Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Reggie poured himself another drink with trembling fingers.

  “D-don’t do that any more,” he pleaded.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Demise said agreeably. “I am sorry if I shocked you. I can see now that it was a mistake to let you see me in the first place. I understand now why it is strictly forbidden.”

  Reggie drained his drink.

  “I wish you hadn’t decided to break regulations,” he said moodily. “I’ve never been so upset in all my life. Why didn’t you remain invisible, if you’re supposed to? You aren’t going to creep into people’s hearts if you pop up and announce yourself as an agent of Death and start making speeches about whisking them off to the Land of Darkness. People just don’t like that sort of thing. By all means stay invisible in the future.”

  Mr. Demise shuffled awkwardly and for the first time his poise seemed deserting him.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said gloomily. “But I was curious.”

  “That’s a fine excuse,” Reggie said scathingly. “I should think they’d get a man of tact and diplomacy for your job. Not some nosy person whose curiosity runs away with him.”

  “You see,” Mr. Demise explained miserably, “you happened to be my first assignment. I’ve had no experience at all in this work and I was curious to see what kind of person I was going to take back with me. And I wanted to get a first-hand reaction from you.”

  Reggie mixed himself another drink. He was beginning to feel belligerent.

  “So?” he cried. “They sent an amateur down to get me, did they? I suppose I don’t rate an experienced escort. So they sent you. I’m surprised they didn’t just tell the office boy to do the job.”

  “Your levity is poor taste,” Mr. Demise observed frigidly. “I can assure you that I am perfectly qualified to act as your guide to the Other World. I have studied hard to perfect myself for my work and I was considered one of the outstanding pupils in the class which just graduated. You do not have to relieve your spite by making slighting references to my professional ability.”

  “Bah!” Reggie said. “If you have any professional ability it hasn’t been noticeable so far. You’re just out of some college, aren’t you? You talk like a college boy. You don’t make sense.”

  Mr. Demise looked hurt.

  “I’m sorry you’re taking this attitude,” he said. “I had hoped we could be friends.”

  “Friends!” Reggie shrieked. “Am I expected to be friendly with some ghoul who comes prowling around threatening to whisk me off to Eternity? What more do they expect of me? To pay my own way too, I suppose.”

  “Your passage will be taken care of at the other end,” Mr. Demise said. “Since you have taken such an ungracious stand we will not dally further.”

  “NOW wait a minute,” Reggie said. He felt his throat getting dry. The prospects of Death were not pleasant. He didn’t want to die right now. He had things to do. There was that badminton match next week with Snuffy Smith . . .

  “Can’t we put this thing off a while?” he asked hopefully. “There’s no sense in rushing things, I always say. Why don’t you go off and get yourself a lot of experience and then come back for me?”

  “That is impossible,” Mr. Demise said flatly. He drew from his inside coat pocket a slim black book which he opened to the first page. “You are first on my list and I must carry out my orders to the letter. All the information as to person, place and method is contained in this book and it would be impossible to change it.”

  “Place and method, eh?” Reggie said weakly. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “You mean you’ve got the dope there on how it’s going to happen and when it’s going to happen?”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Demise replied. “We don’t use a hit-or-miss method. Everything is worked out to a science. You, for instance, are—” Mr. Demise paused and shook his head. “No,” he continued, “I can’t tell you. That is also against instructions.”

  “You haven’t paid much attention to instructions so far,” Reggie said sulkily. “Can’t you give me a hint as to how I’m going to get it?”

  Mr. Demise shook his head firmly.

  “That would be an unthinkable breach of conduct,” he said, shaking his head severely and frowning. “Absolutely unthinkable.”

  “All right,” Reggie said resignedly. There was no point, he realized, in arguing with this inhuman icicle. “But let’s have a drink before we get down to—er—business.”

  “I am not allowed to drink while on duty,” Mr. Demise said primly.

  “For gosh sakes,” Reggie said disgustedly, “you weren’t thinking about your precious orders and regulations when you followed me around, scaring the hell out of me. Oh no! That was all right. But when I ask you to do a little something outside the letter of your instructions it’s no soap. If there’s anything fair in that I can’t see it.”

  Mr. Demise shuffled uncomfortably.

  “It was indiscreet of me to allow you to see me,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps your objection is justifiable. It might square things a bit if I would take a drink with you. Not that I would expect to enjoy the stuff but it seems the fair thing to do.”

  “Fine,” Reggie said.

  He mixed two drinks in somber silence. Because he realized that it was probably the last time he would ever perform that pleasant chore, he put his heart and soul into the task and when he finally handed Mr. Demise his drink it was a veritable masterpiece.

  Mr. Demise drank the drink—it was a double Martini with a splash of Quantro—in one long appreciative gulp. He set the glass down and sighed contentedly.

  “Another?” Reggie suggested hopefully.

  “No,” Mr. Demise said, “one is plenty. As a matter of fact,” he said, “that’s the first drink I ever had. Alcohol is one of our finest helpers but we aren’t supposed to touch it. Personally I think its intoxicating effect is greatly overrated.”

  REGGIE leaned forward and there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes.

  “So that was your first drink, eh?” he asked. “And you don’t feel anything?”

  “Not a thing,” said Mr. Demise. “Of course I notice a certain glow, but that’s all.”

  “Just a certain glow, eh?” Reggie said.

  “Thash all,” Mr. Demise said. He sat down suddenly. “And my tongue ish a lil’ thick.”

  “Well, that’s only natural,” Reggie said. He mixed another drink and there was a cryptic smile on his lips. “Alcohol is a peculiar thing. One drink will addle a person’s wits and the second will act as an antidote. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Demise rocked slightly in the chair. His coal-black eyes were a bit glazed. “Ish very strange,” he conceded.

  “Possibly you’d like to try the antidote?” Reggie said casually.

  “Might not be a bad idea,” said Mr. Demise.

  Reggie handed him the second drink and watched contentedly as Mr. Demise drank it down. Mr. Demise set down the glass.

  “You wush right,” he said, slumping against the back of the chair. “Absolutely right. Second drink ish an antidote. Jush what I needed.”

  “Absolutely,” Reggie agreed solemnly.

  Mr. Demise closed his eyes but he opened them almost immediately. He struggled up to a sitting position.

  “I hash something to do,” he muttered. His hand groped into the inside of his coat, returned with the slim black book. “Very important,” he mumbled. “First assignment. Can’t have any slip ups.”

  Reggie moistened his lips nervously. He eyed the little black book carefully. That might be the way . . .

  “How about another drink, old boy,” he said heartily. He mixed one quickly, handed it to Mr. Demise. Mr. Demise took it in his left hand and Reggie deftly plucked the black book from his right hand. Mr. Demise appeared not to notice the exchange. He drank the drink methodically.

  Reggie tossed the book under a coffee table.

  Mr. Demise climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  Reggie took him
by the arm. “What say we go out and have a few quick antidotes?” he suggested.

  Mr. Demise nodded stupidly. He mumbled something unintelligible and allowed Reggie to lead him to the door. Reggie’s brain was working at full speed. If he could just ditch Mr. Demise and get back to the book everything might be saved. His idea was sheer brilliance . . .

  THEIR first destination was a bar. Reggie found a cab, shoved Mr. Demise inside and ordered the driver to one of the dozens of friendly bars with which he was familiar.

  At the first stop Mr. Demise had two more drinks. When he had drained the second Reggie hauled him to his feet and started for another palate palace. His object was to keep Mr. Demise so bewildered and drunk that he would forget his job.

  For a while he succeeded. Mr. Demise followed him helplessly from bar to bar and sat tottering on high stools happily pouring fiery intoxicants into his already overburdened stomach.

  But finally he reached the state of saturation where the liquor produced a steadily diminishing effect. Reggie watched him worriedly and ordered more and more drinks.

  But it was no use.

  In spite of the enormous quantities of liquor he had consumed, Mr. Demise was slowly sobering up. His face was losing its blank expression and an intelligent gleam was creeping back into his eyes.

  He began to fumble uncertainly through his pockets, a worried expression settling over his features.

  Reggie slapped him on the back resoundingly.

  “Have a drink!” he shouted into his ear.

  Mr. Demise shook his head stubbornly.

  “Got a job to do,” he muttered. He went slowly through his pockets and an expression of horror replaced the worried look on his face.

  “Where’s my book?” he gasped. “I’ve lost my book! This is terrible. I’ve got to find it!”

  “What book?” Reggie asked innocently.

  “The book with all the names and places and dates and methods,” Mr. Demise moaned. “I’ve lost it.”

  Reggie shrugged philosophically.

  “Too bad,” he said. “But things are never as black as they seem. Maybe it’ll turn up somewhere. The thing to do is just sit tight until someone finds it and reports it.”

  “I can’t wait,” wailed Mr. Demise. “These things have to happen on schedule. There’d be an awful rumpus in the complaint department if I started sending people up there haphazardly. And I don’t even remember whom I’ve got on the list. You’re the only one I’m sure of.”

  Reggie choked on his drink.

  “Yes,” Mr. Demise went on obliviously, “you’re the first. I’m sure of that much. And I’d better send you along right away. I’ll do that much correctly, at least.”

  “Now, just a minute,” Reggie said, “how’re you sure you’ve got me right? I looked at that book and I don’t think I’m the man you want at all.”

  “You looked at the book!” cried Mr. Demise with sudden suspicion. “So that’s where it went. That’s why you got me drunk. You stole my book, hoping to evade your destiny, didn’t you?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Reggie said, forcing a note of outraged indignation into his voice.

  “Yes you did,” Mr. Demise said. “I’m not going to wait a second longer in your case. Mr. Fiddler, prepare yourself for a long trip and don’t plan on coming back.”

  REGGIE realized that the jig was up. Mr. Demise had a grim business-like note in his voice and there was no hope of prolonging things further. Drastic action was needed, not discussion.

  With a leap like a startled gazelle Reggie left his stool and bounded for the door. Before Mr. Demise could turn around, he was in the street, shouting frantically for a cab.

  A cab pulled to the curb and Reggie leaped into its dark interior. Over his shoulder he saw Mr. Demise stagger from the bar, a wrathful expression stamped on his dark features.

  The cab started away with a roar. Reggie shouted his address at the driver and squirmed about to peek out the rear window.

  He saw Mr. Demise clambering into another cab.

  “Hurry!” he shouted to his driver.

  “Life or death, eh?” the cabby said conversationally.

  Reggie winced. “You said it.”

  The cab caromed around corners, hit the Outer Drive and hurled along like a frightened cotton-tail until it reached the near North side, where it swung west and sped through the labyrinthine streets that led to Reggie’s apartment.

  From the rear window Reggie could see Mr. Demise’s cab speeding after them, steadily closing the gap. His palms were moist and the effects of the liquor had completely faded, leaving him horribly sober. There was nothing funny about this predicament.

  His cab jolted to a stop and Reggie threw a bill at the driver and leaped out and raced into the foyer of his building.

  By a miraculous stroke of luck the elevator was not in use. He slammed the door and jabbed the button and the car started upward with a jerk. He breathed a long shuddering sigh of relief. Maybe there would yet be time . . .

  The elevator stopped at his floor. Just as he opened the door and stepped out, the elevator suddenly dropped back down the shaft. One of his legs dangled down the shaft. With a startled squawk he pulled himself onto the floor landing.

  Mr. Demise obviously meant business. If he’d been in that elevator everything would be all over now. As it was he still had a chance.

  He let himself into his apartment, switched on the light and dove underneath the coffee table. The black book of doom was still there. Frantically Reggie opened it to the first page, found his own name.

  He jerked a pencil from his pocket . . .

  He was still scribbling furiously when the door of the apartment banged open and Mr. Demise strode into the room, his face black as a thundercloud.

  Reggie dropped the pencil and hid the book from view with his body.

  “So!” Mr. Demise cried. “You would try to escape?”

  He raised both hands commandingly in the air.

  Before he could move again Reggie wheeled about.

  “Just a minute,” he shrieked. He held out the slim black book to Mr. Demise. “I was sure a mistake had been made. Here! Look for yourself.”

  “I want no more of your tricks,” Mr. Demise warned ominously.

  “This is no trick,” Reggie said. “You should be grateful to me for catching the error in time.”

  MR. DEMISE took the book from Reggie and examined it carefully. The frown gradually faded from his face as his eyes lingered on the page. He shuffled his feet awkwardly and cleared his throat.

  “It seems,” he said in a small, chastened voice, “that a mistake has been made.”

  Reggie’s heart pounded with hope.

  “It certainly has,” he said. “This entire affair should be reported to someone. That’s what happens when you put inexperienced men on the job. You wind up with a bungled mess.”

  “I don’t know how it happened,” Mr. Demise said miserably. “All I can say is I’m sorry.”

  “Fine thing,” Reggie said stuffily. “Mess up your job like this and then say you’re sorry. I’d advise, Demise, that you lay off the liquor when you’re supposed to be working.”

  “I will in the future,” Mr. Demise said humbly.

  “See that you do,” Reggie said sternly. “Now I’d say you’d better get to work on that first assignment.”

  “Yes, I will,” Mr. Demise said. With drooping shoulders he moved slowly to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned again to Reggie.

  “I hate to be a pest,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know how to go about this job. Maybe you could help me. Where can I find this fellow?”

  Reggie chuckled and began to mix himself a drink.

  “I’d advise you to try Berchtesgaden,” he said. “Just ask anyone you meet. They’ll tell you where you can find Adolf Hitler.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Demise said gratefully. “I won’t slip up on this one.”

  “See that you don’t,” Re
ggie said.

  THE CHAMELEON MAN

  First published in the January 1943 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Perfect adaptation, that’s what it was. When a human being can blend with his surroundings, funny things can happen!

  I’VE GOT an office in the Daily Standard building and sometimes when things are slow in my line—theatrical bookings—I drift upstairs and talk to the guy who writes the column, The Soldier’s Friend, for the Standard.

  On this particular morning I walked into his office and found it empty so I sat down and waited, figuring he was downstairs getting a mug of coffee. After I cleaned my nails and glanced through Jake’s mail I propped my feet up on the desk and relaxed.

  Things in my line were strictly stinkeroo. With the army taking an option on every available hunk of male flesh, it made it pretty tough to get acts together. Of course, I still had a few dollies to peddle, but the situation don’t look too good there, what with the WAVES and the WAACS and the demand from factories for powder-puff riveters.

  I sighed and moodily contemplated my uncreased trouser legs and thought of my non-existent bank balance. Whoever said war was hell, sure hit the nail on the head.

  The door opened and I heard a shuffle of footsteps on the floor. I tipped my derby back and looked up, expecting to see Jake, but the office was empty.

  The door was standing open and I scratched my head. Maybe it had blown open. Then I remembered the sound of footsteps I’d heard and my bewilderment increased.

  “Hello,” a voice said.

  My feet came down from the desk with a crash. I sat up straight and stared about the small room.

  “Who said that?” I demanded.

  “I did. I’m right here.” It was the same voice and I jerked my head in the direction of the sound.

  For an instant I didn’t see a thing. But then, my eyes seemed suddenly to focus, and I saw a tall, lanky young man standing a few feet from me. He had a shock of straw colored hair and mild blue eyes. He wore a light suit.

  “Can you see me now?” he asked, and his voice sounded strained, as if he were exerting himself in some manner.