Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  That afternoon Kirkland drove out to the laboratory that Rilke had rented. There progress was being made. But not enough to satisfy Kirkland. Rilke had a model of the will-destroyer about the size of a flash-light, and which would work in the space of ten minutes.

  “That’s not good enough,” Kirkland said. “It must be no larger than a fountain pen, and the beam must be effective on contact.”

  “It is so hard to do with such speed,” Rilke said.

  “Nonsense!” Kirkland stared about the small lab, ignoring the two assistants who were making tests with various kinds of metal. “I’ll expect the finished product in not less than two weeks. Good day.”

  THAT NIGHT Kirkland was strangely restless. After dinner he prowled about his hotel suite, walking from one room to another, rubbing his hands together nervously. Entering the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror, studying his strong square face, his smooth hair and pale gleaming eyes. He washed his hands and face and went downstairs to the lobby of the hotel. For half an hour he sat near the entrance watching people hurrying in and out. There were important-seeming businessmen, happy couples, and single men and women going eagerly to appointments. Kirkland wondered what all these people would do that night, and whom they would meet, and then he sighed because he was lonely. He thought of looking for Clark, but changed his mind. That brash and vulgar young man wouldn’t satisfy his present needs.

  Finally he went into the softly-lighted barroom and ordered a scotch-and-soda from the neat impersonal bartender. Sipping his drink, which he didn’t really want, he noticed a girl sitting at a stool on his left. She was a stunning creature, smartly dressed in a sheath-like black dress, and her legs were crossed so that he had a beautiful view of their long slender loveliness. Her hair was dark as midnight, her skin fair and finely textured. She was smoking a cigarette and a Martini was in front of her on the bar.

  Kirkland glanced covertly at her, and then looked away as she met his eyes. He felt his cheeks burning. Kirkland was afraid of women. He had always been, ever since he was a child. They could laugh at you, laugh at your weakness and need of them, he had learned. And he couldn’t stand to be laughed at, so he had cultivated an imperious manner with them that kept them at a safe distance.

  But he couldn’t keep his eyes off this girl. His head turned almost of its own volition, and his eyes flicked guiltily along her slim silken legs, noting that one smartly shod foot was swinging idly, provocatively. He glanced at her small, exquisite face, and he saw with horror that she was smiling at him; and he turned away quickly, trying in vain to still the swift pounding of his heart.

  He wondered who she was, and why she was waiting here at this bar. Probably a young man would join her soon, and she would tell him with amusement of the big stranger who had been staring at her legs. The young man would glance down at him, smiling slightly at her story, but nonetheless irritated.

  Kirkland grew excited imagining the scene. He would turn and meet the young man’s gaze calmly, of course; he might even nod at him as if they’d met before, and then he’d pick up his change, say goodnight to the bartender and stroll out as if he were on his way to an important conference.

  “Pardon me, but do you have a match?”

  IT WAS the girl who had spoken.

  Kirkland turned jerkily, and automatically, his manner defensively austere. “I believe I do,” he said coolly, and held a light for the cigarette between her lips.

  “Thanks, so much,” she said.

  Kirkand nodded gravely and picked up his drink; but his hands were trembling so that he put it down hastily.

  “A cigarette without a match is pretty useless,” the girl said.

  “Quite.”

  “There’s nothing to do then but bother a stranger.”

  Kirkland turned to her, eager to keep this conversation going, but still afraid that she would treat him lightly.

  “You might have asked the bartender,” he said; and realized instantly how rude that sounded.

  “I didn’t happen to want to talk to the bartender,” the girl said.

  “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes, you looked interesting, and I see no point in being a slave to the convention that says people shouldn’t talk to each other until they’ve been properly introduced.”

  “I see,” Kirkland said. He smiled at the girl, but watched her keenly to see if she were making a joke of him. But she seemed perfectly sincere.

  They talked casually for a while, finding mutual likes and dislikes, and Kirkland bought her a drink and had another himself. He was warming up now under the glow of her friendliness, and it no longer seemed strange to him that she had wanted to talk to him. Naturally, he thought, she had seen that he was a man of superior intellect and powers, so naturally she had been drawn to speak to him.

  Her name was Jane Reynolds, and she was from the west coast. She was here to study voice, and was all alone in town. When she said an hour later that she must go up to her room, Kirkland asked her eagerly if he might see her to her door.

  She said of course, and there, standing in the doorway, and smiling at him, she promised to go to dinner with him the next night

  When he returned to his own room he strode up and down the thick rug, smiling and happy, almost delirious in his excitement. This had never happened to him before; and he was as stimulated as a high-school sophomore on his first date.

  The next ten days went by in a blur of ecstacy for Kirkland. He saw Jane Reynolds constantly, took her to concerts, to dinner, to all the best night clubs. Clark was beginning to clamor for action, and kept pointing out that money was running low, but Kirkland refused to do anything until Rilke had perfected the mind-destroying machine.

  Then late one afternoon Rilke called, and Kirkland instantly caught a note of fright in his voice.

  “What is it?” Kirkland said. “How is the work coming?”

  “The work is completed, but there is danger.”

  “Danger? What are you babbling about?”

  “I must see you right away.” Kirkland gnawed at his lip in exasperation. He had a cocktail date with Jane, and nothing could be more important than that. “Very well, come over at once,” he said. “But I can’t give you much time, understand?” Rilke said goodby in a trembling voice and rang off.

  CHAPTER V

  THE LITTLE doctor entered Kirkland’s room within ten minutes and his manner was that of a rabbit pursued by a pack of dogs. He was white and shaken, and there was a nervous tic flickering under his left eye.

  “What’s wrong?” Kirkland demanded. “You look as if you seen a ghost.”

  “I have, I’ve seen two ghosts,” Rilke said, catching Kirkland’s arm with a thin, claw-like hand. “The colonel of my section in Germany, Colonel Jodell, and his SS sergeant. They are here, they have come to me and have demanded my help.”

  Kirkand felt a swift surge of anger. “Did you tell them you are working for me?”

  “No—I lied to them. They are monsters, believe me. They have a group here, a Fascist group, and they will kill me if I do not help them. I must flee. Please let me go.”

  Kirkland studied Rilke’s fear-distorted features with a somewhat lofty compassion. He patted the little doctor’s shoulder and led him to a chair. “Relax a moment, while I bring you a drink. You have nothing to worry about, so long as I am with you. Do you understand that?”

  “I am afraid,” Rilke said, through chattering teeth. “You do not know these men.”

  “And they do not know me,” Kirkland said, pleased by the melodrama of his response. He poured a stiff drink and handed it to Rilke. “Now, get that down and we’ll try to talk sensibly. I want you to tell me everything that has happened, but in a coherent, chronological manner. That’s not asking too much, I hope.”

  Rilke seemed calmer after finishing the drink. He shuddered once and then began to talk: “Last night my phone rang. It was Colonel Jodell. I would know his voice if he spoke from the blackest pit of he
ll. He said he would see me this morning. When he arrived he had with him a man named Karl, his SS sergeant. Karl is a great brute. They told me they got out of Germany as I did, and have been working since to establish a Nazi party here in America. They need money, it seems—”

  Kirkland held up a hand impatiently. “Let me ask you a few questions. Did you tell them of me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Precisely what did you tell them?”

  “I—I told them you were a friend, a wealthy friend. They wish to meet you.”

  “Oh? And when am I to have that pleasure?”

  “Tonight.” Rilke looked fearfully at Kirkland. “They are coming here within the hour.”

  “I see.” Kirkland paced the floor, wondering if Rilke was telling the truth. “Do they know about your mind-destroyer?”

  “They knew I was working along that line in Germany. However, they didn’t ask me about it.”

  “Did you tell them I might be sympathetic to their philosophical convictions?”

  “Yes, that is why they wish to meet you.”

  “Very well,” Kirkland said. “Perhaps we can make use of these old friends of yours.”

  “No, no,” Rilke cried. “They are monsters.”

  “You worked for this colonel in Germany, did you not?”

  “I had to,” Rilke said. “Believe me, I didn’t want to.”

  Kirkland yawned. “I find such protestations rather silly,” he said. “Now tell me this: how is your research coming?”

  “It is complete. I almost forgot about it in my confusion.” Rilke took a small package from his pocket and gave it to Kirkland. “Here are the first of the final models.”

  KIKRLAND smiled happily and unwrapped the package with fingers that were trembling slightly from eagerness. He removed two gleaming, pencil-slim tubes, and stared at them with a transfixed expression. “They are beautiful, beautiful,” he said softly.

  He noticed that they had clips on their sides so that they could be carried in a vest pocket like fountain pens; and at one end there was a push button, and at the other, a tiny bulb.

  “I have not tested them on humans, but all the data indicates they will work perfectly,” Rilke said.

  “There are only these two in existence?”

  “That is all. I can make more in a short time.”

  “Don’t bother. This is all I want for the present. Discharge your technicians and close up the lab.”

  “But I am just beginning—”

  “Never mind. Do as I say.”

  The phone buzzed; Kirkland lifted it, and a smooth cultivated voice said: “Mr. Kirkland, my name is William Jodell. We have a mutual friend, I believe, in Doctor Rilke.”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Kirkland said, and winked over the phone at Rilke. “As a matter of fact our good friend is with me at the moment. Won’t you join us?”

  “It will be a pleasure. I am phoning from the lobby of your hotel, as it happens.”

  “Then come up, by all means.” Rilke rubbed his hands together nervously as Kirkland replaced the receiver. “I am afraid,” he muttered. “This nightmare of Germany is beginning again.”

  “But under more intelligent leadership,” Kirkland said in a musing voice.

  There was a knock a few moments later, and Kirkland strode energetically across the floor and threw open the door. Jodell and a huge hulking man were standing in the corridor. “I took the liberty of bringing my friend, Karl Schmidt,” Jodell said.

  “You are both welcome,” Kirkland said, and led them into the room and gave them chairs. “Shall we have a drink to celebrate this occasion?” he said.

  “A charming idea,” Jodell said. “Who knows, this may be an auspicious meeting?”

  Kirkland made drinks, passed them around. Jodell was not the heel-clicking Prussian type, he observed. Rather, he was the intellectual sort, with composed thin features, thoughtful eyes, and a wryly humorous cast to his features. He was in his middle fifties, Kirkland judged, with a spare, well-kept body and graying dark hair. Karl, on the other hand, was the epitome of Fascist brutality. His skull was closely cropped and his eyes small, piggish, suspicious. His great body seemed tense and alert, ready to smash anything that stood in its way.

  JODELL sipped his drink and smiled at Dr. Rilke. “It was so fortunate running on to you like this,” he said. He glanced at Kirkland. “The good doctor and I were associates before the war, as he has probably told you.”

  “Yes, he mentioned it,” Kirkland said.

  “At that time, he was working on something very unusual and stimulating,” Jodell said. “Who knows? Had he completed it, the turn of events might have taken a different slant. Tell me, doctor, have you ever returned to the work you were doing for me?”

  Rilke shook his head nervously. “No, I have done very little since arriving in America.”

  “That is understandable, of course. This free and magnificent country is enough to take anyone’s mind off his work.” There was only the barest sarcasm in Jodell’s voice. Turning to Kirkland, he said: “Dr. Rilke has told me that you are—ah—not unsympathetic to certain political movements which, at the present, are not totally popular here in America.”

  “I can say only that in my opinion the wrong people were successful in the recent war,” Kirkland said.

  “I think we understand each other,” Jodell said, smiling. “In that case, I think you’ll be interested in a little society which I have the honor of heading. It is a debating club, of sorts, but we have hopes of becoming more active in the near future.”

  “It would be a privilege to assist you in any way that I may,” Kirkland said.

  “I’m afraid that our chief concern at the moment is funds to carry on our work.”

  “I would be delighted to help out in that respect.”

  “Capital. Perhaps you would like to attend a meeting of our group tonight?”

  “It would be an honor.”

  “Excellent.” Jodell glanced at Karl. “I will meet you later at the hotel.” Karl took his dismissal with stiff-backed obedience. “Of course,” he said, with a nod of his cropped head.

  “I must leave too, I’m afraid,” Rilke said, wetting his lips.

  “A pity,” Kirkland said.

  When the two men had gone, Jodell smiled at Kirkland. “I am always happier talking with equals. Karl is a useful sort, but he has his limitations, I fear.”

  “Of course. Where is this meeting to be held?”

  Jodell mentioned a time and an address. Then he said: “We must speak out frankly, my friend. I intended to use the group of men I have assembled to create confusion and fear here in America. That is the way to gain opportunity. We must infest the land with hob-goblins and monsters, and while the hysterical citizens are occupied with them, we will move slowly into control of the government.”

  “Is your group large?”

  “It is quality that counts. Numerically we are not strong. But those I have chosen will do their jobs to the letter. That is the all important thing: obedience.” Jodell’s voice was sharper as he sounded the last word.

  Kirkland repressed a feeling of anger. Jodell’s air of superiority was quite annoying.

  “We demanded obedience from everyone in the movement,” Jodell said, eyeing Kirkland appraisingly. “That would apply to you also, Mr. Kirkland.”

  “Oh, of course,” Kirkland said. He casually took one of the mind-destroying tubes from his vest pocket and toyed with it in his fingers. “This is an ingenious little gadget,” he said. “Have you ever seen one?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Here let me show you how it works.”

  Kirkland stepped forward and pointed the tube at Jodell’s forehead. He pressed the push-button at the rear of the tube with his thumb and a thin intense bolt of blue light shot out and struck Jodell between the eyes.

  Jodell cried out sharply and pressed both hands to his face. He fell back in the chair, his body twisting convulsively. The
n his hands dropped from his face, and Kirkland saw a thin stream of saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. Jodell’s eyes were glazed, unseeing, and his face was a mask of blankness.

  “Well, well, where is our great leader?” Kirkland said, smiling to himself. He replaced the mind-destroyer tube in his vest pocket, and said: “Stand up!”

  Jodell got to his feet, and faced Kirkland with a glazed expression.

  “Now listen carefully,” Kirkland said, and proceeded to give the staring, immobile German a series of crisp orders.

  KIKRLAND met Jane Reynolds in the bar of the hotel twenty minutes later. She was wearing a black-satin dress and a string of pearls about her throat Her blue-black hair was shining in the soft candlelight, and her gray eyes and exquisite lips Joined to send him a welcoming smile.

  “You look very happy,” she said to him. “Have you had good news?”

  “The very best,” Kirkland said. His heart was pumping harder, as it always did when he was near her. “I think I’ve made an important step this afternoon.”

  “I’m very glad,” she said.

  “Does my good fortune mean so much to you?”

  “Everything you do—or have done—means a great deal to me,” she said gravely.

  Kirkland caught her slim white hands impulsively. “I must see you later tonight, Jane. I have so much to tell you. Will you meet me later?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Where shall it be?”

  Jane Reynolds looked into her drink with a sweet little smile on her lips. “Let me have the key to your hotel room. I’ll be waiting there for you when you come back.”

  Kirkland was almost too surprised to answer; and then, when he realized what she meant, he squeezed her hands so tightly that she winced, and he began to laugh softly and confidently. She met his eyes smiling.

  CHAPTER VI

  KIRKLAND got in touch with Clark after he left Jane, and told him to meet him in the lobby at eight-thirty that night.

  Clark was waiting when Kirkland arrived.

  “What’s up?” Clark said. “You got a caper in the works?”