Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He was too late!

  The horrible thought burst upon him, blowing away his caution like a straw in a gale. He ran toward the ballroom, toward Mercer and Celeste, leaving a breeze in his wake that rustled the taffeta skirts he passed.

  WHEN Oscar entered the brilliantly lighted ballroom, Mercer and Celeste were separating, walking off in opposite directions. Oscar wavered, torn by indecision. Which one to follow? He hesitated frantically until he remembered that Mercer had slipped something to Celeste. What else could it have been but the bond? Even as this thought came to him he was hurrying excitedly after Celeste.

  The rambunctious brunette was dressed—or rather undressed—in a breathtaking number of flaming red as easy to distinguish in the crowd as a lighted torch. Oscar followed, hope blazing in his heart, until he realized with paralyzing, icy horror that Celeste was headed toward a cream-colored door, which was opening and closing continually as women streamed in and out.

  His stricken eyes read the neat sign lettered on the paneling—Women’s Powder Room.

  Oscar stopped, aghast. He realized despairingly that he was beaten, for Celeste’s red dress had already disappeared into those sacred precints.

  The mere thought of following her turned his blood to a stream of ice water, started him trembling uncontrollably. Miserably he hovered about the entrance to the powder room. He would have to wait.

  But what if Celeste passed the bond on to another conspirator—one whom Oscar didn’t know—and that party left the dance? His last chance would be gone. The thought fired him with a frenzied, desperate courage. He must follow Celeste beyond these portals of doom.

  He moved closer to the door, his heart thumping against his ribs. The door opened suddenly as two women emerged. Oscar’s chance had arrived. He took a step—and then his courage melted like ice on an August day. He couldn’t do it. His spirit quailed and his brow became feverish at the mere thought of invading that sanctum of inviolate femininity.

  But underneath Oscar’s timid exterior lay stern, gritty stuff.

  It rallied to his aid now, forced his unwilling feet to carry him to the door, to wait another chance.

  It came almost immediately. The sacred portals swung open, displaying long mirrors, cushioned benches and women, women by the dozen. Oscar took a deep breath and shuffled his feet nervously, like a sprinter preparing for the hundred yard dash.

  “May the best man win,” he whispered to himself; and then with a slithering motion of his hips, he slipped through the door into the outer lounge of the Chamber of Horrors.

  It was a utterly new experience for Oscar Doolittle. He looked about, fearful and uncertain, at the females standing in chattering groups; at the women, young and old seated before the gleaming mirrors, repairing school girl cheeks and droop-chinned features that were anything but romantic.

  He spotted the beauteous Celeste instantly. The burnished brunette had just deposited her purse on a long table and was moving with feline grace to an unoccupied seat in front of a mirror.

  Oscar’s eyes riveted on the velvet purse, the purse that contained the precious bond, his passport to vindication. He moved cautiously through the scads of women, his eyes centered on the purse. As he circled around the port side of a hefty dowager, his eyes lifted and he saw Ann talking to another girl.

  Ann, lovely and beautiful, was wearing a frilly something or other that made her look like a visitor from heaven. Oscar stood still, gazing impassionedly at her while a lump crawled up his throat.

  He had lost her. Lost her to that scheming crook, Lester Mercer. A hot flash of anger seared him, redoubling his determination to expose the efficiency expert, prove his own Innocence. He had to, he must, if only for Ann’s sake!

  Oscar was close to the purse now, so close that he could reach out and touch it. His trembling fingers felt as clumsy as bananas as he tried to unsnap the tiny silver clasp that guarded the contents of the bag.

  FINALLY it opened—and Oscar’s fluttery fingers probed into the interior, met crisp, smooth paper.

  He had succeeded! The thought fired him like a strong elixir. Exultingly he prepared to remove the bond, his brain racing ahead of him with triumphant visions of Mercer’s consternation when the previous paper was returned.

  And then his hand began to tremble. Nervelessly it fell from the purse, as his whole being was swamped with stark, icy terror.

  “No!” Oscar gasped, “Not here! Not again!”

  But this protestations were futile. For in his ears, faintly at first, and then with increasing volume, was booming the sound that heralded his return to visibility.

  Oscar gazed about distractedly, panic and hysteria mounting in his breast. He would rather have stalked into a cageful of lions than face these women. Bereft of reason, stunned to the core of his soul, he could only stand helplessly by as his thin body suddenly resumed its normal condition and became visible.

  He was not noticed immediately.

  A fat matron to his right turned to him.

  “Can I borrow your lipstick, dearie?” she asked sociably.

  “I don’t use it—” Oscar began, but it was as far as he got.

  The woman’s shrill, piercing scream ripped through his words, blitzkrieged through the room, shattering its comparative quiet. Women wheeled about, saw Oscar, and began shrieking. They crowded back from him, their cries of terror crescendoing into an unbelievable clamor as their imaginations began to work overtime.

  Oscar threw wide his arms in a gesture of entreaty.

  “Please,” he shouted above the din, “please listen to me.”

  “He’s mad!” a woman screamed. “Just look at him!”

  “A moron!” another yelped hopefully.

  Pandemonium took charge. Pandemonium that would have paled into insignificance a 4-11 fire.

  Women fled screaming. They fought and struggled as they forced their way out the small door, their voices shrill and hysterical.

  It was worse than a shirt sale at a bargain counter!

  Oscar cowered numbly against the wall, unable to move or speak. The last woman fled through the door. No—one remained. One who stepped quickly to the door, turned the key, locking it.

  The girl turned and Oscar uttered a surprised squawk.

  “Ann!” It was all he could think of.

  “Don’t ‘Ann’ me,” she said grimly. She glared at him, hands on her hips, an incongruously business-like position for a lovely girl in a French gown.

  “How did you manage to break out of jail?” she asked, and before he could answer she rushed on. “Have you gone mad, Oscar Doolittle? Stealing that bond, breaking jail, and now sneaking in here like a despicable Peeping Tom!”

  “Ann, you don’t understand!” Oscar cried desperately. “I—” He broke off as a furious banging started on the door.

  “Ooooh,” he moaned, “ooooooh!”

  Ann looked about quickly, her manner brisk, decisive.

  “Oscar,” she whispered, pointing to a small door on the far side of the room. “Quick, maybe you can get away through there. I . . . I . . .” her voice was suddenly uneven, “I can’t turn you over to them no matter what you’ve done.”

  Oscar hesitated, but as the outer portal trembled under a renewed assault, he turned like a startled fawn. With a last frightened glance over his shoulder, Oscar Doolittle bolted through the other door, jerking it shut behind him.

  He stood trembling, enveloped in the stygian blackness of a corridor. Suddenly from the room which he had just vacated, he heard a rending crash and then masculine voices shouting threats and curses.

  CHAPTER VI

  True Confession

  WITH the hounds of terror nipping at his heels Oscar fled through the dark corridor, his breath rasping his throat in shuddering gasps. His heart thumped wildly against his ribs, filling his ears with a roaring river of sound. Hysterically and blindly he dashed ahead, oblivious to all else but the mad impulse of a soul in torment—flight.

  But within t
wenty feet his headlong scramble was rudely checked by a painfully solid door. He staggered back, and then his fingers were fumbling for the doorknob. A split second later he was stumbling into another room.

  It was lighted; and when his eyes focused to the sudden illumination he looked around—and froze to panic-stricken immobility.

  The room was occupied. Standing in its very center, gazing straight toward him, was Lester Mercer.

  Oscar quailed. But then the realization that he was facing the man responsible for his present predicament put new steel in his backbone. A frantic accusation sprang to his lips—but Mercer’s next move so astounded him that his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

  Mercer was staring at the open door behind Oscar.

  “Must’ve been the wind,” Oscar heard him mutter. “Nobody there.” Mercer strode past Oscar to the door, slammed it shut.

  It was then Oscar realized what had happened. He stared helplessly down at his body, invisible again. He recalled the buzzing noise that he heard as he fled through the dark corridor. His body had vanished again during that mad flight.

  Mercer had turned now and was walking toward another door, one that led evidently to the ballroom. It came as a surprise to Oscar that his own legs were moving, carrying him swiftly after Mercer. Without design or conscious volition he was slipping in front of Mercer, hurrying to the door. His hand reached out, twisted the key. The tumblers fell with a dry, metallic click.

  Mercer stopped abruptly and peered at the lock.

  “I’ll swear I heard . . .”

  His voice choked, his mouth dropped foolishly. For before his stunned eyes the key to the door was emerging from the keyhole. A whimpering noise sounded in Mercer’s throat as the key floated across the room toward the open window. He watched glassily as the key passed through the window, then suddenly dropped from sight as it fell to the street below.

  “I need a drink,” Mercer moaned shakily. “I need a whole damn bottle. I think I’d better get pie-eyed.”

  “But you’re not going to.”

  Oscar’s voice, grim and invisible, sounded to the left of the efficiency expert. Mercer wheeled, eyes popping.

  “Who said that?” he demanded frantically. “What kind of a joke is this? Who are you?”

  “Your number is up, Mercer.” Oscar tried to make his words sound ominous. “I want the stolen bond and a signed confession, or I’ll beat the living tar out of you.”

  Mercer listened as a gleam of recognition dawned on his face.

  “So it’s you, Doolittle,” he sneered. “You can’t bluff me with some ventriloquism trick!” His eyes swept around the room. “You’re hiding in here somewhere, trembling in your shoes. Come out and fight like a man or I’ll come after you and drag you out!”

  “All right,” said Oscar. “You asked for it. Put up your hands and defend yourself.”

  HE would have rather shouted “en garde!” as he had heard it done once in a movie, but he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.

  “En garde, then!” shouted Mercer, who did. “Show yourself and get ready for a beating.”

  He assumed a classic pose, left arm and foot extending, right arm cocked under his chin, weight balance on the balls of his toes.

  “I did a bit of this in college,” Mercer said grimly as he circled slowly, waiting for his opponent to appear.

  Oscar stepped around in back of Mercer, a malicious smile twisting his lips. He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and drew a bead on Mercer’s plump posterior anatomy. His foot drew back like a pendulum, stopped, and then swung down and up, describing a swift, vicious arc. Behind Oscar’s swishing foot traveled all of his accumulated anger, all of the ignominy and shame he had received at the hands of Lester Mercer.

  It was a bull’s-eye.

  Mercer jumped a foot in the air, a pained howl tearing from his throat. His hands clasped the seat of his pants as he pranced about, his screams filling the air.

  “Where are you?” he shouted. “Fight like a man!”

  But in his eyes as he glared about the room, fear and doubt were gleaming.

  “All right,” said Oscar, “I will fight like a man.”

  He stepped in close to Mercer. His right fist lashed out, drove between Mercer’s guard, sank into Mercer’s paunchy stomach.

  Mercer gasped and doubled up, his face turning a peculiar shade of green. All of his assurance dissolved before Oscar’s invisible onslaught.

  “Don’t hit me!” he cried weakly. “Don’t hit me again!”

  “Will you confess stealing that bond?” Oscar demanded.

  Mercer rallied desperately. “You’re mistaken, Doolittle. I don’t know anything about that check,” he moaned. “I haven’t the faintest idea—”

  Fists, hard invisible fists, battered into Mercer’s face like an attacking swarm of hornets, starting a trickle of blood from his mouth and nose, driving him to his knees.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Oscar panted, “Now, what about that confession?” Mercer collapsed on his face, his fingers clawing frantically at the floor.

  “Keep away from me!” he shouted hoarsely. “Keep away from me, you damned ghost!”

  His voice rose to a babbling, hysterical scream.

  “I stole the bond! I stole the bond, got it away. Framed you. Bribed a guard.”

  The words poured out in a frenzied scream, blasting through the room, filling it with their wild sound . . .

  “Open this door!” Oscar started, turned to the door. The words were followed by a furious banging that rattled the portal violently. “Open up in there or we’ll smash this door down!” Oscar looked about helplessly. He had his confession, but what good would it do him? Already shoulders were slamming into the door, cracks were splintering in its surface. But then a hopeful, anticipatory smile creased Oscar Doolittle’s invisible features. For as the door sagged inward, he heard the strange buzzing noise humming in his ears . . .

  POLICEMAN, bank employees poured into the room. Behind them stormed the pot-bellied, shouting figure of Phineas Q. Botts.

  “What’s going on here?” he shouted. He elbowed through, stopped when he saw Oscar.

  “There’s your man!” he bellowed at the policemen. “Grab him! He’s dangerous!”

  “Hold your horses,” Oscar snapped, as a minion of the law started for him. “If you want the real thief, there’s your man.” He pointed down at the prone figure of the efficiency expert. “He’s just confessed to me.”

  “Impossible!” snorted Botts. “That’s Mercer, my right-hand man. Expect us to believe another lie like that, Doolittle?”

  “It’s true,” Oscar said firmly. “Mercer stole the bond, arranged things to look as if I were the thief.”

  “Nonsense!” bellowed Botts. “Incredible!”

  “You stupid blockhead!” shouted Oscar. “You can’t see any farther than the nose on your face!” The words ripped out of their own accord, startling Oscar as much as they did his boss.

  “Well,” Botts said truculently, “have you any proof?”

  “Watch,” said Oscar. “Just watch.” He bent, shook Mercer’s shoulder.

  “Tell Botts that you stole that bond, Mercer,” Oscar said harshly. “Tell him that you framed me—me, Oscar Doolittle.”

  At the mention of the name, Mercer’s body jerked convulsively.

  “For God’s sake, leave me alone,” he moaned. “I’ll confess everything. I stole the bond, bribed a guard, framed you.” His voice rose to a babbling shriek. “Get away from me, leave me alone!”

  Oscar straightened up determinedly.

  “Satisfied?” he asked Botts.

  Botts sputtered, for once in his life incapable of speech.

  The two policemen jerked Mercer to his feet. His eyes widened dazedly as he saw Oscar, now very much in the flesh.

  “It was a trick,” he burst out savagely. “Well, you’ve got me but you’ll never get the bond!”

  “Bond?” echoed Botts blankly. Then his fa
ce reddened. “Look here, now, we’ve got to have that bond! Can’t send you to prison without it. It’s the same as—as—” he groped for a word—“as the corpus delicti. Yes, that’s it—corpus delicti.”

  He bellowed the Latin phrase with obvious relish.

  “Can’t hang a man without a body!” thundered Phineas Botts, who by now was completely confused. “Same things with bonds! Can’t do a thing without the bond. Corpus delicti.”

  “Well, you’ll never see that bond again,” snapped Mercer.

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” a feminine voice warned him.

  Oscar and Phineas Q. Botts wheeled simultaneously, almost colliding as they turned to stare at the doorway, in the direction of the voice.

  Ann Meade was standing there. Ann, a pleasant smile on her face, holding the gilt-edged bond in one slender hand!

  “Holy smokes!” Oscar said inadequately. “If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe it.”

  Botts waddled across the room, snatched the bond from Ann’s hand and examined it eagerly. His round face flushed happily. He seized Ann suddenly and planted a hearty kiss square on her lips.

  “Perfect, my dear,” he wheezed, “perfect!”

  Whether he referred to the check or the kiss was doubtful. Botts himself couldn’t tell.

  “But how,” stammered Oscar, “did you manage . . .”

  “SIMPLE deduction,” Ann cut in.

  “One, I knew that you must have been looking for something in the powder room. Two, when a slinky brunette came rushing out, screaming for her purse, I had a hunch that she had what you were looking for. Anyway, I followed her. To make a long story short, I got the bond and Celeste is now locked up in the mop closet outside the powder room.”

  “Perfect again,” wheezed Botts. “I had it figured somewhat like that myself.” He turned to the policemen. “Get the girl and take ’em both to jail. Ha, ha,” he rumbled, “old Phineas is still pretty sharp, eh, Mercer?”

  “Corpus delicti,” sneered Mercer. “Bah!”

  Oscar took a deep, happy breath as Mercer was dragged from the room. With him he hoped went his own troubles.