Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I don’t see why you should mind staying,” Harker said sarcastically. “You don’t do anything with your spare time but read those wild books of fiction all the time. What do you get out of that anyway? Take that yarn about the three musketeers that De Maupassant wrote, for instance. What sane man would waste his time reading such an impossible collection of bilge?”

  “De Maupassant did not write the Three Musketeers,” Phillip said mildly. “Dumas, the Elder, wrote it. And it is generally conceded to be a classic.”

  HARKER’S ironic smile faded. His cheeks flushed with anger. Although he didn’t realize it his dislike of Phillip Poincare resulted from the fact that the man’s air of quiet culture and dignity made him feel inferior.

  “Dumas or De Maupassant,” he snapped. “What difference does it make? It’s still a lot of bilge. Frenchmen just don’t have that kind of guts. Look at ’em today! Bowing and scraping like beggars before the Nazis. If they had any guts would they have quit fighting when the going got tough?”

  “The French people fought until their ammunition was exhausted,” Phillip said. He was conscious of a hot flame of anger running through his veins. “Only then did they lay down their arms. And they are fighting now with the underground movement, hindering the Nazi machine in every way they can.”

  “Bah!” Harker said scornfully. “They’re glad to have someone shout orders at ’em. That’s the kind of people they are.”

  “The French People,” Phillip said, his voice trembling, “have had the misfortune to be duped by their unscrupulous leaders. But they hate Nazism as bitterly as we do here in America. And when the time is ripe they will prove that to the satisfaction of the world.”

  “The time is now,” Harker said loudly. “What are they waiting for? If they hate the Nazis, why don’t they revolt?”

  “It is not easy when a bayonet is at one’s throat,” Phillip said simply.

  “That proves my point!” Harker said triumphantly. “They’re just gutless and afraid, that’s all. And the frogs always have been. That’s why those adventure books you read are such a waste of time. The only place you’ll ever find a brave Frenchman is right where you look for them—in a book of fiction.”

  “But—”

  “I haven’t any more time to waste,” Harker said rudely. “If you’re smart you’ll think about what I said. You’ve got the wrong slant on a lot of things, Poincare. Now get busy. You’ll find the work I’ve laid out for you on my desk. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so.”

  He turned on his heel and strode away. The arrogant swing of his walk and the cocky angle of his beefy shoulders indicated more clearly than could any words his complete satisfaction with his handling of the discussion.

  Phillip waited until he had left the office, then he slumped into his chair, staring unseeingly ahead of him. While he hated Harker, he realized with sickening clarity that at the moment he hated himself still more.

  Finally he roused himself from his black reverie and began walking. Although he worked steadily and swiftly, it was two hours later before he left the office and started homeward.

  CHAPTER II

  WHEN PHILLIP Poincare had finished his frugal evening meal, he caught a street car and rode northward to his boarding house.

  His landlady met him in the hall.

  “There were some furniture men here today,” she announced. “I let them into your room. They delivered another one of them antiques you’re so interested in.”

  “Thank you,” Phillip said.

  With anticipation quickening his steps he ascended the carpeted stairs to his room. The annoying worries of the day slipped from his shoulders and a cheery whistle was on his lips as he entered his room and snapped on the lights.

  The first object that met his eyes was the bookshelf that he had acquired that morning. The delivery men had left it in the middle of the floor.

  Phillip surveyed it lovingly. Somehow it seemed even more beautiful and perfect here in his room than it had in the furniture store. His room was furnished with graceful, early French furniture and the walls were lined with books and softly tinted tapestries. Against this background his newly acquired bookshelf seemed perfectly in place.

  He got a cloth from the closet and set about polishing its fine, close grained surface. On his knees he dusted the under sides of the book shelf and burnished its slender, curving legs.

  The job took him almost an hour, but when he was finished the bookshelf’s surface gleamed with a new, beautiful luster.

  Phillip studied the results of his labors with satisfaction. As a final measure he pulled out the tiny drawers, dusted their insides and shoved them back into place. With the cloth wrapped about his index finger he probed into the tiny pigeonholes, scraping out the dust and the tiny filaments of spider webs.

  Just as he was about to climb to his feet his hand ran against a sharp splinter on the underside of the lowest shelf. With a worried frown he bent low to examine it. He saw that the thin wood had warped slightly and cracked. A slim jagged splinter protruded from the otherwise smooth surface.

  Carefully Phillip peeled off the thin splinter. A touch of varnish should completely hide the faint scar, he thought. He lit a match and bent down again to examine the damage.

  The patch where the splinter had been removed gleamed whitely against the dark mahogany of the shelf. And on this white scar Phillip saw faint scratches that looked like writing.

  Excited, he bent closer and struck another match. In the bright illumination he saw clearly that the scratches spelled a name. And when he read that name, he felt his heart beginning to beat faster.

  For the signature scratched in small crude strokes on the underside of the shelf was that of Alexander Dumas. The “Alexander” wasn’t spelled out of course, but who else could A. Dumas be, but France’s immortal writer of romances?

  Phillip sat back on his heels and the match in his hand burned down to his fingers. Absent-mindedly he dropped the match to the carpet, for his thoughts were hundreds of years away.

  Supposing this was the bookshelf and desk of Alexander Dumas? The thought sent tingling shivers through his body.

  With trembling fingers he began a systematic exploration of the desk. If it had been the property of Alexander Dumas there might be other identifying marks which he had overlooked. But although he did not miss an inch of the desk’s surface he found nothing else to indicate that it had once been owned by the creator of the Three Musketeers.

  HE RETURNED again to the crudely scratched signature. For a few seconds he studied it carefully, then he ran his fingers over the faint scratches. When he did this he felt the wood give slightly beneath the tips of his fingers.

  He tipped the desk on its side, a strange excitement flooding through his veins. Again his fingers moved over the signature, but this time he pressed gently but firmly against the wood. A section of the underside of the shelf gave way and Phillip heard a faint creaking sound from the side of the desk.

  Moving quickly around to the side of the desk he saw that a small drawer had slid out from the apparently solid side of the desk. So cleverly was this secret compartment fitted into the desk that Phillip’s minute examination had failed to reveal its presence.

  Experimentally he slowly closed the drawer. Then he again pressed the section of the shelf on which the name of A. Dumas was scratched; and again the secret drawer swung slowly open.

  Phillip dug his hand into the drawer, felt crackling paper under his fingers. Hurriedly he removed the object his fingers had touched, a long flat bundle of papers, covered with a close fine scroll.

  He flipped through the pages, and as occasional phrases caught his eye, his heart began to hammer with suppressed excitement. This carelessly wrapped bundle of sheets was a French manuscript of Dumas’ immortal romance.

  The Three Musketeers.

  Phillip knew the novel by heart almost, and he could not be mistaken. This might even be the original manuscript, in Dumas’ own h
andwriting!

  Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Phillip raptly turned the pages of the manuscript, caught again by the spell of Dumas’ magic. The thrilling character of D’Artagnan and the three musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, strode again across the pages, somehow more real and alive in this dust-encrusted manuscript than they had ever been in the neat pages of a book.

  As Phillip turned the pages of the manuscript dust puffed up from the yellowed, cracked sheets, and swirled about his head in a dense, suffocating fog.

  He coughed and waved away the little clouds of dust with his hand. From the open drawer in which he had discovered the manuscript more dust drifted up, until the entire room was hazy with the musty fog.

  Phillip blew his nose and wiped the dust from his smarting eyes, but these measures helped but little, for the dust continued to swirl up from the drawer and manuscript like smoke rising from a banked fire.

  Alarmed, Phillip laid aside the manuscript and climbed to his feet. But something seemed to be wrong with him. His legs were unsteady and there was a vast roaring sound between his ears. He knew that he needed air. But he was too dizzy to walk to the window.

  The room was now so filled with the swirling fog of smoke that he was unable to see a foot in front of him, and he realized that he must get out or he would suffocate.

  Stumbling blindly, he turned and staggered toward the door, but before he had moved a yard, his knees gave way and he fell forward to his knees and then to his face.

  There was a cloudy film of blackness obscuring his vision and his muscles refused to respond to the instinctive urgings of his brain.

  He wondered fleetingly if he were dying. If so, it was not exactly unpleasant. Everything was foggy and hazy, but the floor seemed soft and comfortable and he felt that if he closed his eyes he would drift quietly into a peaceful slumber. As his last conscious thoughts faded he imagined he heard voices behind him and as blackness claimed him, he fancied he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently.

  CHAPTER III

  “MON DIEU. I fear our little liberator will never open his eyes again!”

  “A pity. He looks so pale, comrades. A flask of good Burgundy wine would put the glow of good spirits into those cheeks again, I’d wager.”

  These voices drifted faintly through the fogs of darkness which shrouded Phillip Poincare and he stirred uneasily.

  “Ah!”

  “He is moving!”

  “Excellent!”

  Phillip shook his head side to side and a white light began to gleam through the blackness that enveloped him. The voices seemed far away. As consciousness gradually returned he realized that he was seated in a chair and that a pillow had been propped behind his head. He pressed his hands to his face as memory suddenly returned to him. What had happened?

  He had been working on the bookshelf, polishing and cleaning it, when he had discovered the little secret drawer. And in the secret drawer he had found the manuscript, yellow and cracked and aged. Then had come the smothering, suffocating dust . . .

  He shuddered and opened his eyes.

  For an instant he stared in growing incredulity at the four, strangely clad men who looked down at him, with friendly concern in their faces, then he closed his eyes tightly and pressed his hands to face.

  “Delirium tremens!” he gasped. “And I haven’t taken a drink in years!”

  He opened his eyes again, slowly, hesitantly, expecting that the apparitions would have vanished, but they were still there, regarding him with frankly puzzled expressions.

  They looked from one to another and shrugged their shoulders significantly as Phillip continued to stare at them in pop-eyed astonishment.

  Phillip pinched himself to make sure that he was awake.

  “Who are you?” he gasped. “What are you doing in my room?”

  As he spoke his gaze swung from figure to figure, automatically drinking in the details of their dress and person. All four were better than average in height and they were all dressed in cloaks, blazing baldrics and gleaming leather boots that came up to the middle of their thighs. Sweeping plumed hats were set rakishly on their dark hair, but the comic-opera effect was not carried out in the long, flashing swords that grazed the floor, or the heavy pistols that were jammed into their gaudy waistbands. These weapons looked grimly business-like and there was something in the eyes and manner of the men regarding him that indicated they would know how to use those weapons with skill and relish.

  PHILLIP swallowed. Although he had an average degree of courage, there was something in the weirdness of this situation that unnerved him.

  He clenched his hands nervously.

  “Who are you?” he asked again. This time his voice was a bare whisper.

  The young man standing directly in front of him removed his sweeping hat with a flourish and bowed. Phillip saw that his hair was curling and brown, almost the same shade as his eyes. The face of this young man was lean and handsome and now it wore an expression of whimsical friendliness. But

  Phillip had the indefinable feeling th?.t that expression could change; that those jaws could harden; and that those warm brown eyes would glint as coldly as ice if the sword at his side was unsheathed.

  “With a thousand pardons,” the young man said, smiling. “We have completely forgotten our manners. With your permission I will introduce ourselves.”

  He waved negligently to the largest of his companions, a veritable giant of a man, with heavy powerful shoulders and mighty, steel-thewed hands.

  “This ox-like creature,” he murmured, “we call Porthos.”

  Turning from Porthos he patted the shoulder of the fair-haired, plump man who stood beside him.

  “This noble soul is Aramis,” the young man said. “And last we come to Athos, the pride of the ladies of the court, the fond friend of the perfumers and lace makers, and the coolest blade in France.”

  With a slight flourish he bowed to the last of the strange company, a tall, serious faced young man. with firm mobile lips and soft, warmly colored eyes.

  Phillip stared dazedly at the four costumed men. His heart was hammering with a deafening sound in his ears. Those names . . .

  Athos! Porthos! Aramis!

  What did this mean? Was it all some colossal hoax?

  He turned beseechingly to the dashing young man who had made the introductions.

  “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  The tall young man with the lean face and smiling eyes, whipped out his gleaming blade and raised it in a salute. He laughed and a ringlet of brown hair fell over his forehead.

  “My name is Gascon,” he answered. “Gascon D’Artagnan at your service.

  Although the good Cardinal has called me many other uncomplimentary things, men know me simply as D’Artagnan.”

  “D’Artagnan!” Phillip breathed the word slowly.

  “Yes,” the young man said. He smiled and sheathed his sword. “Now if there is aught we can do to repay you for your great service I insist that you name it. Do you have enemies? Porthos will wring their necks and Athos will run them through for you. Aramis will pray for their souls and I will drink to their everlasting poor health. Come, name your wish, and by the honor of the King’s guard it shall be our command.”

  Phillip’s bewildered confusion increased. There was an undeniable ring of sincerity in the young man’s voice and expression, but the entire thing was so preposterous . . .

  “I appreciate your offer,” he said, haltingly, “but I don’t have any enemies.”

  “That is unfortunate,” the young man who called himself D’Artagnan said reprovingly. “If you have no enemies, with whom do you fight?”

  “I do not fight anyone,” Phillip answered.

  D’Artagnan regarded him incredulously.

  “A Frenchman who does not fight! It is unbelievable. Tell me, don’t you find life dull? My poor good father gave me nothing but advice, but some of it was beyond measure. Fight, Gascon! Figh
t always! I can hear his old voice again, repeating these words over and over. And, being of course a dutiful son, I have tried faithfully to follow his instructions.”

  Porthos and Althos exchanged amused grins.

  “And it is only in respect to your dear dead father that you fight, eh?” Porthos said gravely.

  PHILLIP found the situation growing more and more bewildering. There was something weird and hysterical about the entire scene, as if it were something rehearsed in a madhouse.

  “Gentlemen, please!” He stood up, an imploring note in his voice. “I appreciate your offers of help, but I do not need your assistance. I would be obliged if you would tell me who you are and why you are here. I have had a severe shock tonight and I am not in the mood for practical jokes.”

  D’Artagnan looked slightly puzzled. “Mon ami,” he said, “I have told you who we are. How we come to be here is a long story, and I think you have a right to hear it. Do you not agree, comrades?” he asked, turning to his three companions.

  The huge Porthos nodded.

  “But, of course,” said Aramis and Athos in one voice.

  D’Artagnan strolled up and down the room for a few moments in silence, his lean features thoughtful and a curious mellow glint of reminiscence in his dark expressive eyes.

  “It is a simple story,” he said at last. “My friends and I for many years enjoyed a stimulating conflict with His Eminence, the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu. And you may be sure that the Red Duke was a worthy adversary, clever, resourceful and as captivated by a good hard fight as were we.” D’Artagnan paused and chuckled. “But in spite of our many disagreements, His Eminence could never bring himself to be really angry with us. Sometimes I think he was secretly glad when we routed his precious guardsmen, for it amused him to see their pomposity deflated. However, many of our enemies were not as tolerant as His Eminence. I fear they lacked his sense of humor, for they decided one night to put an end to our fun-loving pranks by the simple expedient of hanging us by our necks until we lost interest in the procedure. His Eminence saved us, for he enjoyed too much our little feud to see us dispatched, but he was forced to resort to drastic measures.