Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I’m afraid I did,” Albert said nervously. “I just forget myself sometimes, major. Pay no attention to me.”

  “I never have,” the major snapped frostily.

  Margot sat down beside Albert.

  “Don’t antagonize father,” she whispered. “He’s terribly sensitive about the Mastiff reputation for hospitality. If you could do something to save the day, Albert, you’d win him over completely for life.”

  “What could I do?” Albert asked helplessly. “I might try wishing hard and snapping my fingers, but that never does work.”

  He brooded darkly for several seconds and then, like a bolt of lightning, a marvelous idea popped into his head.

  George, the genie, could handle this situation!

  If George could fix things up, he, Albert, could take the credit and he’d be in solid with the old duck for the duration.

  He patted Margot’s hand reassuringly, and then he strode from the library and took the steps two at a time. He plunged into his room without knocking and found George sleeping comfortably in the armchair.

  He shook him roughly, but it was several minutes before George opened his eyes and regarded him sleepily.

  “Whatcha want?” he grunted.

  “I got a job for you,” Albert said enthusiastically, “a big job that will really try you out. Want to take a crack at it?”

  George straightened up with alacrity.

  “Gosh, this is what I’ve been waiting for,” he gasped happily. “Whatcha

  want?”

  “A banquet,” Albert explained, “for six people. All the trimmings. Wine, food, everything that goes with it.” George was beaming happily now. “That wuz my specialty in the old days,” he said excitedly. “I’ll fix you up like I used to for my old pal, the Sultan.”

  “Good,” Albert nodded approval. “Don’t let me down now, this means a lot to me. I’m going downstairs and tell them to tie their napkins on tight. Then you can wave the magic wand and we’ll eat.”

  “Yup, that’s right,” George grinned expectantly. “I can’t wait to get started again. Today I yam going to be a man.”

  ALBERT winked at him in conspiratorial conviviality and then whistling happily, strode from the room and down the winding flight of stairs that led to the library.

  “The crisis is past,” he announced with jovial loudness as he strode into the library, “food is on the way. Food, fit for a king. The Mastiff banner is again flying high before a headwind of delightful aromas. The Mastiff honor is saved. We eat royally and sumptuously. The motto of Mastiff Manor shall always be: Eat to your heart’s content and you’ll find bicarbonate of soda on the first shelf to the right.”

  “Oh Albert,” Margot cried, “did you really arrange for something?”

  “Listen, you congenital ass,” barked Major Mastiff, “I will not tolerate any more of your damfoolishness. If you have provided for a suitable repast, I am willing to admit that my judgment of you might have been somewhat premature. But if this is another of your moronic attempts at humor I shall—” The major broke off in the middle of the sentence—listening!

  Everyone else in the room, including Albert, turned toward the double doors that led to the library—listening!

  “W-what is it?” Margot asked nervously.

  “Music,” Albert gulped. “J—just music.”

  It was music, but strange, compelling, sensuous music that trilled sweetly through the room, growing in intensity and volume every second!

  Before another word could be spoken, four huge, turbaned figures moved slowly into the room. In their hands they held reedlike musical instruments, with which they produced the weird, hauntingly beautiful music that was filling the room.

  “I say!” gasped Major Mastiff.

  Following the musicians came eight young men bearing large trays of steaming, delightfully fragrant foods. They placed the trays on the floor, forming a semi-circle with them and then they backed to the wall where they remained motionless.

  Albert was beginning to comprehend. This was the banquet! George was really outdoing himself on this job. He turned and smiled smugly at the major who was staring at the food in open consternation.

  “Wasn’t much,” he said condescendingly to him, “just a little something I whipped up myself.”

  But the procession had not ended. Husky, brown skinned attendants came next, carrying huge trays brimming with glittering, sparkling, indescribably gorgeous gems of all descriptions.

  “Well, well,” Albert murmured, “very, very pretty.”

  “Very, very pretty,” the government agent, named Smith, said in a hard, precise voice, “very pretty indeed. Also very indiscreet.”

  Before Albert could glean the meaning from this cryptic remark, another part of the procession arrived. A part which caused a sharp, shocked exclamation from Margot, and a gasp of pure dismay from Aunt Annabelle.

  Albert looked, and his knees turned to rubber. For the room was filling with dozens and dozens of scantily clad dancing girls, who were wriggling and undulating their extremely provocative torsoes to the pagan piping of the turbaned musicians!

  THEY were gorgeous, lushly beautiful creatures, with black lustrous hair and dark coquettish eyes that flashed slyly about the room. Their bodies were divinely fashioned and, except for a few insignificant wisps of lace, almost completely unclad.

  “So,” Margot cried, “this is your idea of good, clean entertainment, is it? These creatures, these hussies, you think they’re just wonderful, don’t you? Well I’m glad I found out about you before we were married, Mr. Addin.”

  “Darling,” Albert choked, “I had nothing to do with any of this. You don’t understand. You don’t—”

  “I understand perfectly,” Margot cut in witheringly. She turned to Aunt Annabelle, who after her first shock had worn off, was staring in undisguised envy at the dancing girls. “Are you coming, Aunt Annabelle?” Margot asked in a perfectly calm voice.

  “Y—yes,” Aunt Annabelle said flusteredly. She strode past Albert, drawing her skirts slightly to one side as she passed him, and the two women left the room, arm in arm.

  “Amazingly irregular occurrence,” the major muttered, as if he doubted whether any of it had actually occurred or not.

  “Very irregular,” the government agent snapped. “So irregular that we’re going to hold you, Major Mastiff, until we find out what the customs inspector has to say about this contraband jewelry. Not to mention the possibility that these aliens might have been illegally smuggled into this country.”

  “Hold me?” the major bleated. “Why that’s preposterous. Utterly ridiculous.”

  “Nevertheless we’re going to do it. Dick,” one agent snapped to the other, “search this house from top to bottom. There may be more loot lying around here!”

  “You blithering nincompoop,” the major raged at Albert, “this whole blasted affair is your fault!”

  “Tut, tut,” Albert said reprovingly, “that’s not the attitude for the condemned man to take. I wouldn’t say too much either till you’ve talked to your attorney.”

  “You blasted—” Major Mastiff finished the sentence in a growl.

  The G-man stepped to the major’s side and snapped a handcuff on his wrist. “Now relax,” he said, as the major began to resist, “this is just a precaution.” He snapped the other end of the cuff to the arm of a heavy chair.

  The dancing girls were milling around uncertainly and, together with the food bearers and the jewel bearers, they formed quite a noisy crowd. The musicians had stopped their music and were staring vaguely about, like men gazing at unfamiliar scenes. The jewels and the food and the bales of silks and satins were piled helter-skelter in the middle of the floor. Everyone was present, Albert thought worriedly, but George, the creator, so to speak, of all this confusion.

  Albert strolled back to the chair where Major Mastiff was cuffed.

  “Sorry about this,” he said cheerfully, “but it’s not too bad. With luck yo
u’ll get off with five or ten years.”

  “Leave me alone,” Major Mastiff shrilled impotently.

  The other G-man returned to the room, an atmosphere of suppressed excitement showing in his face. He whispered a few terse words to his fellow officer, then the two of them turned, suddenly grabbed Albert firmly by the arms.

  “No tricks,” one warned, “we found the banknotes in your closet. All accounted for except those you bribed the cook with.”

  BEFORE Albert could raise his voice to protest, he found himself handcuffed to the same chair that the major was linked to.

  “This is an outrage,” he sputtered, “I didn’t steal that money.”

  “You can tell that to our inspector,” the Smith replied. “This thing is getting a little too big for us to handle. We’re going to phone the village, and in half an hour the case will be out of our hands. Our inspector is waiting there for our report and when we phone him the dope you can be sure he’ll be right out.”

  The Smith found the phone in the dining room and in a few minutes they could hear his excited voice floating out to them.

  “Yeah, Chief, it’s on the level. We’ve recovered the banknotes and we’ve discovered a lot of jewels and silks and stuff that looks as if it might have been slipped in illegal. Also there’s about two dozen dancing girls and a lot of oriental musicians and—what chief? No I haven’t been drinking. I haven’t touched a drop. Honest. They’re all here . . . O.K. We’ll be expecting you then . . . Good-bye.

  The Smith re-entered the room and at the same second, from the opposite door, George, the genie, looking haggard and disillusioned, entered.

  Albert turned to Major Mastiff.

  “I hope,” he said critically, “that you’ll make an interesting cell-mate.”

  “Bahhhh,” growled the Major, “this is a lot of ridiculous tommy-rot.”

  “Yes,” Albert said softly, “but have you figured out how you’re going to explain all this?” His hand described a graceful circle that included the dancers, musicians and gems and silks.

  Major Mastiff was silent for some minutes. Then he shook his head slowly and despairingly.

  “No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Albert said hopefully, “but we’ve got to get that big baboon that just came in to cooperate with us.”

  George was moving toward them, a woe-begone expression on his face. He slumped down in a chair opposite them and stared moodily at his large feet.

  G-man Jones looked at him suspiciously.

  “Who’re you?” he asked.

  “He’s my valet,” Albert said quickly.

  “Don’t get too close to those guys,” Jones warned George and then he turned away. He fumbled in his pocket for an instant and then he turned back. “Got a cigarette?” he asked George.

  George handed a pack to him.

  “Mind if I take a couple for my partner?” Jones asked.

  George nodded dully and in a few seconds a blue wreath of sweetish smoke was wafting ceiling-ward from the cigarettes of the two officers.

  “George,” Albert said desperately, “you’ve got to get us out of this jam. It’s all your fault, you know.”

  “What kin I do?” George asked.

  “Pip! Pip!” Albert said for moral effect. “Just a wave of the palm, a snap of the finger and send all these people back where they came from. Simple and neat.”

  George shook his huge head glumly.

  “I can’t, I yam not a genie. I yam a blundering, nonsensical s-something else.”

  “Who told you that?” Albert asked uneasily.

  “The old lady,” George said moodily, “I yam not a genie. I never was, I guess. Everything I do goes wrong. I yam a flop, I guess.”

  “Aunt Annabelle,” Albert said bitterly, “has been giving you her version of the pat on the back.”

  “I met her in the hall,” George said thickly, “and I told her I was a genie. She said I wuzn’t. She said I wuz drunk, and a loud mouth and a nonsensical something else. I feel terrible. I yam never going to pretend I yam a genie again.”

  “You weren’t pretending,” Albert said frantically, “you were a genie, you are a genie, and now you’ve got to help us, you’ve simply got to! It’s getting late, George. You’ve got to do something.”

  George shook his head slowly but decisively. “I wuz a fake, that’s what I wuz. That must have been why I wuz never given my union card.”

  THINGS were whirring about in Albert’s head. “If this goes on much longer,” he thought wildly, “I shall go completely mad.” Here they were, in a neat air-tight mess, and every second brought more police and more witnesses to the scene. The only person who might extricate them was George, And George, the stupid lumbering hod, was not going to cooperate. Albert cursed the psychological quirk that had given George an inferior complex, made him susceptible to Aunt Annabelle’s uncomplimentary tirade.

  Albert frowned deeply and buried his head in his hands. The whole thing was maddening. Psychology, psychology, that was the trouble. Psychology—! Maybe the solution was in psychology!

  His head jerked up from his hands. George was still slumped in the chair, a picture of dejection.

  “George,” he said, “I believe Aunt Annabelle was right. You’re not a genie at all. You’re a fake, through and through.” If Albert was expecting a show of temper he was somewhat disappointed.

  George nodded glumly.

  “Like I wuz telling you, I yam only a fake.”

  “Sure,” Albert said bitterly, “You’re just a common fraud, a cheap magician—”

  “I yam not,” George said firmly.

  “You certainly are,” Albert was equally emphatic, “you’re just a clever magician.”

  “I yam not a magician,” George said stoutly, “I yam a—I yam a . . .” his voice trailed of! sheepishly and he finished lamely, “not a magician.”

  “You are a magician,” Albert said quietly. “I know because, because I am a genie.”

  George looked up quickly this time.

  “Haw, haw,” he said, “that’s funny. I’ll betcha can’t fly a flying carpet.”

  An idea was growing in Albert’s head. He fished in his vest pocket and when his fingers touched a tiny package there, he breathed a silent prayer. It was some flashlight powder that he intended using in shooting some night groups. There was friendly, crackling fire in the grate that would serve his purpose.

  “Look,” he shouted suddenly, “see if you can do anything half as difficult.” As he finished speaking he shot out his arm in the direction of the fire, tossing the package of flashlight powder into the fire. It blazed up in a great white flame, with a muffled ominous sound. Smoke, billowing white clouds of it, poured from the chimney. Albert waved his hand again and the fire seemed to settle back to normal.

  George was somewhat impressed.

  “Purty good,” he said.

  “Not hard,” Albert said modestly.

  “Not for a genie anyway.”

  George sat up in his chair.

  “I’ll show yuh I ain’t no ordinary magician,” he said grimly. He looked about the room, looked up at the shining chandelier, gleaming with dozens of electric lights. With a stupidly happy smile he snapped his fingers. Instantly, magically, the bulbs disappeared, were replaced by long, quietly burning candles.

  One of the officers came over then. There seemed to be something wrong with his feet. He stumbled twice before he reached George’s side.

  “That’s a pretty clever trick,” he said with some difficulty. “Got any more cigarettes, Bud? What kind are they anyway?”

  George handed him the pack.

  “Hasheesh,” he answered.

  Albert swallowed suddenly, but the government agents were already lighting up again. Albert peered at the clock. In a matter of minutes the Inspector would be here and then their goose was cooked. He turned back to George.

  “I’ve got one, now, that only a genie can do.”

/>   BEFORE opened his eyes, thoroughly interested.

  Albert pointed to the curious musicians, the dancing girls, the food bearers, the trays of food and gems.

  “I’m going to send all that back where it came from,” he announced matter-of-factly. “On top of that I’m going to send back all the green stuff up in the closet to where it came from, at the same time. You’ll admit that that’s quite a job, won’t you?”

  George was frowning now with what might be professional envy.

  Albert waved his hand around his head and then shouted out his college yell. When the hideous noise ceased echoing, Albert slumped into his chair, and stared at the openly disapproving musicians and dancers.

  “Well,” he said, “didn’t make it, did I?” He peered slyly at George. This was the nub of his scheme. “Now you try it, George.”

  Just then there came a loud authoritative knocking on the door.

  Major Mastiff groaned.

  “The police! Everything is over!” George stood up.

  “I’ll let ’em in,” he said cheerfully, “I like answering the door.” He turned and headed toward the front door.

  Albert felt a wave of bitterness and gall wash over him.

  “Magician!” he sang out bitterly. George wheeled, flushing angrily. “I’ll show youse!” His big fingers snapped like a cracking limb. There was a blinding flash and when Albert blinked his eyes and opened them again the room was empty, except for the two befuddled officers, Major Mastiff and himself!

  “Eureka!” Albert shrieked, and then, from sheer relief he fainted away . . .

  IT seemed ages later when Albert woke and opened his eyes. George’s moon-like face was peering solicitously down at him. “Are the Cossacks gone?” he asked feebly.

  “All gone,” George said bewilderedly. Albert sat up, beaming broadly. “Pip! Pip!” he chortled, “tell me everything that happened. I can guess most of it, but I still want to hear it.”

  “The officer wuz real mad,” George said solemnly, “when he got here and didn’t find nobody but his two men sleeping in the corner. Hully gee, he called them a lot of names and then he had them carried out to his car. He wuz real sorry you wuz bothered and he wunted me to tell you that.”