Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Puzzled and apprehensive, Percy got to his feet and crossed the lawn to his house. He let himself in stealthily and tip-toed up to his room. Luckily he didn’t wake Cynthia. He crawled into his bed, wondering bleakly what tomorrow would bring. This was too painful a thought to contemplate, and he was desperately grateful when sleep finally came.

  AT breakfast the next morning Percy was heavy-lidded and exhausted. Cynthia sat across the dining table from him, an expression of grim disapproval on her face.

  “You expect me to believe you walked until three o’clock this morning? Come, I should think you could invent a more plausible excuse than that.”

  “But it’s the truth, dear. I—I was thinking and I forgot all about the time.”

  “And what were you thinking about that caused you to drift about for six hours like a zombie?”

  Percy had an inspiration. “I was thinking how pleasant it will be at the van Rensalers. I know you will look just stunning in riding clothes, and I was thinking that maybe I might pick them up for you today.” Cynthia, as is the case with most vain women, was not too discerning. Flattery never seemed anything but the barest truth to her and she seldom examined its source or motivation. She smiled at Percy, forgiving him a bit.

  “That was sweet of you,” she said. “Most women would be worried if their husbands stayed out all night. But I wasn’t. Not really.”

  “No? Why not?”

  Cynthia laughed musically. “I know you too well. You’re no wolf, my dear,”

  Percy saw Tom Benton standing on his porch as he left for work.

  “Hello there, how’s that puppy of yours?” he called cheerfully.

  Tom Benton came down his porch steps shaking his head. “Something got Killer last night,” he said, with awe in his voice. “Poor devil’s all cut up. Must have been a puma or something.”

  Percy looked full into Tom Bentons cruel piggish eyes and laughed aloud.

  “The nearest pumas are eight hundred miles away,” he said. “You’d better keep your dog on a leash after this. It was probably a pomeranian that got after him.”

  With another cheerful laugh he strolled off to catch his train.

  CHAPTER II

  THE VAN RENSALERS lived in a stately home surrounded by many acres of rolling wooded land. Everything that met the eye on their estate was of the finest quality; a testament to the inspired thievery of old Nelson van Rensaler, the founder of the clan, who had made the money to support the six following generations by selling rotgut liquor to the Indians and stealing land from ignorant immigrants.

  The current head of the clan was young Tony van Rensaler, a lissom alcoholic who was married to a showy blonde whose only interesting characteristic was a penchant for knick-knacks and jewelry that belonged to someone else. Cheryl van Rensaler was also a flagrant dipsomaniac, but her indiscretions had been carefully hushed up through the potent power of the van Rensaler name and money.

  Percy and Cynthia drove up to the entrance of their home on a spectacular autumn morning. The trees were a riot of colors, ranging from pale gold to the deepest purple. Above, a lambent sun poured a warm benediction over the countryside. It shone brightly on the buttons of the footmen and gilded the silver hair of the butler as they came forward to help Percy and Cynthia from their car and welcome them to Shady Manor, the name of the van Rensaler country seat.’

  Inside the vast foyer Tony van Rensaler was waiting to greet them. He was a thin young man with lank blond hair and bloodshot eyes. With him was a huge heavy-shouldered man with bright confident eyes and square handsome features. His name was Dwight Dinsmore.

  It was Dinsmore who grasped Percy’s hand in a bone-crushing grip and shook his arm until Percy heard his shoulder joint creaking a protest. Dwight Dinsmore was the hearty muscular outdoorsy type—a type Percy found very depressing.

  But Cynthia brightened noticeably as he took her hand. “I’ve heard of you, I believe. You’re the famous gentleman jockey and hunter, aren’t you?”

  Dwight Dinsmore smiled modestly.

  “It’s good of you to put it that way. Do you hunt?”

  Tony van Rensaler glanced at Percy. “Care for a drink, old man? I’ve got a foul head and need a few jolts to make it behave.”

  “I—I don’t think so,” Percy said. “Well, I’ll join you all later.”

  “I’ve never really hunted,” Cynthia was saying to Dwight Dinsmore. She looked as if she were ready to crawl into his pocket, Percy thought.

  “You’ll get your baptism tomorrow morning then,” Dwight said, with relish. “There’s a fox in this country that I’m just aching to run down.”

  “Is he vicious?” Percy asked with obvious innocence.

  Dwight Dinsmore glanced at him with a frown. “No, of course not. But it’s sport, don’t you see? To chase one of those little red devils for miles and miles, and then run him into the ground and watch the hounds get him—” Dwight Dinsmore let out his breath happily. “Brother, that’s a thrill.”

  “I can imagine,” Percy murmured. “Would you like to look over the horses now?” Dwight said eagerly. He was speaking only to Cynthia, Percy knew.

  “I’d be delighted. Percy, see about our things, will you? I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Yes, of course,” Percy said. He was glad to get away from Dinsmore, the bloody savage; and he didn’t care very much what Cynthia did.

  They hurried off, Dinsmore holding Cynthia’s arm protectively.

  THE footman took Percy’s and Cynthia’s things upstairs. Percy changed into a tweed jacket and went back downstairs. He found a huge library on the first floor and slipped into its cloistered coolness with a feeling of gratitude. He was sure that here in the peaceful society of books he would be safe from Dinsmore and his host.

  But he didn’t have the place to himself, he noticed with a pang of disappointment. There was a girl sitting by the window reading. She glanced up at him and Percy noted there seemed to be a touch of disappointment in her face.

  “You probably lost your way,” she said. “The bar is down the hall to the right.”

  “I wasn’t looking for the bar,” Percy said.

  “No? Perhaps you wanted the game room or the swimming pool.”

  “As a matter of fact I wanted to read a book,” Percy said. He was slightly piqued at the girl’s assumption that he was either after games or liquor.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” the girl said, putting down her book. She was a plain looking girl with soft brown hair and gentle eyes.

  “The people here don’t care much for books, is that it?” Percy said.

  “That’s quite an understatement.” The girl smiled. “My name is Elma Wilson. Forgive me for the way I talked to you.”

  “Certainly. I’m Percy Pettibone. I won’t disturb you by reading here, will I?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Thank you.” Percy went to the shelves, selected a volume on medieval architecture, which was once one of his hobbies, and settled down in a chair opposite the girl. They read in silence for a few moments, and then the girl said: “Are you down for the hunting tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like fox-hunting?”

  “I’ve never tried it, actually. But I’m sure I won’t. It seems a foolish and vicious business.”

  “Well, why are you going then?”

  “My wife is very keen on it,” Percy said.

  “Oh, your wife.” The girl put a lot into the words. “I hate it, but I’m a poor relation so my opinion doesn’t matter much.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. Being a poor relation, that is.”

  “Well, that’s not what I meant. I meant it’s too bad your opinion doesn’t matter.”

  “You don’t seem like the others who come down here,” the girl said, regarding him with a curious expression.

  “Well, frankly, you don’t seem like the rest of the people here either,” Percy said. He had a warm
and friendly feeling toward this girl. He felt he could talk to her with his defenses down. She wouldn’t laugh at him, or mock him for being sincere.

  “That’s a very nice thing to know,” she said, and smiled.

  THEY both put their books aside after that and talked for the next hour or so. Percy hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years. Elma Wilson was informed and intelligent. She didn’t chatter about clothes or gossip about friends. They talked about literature, politics and art. They had a fine time.

  It came to an end when the door opened and Dwight Dinsmore and Cynthia entered. They carried drinks and were laughing wildly about something or other. The peace of the library fled instantly.

  “Well, well, I told your wife we’d find you in here,” Dwight Dinsmore said. His normal tone was a cross between a school yell and the shout of a First Sergeant. “Yes sir, you seemed the bookish type to me. I can spot people right off.”

  “Percy, introduce us to your friend,” Cynthia said, regarding Elma Wilson with poorly disguised contempt “Are you also the bookish type, my dear?”

  “Possibly,” Elma said, smiling. “What type are you?”

  “Well, thank heavens I’m not the bookish type.”

  “I wouldn’t have suspected that you were.”

  “What do you get out of reading books all the time?” Cynthia said.

  “Now that’s a sensible question,” Dwight Dinsmore said. “What the devil do you get out of books?”

  “Perhaps if you tried one—or had a kind friend read one to you—you might find out,” Elma said, standing. She smiled at Percy. “It’s very pleasant talking with you. We’ll see each other around, I’m sure.”

  When she had gone, Cynthia glared suspiciously at Percy. “I don’t like that girl, you know.”

  “Wet blanket,” Dwight Dinsmore said with an emphatic shake of his head.

  Percy felt strangely angry. “She’s a charming, civilized person,” he said heatedly. “How did you expect her to react after treating her as an idiot simply because she’s interested in books?”

  “Percy is always defending underdogs,” Cynthia said, smiling at Dinsmore. “Likes attract, I suppose.”

  “I’ve got no use for underdogs,” Dinsmore said heartily. “Most of them are whining cowards. I like red-blooded men. Now you take hunting—that shows, a man up in his true colors. You’ll see tomorrow, Pettibone.” Percy could only nod glumly.

  That night there was a large dinner at which Percy met Mrs. van Rensaler and the other guests. Everyone was quite drunk by nine o’clock, and the great house resounded with the squeals of women being chased from room to room, and occasional bickerings that broke out among the men. He didn’t see Elma Wilson about, nor did he see much of Cynthia. She was off in the garden somewhere with Dinsmore, he knew. They were drifting toward an affair, but Percy hardly cared. He wandered around until ten o’clock, feeling lonely and bored; and then he slipped upstairs to his room.

  Lying in bed and staring out the open window at the dark moonless sky, he thought about tomorrow. He wondered almost nostalgically if he would ever again turn into a wolf. That had been good fun. Then he rebuked himself sharply. That simply hadn’t happened. It had been his imagination, or the unaccustomed drink he’d taken. Still—what about Benton’s dog? Something had chewed him up. Percy pulled the covers up to his chin uneasily, and finally drifted into a troubled sleep. He dreamed that Dinsmore was a great ugly bulldog and that he was a wolf who chased him all over the place.

  CHAPTER III

  THE next morning Percy woke when the first weak rays of the sun entered the room. It was five o’clock, and Cynthia, he saw, was still sleeping soundly. He got out of bed quietly, and after shaving and showering, dressed and tip-toed from the room. He went downstairs and wandered outside. The day would be a beautiful one, he saw. Everywhere was the mark of Nature’s glory—in the flowers, the trees, the clean cool air, the sparkling green grass.

  Percy wandered through gardens to the rear of the house and stood looking gloomily at the distant stables. He felt tired and depressed; all his energies were gone. Today he would be expected to climb onto a great rearing horse and go galloping about the countryside in pursuit of a half-tame fox. That was the way the people here repaid Nature for the glories she surrounded them with—by wanton killings.

  He remembered that Elma Wilson hadn’t liked the prospects of fox-hunting either. Percy wished he could chuck the hunting and spend the day with her, walking through the woods perhaps, or reading beside a soft-voiced stream. Why couldn’t he? he wondered dispiritedly. Where was his courage, his convictions?

  There was no answer to those questions. Percy had deferred to his wife so long that there was no spark of rebellion in his breast.

  Percy strolled across the expansive grounds behind the house, passing greenhouses and kennels until he came to the stables. They were freshly painted in white with green trim on the huge double doors. The doors were open so Percy entered cautiously and peered about, entranced by the huge size of the place and by the horses which stood with their heads emerging from their stalls and staring at him nervously. One or two of them neighed shrilly and several began kicking the backs of the stalls and tossing their great heads in excitement.

  “Whoa!” Percy muttered uneasily. “Take it easy, boys.”

  Suddenly a stall gate swung open and a horse plunged out into the wide corridor that ran between the stalls. Percy bleated in fear and ran—away from the open door at his back. This was not a wise maneuver since it put him on a straight-away with the horse charging at his heels. He heard the frightening drumming of the horses’ hooves at his back, heard them coming closer, with each instant, and in his mind he saw himself trampled into the sawdust beneath those churning iron studded feet.

  Then, from somewhere, he found a new speed in his legs; he raced over the ground like a thunderbolt. Ahead loomed the doors at the far end of the stables; and they were closed. Percy skidded to a stop before them, and wheeled about in panic; but as he whirled he caught sight of something that caused his heart to hammer with excitement and fear.

  Percy saw a tail!

  Yes, there was no doubt about it, he realized, spinning about in a circle. He had a tail, and he was down on all fours again. The conclusion was inescapable; he had turned into a wolf.

  THERE were compensations for every circumstance, Percy thought with impressive detachment. Now the charging horse was no longer a problem. The great animal had reared in fright at the sight of the wolf, and while he was still pawing the air with his hooves, Percy shot between his legs and trotted out of the stable. He circled the yard once, wondering aimlessly what to do, and then he became aware of a great commotion in the kennels. The dogs were tearing about madly and giving tongue with every ounce of lung power they owned. Percy realized intuitively that he was the source of their excitement. Obviously they had got his scent and knew him to be something alien and strange. Their racial memories were coming awake at the presence of an ancient and dreaded enemy.

  Well, that wouldn’t do at all, Percy realized. There was no course left to him but the one of discretion, so he trotted away from the van Rensalers and headed for the welcoming fastness of the woods he could see in the distance. He covered the meadows and fields at full speed, and his long lithe form was only a gray blur streaking through the tall grass. Once in the comforting gloom of the woods he slowed down to a jogging, ground-devouring trot. He was enjoying himself immensely, he decided. It was grand to feel strong and resourceful.

  He drank from a flowing stream and settled in a thicket about half a mile away. His eyes were wonderfully sharp. He watched a finch building a nest, and he could have counted each twig and blade that was used in the job. He watched two ants fighting on a leaf a hundred feet in the air, and he could tell the moment one of the adversaries landed a mortal blow. His ears were incredibly sharp, too. He heard worms crawling under the ground, and the steady beat of a bird’s wings high in the air, and the billion other si
gnificant noises of the forest.

  The sun climbed slowly into the sky, and Percy rested, confused and uncertain about what had happened to him, but withal, oddly at peace . . .

  Another sound drifted through the air, and Percy’s long ears straightened sharply. It was an ominous chilling sound, and it was coming steadily closer. He recognized it immediately as the baying of hounds on a scent and he knew it meant danger.

  Scrambling to his feet he trotted from the protective thicket and moved about in circles, testing the wind with his nose, and drawing a fix on the hounds with his sensitive ears. These wonderful instruments allowed him to plot the position and course of the hound-pack with the certitude of a navigator equipped with quadrant and compass.

  The hounds were setting out from the van Rensaler estate now, followed by a troop of men and women on horseback. They weren’t coming directly toward him, he knew; they were setting a course that would take them past him by at least half a mile. Encouraged, Percy trotted swiftly back to the edge of the forest where he had a view of the fields and meadows surrounding the van Rensaler home. He paused in the concealment of a heavy bush, his body immobile as a figure cut from wood, and watched the pack of dogs and horses tearing across the countryside. There were sixteen dogs, all of them lean spotted setters, and behind them came a dozen horsemen and horsewomen. Percy saw that Dwight Dinsmore was leading the group. He was riding recklessly, defiantly, in the tradition of a great horseman, and his crop rose and fell on the flanks of his horse with the regularity of a metronome.

  Percy wished fervently that he would fall and break his neck. But that didn’t seem likely. Dinsmore was too good for that. Suddenly he caught another scent in the wind. He swung his head about in that direction and saw a small brown fox tearing along about a mile ahead of the hounds. The fox was heading for the woods and seemed likely to enter them about a mile from where Percy was crouching at the moment. The fox wasn’t in the best of situations, Percy realized. The hounds were gaining on him swiftly, and now that they had him in sight it would be difficult for the fox to lose them.