Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He entered the monastery and in due time discovered the hidden door at the rear of the altar and descended to the hidden room that had offered a haven to so many weary refugees.

  The first thing the Reich Inspector noticed was a white-haired monk kneeling before a statue. The Reich Inspector drew his gun but it was not necessary.

  The man was obviously dead; he was smiling and his hands were still clasped over his breast.

  Reich Inspector von Moltke then turned to the other side of the room. There were thirteen things lying on the floor. The things had once been German soldiers.

  The Reich Inspector had superintended much of the butchery in Poland; he had seen the effects of starvation and plague in Greece; he had been present at Lidice; but nothing in that extensive experience had prepared him for the sight of those thirteen things on the floor of the little room under the main chapel of an abandoned chapel.

  He stumbled up the steps and hysterial, incoherent noises were sounding in his throat. There was a fleck of froth on his lips and his eyes were those of a wild man.

  He couldn’t talk for hours; and by the time he finally got himself under control, there was not the faintest trace of the route that Pastor Mueller had taken with his refugees.

  THE WILLFUL PUPPETS

  First published in the February 1943 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Larry Temple was in no condition to put on a show this evening, yet it went on! Could it be that his puppets were alive?

  CHAPTER I

  LARRY TEMPLE was feeling rather low when he stepped out into the alley that flanked the Palace theatre. He had just completed his act and the response of the audience could hardly have been termed enthusiastic.

  Larry leaned against the brick wall of the theatre and moodily lighted a cigarette.

  “To hell with ’em,” he muttered bitterly. “They just don’t appreciate any act that hasn’t got a strip-tease in it.” Larry Temple was a puppeteer and, as such, he was considered, in the judgment of those in show business, about one notch below a ventriloquist and about on a par with acrobats.

  He was thoroughly sick of manipulating puppets for a living, but he had to eat and there was nothing else he could do to earn his cakes and coffee.

  As he flipped his half-smoked cigarette away he noticed a small tavern across the street, advertising liquors and beer via a cheerily blinking neon sign.

  Larry was not a drinking man, but his present dissatisfaction weighed against his normal abstinence. He crossed the street and entered the small, dimly lighted bar.

  The bartender mopped the bar in front of him with a damp rag and looked inquiringly at him.

  “Rye,” he said. “Make it double.”

  He lit another cigarette and pushed his gray fedora back on his forehead. He was a clean-cut young man with pleasant brown eyes and a small mustache.

  The bartender set the drink on the bar.

  “Thanks,” Larry said. He tossed a bill on the bar and then picked up the glass of whisky. For a second he inspected the ruddy brown contents of the glass with misgivings; then he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it with one gulp.

  The effect was like that of a small bomb exploding gently in his stomach. A warm languorous wave spread from his midriff and flowed down his legs and up to his arms and throat. He blinked and a hiccough shook him slightly.

  The sensation was not at all unpleasant. He ordered another drink and loosened his collar. It suddenly seemed a bit too tight.

  He glanced at the clock over the bar. It said 8:45. He made a mental note of the time, for his next show was at 9:30. But he had plenty of time.

  The second drink was smoother than the first and it was then that Larry made a discovery, which drinkers the world over have been making since time immemorial. Namely, that each succeeding drink tastes better than its predecessor.

  This discovery was like a revelation to Larry.

  He ordered another drink to prove his thesis and he was nodding with thoughtful pleasure when he had finished the third drink. He was absolutely right. The third drink tasted immeasurably smoother and better than the second, which hadn’t been any slouch.

  A LITTLE while later he glanced at the clock. He blinked and peered at it intently. He experienced a faint sensation of annoyance. The damn clock wasn’t behaving. Its hands were revolving slowly and steadily and the numerals on the dial were moving about in small circles.

  “No way for a clock to act,” he muttered. He put his elbows on the bar and slumped forward. He felt better that way, he discovered.

  The bartender leaned toward him.

  “What’d you say, buddy?”

  “I asked for a drink,” Larry said, with considerable dignity. “And, If you aren’t busy, you might tell me what time it is.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The bartender glanced over his shoulder. “It’s 9:05.” He poured another drink for Larry.

  “Thank you,” Larry said solemnly. He suddenly realized what a sterling chap this bartender was. He blinked owlishly.

  “You are a scholar and a gentleman,” he said, punching the surface of the bar for emphasis.

  “The same to you,” the bartender said. He watched Larry drain the glass of whisky with slightly apprehensive eyes. “You’d better take it a little easy,” he advised. “That stuff you’re drinking ain’t milk.”

  Larry digested this information in silence. Somehow it seemed important that he wasn’t drinking milk, but he couldn’t quite figure out why.

  He looked at the clock again but it was still acting foolishly.

  The bartender said, “It’s 9:10. Have you got a date or something?”

  Larry nodded, beaming. He liked this chap more each minute. He liked the way he figured things out and drove right to the heart of an issue.

  “What time is your date?” the bartender asked.

  Larry was reaching the secretive stage. He put a finger over his lips and peered up and down the deserted bar.

  “Mustn’t tell,” he hissed in a thick conspiratorial whisper. “McGinty wouldn’t want me to tell.”

  “Who’s McGinty?”

  “McGinty is the stage manager,” Larry confided.

  “Are you an actor?” the bartender asked.

  LARRY felt a warm, satisfied glow stealing over him and it was not altogether the effect of the liquor.

  “Yes,” he said, “you might say I am an actor. That is, after a fashion.”

  “Gee,” the bartender said, and the admiration in his voice was sufficiently pronounced to seep through the alcoholic fog that was enveloping Larry. “That’s sure interesting,” he went on wistfully. “You know I always had a hankering to go on the stage. Making love to pretty girls all day is my idea of nice work, if you can get it.”

  Larry began to feel unhappy again.

  “If you can get it,” he said. A tear fell into his empty glass.

  “What’s the matter?” the bartender asked solicitously.

  “I need another drink,” Larry said mournfully.

  “Okay,” the bartender said, reaching for the bottle, “but are you sure you’ve got time? It’s 9:25 right now.”

  Larry straightened with a jerk.

  Nine-twenty-five!

  His act was supposed to go on at 9:15!

  This realization had a slightly sobering effect on him. Missing an act was one of the unpardonable crimes of show business. Performers who missed their acts inevitably wound up missing their meals. That was as definite as an algebraic equation.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “I must be going,” he announced, in about the tone of voice Napoleon must have used when his boat set out for St. Helena.

  “I hope you’re not late,” the bartender said.

  Larry glanced at the clock. He had sobered sufficiently to read the hands. It was 9:30!

  “Hope is a wonderful thing,” he muttered. He patted the bartender on the shoulder. “We, who are about to go hungry, salute you.”
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  With that he staggered out of the bar and lurched across the alley to the stage door of the Palace. He felt fine, except for his realization that black doom was awaiting him; and also his knees had an odd tendency to work in reverse.

  Fortunately there was no one on guard at the stage door and he was able to slip backstage without being noticed. He saw a small knot of people gathered at the wings watching whatever was happening on the stage and he heard the roars of applause from the theatre audience.

  Someone was getting a hand, he thought bitterly.

  In the crowd of stage hands and performers gathered at the wings he recognized the stocky belligerent figure of Matt McGinty.

  He swallowed guiltily. He had no desire to meet McGinty now. After missing his act, McGinty would be in a mood to strangle him with his bare hands.

  WITH commendable stealth, considering the load he was carrying, Larry tip-toed past the group at the wings without being noticed. He crept through the maze of backdrops and ropes until he reached a slit in the curtain, from where he could watch the act on the stage without being observed.

  When he peeked through the narrow opening in the back curtain the sight that met his eyes gave him a distinct start. For in the center of the stage was his puppet booth and, at the angle he was looking, he could see his three puppets going through their paces.

  The antics in which they were indulging was not in any way similar to the act he had perfected; but the audience was obviously delighted.

  Larry felt as if he had been slugged at the base of the skull with a lead pipe. He had returned to the theatre expecting to have fire and brimstone heaped on his head by McGinty for missing his act. And here was the act going merrily on, apparently not minding his absence one bit.

  But who was manipulating the puppets!

  The curtain at the back of the booth was drawn and whoever was inside was not visible to Larry. But, whoever he was, Larry knew he was a master.

  There was a life-like humor and deftness in the performance of the puppets that exceeded any effect Larry had ever been able to create.

  The act was reaching its climax. Already, Larry knew, it had been on several minutes too long, but far from minding, the audience was eating it up.

  When the curtain finally came down and the stage hands emerged from the wings and speedily shoved the puppet’s booth off the stage, the packed house was shaking to the applause of the audience.

  Larry listened to the ovation enviously. He had never gotten a reception like that. He was lucky if the audience took pity on his efforts and applauded through kindness.

  But he did not feel too bitter. For he realized that someone had saved him from a nasty mess. If whoever had stepped into the breach to operate the puppet act hadn’t been on hand it would have been terrible.

  McGinty at this moment would be throwing him out the rear door of the theatre with explicit and profane instructions not to come back.

  THE stage hands had shoved the puppet booth in to the wings and Larry realized that the least he could do was to thank whoever had saved his neck.

  With that thought in mind he emerged from his place of concealment. As he stepped into the view of the crowd in the wings McGinty saw him and strode toward him.

  Larry felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  McGinty stopped in front of him. hands on his hips.

  “It breaks my heart to tell you this,” he said, “but that was a darn good act.” He smiled suddenly and slapped Larry on the back. “What are you looking so scared about? I’m telling you, you laid ’em in the aisles. Listen! They’re still clapping. Keep up that kind of work, son, and you’ll be out of the bread-and-butter circuits darn soon.”

  Larry sputtered helplessly. He tried to speak but there were no words to express the weird thoughts that were running crazily through his head.

  “What’s the matter with you?” McGinty demanded. “You’d think there something wrong about knocking that audience cold like you did.”

  Without answering, Larry moved dazedly to the puppet booth which was standing in the wings. He drew aside the rear curtain and peered into the small aperture from which the puppeteer manipulated the puppets.

  It was empty!

  He stepped around to the front of the booth and stared intently at the three puppets who were hanging inertly from the strings which motivated them.

  The three figures were carved from wood and cleverly jointed together at knees, elbows and neck. Their small, merry faces were tinted with life-like shades and there were bright glints in their shining eyes, which were made of buttons.

  Larry called them Pat and Mike and Tim.

  In the act, Pat and Mike were hellions, in and out of trouble all the time, while Tim was dutiful and innocent.

  But in spite of the fact that Larry sometimes thought of them as having personality and individuality, they were actually three wooden figures, about eight inches high, cleverly fashioned to react to his manipulations.

  And that was all.

  LARRY took off his hat slowly and ran a hand through his hair. He felt the effects of the liquor deserting him and he didn’t like that. He felt that he was going to need something to sustain him.

  For there was a great big question in his mind.

  Who had manipulated these puppets?

  That was the question and, needless to say, there was no answer to it.

  McGinty was looking at him closely.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “You act as if you’d been on a binge.”

  “McGinty,” Larry. said slowly, “X didn’t handle this act. Do you know who did?”

  “Huh?” McGinty’s voice was incredulous. He leaned forward and sniffed suspiciously. “As I thought. You’ve been swilling a lot of cheap booze from the smell of you. It’s lucky this is your last show tonight. Go home and sleep it off and don’t let me catch you drinking on the job again.”

  “But I know what I’m talking about,” Larry said. He felt a peculiar flutter of panic. “I didn’t handle this show. I couldn’t have. I wasn’t here.”

  “Who’re you trying to kid?” McGinty demanded. “You’re out of your head. Sleep it off, I’m telling you.” Larry shook his head weakly and stared at the puppets.

  “Maybe they know,” he muttered. “I don’t.”

  He turned on his heel and strode toward his dressing room, weaving only slightly from the load he was still carrying.

  CHAPTER II

  LARRY did a lot of thinking when he got to his dressing room. With an ice pack on his dully aching head he sat at his dressing table staring moodily at his image as reflected in the long, cracked mirror.

  And the more he thought about the weird events that had taken place, the more befuddled he became. Maybe he, himself, had manipulated the puppets. Possibly he had been so drunk that he just didn’t remember.

  He shook his head irritably. That wouldn’t wash. He hadn’t been that drunk. And he had a distinct recollection of having watched the act from back-stage.

  He couldn’t have been in the puppet booth manipulating the marionettes and, at the same time, back-stage watching the show, could he?

  No, he told himself decisively, that would have been impossible. So there he was. Stuck.

  Stuck, that, was, for any reasonable explanation of how the act had managed to go on while he was sitting in a bar a half block away.

  He shook his head wearily. Nothing made any sense.

  He had reached this conclusion when there was a sudden sharp knock on the door of his dressing room. The sound of the impatient knock was like a knife driven into each of his eardrums and then twisted slowly.

  He jumped involuntarily and the ice pack fell from his head to the floor.

  The knock was repeated, sharply, insistently.

  Larry winced, and walked to the door.

  “Go away!” he shouted. “I just died!”

  The door opened and a girl stepped into the room. She surveyed him coolly.<
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  “You look it,” she murmured.

  Larry goggled at her speechlessly. She was just about the most breath-taking parcel of femininity he had ever inspected. Her eyes were deep and level and their shade would have shamed violets. The top of her smooth-shining blonde head came just about to his shoulders and she was as neatly put together as a Christmas package. She was wearing clothes. Larry was too impressed with the contents of this particular package to notice the details of the trimmings.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Won’t you please come in?”

  This was a somewhat superfluous invitation, for the girl was already in the room and Larry noticed then, for the first time, that she was not alone.

  A man was with her. A tall, well-groomed man with a lean, arrogant face and smooth, dark hair that fitted his skull as closely as a velvet cap.

  This immaculately turned-out specimen looked about the dressing room with an amused twist to his lips. His attitude was that of slumming royalty.

  “I told you this was a mistake,” he murmured to the girl.

  The girl ignored the remark. She turned directly to Larry and he noticed that her small lovely jaw was squared stubbornly.

  “I’m Gloria Manners,” she said, “and this is my friend, Dereck Miller.”

  “How do you do,” Larry said.

  THE tall creature designated as Dereck Miller ignored the hand that Larry extended and nodded his head carelessly. Larry discovered that he had taken a violent dislike to Dereck Miller. And this was rather unusual, for Larry was the easy-going, cheerful type, who very seldom bothered to have serious emotions about people. Now he found himself thinking rather wistfully of the many interesting things that could happen to the man, what with big cars whizzing about and people dropping flower pots from high buildings . . .

  This pleasant train of thought was derailed abruptly by the girl’s next remark.

  “I want to hire your services, Mr. Temple, if it can be arranged.”

  “What?”