Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “All right,” Jing said, “but what are we going to do about the composer?”

  “That,” said Tink, “is my job.” One of the girls from the clock said:

  “He took a bottle of whisky with him to the bedroom.”

  Tink looked nervously at the closed bedroom door, then he squared his shoulders,

  “I’ll handle him, all right,” he said. Jing smiled tremulously at him.

  “I know you will,” she said.

  Tink wished that he shared her confidence. Intervening in the affairs of humans was ticklish enough, but when a quart of whisky had to be considered in his calculations, the situation assumed the precarious qualities of a juggled box of dynamite.

  Drawing a deep breath he slid down the lamp to the floor and advanced toward the bedroom. Jing, on the window-sill, waved encouragement to him as he sallied forth to battle.

  He entered the room by the simple expedient of rolling under the half inch crack provided by the slightly warped door. Inside he studied the scene carefully, and what he saw did not particularly encourage him.

  The young composer was sprawled in a chair beside the bed with the bottle of Scotch within convenient reach. It was apparent from the opened bottle, and his flushed face that he was seeking the solace of Bacchus.

  Tink sat down on the floor and cupped his chin in his hands. This situation required delicacy and tact. He studied the composer carefully and thoughtfully for several minutes.

  IT WAS evident from the young man’s face, he decided, that he regretted his actions, but his pride was preventing him from making the overtures that would effect a happy reconciliation. A bad thing, Tink thought gloomily. Finally he stood and climbed up the spread to the top of the bed. From there he leaped to the top of the dresser. A plan was already forming in his head.

  Not particularly original, he realized, but still it was worth trying.

  He scurried about the dresser top until he found what he was looking for, an ordinary hairpin. Hoisting it to his shoulders he sprang back to the bed and ran along the edge until he was within a foot of where the composer was sitting.

  Then, using all his strength, he threw the hairpin into the air. It landed with a faint metallic plink! on the arm of the composer’s chair and bounced to the floor.

  Startled, the composer looked around and then glanced down to the floor where the hairpin lay gleaming at his feet. He picked it up and stared at it. Then his fingers tightened on the pin crushing it out of shape. An expression of pain flitted over his features as he stared blankly, unseeingly at the pin in his hand.

  Tink watched hopefully. Maybe that reminder of his wife would soften him up and melt away his stubborn pride.

  For several seconds Peter Hardwicke tensed in his chair, then he slumped back and the pin fell from his hand to the floor. With that same hand he reached for the Scotch bottle.

  Tink shook his head disconsolately. No soap.

  He returned to the dresser top and began prowling around.

  For several minutes he searched unavailingly. Then, next to a make-up box, he found an atomizer of perfume. He stared at the bulb and hose leading to the bottle and a smile curved his lips.

  If anything would do the trick—this was it.

  The bulb was taller than he, but after several attempts he managed to crawl onto its round, soft surface and balance himself there. This wasn’t going to be easy, he realized uneasily.

  He waited until the jelly-like surface settled under his feet, then he leaped high in the air, jerking his knees under his chin. Descending, he kicked downward with all his might.

  But something had happened to his timing. Instead of hitting the bulb flush, he struck its sloping side. The results of this change of procedure were just short of disastrous. Fortunately a jar of soft, filmy powder was next to the atomizer, and Tink’s surprised body bounced from the bulb into this cushioned receptacle.

  The powder closed over his body in a billowing, cloying wave, burying him completely. When he struggled up, choking and gasping, he was thoroughly covered with white, persimmon-flavored talcum.

  And Tink despised persimmon. In spite of this and his ignominious nosedive, he was not ready to admit defeat. Undaunted he emerged from the powder bowl and climbed to the top of the atomizer bulb.

  HE WAS, however, more careful this time. Instead of leaping into the air like a ballet dancer he contented himself with bouncing gently on the rubber surface of the bulb.

  The results were less spectacular but more effective.

  His light pressure on the bulb sprayed a thin, delicate stream of perfume into the air. The tiny globules of perfume hung in the air like motes on a hot day, then gradually drifted downward.

  Peter Hardwicke raised his face suddenly from his hands and there was a wild, tormented look in his eyes. He stared desperately about the room.

  “Good God!” he muttered. “I’m losing my mind. I thought she was standing beside me.”

  Tink worked harder on the atomizer bulb, pumping the delicate aroma until it thoroughly permeated the room.

  He’s weakening, he thought exultantly.

  But Tink weakened before Peter Hardwicke did. Panting and limp, he was forced to cease his heroic efforts a few minutes later.

  The young composer was still holding out. His hands were clenched before him and the knuckles were straining white, but he made no move to leave.

  Tink regarded him disgustedly. Nothing seemed to avail against his steely stubbornness.

  He felt a moment of panic as he realized how much was hanging in the balance. Jing was depending on him to straighten this thing out. What Nastee was doing, he had no idea. The thought of Nastee caused him to clench his fists bitterly. If he had known any real swear words he would have used them without hesitation.

  But he couldn’t give up now. He tramped moodily about the dresser top until he was forced to the realization that he had exhausted its possibilities.

  Then he explored the rest of the room. Finally he came to the closet. The door was slightly ajar and he inspected, without any great enthusiasm, the few miscellaneous garments hanging there.

  They didn’t suggest anything to him so he climbed a bath robe rope to the upper regions of the closet where he saw two shelves.

  On one shelf was a bottle of Scotch. Tink wrinkled his nose distastefully at it and continued upward. On the second shelf he made an important discovery. A loose cloth bag with wooden handles had been shoved back against the wall of the closet, obviously in an attempt to conceal its presence.

  Tink looked inside the bag and he laughed out loud. His tinkling chuckle was, for the first time in an hour, completely carefree and joyous. For he knew his problems were over.

  It would take a little manipulating but that was a minor matter. In fact it only took him two minutes to make the necessary preparations inside the closet.

  Still, there was one job left that was rather ticklish. He had to discover some way to prompt the young composer to open the closet door.

  But now that Tink was on the right track this obstacle seemed a simple matter. His confidence and assurance returned, bringing with them his characteristic ingenuity.

  Popping out of the clothes closet he scampered under the bed and climbed quickly to the table top where the Scotch bottle was placed.

  How to make the young man walk across the room and open the closet door? Tink thought he had it.

  He waited patiently until the composer reached for the Scotch, then with all his strength shoved against the bottle.

  The bottle swayed slightly, the composer’s hand missed the neck by a fraction of an inch and, with another shove from Tink, the bottle toppled from the table to the floor with a splintering crash.

  “Damn!” Peter Hardwicke said disgustedly.

  For a moment he stared broodingly at the bottle without moving a muscle, and Tink’s heart hammered despairingly.

  Maybe it wouldn’t work after all!

  A sigh of relief escaped his lips wh
en the composer finally stood up and walked to the closet for another bottle of Scotch.

  Everything was going to be okay now. Leaning comfortably against the Scotch shot glass, Tink waited happily for developments. A cheerful, expectant smile was on his lips.

  Wouldn’t Jing be proud of him!

  NASTEE felt little enthusiasm for the scene he was witnessing. Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was checking out at the apartment desk and he was finding the whole thing a trifle boring.

  “I’ll send someone for my things,” Mrs. Ann Hardwicke was saying to the desk clerk.

  The young clerk was discreetly curious.

  “Naturally, we’re sorry you’re leaving,” he said. “Has the service been satisfactory?”

  “It’s not that,” Ann said. “It’s—something else.”

  Her voice was miserable.

  Nastee leaned against an ink-well on the desk and yawned. Tink had told him to stop this girl from leaving, but why should he? Tink was getting too high and mighty lately. This would show him he wasn’t so clever.

  At that moment a heavy set, florid faced man bustled up to the desk. He was well dressed and had the nervous air of impatience that stamps self-important people.

  “Boy!” he snapped to the desk clerk, “I’m in a hurry.”

  He pulled out a heavily stuffed wallet and laid it on the desk while he fished in his vest pocket for a pen.

  The wallet lay on the desk, almost touching Ann’s open purse. Nastee looked at the two objects for an instant with contemplative eyes. Then he chuckled mischievously. A golden opportunity!

  Ann thanked the clerk for his kindness and walked away, trying desperately to hold back the tears.

  She was half way across the lobby when she heard an angry bellow behind her. Turning she saw a fat, important looking man striding toward her, waving his arms excitedly.

  The man caught her arm and dragged her forcibly back to the desk.

  “I saw you,” he shouted. “You can’t pull your tricks on me, sister.”

  “Please,” Ann said, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “Don’t gimme that stuff,” the fat man cried. “You stole my wallet. Somebody call the police.”

  “I did no such thing!” Ann said hotly.

  The desk clerk looked his pained embarrassment.

  “Please,” he said. “We can settle this matter quietly. Mrs. Hardwicke, I know you didn’t take this gentleman’s wallet, but if you would let us look through your purse it would prove your innocence.”

  “Why, certainly,” Ann said.

  She opened her purse and her knees began to tremble. A man’s wallet was lying among her make-up and letters and change.

  “Oh!” she said faintly. She was too terrified to do anything but stare at the incriminating wallet.

  “You see?” the fat man cried triumphantly. He snatched his wallet from the purse.

  “It’s—some mistake,” Ann said helplessly.

  “I’ll say it was, sister,” he snapped. “You’ll have time to regret it, too. The cops are always happy to catch one of you hotel thiefs.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Ann said, starting to cry. “I live here with my husband.”

  “That’s a hot one, sister,” the man said. “Wouldn’t care to take me up to your husband, would you?”

  Ann sniffled miserably.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she said in a muffled voice. She couldn’t crawl to Peter now that she was in trouble. She started crying harder.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” the man snapped. “You’re lying from the start to finish. And don’t think those crocodile tears are going to help.”

  “They’re not c—croc—odile tears,” Ann said, between sobs.

  “Mrs. Hardwicke,” the desk clerk said, “I think it would be wise to take this man up to see your husband.”

  “Your darn tootin’,” the man said. “If you’ve got a husband I want to see him. Come on.”

  He dragged Ann to the elevator and the desk clerk followed, distraught.

  Nastee lay on the desk blotter, weak with laughter. It had been the funniest thing he had seen in years . . .

  PETER HARDWICKE jerked open the closet door of the bedroom and was almost hit on the head by the heavy knitting bag which fell from the top shelf. He picked it up slowly. One string of yarn had been tied to the inside doorknob, so that when he opened the door it had pulled the bag from the shelf.

  With fingers that suddenly trembled he opened the bag and lifted out several half-finished tiny garments. Under a ball of bright blue wool he saw a pair of knitted boots, about two inches long.

  He stared dazedly at the knitted baby clothes, his face whitening. Remorse flooded over him.

  “The poor kid,” he choked. “And I drove her away.”

  Feverishly he stuffed the garments back into the knitting bag and grabbed his coat from the closet. He banged out of the room like a madman.

  Tink smiled contentedly. Things would straighten out now. Whistling merrily he jumped to the bed and bounced to the floor.

  Peter Hardwicke was striding toward the living room door when an imperative, angry knock sounded. He jerked open the door. Ann was standing there, between an angry looking fat man and the desk clerk. Her eyes were red from crying.

  The fat man stepped forward importantly.

  “Look here, mister,” he began, but he got no farther.

  Peter shoved him out of the way and grabbed his wife by the shoulders.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said roughly.

  Ann started crying again as Peter’s arms went around her hungrily.

  “Just a minute,” the fat man broke in angrily. “Your wife tried to steal my wallet. What are you going to do about it?”

  It took several seconds for the import of this remark to sink into Peter’s mind. When it did he took Ann by the shoulders and gently moved her out of the way. Then he stared thoughtfully at the heavy set, red-faced man.

  “What am I going to do about it?” he repeated softly. “Just this. If you aren’t out of my sight in three seconds I will turn your life insurance policy into a claim. Do you follow me?”

  The fat man got the general drift.

  “Now, listen Buddy,” he said uneasily, “I—”

  “One!” Peter said firmly.

  “But—”

  “Two!”

  The fat man turned and ran. When Peter said ‘three’ his padded posterior was disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

  Peter put his arm about Ann’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said gaily. “I’ve got an overture to write. Now that there are three people interested in it I can’t fail.”

  Ann squealed as Peter swung her up in his arms and strode into the apartment.

  Tink and Jing had watched this scene with shining eyes.

  “Oh, Tink,” Jing said, “you’re wonderful.”

  Nastee appeared in the doorway, an unpleasant scowl on his face.

  “Bah!” he said. “Everything I do turns out wrong.”

  Tink looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Maybe this will be a lesson to you,” he said.

  “Bah!” said Nastee.

  Jing was humming softly to herself.

  “I think,” she said sweetly, “that Nastee needs a more forceful kind of lesson. Don’t you agree, Tink?”

  Tink looked at her and nodded.

  ORCHESTRAL HALL was crowded to capacity with smartly dressed men and women. From their vantage point on the edge of the conductor’s podium, Tink and Jing breathlessly regarded the glittering scene.

  The orchestra was tuning up in the pit and the sound of the experimental scrapings drifted through the air, as exciting as sparks in a breeze.

  In the expectant audience Jing picked out the young composer, Peter Hardwicke, and his wife. They were sitting together, hand-in-hand, occasionally looking happily at each other.

  “I hope the overture is good,” Tink said.

  “It is,” Jing s
aid, “I know.”

  Nastee was present also, sullen and ungracious, sitting glumly by himself a few inches from Tink and Jing. His little face was screwed up unpleasantly and Tink realized uneasily that more devilment was being plotted behind those surly features.

  “Remember, Nastee,” he said worriedly, “you’ve promised not to start any trouble here.”

  “Bah!” Nastee said.

  “Nastee,” Jing said suddenly, “you must stay on this side of the podium with us. If you cross to the other you may cause trouble.”

  Nastee leered at her, then stood up and walked defiantly to the opposite side of the podium.

  “I’ll do what I like,” he called back nastily.

  “Jing,” Tink sighed, “that’s not the way to handle Nastee. When you tell him not to do anything, that’s the first thing he’ll do.”

  Jing smiled to herself.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said.

  A thunder of applause broke from the audience then as the conductor, a stocky, flowing haired genius, made his appearance and marched to the podium. He acknowledged the ovation with a brief bow. Turning, he faced the orchestra and drew himself up to his full height.

  Then, with the traditional gesture for attention, he rapped sharply on the podium with his baton.

  All three of the sharp blows landed squarely on Nastee’s head, knocking him flat on his stomach, dazed, breathless and aching all over like a sore tooth.

  The sounds of his outraged, wailing shrieks were completely drowned out by the crashing chords of the overture.

  Tink looked at Nastee’s sprawled, dazed figure, and he began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed until tears came to his eyes and then he turned weakly to Jing.

  “You’re wonderful,” he said. “You knew what would happen to Nastee at the other end of the podium, didn’t you?”

  “That’s why I told him not to go down there,” Jing said primly. “Of course I wasn’t sure he’d get hit, but the chance was too good to miss. I felt just a little bit guilty, but I’m sure the lesson will do him good.”

  Tink stared at the elfinly beautiful girl in helpless admiration.

  “Gee,” he said, “your wonderful.”

  Nastee raised his aching head weakly.