Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He sighed and there was envy in the sigh. Naturally the old man and Dereck would be as thick as thieves, since they had a sort of military bond between them.

  “Oh, they’re cute,” Gloria cried, as Larry gathered the controlling strings of the puppets in his hands and lifted them to a standing position. With dexterously sensitive fingers he set them jigging.

  The colonel shoved his craggy face close to the dancing puppets.

  “I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous in all my life,” he growled.

  “They’re the most stupid looking things a person could imagine. They look silly. Whoever made them must have been dumb and blind.”

  His fiercely scowling face was within an inch of the puppet at the left end of the line. This was the puppet Larry had dubbed Mike, because of the merrily belligerent expression carved on his little wooden face.

  An odd thing happened then.

  The foot of this puppet flew out with sudden malicious speed.

  And its hard wooden shoe landed squarely on the tip of the colonel’s red-veined, beaked nose!

  THE colonel straightened with a roar that set the floor trembling. He glared in raging accusation at the puppet that had kicked him.

  “It—it assaulted me!” he roared.

  “Don’t be silly, Father,” Gloria said soothingly. “How could a puppet do anything like that? They’re just little wooden figures. Their actions are completely controlled by Larry.”

  “So that’s it!” the colonel bellowed.

  He wheeled on Larry who was still holding the puppets’ strings in his hands.

  “I presume, young man, that that is your idea of a joke,” he shouted wrathfully.

  He drew himself up to his full impressive height and his eyes pierced Larry like twin needles.

  “It might interest you to know,” he said scathingly, “that I happen to regard practical joking as the external expression of a low, perverted intellect.”

  He turned on his heel and marched stiffly from the room. After a discreet interval Dereck followed suit. His attitude indicated plainly that he shared the colonel’s opinion.

  Gloria was looking at Larry with wonder in her blue eyes. “Why did you have to do that, Larry?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make that puppet kick Father.” Larry’s expression was slightly dazed. “I—I didn’t. Anyway I don’t think I did.”

  The girl’s expression was an interesting blend of exasperation and amusement. “Don’t be silly! It could hardly have kicked him of its own accord.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Larry. “I mean, you’re right. But I don’t see how—” His voice trailed off.

  The entrance of the butler with the announcement that dinner was served, ended the conversation on that note of uncertainty.

  Except for the excellent food, dinner proved to be something of an ordeal. The colonel, evidently still smarting from Larry’s attempt on his dignity, had drawn into a shell. Dereck managed to monopolize Gloria by means of a steady flow of light conversation that definitely held no place for Larry.

  Afterward, the young puppeteer, tired, puzzled and vaguely depressed, slowly mounted the stairs to his room, He undressed wearily and got into bed. But he couldn’t sleep. There were too many disquieting thoughts buzzing about in his head. And chief among these disturbing figments was his concern over what had happened to Mike. He was certainly acting in a peculiar fashion and he could think of no reasonable explanation for the puppet’s conduct. If anything happened tomorrow night during the big show . . .

  HE TOSSED restlessly. Sleep seemed an elusive thing that was farther away than ever. When he heard the great clock in the lower hall mournfully chiming two o’clock, he decided that there was no longer any point in staying in bed.

  He got up and slipped into his bathrobe and slippers. He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed smoking moodily. The cigarette tasted foul. He put it out and lit another.

  After a few moments he stood up, deciding that he had better go downstairs and see that everything was all right with his equipment.

  He felt better having something definite to do. He put out his cigarette and left his room as quietly as possible. The house was dark and heavy with a tomb-like silence.

  Larry found the carved stair banister and guided himself down to the first floor. He picked his way carefully through the library and when he reached the sun-room he turned on one of the floor lamps.

  A shadow moved away from the wall. The end of a glowing cigar was visible in the semi-gloom.

  “Greetings, chum,” a voice said.

  “It’s you again,” Larry said wearily, as Buggy Rafferty moved out into the light, blinking his little eyes against the soft glare.

  He was wearing crimson pajamas with a yellow sash and a light tan dressing gown with green felt lapels. His hands were jammed into the pockets of the gown and Larry detected a significant bulge under the right pocket.

  “That was a crummy trick you played on me today, chum,” he said in an injured voice, “but I ain’t sore, honest. This way I gets to gab with the help and find out the lay of the land.”

  “What are you doing prowling about the house this time of night?” Larry asked stiffly.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Buggy grinned. “But I ain’t the nosey type. I’m just doin’ a little research work, that’s all. Checkin’ the burglar alarms and things like that. Can’t be too careful these days. That Rastus kept me so busy cuttin’ wood and hauling garbage that this is the first chance I got to look the joint over. And from what Fve seen, it’s goin’ to be a lead-pipe cinch.”

  “How dandy,” Larry said gloomily.

  Until now he had forgotten about Buggy. He had been so worried about the peculiar behavior of his puppet that all other thoughts had been driven from his mind. His spirits sank. For a while he had been kidding himself with the delightful prospects of seeing Gloria the next day and possibly making hay while the sun shone.

  But his name would be mud when Buggy copped her diamonds and blew the country. Naturally he would be held responsible for that. If he escaped a nice smacking twenty-year sentence he’d be lucky.

  “Well, be good, chum,” Buggy said. “I’m goin’ back to my honest slumber. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Good night,” Larry said dully. The chances of Buggy strangling in the bed clothes were too remote to be cheering. All he could hope for was something developing tomorrow that would enable him to pull Buggy’s claws.

  He would like to do it with pliers, he thought bitterly.

  WHEN Buggy had left, Larry turned his attention to his puppet booth. And here he was in for another shock.

  The strings that led to two o£ the puppets were badly twisted and snarled. But that was not the worst.

  The two puppets were gone!

  Larry felt his scalp prickling with a strange fear. He turned on the high lights in the room and returned to his booth to make a thorough inspection of the damage.

  Only one puppet was in evidence.

  Tim, the puppet who took the role of the naive, innocent party in the little skits, was still present, but Pat and Mike, the two hellions, were gone without a trace.

  Tim was sitting on the edge of the tiny stage, a prop match and cigarette in his hands. There was a peculiarly doleful expression on the little face.

  Larry picked the puppet up and examined it carefully. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it for all the manipulating strings were still attached and in good order.

  Larry set Tim on his shoulder and manipulated the wooden arms, legs and neck of the tiny puppet to make sure that everything was in good working order.

  He was slightly reassured to discover that Tim at least was all right, but he couldn’t put on a show with only one puppet.

  He stared bitterly at the deserted stage and the snarled ropes.

  “I wonder where the hell they are,” he said angrily.

  “They’re gone,” a small voice said in his ear
.

  “I know that,” Larry said irritably, “but where—”

  Words jammed up in his throat and stuck there. An unpleasant shudder traveled down his spine.

  Had someone spoken?

  Or was he going batty?

  “I know where they’ve gone,” the small voice said. “They wanted me to go with them but I didn’t think it was right.”

  There was no doubt in his mind now.

  He turned his head slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid that his neck might splinter. His eyes met the shining button eyes of Tim, the little puppet.

  “Did you say something?” Larry whispered.

  “Yes,” Tim answered. His voice was clearly audible. It was small and rough, but not unpleasant. “I said I knew where Pat and Mike have gone. They asked me to come with them but I didn’t think it was the right thing to do.”

  “That’s what I thought you said,” Larry said weakly. Perspiration was pouring down his forehead in tiny rivulets. His mind felt as if it were rocking on its foundations.

  This was incredible! Yet it seemed to be happening.

  “Why didn’t you go with Mike and Pat?” he asked. It was a silly question but Larry hadn’t had much conversational experience with puppets. He was at a loss as to just the right approach.

  “I didn’t think it would be right,” Tim repeated. “I am supposed to act in shows. I want to do what is right.”

  “I am glad you do,” Larry said. He had the inane feeling he was making a perfect fool of himself. The proper procedure, he felt sure, would be to ignore Tim completely and go to bed. This thing couldn’t be happening. It was all a product of his imagination.

  THEN he remembered the night at the theatre when the puppets had gone through their act without him; and he remembered the scene earlier that evening when one of the puppets had kicked Colonel Manners in the nose.

  These recollections gave him pause. “How long has this been going on,” he asked Tim, in what he hoped was a severe voice. But it sounded like a croak to his ears.

  “How long has what been going on?” Tim asked.

  “This—this nonsense,” Larry said. “This business of you puppets taking things into your own hands.”

  “Not long,” Tim answered. “We came to life sort of gradually. The first night was when we put on the show at the theatre without you.”

  “So you did that, did you?” Larry asked.

  “Yes. We were pretty good, too. Better, I guess, than when you ran things.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Larry said.

  “I didn’t think we ought to let anybody know about us coming alive, but I couldn’t make Pat and Mike see it my way. They think they’re going to have a lot of fun now.”

  “This is terrible,” Larry whispered. “How’d you happen to become animated in the first place?”

  “We were made from the wood of a carnivorous tree,” Tim explained. “It was inevitable.”

  “I see,” Larry said. If this wasn’t the damnedest thing!

  Another thing occurred to him then. “Where did Pat and Mike go?” he asked. He felt that he should have asked that question immediately.

  “They went to find the nasty man with the white mustaches,” Tim answered.

  “The colonel?”

  “They didn’t like him,” Tim said. “He called us stupid and silly. Mike and Pat felt very hurt. They were going to do something about it.”

  “Good God!” Larry groaned. “How long have they been gone.”

  “I don’t know,” Tim said. “I can’t tell time.”

  Larry lifted the puppet from his shoulder and put him back on the stage. He had to stop Mike and Pat somehow.

  “What were they going to do to the colonel?” he demanded.

  “They were going to puncture the hot water bottle in his bed,” Tim giggled. “All they needed was a needle. They figured he would be pretty surprised when the water leaked out in the middle of the night.”

  Larry groaned. This would certainly put him in solid with the colonel. The old ram-rod would naturally blame him for anything that happened. The only thing he could do was to try and stop Mike and Pat before it was too late.

  He shook a finger sternly at Tim. “You stay here, you understand?”

  “Yes. I am waiting for the show to go on. I want to do what is right.” Larry patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

  “Good boy,” he said. “I wish the others were like you.”

  He switched off the light and hurried back through the library and up the stairs. The upper floors were dark and he had to feel his way along, but he remembered Gloria saying that the colonel’s room was across the hall from his own, and that made his job simpler.

  He hesitated at the door of the colonel’s room. He had a normal amount of courage but there was something about invading the sanctity of the old boy’s boudoir that unnerved him. Still, every man has his Rubicon to cross, and Larry was no exception.

  With a silent prayer he gently opened the door and eased himself into the darkened room.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE only sound that disturbed the stillness of the room was the slightly asthmatic breathing of the colonel. This stertorous noise emanated from one corner of the room and Larry rightly presumed that the old gentleman was lying there in bed, enjoying his well-earned rest.

  So far so good.

  Apparently Mike and Pat hadn’t gotten this far.

  This comforting thought was blasted an instant later as Larry heard a slight scuffling sound at the foot of the colonel’s bed, followed by a muffled snicker.

  Pat and Mike were obviously on deck and up to no good.

  Larry moved cautiously toward the looming shadow of the bed. Tim had mentioned that the two obstreperous puppets, Pat and Mike, were planning some shenanigans with the hot water bottle at the foot of the colonel’s bed.

  Obviously the quickest way to circumvent their scheme would be to simply remove the hot water bottle. That, to Larry, seemed the essence of logic.

  With this idea in mind he carefully lifted the covers at the foot of the bed and began a cautious search for the bottle.

  He felt something bump against his foot and he heard a giggling laugh somewhere from the region under the bed. He swore softly and continued his search, trying desperately to locate the rubber bottle without awakening the colonel.

  But the best-laid plans can go awry, as Larry discovered to his sorrow. His hand encountered a welling puddle of water at the foot of the bed and at the same there was an enraged bellow from the colonel.

  Larry froze in his tracks. All of his common-sense instincts were screaming at him to flee; but he was powerless to move. He stood like a man in a trance as the bedclothes threshed about and the colonel’s bulky shadow loomed black against the darkness as he sat bolt upright in bed.

  There was a snap of an electric switch and then there was light.

  The colonel stared in apoplectic bewilderment at Larry. His white mustaches were bristling with outraged indignation. And in one gnarled hand he held a huge black pistol which was pointed unwaveringly at Larry’s midriff.

  “What, sir,” he said, in a strangled, hoarse voice, “is the meaning of this?”

  LARRY made futile efforts to speak.

  His mouth opened. His tongue went through the accepted motions but no words broke the silence. He waved his hands desperately and eloquently; but it takes a lot of hand-waving to explain anything, let alone a situation as complicated and embarrassing as that confronting Larry.

  The colonel watched with the sort of disgusted interest a person might bestow upon a creature scurrying from beneath a damp rock.

  “I presume you have something to say,” he said with icy deliberation.

  Larry continued to flutter his hands helplessly. It was all he could do.

  “If those are semaphore signals you may discontinue them,” the colonel said with terrible calmness.

  He threw back the covers of the bed and stood up, towering like Bi
blical figure of wrath in his flowing nightdress and disordered white hair.

  He inspected the condition of his bed with ominous quiet. His eye moved over the hot water bottle which was punctured in a dozen places with tiny needle pricks; his jaw tightened spasmodically as he viewed the soaked mattress and sheets.

  Gleaming guiltily in the center of the spreading patch of dampness was a large darning needle.

  The colonel picked up the needle between his thumb and forefinger. He extended it toward Larry.

  “Yours, I believe,” he said stiffly.

  Larry accepted the needle dumbly. His voice was beginning to return to normalcy.

  “This is all a terrible mistake,” he said. The words popped out in a stuttering rush.

  The colonel eyed him coldly from under lowering brows.

  “You are absolutely right,” he said. “This is a terrible mistake for you, my young friend.” His tone of voice could have been used by a Judge sentencing an ax-slayer to life imprisonment.

  “You don’t understand, sir,” Larry said desperately. “I came here to prevent someone from puncturing your hot water bottle.”

  “So?” The colonel’s brows arched coldly. “And who is this ‘someone’ who was interested in doing that?” Larry sputtered and again no words were forthcoming. He couldn’t explain to the colonel about the animated puppets. The man would think he had lost his mind.

  “I can’t say,” he blurted. “But you must believe me. I didn’t do this.”

  The colonel laid aside his gun and there was a noticeable touch of regret in the gesture.

  “One doesn’t shoot one’s guests,” he said quietly. He straightened and looked Larry coldly in the eye.

  “Young man, I am a just and tolerant person. I do not believe that I am harsh or vindictive. Let us therefore review the facts as they stand. I am awakened in the middle of the night by a person to whom I have extended the hospitality of my home. I find that person standing at the foot of my bed with a darning needle in his hand. I find the hot water bottle, which I am accustomed to keep at the foot of my bed, punctured in a dozen places and myself, practically inundated by the contents of the aforementioned water bottle. I demand explanations. I receive a barrage of incoherent gibberish accompanied by wild gestures which should, in my considered opinion, be restricted in the future by a straitjacket. Those, briefly and with a commendable lack of profanity, are my conclusions. If you have nothing further to add—”