Kirkland shrugged. “Let me worry about that.”

  When the doctor had gone, Kirkland ordered the six men to get to their feet. They did so with automatic obedience, and stood immobile, eyes glazed, awaiting further commands. Kirkland smiled at them and went into the outer office.

  Clark arrived a few minutes later carrying a small overnight bag. He was dressed even more hideously than he had been before, Kirkland saw with distaste. Today the young man wore a camel’s hair sports coat with heavily padded shoulders, powder blue slacks, suede moccasins, and an oyster-white sports shirt. His thick dark hair was glistening with brilliantine, and he was reeking with a cheap brand of after-shave lotion.

  “You’re on time,” Kirkland said, rising.

  “Business comes first,” Clark said, and despite his colorful clothes, there was no mistaking the seriousness of his manner.

  “Come with me,” Kirkland said, and led the way into the inner office. Clark stared at the six husky young men who were staring sightlessly at the opposite wall. He scratched his head and glanced at Kirkland with a puzzled frown.

  “What’s wrong with these characters?”

  “There is nothing wrong with them,” Kirkland said.

  Clark walked around the six men, peered into their eyes, slapped their cheeks. “They’re like zombies,” he said.

  His face was pale. “Look, you can count me out of this deal. I like things nice and normal, see. I want no part of these spooks.”

  “They will do our bidding down to the last letter,” Kirkland said. “Watch.” He stepped up to one of the men, and said, “Strike the man on your right in the face!”

  Without hesitation, the young man turned and knocked his neighbor to the floor with one terrific punch.

  “Get up,” Kirkland told the man on the floor. Then he smiled at Clark. “You see?”

  “What have you done to them?” Clark said. He was breathing hard, and there was a film of perspiration on his forehead. “They ain’t human.”

  “Precisely,” Kirkland said, still smiling. “They are not arbitrary, whimsical, unheeding, compulsive, and self-willed—the things we mean by the term ‘human’. Thank the Lord they aren’t human. Instead they’re obedient, submissive, ww-willed.”

  “And you expect them to take part in this caper?”

  “Most assuredly. You give them their orders, and they’ll carry them out.”

  Clark scratched his head again. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t like it. They got guns?”

  Kirkland frowned and bit his lips. He’d forgotten guns. “No, they haven’t.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it,” Clark said. “I got an arsenal here. Look, we’ll go through with this thing, all right, but I’m going to be pick-up man. I don’t want to be with these walking sticks if trouble breaks out. I’ll tell ’em what they’re supposed to do now—”

  When Clark had finished his detailed instructions to each man, and had distributed guns to them, Kirkland added one last order: “Don’t be taken prisoner. Use your guns on the police if you’re caught!”

  “You’re signing their death warrant!” Clark said, whitening.

  “Precisely. Now be on your way. Call me here when you can.”

  “Okay.” Clark nodded to the six motionless men. “Okay, you guys, get started.”

  The six men put their guns away in their pockets and walked out of the office, suddenly grim, purposeful, deadly.

  KIRKLAND paced the floor of his office for the next two hours. He smoked endless cigarettes and tormented himself with visions of total catastrophe. He saw the scheme smashed, Clark caught, the whole world falling about his ears. Then, with mercurial speed, his thoughts would change, and he’d find himself swept up in dreams of unprecedented power. He saw the robbery successful, he saw a whole series of exploits working flawlessly, and he saw himself being bowed to and venerated by everyone in the city, the country, the world!

  In the midst of these splintered, chaotic speculations, the ringing of the phone was enough to cause him to jump like a frightened rabbit. He stared at the instrument, listening to its insistent ringing; his heart pounded furiously. Then slowly, with a shaking hand, he raised the receiver to his ear.

  “Yes?” His voice was a scraping whisper, his throat a column of parched nerves.

  “It’s me, Clark. Everything’s okay.” Kirkland let out a deep breath. Immediately his strength returned. “Of course,” he said. “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Bring it here immediately.”

  “Look, there’s one thing. All those stooges of yours got themselves shot.”

  “That’s a pity. However, there must be sacrifices before the state of things can be improved. I shall expect you as soon as possible.”

  Kirkland replaced the phone and seated himself calmly at his desk. His mind was tranquil as he made plans for the time when Rilke would have the machine perfected . . .

  IT WAS more money than he’d ever seen in his life. Seventy-eight thousand dollars stacked in neat rows on his desk. Clark looked down at it, rubbing his hands.

  “Ten per cent, right?” Kirkland smiled, counting out seventy-eight hundred dollars. “And here’s an extra thousand for renting the cars and for the drill, or whatever it was you had to have.”

  “You should have seen it!” Clark said softly. “Those characters of yours acted like they was wearing suits of mail. Then when we had to plug up that road to keep the cops from following—well, one of them guys rammed his car into a police car at about seventy miles an hour. Boy, it was terrible. Then—”

  “I can imagine it was quite—ah—lively,” Kirkland. “However, details bore me. Would you like to continue this association, Clark?”

  “It’s okay by me. You got a smart way about you. Yes, I think it would be fine.”

  “Very well. I want you to rent me a suite in the best hotel in town. I want a terrace with a southern exposure, of course.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For the time being, yes. I won’t be planning anything else for several weeks.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

  “And one other thing. Get yourself some decent clothes. You look like a circus barker at the moment, and I find that highly offensive.”

  “Anything you say,” Clark said. He looked down at his
suit with a puzzled frown, and then shook his head. “They’re neat threads, but you’re the boss.”

  “Keep that in mind.”

  When Clark had gone, Kirkland happily stuffed the money into his pockets, then called Rilke at his hotel. The doctor answered immediately, in a voice tight with concern.

  “Get to work on that lab immediately,” Kirkland said. “We are in funds.”

  “Did everything work all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about those men? Those six young men?”

  Kirkland looked out the window at the broad dramatic sweep of the city and sighed. He felt a touch of pity for those six young men. “They will probably be the first saints in the new mythology,” he told Rilke, and hung up the phone.

  KIRKLAND spent the next week acclimating himself to the luxury of his new hotel suite, and with fittings at an exclusive and expensive tailor. He dined at the best places in town, and his mind was humming with plans for the future.

  Nothing bothered or worried him now. He was absolutely certain that his path was blessed by Destiny. Even the cautious police inspector who came to see him one day caused him little concern. The police were curious about the fact that the six young men who had died in the hold-up of the armored car, had shortly before answered an ad that had been inserted in the paper by Kirkland.

  Kirkland answered the inspector’s questions calmly, confidently. Yes, he had interviewed the men. No, he hadn’t hired any of them. No, he had no ideas about their participation in the sensational armored car robbery. Yes, it was quite a coincidence. And so on.

  When the Inspector had gone, Clark entered the large, well-decorated living room, cautiously. He rubbed his damp forehead and looked at Kirkland with frank admiration.

  “Brother, you’re an icicle,” he said. “That guy is supposed to be tough and smart, but you held your own with him.”

  Kirkland frowned, annoyed at Clark’s implication that he and the Inspector were equally matched. “It is hardly surprising that I was able to fend off his infantile queries,” he said.