Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Mr. Rewbarb heard a sniffle.

  “Whosh that?” he asked.

  “Ish me,” the radio sniffed again. “I can’t help it. I’m unhappy. Thash why I get this way.”

  Mr. Rewbarb drained his glass unhappily. He slopped more whiskey over the radio. The roses were fading now.

  “Why’re you unhappy?” he asked soddenly.

  The radio sniffed miserably.

  “Ish because I’m unhappy.”

  Mr. Rewbarb pondered this in silence. Finally he discovered the flaw in its logic.

  “You said that before,” he accused happily.

  “My nerves are shot,” the radio almost sobbed. “I’m unhappy.”

  “Got just the thing for you,” Mr. Rewbarb promised drunkenly, “a little drink, jus’ a lit’l drink and you’ll be as good as new.”

  HE climbed laboriously to his feet and filled his glass before sousing the top of the radio again.

  “Feel better?” he asked solicitously. “No,” the radio’s voice was a miserable whisper. “My nervsh are shot. Too much cleaning. Now my head ish as big as bucket.”

  “You haven’t got a head?” Mr. Rewbarb cried angrily. “You must think I’m drunk.”

  “All right,” the radio capitulated without a struggle, “I haven’t got a head. Jush got antennae ends that drive me batty.”

  Mr. Rewbarb nodded solemnly. “Thash bad,” he said mournfully, wondering what antennae ends were. “Feel better?” he asked optimistically. The radio merely moaned.

  The whisky was doing things to Mr. Rewbarb. His brain seemed to be functioning more sharply. Things seemed to be clearer, properly focused for a change. He thought a lot and finally an idea, born of a chance remark by the radio, flowered into full bloom.

  Mr. Rewbarb lurched to his feet, chuckling. He looked down at the radio and sloshed more liquor over it. Then he giggled again. Everything was going to be wonderful.

  First he went to the kitchen and got the egg beater. Then he went to his wife’s room and got her electric reducing horse. With this on his shoulder he staggered to a closet and dragged out the vacuum cleaner. He laughed so hard at this point that he fell in a heap in the middle of his equipment and spent five minutes extricating himself. But at last he weaved back to the living room, egg beater in one hand, vacuum cleaner in the other and the electric horse over his shoulder.

  It took him some time to plug in all of the devices because he had to stop every little while to take a drink and slosh more over the radio, and then he had to take time out to giggle over everything. So it was a half-hour later before he had everything hooked up satisfactorily.

  Mr. Rewbarb climbed awkwardly into the saddle of the electric reducing horse. He teetered precariously and almost fell on his face.

  “Whoa!” he cried, throwing both arms about the horse’s neck.

  Straightening up, he pulled the egg beater from his pocket and with his free hand he picked up the shaft of the vacuum cleaner. He made a delightful discovery at this point.

  “I am thoroughly drunk,” he said with dignity, “definitely.”

  Then he turned on the vacuum cleaner. Its banshee wail grew in volume until its noise was beating heavily from wall to wall.

  “Ouch,” the radio yelled. It tried to say something else, but its voice broke, and a snarling scream blasted from the speaker of the radio.

  Mr. Rewbarb turned off the switch.

  “What’s the idea?” the radio demanded, when the noise faded. “I can’t stand that thing. With my headache, it’s like driving nails into me. I’m getting a bad hangover.”

  Mr. Rewbarb giggled.

  “The wages of sin,” he whispered, “shall be headaches.” He swayed dangerously in the saddle before continuing. “In another shecond I’ll turn the vacuum on again. Also the egg beater and the electric horsy. When you’ve got enough, yell.”

  WITH A blissful smile Mr. Rewbarb tripped the three switches. The noise was deafening. It swelled up like a mighty river of sound and poured through the room in a hideous symphony of noise, noise and more noise. The horse had started lurching rhythmically and Mr. Rewbarb was forced to hang on desperately.

  “Got enough?” he managed to yell over the frightful din.

  The radio was emitting tortured blasts and squawks that were unintelligible for the most part. One jumbled sentence did seep through however to Mr. Rewbarb’s befuddled brain.

  “T-U-rn i-T o-FF!”

  Mr. Rewbarb cut the switches happily. The sounds faded into oblivion.

  “What do you want?” moaned the radio.

  “I jush want you to keep quiet,” Mr. Rewbarb said sleepily. “You’ve caused me too much trouble. I want you to keep out of my life from now on. If you don’t I’m afraid I’ll jush have to give you the works.”

  “Supposing I say no,” the radio said surlily.

  Mr. Rewbarb smiled foggily.

  “This,” he said. He threw all three switches again and hung on frantically as the horse began its electric gyrations.

  The radio squawked wildly and hoarsely, but Mr. Rewbarb realized with drunken wisdom that the time for mercy had passed. A lesson was needed and this was the time to administer it.

  He locked his legs under the horse’s belly and found himself enjoying the ride. He waved the egg beater merrily around his head as he lurched back and forth and, with his other hand, he made a great fuss with the vacuum cleaner.

  “HI-HO SILVER!” he cried joyously. This was fun, he was discovering excitedly. “Awaaaaaay!” he hiccoughed dramatically.

  Suddenly the front door of the living room opened and Mr. Glick, Mrs. Rewbarb and a white-haired doctor swarmed into the room. There was a startled, dismayed gasp, as they saw the wildly bizarre scene confronting them.

  Mr. Rewbarb became aware that spectators had arrived.

  “Jush in time for the second show,” he bawled cheerfully. He doffed the egg beater in a gallant bow. Bending was a bad mistake. Everything fused together crazily for an instant and then he pitched forward from the horse, and landed with a pleasant thud on the top of his head.

  “Good night,” he muttered.

  MRS. REWBARB knelt tearfully beside him.

  “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

  Mr. Glick turned off the electric equipment. No one noticed the relieved gasp from the radio.

  “What do you suppose the trouble is, Doctor?” Mr. Glick asked anxiously.

  “It is really somewhat simple,” the Doctor said with professional modesty. “I recognized the symptoms when he visited me yesterday. The man is suffering from frustration. You see how he mounts a horse and pretends to be a conquering hero when he is left alone. That is because he is not given sufficient opportunity to express his personality. The cure is simple.

  “From now on he must not be hampered in any way. He must be the dominant one, particularly in the home. Consult him on all points, no matter how trivial. Accept his judgment, his opinion on everything. Let him have his own way completely. There must be no bickering, no nagging, no harping. He is and must remain undisputed master. That is the cure. You must all be careful to obey it.”

  Mr. Glick nodded miserably.

  “I’ll have to give him a better job now. I can’t leave him where he is.” Mrs. Rewbarb sighed peacefully.

  “I always wanted a masterful husband, and now I’ve got one.”

  Mr. Rewbarb suddenly opened one eye. Then very cautiously he opened the other. He still felt fine, but he was getting awfully sleepy. There was one thing he had to know however. “Jennifer,” he said.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Turn on the radio.”

  “Y—yes darling.”

  A few seconds later Mr. Rewbarb heard the click of a switch. Then a voice broke in, “Thish ish the Standard Broadcasting Company.”

  Mr. Rewbarb sat up on one elbow. “Whash that?”

  The voice from the radio said petulantly, but carefully, “I said this i
s the Standard Broadcasting Company.”

  “Oh that’s fine,” Mr. Rewbarb said. Then he fell asleep.

  PEOPLE OF THE PYRAMIDS

  First published in the December 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  There was no hidden city here, Neal Kirby knew. It must be a mirage. But men aren’t murdered because of a vision!

  “COME, come,” the fat, brown-skinned proprietor of the gaudy little shop in Cairo cried with more enthusiasm than coherence. “Lukka, lukka,” he said proudly, waving a fat arm at the piles of merchandise stacked in the interior of his shop.

  Neal Kirby grinned good-naturedly and allowed himself to be half-dragged, half-led into the establishment. He knew he was perfectly secure against the wiles of the fat shop-keeper for he only had one American dollar in his pocket. And his appetite had already staked a claim on that dollar for dinner.

  With the proprietor pattering hopefully at his heels he browsed up and down the narrow aisles examining the ropes of cheap beads, the gayly colorful silks and satins and the thousand-and-one sleepy-looking Buddhas, of all sizes and shapes, that stared at him from the shelves.

  He was turning to leave when a steely glitter in a corner caught his eye. Looking closely he saw that it was a narrow silver casket with a glass top that had caught the light. Through the glass top he could see a slim stiletto-like knife resting on a pad of red silk. Strangely, it excited his curiosity. He wondered vaguely why a piece of merchandise of such obvious value should be tucked away in the darkest corner of the shop.

  “How much?” he asked, pointing to the casket.

  The proprietor shook his head until his fat jowls quivered like cups of jelly.

  “No sale, no sale,” he said breathlessly. He grabbed Neal by the arm. “Come, come,” he waved to the displays on the opposite side of the shop. “Lukka, lukka.”

  Neal shook his head. Stubbornness had been added to his curiosity now. Disregarding the angry squeals of the fat shopkeeper, he bent and picked up the casket. Opening the casket, he almost gasped at the incredible beauty of the knife.

  The blade, about eight inches long, gleamed as if it had been delicately forged from pure silver and the handle was formed in the shape of a man’s torso, from some strange red metal that glowed with a fiery luminescence. A small, cunningly chiseled head topped the handle of the knife, and at the neckline where it joined the torso, it was circled by a cluster of small, but perfect diamonds.

  Neal whistled in admiration. He was no judge of precious stones and metals but anyone could see that the knife would be worth a Rajah’s ransom. So absorbed was he in the contemplation of the fabulously beautiful knife that he did not hear the sudden sharp exclamation that sounded from the wheezing proprietor. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but he did hear the quiet, sibilant voice that cut through the silence.

  “Give me that knife!”

  NEAL turned in surprise. Two people stood behind him.

  One was a man of medium height with a thin, arrogant face and sandy hair but Neal did not take time to notice anything else about him, for he was too busy staring in admiration at the girl who was with him.

  She was tall, with hauntingly blue eyes, and fine blonde hair that cascaded in graceful waves almost to her shoulders. Her slender, charmingly feminine figure was accentuated by the smartly tailored white gabardine suit she wore. She looked cool and fresh and American.

  Neal smiled suddenly. Just seeing a girl like this made him feel certain that Cairo was a fine place after all.

  “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he said to her.

  She looked anxiously at the man she was with and murmured something under her breath that he didn’t hear. Neal’s smile faded as he looked closely at the girl. There was a hidden fear lurking in the depths of her eyes and he saw that the small handkerchief in her hands had been twisted into a small, crushed ball.

  Her companion held out his hand imperiously.

  “Will you give me the knife?” he snapped. “Or must I summon the police?”

  Neal stiffened at the man’s tone. There was something so definitely insulting in it that he felt a hot flush of anger staining his face. His big hands closed spasmodically over the knife in his hands.

  “You might get better results,” he suggested as coolly as he could, “if you’d stop snarling at people and improve your manners. The word ‘please’ can work wonders in a lot of cases. You might look it up some time.”

  The man swallowed a reply and his jaw clamped shut. His face had drained white and his small, steel-blue eyes hardened into pin-points of angry light.

  “Will you give me that knife?” he almost whispered. His hand slipped slowly into the outside pocket of his coat, where a suspicious bulge showed.

  Neal straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. He had not missed the gesture or its significance. In spite of the tenseness of the situation he was able to realize that the incident was strange in every respect. The man’s rage and impatience were wholly unreasonable, completely out of proportion to the trifling affair. The girl was looking imploringly at her companion and her hands were clasped tensely together as if in silent supplication.

  THE fat, waddling shopkeeper shoved himself between them at that instant, stammering breathless apologies. And as suddenly and abruptly as that the incident was over. The thin man with the arrogant face withdrew his hand from his pocket and went about the business of lighting a cigarette. Neal relaxed slowly. He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was all over. One instant, he knew, the man opposite him was ready to draw his gun and fire. And now he was placidly lighting a cigarette with fingers that were as steady as rocks.

  The girl had been talking to the shopkeeper, showing h i m a withered paper in her hand, and now he turned to Neal, smiling nervously.

  He pointed to the knife which Neal still held in his hand.

  “Give to Missy,” he said imploringly. “Belong her.”

  Neal hesitated an instant, and he was aware that the burning eyes of the girl’s companion were resting unwaveringly on him.

  “Please,” the girl said simply.

  Neal shrugged and handed the girl the knife. As his fingers met hers, he felt paper crackle under his fingers, felt a closely wadded note pushed against his palm. His fingers closed on it automatically and he shoved his fist in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” the girl said quickly.

  She dropped the brilliantly gleaming knife into her handbag, turned and left the shop. The thin, arrogant, steel-eyed man followed her without a backward glance.

  “Go,” the fat shopkeeper said nervously. “Go, please.”

  Neal pulled out the wad of paper and spread it flat against his hand. The only information it contained was the name of a hotel and a room number. Neal frowned and shoved it back into his pocket. That didn’t tell him much about the screwy business.

  He sauntered from the shop, his thoughts churning futilely. Quiet deliberation was not his most successful accomplishment and he felt queerly impotent and helpless. There was only one thing to do, he decided, after a few moments of anxious cogitation. He pulled the paper that the girl had slipped to him from his pocket and noted the address and room number. Then he walked on whistling.

  THE soft Egyptian night had dropped its black mantle over Cairo, lending an almost mystic enchantment to the intertwined streets and the murmuring voices of natives. Under the merciful light of a full pale moon, the desert stretches surrounding the silent city, looked cool and calm and inviting. But those who knew the desert were aware of its ruthless reality, its cruelty, its danger.

  The lobby of the Hotel Internationale was practically deserted when Neal Kirby strolled across its polished floor and stopped at the desk of the blandly polite young native who acted as clerk and receptionist.

  “Is the young lady in 402 in?” he asked.

  The clerk nodded.

  “Did you have an—”

  “She’s expecting me,” Neal said quickly. Turning
, he strode to the elevator. He realized disgustedly that he had acted tactlessly. The girl had taken such precautions in slipping him the note that it was obvious she didn’t want it known that he was to see her. He had spoiled that by inquiring for her like a breathless sophomore.

  He stepped from the elevator at the fourth floor. The hotel was completely modern, with luxuriously thick carpeting and walls paneled with smooth, dark oak. The heavy rug smothered the sounds of his footsteps as he started down the corridor, looking for 402.

  He passed three doors before he found it. Suddenly he began to feel nervous. He paused before the door, his throat strangely dry. Maybe this whole thing was a joke of some sort. Or maybe he had received the note by mistake. A dozen other disturbing thoughts occurred to him, but he dismissed them all with a characteristic shrug. He raised his hand to knock when he heard a sudden scuffling noise from inside the room. It was followed by a quick, gasping cry of terror.

  Neal hesitated for only a bare instant and then he grabbed the door-knob, shook it violently.

  The door was locked. Neal drew back and lunged at the door, driving his heavy shoulders against its hard surface. A splintering crack sounded and the door swung inward suddenly, almost throwing him off balance.

  The room was dark, but there was enough moonlight to show him the shadowy outline of two figures struggling near the window. In spite of the uncertain illumination he recognized one of the figures as the girl he had met in the curio shop. She was struggling helplessly against a man whose both hands were wrapped about her neck.

  THE man looked up as Neal charged into the room. He dropped the limp body of the girl and sprang toward the window, which opened on the fire escape.

  Neal dove across the room and his shoulder drove into the man’s back, slamming him against the wall. He heard a grunt of pain escape the man’s lips, but like an eel, the dark figure squirmed from his grasp and dove for the window.

  Neal lunged after him, his right fist swinging in a wild looping arc. It crashed into the side of the man’s head as he scrambled over the window ledge, knocking him out onto the balcony formed by the fire escape.