Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “But don’t you see,” Mortimer cried hysterically, “that’s just it. They’re all incompetent. They’re all leaving.”

  He stared wildly about at the milling crowds, at the jammed traffic. Then his eyes flicked past a clock and subconsciously registered the time.

  Two thirty! Suddenly, with the force of a pile driver, a terrible realization crashed into his consciousness.

  Two thirty! In a half hour the gangsters would be hijacking the armored delivery truck. There was nothing and no one to stop them. The police, in response to Mortimer’s thoughtless command, were deserting their posts in droves.

  It took Mortimer several long seconds to recover from the shock, but when he did his head snapped back defiantly. Gangsters ready to strike; police nowhere in sight.

  It was Mortimer Meek to the rescue.

  “Betty,” he grabbed her by the arm, “Wait here for me. I’ve got a little job to take care of.”

  “Darling,” there was a note of alarm in her voice, “where are you going?”

  But Mortimer was already streaking away to keep his date with Destiny . . .

  MORTIMER heard the brisk, chilling rattle of machine gun fire before he reached the intersection of Plaza and Fifth. The thought that he might be too late acted as a spur in his flank, driving him on at a breathless, increased speed.

  He heard a shout, a scream and then as he rounded the corner the scene was suddenly spread before him.

  Gangsters were swarming about the wrecked delivery truck, menacing the bystanders and armored truck drivers with machine guns. A moving van had been backed up to the delivery truck and Mortimer saw then that the rear doors of the armored truck had been forced open. A familiar, bulky, loudly dressed figure was clambering into the armored truck, a heavy automatic in his fist. Slug McNutty.

  And a second after Slug McNutty’s figure had disappeared into the interior of the truck, a heavily stuffed money bag came flying out, to vanish through the open doors and into the bowels of the waiting van.

  In this crisis Mortimer was calm. He squared his shoulders, tilted his head defiantly and then charged into the middle of the street.

  “Stop,” he cried. “Stop. It is I, Mortimer Meek, who commands it.”

  His sudden, surprising arrival checked the gangsters. Their muzzles dropped uncertainly as Mortimer looked about sternly.

  “Now,” said Mortimer. He stepped between the two trucks and just at that instant a heavy currency sack hurtled through the air. It struck him at the base of the neck with a stunning paralyzing blow that ignited a sparkling constellation of stars in his head, and then knocked him flat on his face.

  Mortimer didn’t hear the excited exclamation that ripped from the life of the gangster, nor did he see the figure of Slug McNutty clamber down from the back of the truck.

  “Cripes,” gasped McNutty, “it’s de little shrimp from de Loan Company. Here,” he yelled to one of the gangsters, “gimme a lift wit dis guy. We can’t leave him here, he’d tip the cops for sure.”

  Strong hands lifted Mortimer’s limp figure and tossed it into the van on top of the currency sacks.

  “Let’s get rollin’,” McNutty snapped, “before som’thin’ else happens.”

  The words had hardly passed his lips before something else did happen.

  Something in the form of a clawing, scratching, dark-haired bundle of feminine fury that launched itself at Slug McNutty like an angry tigress.

  “Mortimer,” the dark-haired girl screamed. “What have you done with him?”

  McNutty wheeled, yowling as long red fingernails raked the back of his neck. Twisting he grabbed the squirming, kicking girl and hoisted her onto his shoulder.

  “Open de doors of de van,” he yelled, “it’s de little guy’s dame, we gotta take her wit’ us too.”

  The doors swung open, McNutty dumped his struggling burden into the van, the doors swung shut, a padlock snapped.

  “Come on,” shouted McNutty. “The bulls will be along any minute. We’ll take care of dese two when we get to de hideout.”

  MORTIMER climbed wearily through thick clouds of fog and opened his eyes to see Betty looking down at him a tender, worried expression on her face.

  “Betty,” he gasped weakly. “Where are we? How did you . . .?”

  He started to rise, but sagged back groaning as a thousand hammers started to pound in his skull.

  “Oh Mortimer,” Betty groaned. “We’re, in terrible trouble. The gangsters brought us here to this little farm house about twenty miles from the city. I heard them say it’s a hideout.”

  “But how did they get you?” Mortimer asked dazedly.

  “I followed you,” Betty said. “I suppose it was foolish, but I had some strange feeling that you were going into danger and I wanted to be with you. The gangsters grabbed me, threw me in the truck and that’s where I found you. You’ve been unconscious for three hours. You must have had a terrible fight with them.”

  “Three of them,” Mortimer said, “jumped me from behind.”

  He climbed to his feet, disregarding the pain in his head.

  “But they won’t get away with this,” he cried. “I am Mortimer Meek. I’ll show them they’re playing with dynamite.”

  “Oh Mortimer,” Betty said ecstatically. “When you scowl like that it sends chills up my spine. You’re wonderful.”

  Mortimer squared his shoulders. He hadn’t had a chance to display his will power at the robbery but he’d make up for it now.

  Striding to the door, he pounded on it with both fists.

  “Come in here,” he shouted, “and make it snappy.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then a slightly bewildered nasal voice answered.

  “Okay buddy, we’ll make it snappy for you.”

  Mortimer turned to Betty, his chest swelling proudly.

  “Did you hear that,” he asked happily. “I’ve got ’em on the run.”

  A bolt and chain rattled and then the door swung inward and a wedge of light slanted into the room. A second later the large bulk of Slug McNutty moved into the room.

  Mortimer paused and sneered at the burly gangster. He searched his brain for the most humiliating command that he could think of. They wouldn’t dare bother him again. He opened his mouth—but he was too late.

  Slug McNutty’s beefy hand flashed out and clamped over Mortimer’s mouth.

  “Yer talkin’ too much,” he grated. “There’s somethin’ funny about de way you order people around. We’re goin’ to fix ya so ya ain’t so gabby.”

  Mortimer squirmed helplessly. The gangster’s heavy hand clamped over his mouth and nose almost strangling him.

  “Glug,” he mumbled desperately.

  McNutty twisted his arms behind his back and then propelled him through the door, slamming it behind him on Betty’s whimpering protests.

  MORTIMER gazed frantically about the room, at the five or six hard bitten thugs who leered at him.

  “Get them leather thongs,” McNutty snapped. “I’m goin’ to fix dis punk go’s he’ll stay quiet.”

  One of the gangsters walked to a closet and returned carrying four or five hide strips which he tossed to Slug McNutty.

  The hand over Mortimer’s mouth was suddenly removed. But before he could shout the commands that would save him, a leather thong was shoved between his teeth and jerked tight. The strap cut into his lips and cheeks as McNutty wound it through his mouth to the back of his neck, again and again.

  Mortimer struggled desperately and frantically. If he couldn’t talk he was helpless. He managed somehow to squirm around in the gangsters grasp and then with all of his strength he pounded his fists into McNutty’s face.

  “You little rat,” McNutty snarled. He tied a last knot in the leather gag and then his fist lashed out and exploded with a solid, stunning smack on Mortimer’s jaw.

  Mortimer flew backward, crashed into a table and slid to the floor. His hands tore helplessly and futilely at the gag in his mouth, a
s he squirmed around on the floor.

  He had to get the gag out of his mouth. If he couldn’t, gone was any chance of saving Betty or himself.

  He didn’t see the kick that McNutty directed against his threshing figure. His first knowledge of it came when it crashed into his posterior anatomy. Under its impetus he slid along the floor and rolled under the table. His hands encountered something cold and hard and with the dazed idea of using whatever it was as a club, he clutched it to his chest.

  “Kick the table over,” he heard a voice shout. “I ain’t through with the little punk yet.”

  A heavy foot struck the table and the next instant Mortimer’s huddled figure was exposed to the gangsters.

  “I’ll get him,” a heavy voice yelled, but the words were almost drowned out in the shrill scream of terror that blasted through the room.

  “Look out,” a voice screamed. “He’s got the tommy gun!”

  Mortimer clambered to his feet and there was a wild scurrying of bodies as the gangsters hurled themselves from his path.

  Mortimer took advantage of the momentary opportunity to tug desperately at the leather straps that were almost strangling him. But it was no use. Slug McNutty had done his work well. The gag held. It was only then that he became conscious of the instrument of destruction he held tightly clutched in his hand.

  Mortimer knew just as much about intricate machine guns as the average Zulu tribesman.

  He peered uncertainly at the weapon and then he tucked it under his arm and raced out the door. He knew that he wouldn’t have time to stand there and figure out how the gun worked. His only salvation was to get a few minutes of uninterrupted time in order to get the gag out of his mouth. Then he’d show ’em.

  He clattered down the steps into the yard and a large red barn loomed before his eyes. With terror and hope guiding his steps he fled toward it in a crouching, bobbing run.

  A shot whisssshed past his ear and he heard shouted cries behind him.

  “Don’t let him get away,” a voice cried. “Keep him in sight.”

  The barn was large and dim and as Mortimer peered wildly about for some niche or cranny, he spied a ladder leading up to a loft.

  And by the time the gangsters crept cautiously into the barn Mortimer had scrambled up the ladder and disappeared from sight.

  IN the loft, like an hysterically scared ostrich, Mortimer burrowed deep into the hay until only the tip of his nose was visible. With one hand he worked furiously at the leather gag and with the other he clutched the gun to his chest as if it were a hungry baby.

  “He’s in here somewhere,” he heard Slug McNutty’s voice bellow. “Look in de stalls and den we’ll try de hayloft.”

  Trembling with a strange mixture of terror and anger, Mortimer twisted to dig himself deeper into the hay, and as he did, his hand tightened involuntarily on the gun.

  A metallic clatter ripped the silence and a stream of bullets shot by his nose and whistled into the hay.

  There was a triumphant shout below him that sounded like the bay of a bloodhound to Mortimer. He hurled the gun from him and scrambled out of the hay, glaring wildly around for some place to flee.

  There was none! The gangsters were below. The gag was still firmly in place. He was out of the frying pan into the fire.

  Fire! What had made him think . . .?

  He sniffed curiously and then with horror as the burning odor of pungent hay stung his nostrils. He wheeled to see tongues of flames leaping from the hay. Smoke was billowing up in great choking clouds as the fire licked its way greedily through the tinder-dry hay.

  It must have been the sparks from the gun, he thought distractedly.

  “Fire,” he heard Slug McNutty shout. “Clear out. We can pick off the little guy as he tries to get down.”

  Mortimer backed away from the fire, his mind tossing about like a straw in a tornado. The gag was still cutting into his mouth, cutting off air. Almost choking as the bitter smoke burned into his lungs, he staggered across the floor, his eyes and hopes riveted on a small window through which smoke was spiralling. Sparks and embers were burning the back of his neck by the time he reached the wall and stuck his head out of the window.

  Disregarding the fact that it was a fifty-foot drop to the ground, Mortimer clambered up the wall and hoisted himself onto the sill of the window. He looked down into a small fenced enclosure built against the barn evidently to save additional fencing. Tethered in the enclosure Mortimer noticed a large black cow pawing the earth and goring the air with huge, thick horns.

  It was the first “cow” Mortimer had ever seen with horns, but then Mortimer had never seen many cows.

  He was on the point of leaping when he noticed the lightning rod. It ran down the side of the barn about two feet from the window. Gathering his courage, he climbed to his feet and reached out and gripped the rod. He hadn’t decided to slide down, but suddenly the decision was made for him. The window ledge gave way with a splintering crash and Mortimer swung crazily from the rod, one puny, rapidly weakening hand between himself and a fall to the ground.

  He managed to get a grip with his other hand and then began a careful descent. He wondered where the gangsters were. If they were waiting for him on the opposite side of the barn he might be able—

  “There he is. Hurry up.”

  The shout cut off his optimistic thoughts. Straining about he twisted his head for a look over his shoulder. Slug McNutty was unfastening the gate with one hand and waving excitedly with the other. Mortimer’s hopes plummeted to his shoes as he saw the four remaining gangsters join McNutty at the gate.

  Mortimer clung to the lighting rod, his soul in a tumult. His arms were strained and quivering with fatigue and the gag was swiftly strangling him. The fire was raging a few feet above his head and it would only be a matter of seconds before it was licking at his hands. He peered helplessly, despairingly over his shoulder. The gangsters were crossing the enclosure, guns drawn, greedy anticipation in their eyes.

  “Glug, glug,” groaned Mortimer. In the stress of the moment he clapped his hands to his head—and then as he started to fall, scratched furiously at the side of the barn. But it was too late. Mortimer was on the way down.

  HE landed at the feet of Slug McNutty with a jarring bounce that deflated his lungs with a whooosh.

  He felt himself jerked to his feet and when he opened his eyes he was looking into the black muzzle of Slug McNutty’s automatic.

  “Say yer prayers,” McNutty grated. “You’ve caused us de last bit of trouble your goin’ to.” His finger tightened on the trigger—but just at that instant a strange noise sounded in their ears.

  It was more than a noise. It was an enraged moose-like bellow that sounded like a cross between a hungry lion and a donkey with sinus trouble.

  Mortimer’s eyes strayed over McNutty’s shoulder, focused on the source of the sound.

  “Glug, glug,” he attempted a warning.

  McNutty wheeled, his eyes following the direction of Mortimer’s gaze.

  “It’s a bull,” he gasped. “A wild bull. He’s ready to charge.”

  Mortimer’s “cow” was pawing the earth furiously. Enraged by the humans, terrified by the sparks that fell on his back, he strained his massive bulk against the thin rope, his small red eyes gleaming viciously.

  His mouth yawned open and his angry, terrifying bellow thundered through the air. His heavy shoulders lunged frantically against the thin rope. Another lunge and the rope snapped—sending him to his knees.

  The gangsters fled, wild, hoarse screams of terror ripping from their throats, but Mortimer’s nerve centers were paralyzed, refused to work. He stood rooted to the spot, powerless to move a muscle.

  “Glug, glug,” Mortimer croaked desperately. “Glug.”

  The bull glared at Mortimer and then at the fleeing gangsters. Whether he felt there wouldn’t be much sport in goring Mortimer or whether he just liked to play the field will never be known, but at any rate, he wheeled and
charged after the gangsters, his sharp, driving hooves kicking a spray of dust back into Mortimer’s face.

  The chains of paralysis were struck from Mortimer, and with a sobbing cry of thankfulness, he turned and raced around the corner of the barn and struck off across the yard, sprinting toward the highway.

  This was his chance, his one, heavensent chance. He heard the gangsters shouting and yelling on the opposite side of the barn and he redoubled his efforts.

  He had covered a good hundred yards before they spotted him again.

  They had evidently managed to escape the bull, for as he glanced over his shoulder he saw two of them racing after him, brandishing their guns.

  They were too late, he thought exultantly. With a hundred yard start they could never catch him before he reached the highway. There he could spot a car and—

  Mortimer didn’t see the well!

  He didn’t see it until he crashed into it—and then it was too late.

  His hoarse desperate scream was choked back by the the leather gag that cut into his mouth. His hands clawed at the air as if they expected to find an invisible ladder there. And then his frantically twisting body plummeted into the depths of the well.

  It struck the green, scummy water with a splash that sent geysers of water shooting back to the top of the well.

  For a minute or so Mortimer was mercifully unconscious and then as reason began to filter back to his brain, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting in about eighteen inches of water.

  “Well, well,” Slug McNutty’s unpleasant voice drifted down to him. “You saved us a lot of trouble, chum. We was wonderin’ what to do wit’ your body and what could be nicer than a nice private well?”

  Mortimer peered fearfully up to the top of the well. Slug McNutty was gazing down at him and as he watched, the heads of the remaining gangsters appeared over the rim of the well.

  “Let’s let him have it,” McNutty said with a wolfish grin. “At dis range we can’t miss, can we boys?”

  Five muzzles pointed down at Mortimer.