Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Ah, oh, yes, Miss Matthews,” he said abstractedly. He checked the last of a long list of supply cases on the typewritten sheet in his hand.

  Jo Matthews, the young lady in question, moved back quickly to avert

  a collision as he stepped toward her.

  “Allan,” she repeated sharply, “I’ve sent the check list to the docks.”

  Allan Curtis halted, then.

  “Good, Miss Matthews,” he said abstractedly. When lost in his fogs he always addressed her formally. “That’s fine. I’ve just finished making a final check on our crates. The list seems in order.”

  He handed her the typewritten sheets he’d been holding. Sighing, Jo Matthews took them. Her lovely features wore the affectionately despairing look of a mother worrying over an idiot offspring.

  “Have you made certain your luggage is in order, Allan?” Jo asked.

  Allan Curtis nodded, standing toward his private office.

  “Yes. Yes, I’ve done that. How about your stuff? Got it ready?”

  Jo’s blue eyes were amused. She’d told him her luggage was packed on at least four occasions this morning. She followed after him, into his office.

  “Yes, Allan. My bags are ready. I’ve had them sent to the dock hours ago.”

  “Hmmmm,” Curtis muttered, scarcely hearing, “that’s fine. Just fine. Rather early to send them, wasn’t it?” He sat down behind his rich mahogany desk and began shuffling through papers.

  “I’ve told you that there’s a war going on,” Jo said. “It takes plenty of time to get things through inspection these days.”

  “Hmmmm,” Curtis agreed. “That’s right. The war makes it difficult, doesn’t it?”

  Jo’s eyes went suddenly impatient with annoyance.

  “Difficult? Really, Allan,” her tone was one of exasperated bewilderment, “doesn’t anything bother you? I really don’t believe the fact that our nation is facing one of the most gigantic struggles in its history, has yet penetrated your mind. You probably haven’t a thought in your head but those stuffy Peruvian ruins and rotting fossil bones.”

  “Just ruins,” Curtis corrected her. “We aren’t out after bones this trip.” He looked up, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “Really, Jo, I don’t think you’re the least bit pleased about this first chance to come along on an expedition.”

  “Well,” said the girl in mock elation, “he called me ‘Jo.’ He must have emerged from the Peruvian jungles long enough to remember I had a first name.”

  Curtis grinned.

  “It was a long time before I called you anything but Miss Matthews, Jo. I got into a habit that I still fall back on now and then, when I’m thinking of something else.”

  Jo Matthews sighed. Then her voice became imperceptibly softer.

  “I’m really excited over this trip, Allan. And I’m terribly grateful to be going along. I know that you went to a lot of unnecessary trouble with the museum people to persuade them to let me come as your assistant. But even so, Allan, I can’t help thinking sometimes that now, I mean since December, the importance of things like this have dimmed a great deal.”

  ALLAN CURTIS lighted a cigarette.

  He blew out the match and flicked it unerringly into a priceless Inca jug that stood in the corner.

  He inhaled deeply, then spoke smilingly through a swirl of blue smoke.

  “The importance of anything is only relative, Jo,” Curtis said. “What might seem to be important to the world of today is, after all, only measured by the countless centuries in time that went before it, and will undoubtedly follow it. Just because this world goes mad, I see no reason to let my intelligence be swept away in the emotional turmoil of others.”

  Jo Matthew’s lovely mouth was set. “No,” she snapped, “I don’t believe you are capable of reacting emotionally.”

  Curtis was still smiling, tolerantly. “Do you think the wheels of science, research, progress and discovery should stop while the world goes mad?”

  “There will be an end to progress and civilization, science and research—of the decent democratic way—if we lose this war, Allan. I think certain things can be set aside until the objective is accomplished, otherwise we’ll ultimately lose those things.”

  Allan Curtis shrugged.

  “I’ve spent most of my rather young life prowling about the ruins of ancient civilizations, Jo. Those were civilizations as great, in their time, as our own is now. They died. But the world didn’t die. Progress didn’t die.”

  Jo’s eyes were moist.

  “But don’t you see what I mean, Allan? You could turn your knowledge, your mind, to the accomplishment of far more important tasks for the duration. I know that your career has been and will always be your very life. But the careers, the lives, the futures of all of us are menaced beyond realization.”

  “Then you think this expedition of ours will be of no real consequence?” Curtis asked.

  “I didn’t say exactly that,” Jo declared in exasperation. “It has its place, I’ll admit, and it is important in the normal scheme of things. But now the normal scheme of life has been abandoned. There are relatively more important missions for all of us.”

  “Ahhh,” Curtis grinned irritatingly, “now we get to the crux of the matter. You think I should be putting my shoulder to another wheel, right?”

  Jo’s eyes flashed defensively. “Yes, Allan. You have one of the finest young minds in this nation. You’re capable, strong, with a tremendous amount of valuable knowledge of almost every god-forsaken jungle in the world. I’m certain there are things other than puttering in decayed ruins which you could do to serve. Things that would utilize your knowledge, your youth, your ability for our country’s effort.”

  “You make me blush, Jo. I never thought secretaries thought so highly of their employers.”

  Jo turned angrily toward the door. “Sometimes I think quite the opposite, Allen. If I didn’t think you talk as you do merely because you’re blinded to actuality, I wouldn’t be your secretary.”

  CURTIS looked at the tip of his cigarette. His eyes were still amused. “Then your unswerving loyalty still persists because you hope to make me see the light, eh?”

  Jo paused. The anger left her lovely face. Her eyes were serious.

  “Your attitude might be blind for the present, Allan, but I’m sure your mind will rouse you to your responsibilities fairly soon. And when it does, well,” Jo colored, “you’ll have a secretary who is as proud of her boss as she is loyal.”

  Curtis seemed suddenly embarrassed. He returned his scrutiny to the lighted end of his cigarette. Then suddenly, clearing his throat, he changed the subject.

  “Our tickets are all arranged for, Jo?”

  “Passports, visas, tickets, all in order,” she smiled. “And please, please, don’t get lost in one of your fogs and miss the boat. It leaves at four o’clock. I’ll meet you on the ship’s end of the gangplank.”

  Curtis grinned.

  “No,” he promised, “I won’t be late. I’ve never missed a sailing time yet.”

  “What about the Tahitian trip?” Jo reminded him accusingly.

  Curtis reddened.

  “Well, I might amend that by saying I almost never miss a sailing time. Four o’clock. Top of the gangplank. I’ll see you then, Jo. You’d better run along now. I know the female of the species is always beset by a thousand last-minute details before going anywhere.”

  Jo raised one eyebrow.

  “Really, Allan, sometimes I think you aren’t completely hopeless.”

  Curtis looked up.

  “Eh, what d’you mean?”

  “Sometimes you actually seem aware that there is such a thing as a female of the species. Your remark about details almost indicates that you observe the species occasionally.” Jo’s voice was mockingly analytical, but her eyes held another emotion not quite completely masked.

  Curtis, however, had turned his attention back to the papers on the desk before him. He answered without lookin
g up.

  “Is that so? Guess I must have read it somewhere in a book.”

  Jo gave him a long glance and sighed in despair.

  “See you at the ship,” she said. “Right.”

  CURTIS didn’t look up as Jo Matthews left the office. He heard the door shut behind her and continued his scrutiny of the papers before him for another full minute before he raised his head.

  He crushed out his cigarette, rose, and stepped to the door of his own office. He closed it, flicking the lock switch. Then he went back to his desk and, still standing, leaned over it to an ancient shield which hung on the wall.

  Carefully, Curtis took down the shield. There was a wall safe on the surface it had been covering. Expertly he flicked the dial until the combination clicked the tumblers. Then he swung it open. He brought forth a thick manila envelope, then sat down at his desk as he opened it.

  There were at least a dozen papers inside, but Curtis sheafed through the stack until he’d found the three he sought. On the top of each there was the letterhead reading: “Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs.”

  He hastily read through each of these letters, as if making one last check on instruction data he had already committed to memory. Then, apparently satisfied, he placed them in his large ashtray. He found a match.

  Moments later, Curtis watched the letters burn to blackened ashes in the tray. Then, after carefully powdering the ashes with his thumb, he emptied the tray into the wastebasket at his feet. He put the remaining papers back in the envelope, stood up and returned them to the wall safe, closed the safe and twisted the dial right and left.

  After Curtis had replaced the ancient shield in its position on the wall, he stepped over to the door, unlocked it, and moved out into the reception office.

  His luggage was there, five traveling bags. His trunks, he recalled, were already aboard the ship.

  Curtis stepped to the window of his office, a window looking from Telegraph Hill toward San Francisco Bay.

  Lighting another cigarette, Curtis stood there a moment, gazing idly down into the street beneath him.

  Against the building on the other side of the street, standing half in the concealment of the doorway, were two men. One wore a camel’s hair topcoat, the other merely a blue serge suit. Both had gray fedoras.

  The one with the camel’s hair topcoat was apparently reading a newspaper, while the chap in the serge suit passed idle conversation with him.

  Curtis stood at the window watching this, waiting to see if either would look up at him. Then, smiling grimly, he drew the Venetian blinds.

  Crossing the reception room, he went to his luggage, selected a bag, placed it on a desk and opened it. Inside, atop some shirts and papers, was an automatic pistol. Next to it lay a leather shoulder holster. Curtis removed the gun and the holster and restrapped the bag.

  He slipped out of his coat, arranged the holster, and placed the gun in it. Then he put his coat on once again, buttoned it, and looked down, satisfied that the weapon was well enough concealed.

  He glanced at his wrist watch. Three-fifteen. He stepped to the telephone to call for a taxi . . .

  CHAPTER II

  Rendezvous with a Killer

  THE small, dingy waterfront cafe was typical of the dozens that lined the narrow streets of San Francisco’s harbor district. A few small tables covered with dirty red-checkered cloths were set up in the middle of the floor. Dark, and curtained booths lined three of the walls.

  At a small bar a sleepy looking bartender presided. Two unsavory waiters leaned negligently against the wall.

  The only distinctive feature of this particular cafe was the couple that occupied the booth closest to the door.

  They sat quietly, not talking, and only occasionally sipping from the small glasses of brandy before them.

  The man was tall, with heavy sloping shoulders that bulged slightly against his smoothly-fitting, conservative suit. His hair was blond and combed straight back from his high shining forehead. In contrast to his square, almost cruel jaw, his eyes were a soft blue, surprisingly out of place in his hard face.

  The woman could have been twenty-five or she could have been forty-five. She was immaculately groomed and dressed, and her complexion was as flawless and as smooth as a child’s.

  But her eyes were strangely lacking in warmth. They were like two perfect diamonds, hard, cold and ageless. Hair the color of new wheat fell in rippling waves-to her shoulders, but she was not beautiful, although she should have been. If there had been more expression in her face, or warmth in her eyes, she would have possessed an ethereal allure. As it was, her very frigidity and aloofness seemed to encase her in a shell of icy mystery that had the effect of repelling rather than attracting.

  She raised her glass slowly and over the rim her eyes met those of her companion.

  “Our friend is late,” she murmured.

  The man glanced at his watch and a faint expression of annoyance touched his features.

  “There is plenty of time,” he muttered. “The ship does not leave until four. Are you sure, my dear Maria, of your role?”

  THE woman sipped her drink slowly.

  “Perfectly sure. As your devoted sister, Maria von Wessel, I have a simple part to play. Yours is by far the more difficult, my dear Kurt.”

  A faint mocking undertone colored the woman’s soft voice, as she added, “Your role demands that you display a certain amount of brotherly affection toward your dear ‘sister.’ That will be a difficult part for you to play.”

  The man shrugged irritably.

  “You must keep your emotions out of your work, Maria. If there was ever anything between us, we must forget it.”

  “You have, of course, my dear Kurt.”

  Kurt von Wessel’s deceptively soft eyes frosted slightly.

  “Maria, my dear, your beauty has made you extremely useful to the Cause. When your attractiveness is past, your usefulness is over. Remember that one fact and control your feelings.”

  He toyed idly with his glass and his smile was delicately cruel.

  “It would be a pity,” he said, “if I were forced to report that your allure was dimming. Even now, in this highly unflattering light, I can see a faint wrinkle at the corner of your mouth.”

  The woman’s hand moved instinctively toward her cheek. Kurt smiled as he saw the gesture. Maria checked herself and folded her hands calmly in her lap.

  “You are a beast,” she said softly.

  Kurt von Wessel lifted his glass and smiled.

  “But, of course,” he said.

  THEY were silent for a while, both occupied with thinking. It was the sudden opening of the cafe’s door that brought them to life.

  “Is it he?” Kurt asked quietly.

  Maria raised herself slightly from the seat. When she settled back her face was suddenly pale. Her slim white fingers trembled as she pulled the brim of her hat over her eye, concealing the side of her face.

  “What is it?” Kurt asked sharply.

  A tall, slim, olive-skinned young man strode past their booth before she could answer. He didn’t look at them but continued on to the bar, where he ordered a double whiskey in a loud voice.

  He was elegantly dressed and quite handsome in the dark Latin manner. His flashing white teeth stood out sharply against his dark skin, and his luminous brown eyes were good-naturedly rakish.

  “Who is he?” Kurt demanded. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Quiet,” Maria hissed. “Do you want him to hear every word you say? He is a young fool I met in Peru a year or so ago. His name is Carlos Benevadas. I think his father is a diplomatic official. It wouldn’t do for him to see me now. He knew me as Sonya Karlstad, a Norwegian refugee.”

  “Was your business with him official?” Kurt asked, a tight smile playing about his lips.

  “Yes. Of course there were several unofficial interludes. The fool thought he was madly in love with me.”

  “I see,” Kurt nodded.
“I see you were able to forget me long enough to indulge in—ah—unofficial interludes with this hot-blooded young Latin. Very touching example of your constant devotion to me.”

  Maria’s cheeks flamed angrily.

  “I have thrown myself at many men,” she said hoarsely. “It has never bothered you. And it has meant nothing to me.”

  “Let us not become hysterical,” Kurt suggested quietly, “I will draw the shades of the booth. Your young admirer will soon be gone.”

  He stood up and jerked the dark curtains over the entrance of the booth. Maria turned her hat back from her eyes.

  FOR several moments they waited in silence, their drinks untouched.

  Then they heard quick footsteps crossing the floor, a careless laugh and an instant later the sound of the cafe door slamming.

  “Ah,” said Kurt, “the coast is again clear.”

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. He fingered his glass impatiently.

  “Has the fool forgotten,” he growled.

  “Maybe he didn’t receive the instructions,” Maria suggested. “In America now it is becoming increasingly difficult to continue our contacts. The federal agents of this country are very efficient.”

  “They are a lot of fools,” Kurt snapped. “In Germany we shoot traitors and spies. Here, until only a few months ago, they allowed them the use of the press and radio to spread their doctrines. Well, their complacent carelessness has been our strongest ally.”

  He drummed his fingers nervously on the table. Finally they heard the sound of the cafe door opening. Kurt stood up and cautiously drew back the curtain of the booth.

  An almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaped him.

  Standing inside the doorway was a chunky, red-faced man, with closely cropped light hair, and a thin scar running along his jaw line.

  When the man’s small, cold-blue eyes met Kurt’s they glinted with recognition. With a rolling stride he advanced to the booth and bowed from the waist.

  “I have the tickets for the gentleman and his sister,” he said softly. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleepy bartender and the indifferent waiters. “Everything is arranged.”