Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The voice returned a moment later with the information.

  “Thanks,” Johnny said. He could feel the excited driving beat of his heart in his ears.

  “One moment, Lieutenant Blake,” the voice continued. “We have been expecting you here for some time. Commander Forsythe wishes to speak to you. Will you wait just a moment please?”

  Johnny broke the connection and stepped out of the booth, a grin on his face. He was in no position to talk to the commander right now. If every thing went well he could talk to him in a few hours. He glanced at the address he had scribbled on the cuff of his tunic. It wouldn’t be long now . . .

  TWENTY minutes later Johnny entered the ground level of a vast building whose superstructure towered a full mile above his head. He wondered fleetingly if the Martian mania for the gigantic was due to their own small statures.

  This building was a combination office, recreation and living center. On its hundreds of floors were the things necessary to supply a man’s every possible need.

  Johnny took an elatube up almost to the top of the building. He stepped from the car into a wide, quiet, deserted corridor. He walked slowly down this corridor, past a row of doors, every sense alert. He shifted his service automatic to his right pocket and there was a reassuring feel in its solid, competent bulk.

  He had walked almost a hundred feet before he came to the door which bore the number that corresponded with the scribbled number on the sleeve of his tunic.

  He stopped then. His breathing was slow and even. He glanced up and down the deserted corridor before stepping forward and rapping sharply on the door with his left hand. His right hand was in his pocket.

  A minute passed slowly. A minute in which he could feel his worry and nervousness growing like a sold tangible thing inside him. He rapped again, sharply.

  There was no feeling of fear, other than the fear that this was a wild-goose chase, that he had plunged blindly off on his own initiative, instead of reporting his failure and letting older heads take over the job he had bungled.

  The door opened then, so quietly on its oiled springs that he heard nothing. But he knew then that this was no wild-goose chase.

  For Arnua stood in the doorway and there was something sick and trapped in the polite smile he forced across his expressionless features.

  “So nice to see you again,” he murmured. Whoever he was expecting, the little Martian hadn’t been expecting Johnny Blake, and he displayed this in the nervous flutter of his hands and the darting, evasive glance he played over him.

  “Yes, it is nice,” Johnny said.

  He put his hand on the Martian’s chest and shoved him back through the doorway; and simultaneously his gun came into view.

  “Be a good boy,” he said gently.

  As Arnua fell back under Johnny’s shove his back struck the door, swinging it open and giving Johnny a complete view of the room.

  There were three people in the room and his gun moved to cover them automatically. He kicked the door shut behind him. Two Martians were standing by a chair in which the third person sat.

  Johnny’s eyes narrowed to smoky slits as he recognized Nada Thomas.

  She stood up uncertainly.

  “Johnny—”

  HER CUT her off with a wave of his hand. Suddenly he seemed to be seeing clearly for the first time in hours. God! What a blind stupid fool he’d been. The girl had been in on the deal. She had struck up an acquaintance with him and then, like a Judas-goat,[*] she had led him to the slaughter. There wasn’t anything clever about the set-up. It should have been obvious to an eight year old. But it hadn’t been to Johnny Blake.

  He turned to Arnua.

  “There has been a mistake,” he said. “By a strange accident a brief case of mine has come into your possession. If you are a smart little boy, you will remember what I told you about my sentimental attachment for the contents of the brief case.” His voice was gentle; but his eyes brought a pallor to the Martian’s cheeks.

  “I’m in a slight hurry,” Johnny said. “Of course,” Arnua murmured. He bowed slightly. “The mistake was unfortunate. The brief case is on the table in the corner.”

  Johnny stepped to the table without taking his gun from the Martian. The brief case was there, its lock unbroken. He’d been in time. He put the case under his arm and backed toward the door. “Thank you so much,” he said. Nada moved impulsively toward him. “Johnny, please take me with you. I don’t understand what’s going on here but I want to be with you.”

  “Sweetly spoken,” he murmured. He shifted the gun enough to cover her and when she saw the motion she stopped as if she’d been struck in the mouth.

  She stared at him with eyes that seemed like great violet pools in the whiteness of her face.

  “Johnny,” she whispered. “I—” Her eyes shifted to a point behind him and an expression of terror flashed over her face. The back of her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Johnny!” she screamed. “Behind you!”

  Johnny smiled wearily.

  “Not very flattering,” he said. “Do you think I’m gullible enough to fall for the oldest gag in the book?”

  “Sorry,” a soft voice said in his ear, “but this is not a gag. Will you kindly drop your gun!”

  A hard round pressure was at the small of his back.

  Johnny lowered his gun slowly. He had been caught completely by surprise. But more surprising than that was the realization that Nada had been telling the truth. She had honestly attempted to warn him.

  Arnua was stepping toward him when Johnny suddenly lunged to one side. A gun behind him belched with an angry roar and Johnny had the satisfaction of seeing Arnua stagger backward clutching his stomach, a victim of the bullet that had been intended for him.

  He hurled himself to the floor, twisting sideways as he did so. Something roared in his ears and his left shoulder felt as if it had been slugged by a blunt hammer.

  The man who had come in behind him was aiming for his second shot when Johnny brought his gun up and shot him squarely in the forehead. When he swung about to cover the two remaining Martians they were standing in statuesque positions of surrender, hands upraised, painfully blank expressions on their faces.

  “Relax,” he said.

  He climbed to his feet with an effort. His left arm was beginning to ache like the devil. Nada came to his side and half-sobbed as she saw the blood on his tunic.

  “Johnny, you’re hurt.”

  “Not bad,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He picked up the brief case and opened the door.

  “Johnny,” Nada said, “these men brought me here after that mix-up in the cafe. I don’t understand a thing of what’s going on. And for a while you acted like you thought I was one of them.”

  “Did I?” Johnny smiled. He remembered then her attempt to warn him and he stopped smiling. “I’m sorry, honey, I just made a bum guess. Let’s go.”

  WHEN Johnny entered Commander Forsythe’s office twenty minutes later his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but one quarter of his tunic was soaked with blood. His face was paper white and his hair never looked redder.

  “Lieutenant Blake reporting, sir,” he said. He saluted and laid the brief case on the desk. “With the compliments of Commander Dexter of the Fifth Space Intelligence, sir.”

  Commander Forsythe glanced idly at the brief case and then at Johnny.

  “You look like you’ve been in a scrape,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Line of duty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You might tell me about it,” Commander Forsythe suggested drily. He was a small, wiry man with bristling dark hair and his eyes were like snapping black buttons. And as Johnny related what had happened those eyes narrowed down to shiny pin-points.

  “You handled yourself well, Blake,” he said. “It’s a pity such energy couldn’t have been used in a more important capacity. You see, my boy, these papers you have brought me are utterly without value
. Your mission was simply that of a decoy. An agent by the name of Martin brought the bona fide papers in by private ship an hour or so ago.”

  The communication disc on his desk blazed red as he finished speaking and, with a nod of apology to Johnny, he snapped on the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  He listened for an instant and his fists slowly tightened.

  “Are you sure?” he demanded. His voice was like the flick of a whip.

  When he switched off the set his eyes were blazing; worried lines hacked deep fissures in his face.

  “Is anything wrong, sir?”

  “Everything’s wrong,” the commander snapped. “Martin’s papers have just been checked. They’re completely valueless.”

  “Naturally, sir,” Johnny said.

  He was beginning to feel more nervous than at any time in the previous ten hours. He took a deep breath.

  Commander Forsythe glared at him. “What do you mean ‘naturally’ ? Martin was supposed to have the actual information we need.”

  Johnny shifted uncomfortably.

  “I know that, sir, but he didn’t have it.”

  “I just told you that much,” the commander said impatiently. “I know Martin didn’t bring the papers in. But what I want to know is where those papers are now.”

  “They are on your desk, sir.”

  “What!” Commander Forsythe’s black eyes bored into Johnny like steel drills. He grabbed the brief case and opened it with trembling fingers. He sifted through the reports and then lifted unbelieving eyes to Johnny. “You’re right,” he said hoarsely. “You’re absolutely right. But how did you know?”

  Johnny looked straight ahead; but there was the ghost of a grin at the corner of his lips.

  “I shifted portfolios with Martin on Earth,” he said evenly. “I suspected that I was slated for decoy, sir, and I preferred to carry the mail.”

  COMMANDER FORSYTHE eyed him incredulously.

  “Of all the unmitigated gall,” he sputtered weakly. “Do you think you’re smarter than the directional board of Intelligence? More capable than an agent like Martin who has been in the service sixteen years?”

  “Certainly not more capable,” Johnny said, “but considerably luckier, sir.” Commander Forsythe made strangling sounds in his throat.

  “Lieutenant Blake,” he gasped. “D-dismissed!”

  “Yes sir.” He saluted smartly, about-faced and headed for the door. “Lieutenant Blake!”

  He turned at the door. “Yes sir?”

  “Get that wound taken care of. Put in a request for a ten day furlough. I’ll okay it personally.”

  The commander stood up behind his desk and folded his hands behind his back. “Your conduct has been outrageous, Lieutenant Blake. If we had a dozen men like you on the staff, well,” he shook his head and grinned slowly, “I, for one, would be damned glad. Now get out of here.”

  “Right, sir,” Johnny grinned.

  He opened the door and walked into the reception room where Nada was waiting for him. She came to his side worriedly.

  “Is everything all right?” Johnny Blake smiled down at her. “Everything’s perfect.”

  [*] Judas-goat. A packing house terra for the ram that leads a Sock of sheep to slaughter. Hence, one who betrays another under the guise of friendship.

  GENIE OF BAGDAD

  First published in the June 1943 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  It is a far cry to ancient Bagdad, yet at this Washington Ball it was only a few steps—through an ordinary door . . .!

  CHAPTER I

  DRAKE MASTERSON stood up and smiled with pleasure when Sharon Ward entered the room. Most men did so and he was no exception to the rule.

  Sharon was a tall, stunningly built creature with a mane of bright red hair that fell to her bare shoulders in dramatically effective waves. Her eyes were green in the exciting pallor of her face but when she smiled it was like flashing on a light in a dark room.

  “Hello, Drake,” she said, crossing the long, luxuriously furnished drawing room of her apartment with lithe grace. “Did I keep you waiting?”

  Drake put down his drink and took one of her outstretched hands.

  “Not long.” His eyes went over her appreciatively. She was wearing a strapless evening gown that fitted her slim body like a crimson sheath. “Anyway,” he grinned, “it was worth it.”

  “A pretty speech,” Sharon murmured. She straightened his white tie slightly and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the shining satin lapels of his dress coat. “It deserves another. You look like the ideal career diplomat, smooth, immaculate and imperturbable. Do you have the blueprints of our latest battleship tucked away in your breast pocket? That’s all you need.”

  “Hardly,” Drake smiled, “since the blueprints of a battleship weigh about two thousand pounds. But I might have a code message or two around somewhere.” His grey eyes crinkled at the corners and his lean, dark face was amused. “Will that do?”

  “Perfectly,” Sharon said. “And maybe we’ll meet a spy in a black net dress at the party tonight who’ll slip you a Micky and vanish with your code messages tucked down the bosom of her dress. That’s still the traditional place of concealment, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got me there,” Drake said. “You’ve obviously read more spy stories than I have.” He glanced at his watch. “Would you like a cigarette before we leave? We’ve just about got time.”

  Sharon nodded and took a cigarette from the silver case he extended.

  “What kind of an affair is tonight’s going to be?” she asked.

  “Just a routine reception for the Turkish minister,” Drake answered. “There’ll be quite a crowd. Large sprinkling of important gentlemen from the East who are here on lend-lease business; our own representatives and Britain’s. That’s about all.”

  He lit Sharon’s cigarette and his own, returned the lighter to his pocket and smiled at the girl.

  “You look a bit worried. Anything wrong?”

  SHARON made an impatient gesture with her cigarette and strolled to the windows that overlooked the row of vast white government buildings. She cupped her elbow in the palm of her right hand and stared moodily at the scene.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said at last. “Probably just nerves.” She blew a thick column of blue smoke toward the ceiling and then turned suddenly to face Drake. “It’s just that I feel so damn useless,” she said. “I’d like to be doing something important in this war instead of drifting around with the rest of the Washington butterflies.” Her eyes were bitter and dark against the pallor of her cheeks. “I missed the Air Transport because—”

  “I know,” Drake interrupted with a grin. “You missed because your license was torn up by the civil commission for stunting at five hundred feet and endangering lives and property!”

  “Oh, I know all that,” Sharon said, “but you’d think they’d overlook it in times like these.” She crushed out her cigarette with a vicious gesture. “I’m so bored and disgusted with myself I feel I’m losing my mind.”

  “Well we’re all in the same boat,” Drake said seriously. “I don’t like Washington any more than you do, but my job happens to be here for the time being.”

  Sharon smiled faintly. “You’re just trying to make me feel good by comparing your set-up with mine. You’re in diplomacy and attached to one of the hottest departments in the capitol. Why, you’ve got your finger on the pulse of the East, the most dynamic section of the world today.”

  “Still,” Drake shrugged, “I’d rather be out where the action is. They could get some octogenarian to handle my work and let me get out where I could do something a little more definite.”

  “Now you’re just being silly,” Sharon said impatiently. She put another cigarette in her mouth with a quick, decisive gesture. “You’re one of the foremost authorities in the world on Oriental languages. Why should the government let you go out and get your head blown off?”

  Dr
ake smiled at her vehemence. “You’d think I was absolutely irreplaceable to hear you talk,” he said.

  “Well, you’re good,” Sharon said stubbornly. She grinned suddenly and her entire face kindled. “You must be. You taught me Arabic and that would qualify anyone as an expert.”

  “I guess you’ve got me there,” Drake said. He glanced at his watch again, then put out his cigarette and got to his feet. “It’s about time for us to be on our way. This party tonight may cheer us up a little. Did I mention that it was going to be a costume affair?” Sharon eyed him with indignant surprise.

  “You did not,” she said. “And this is a fine time to be telling me. Won’t I look right in step with this backless evening gown? And what about you?”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Drake said. “We weren’t expected to be in costume anyway. The State Department has a peculiar antipathy toward any of its members running around in masquerade so I’m excused. And naturally you are too.”

  “Well, that’s better,” Sharon said. “You had me worried for a moment. Excuse me a minute, I’ll get a wrap.” Drake lit another cigarette . . .

  THE reception for the Turkish ambassador was held in a large estate on the outskirts of Washington. Sharon and Drake were ushered into the vast drawing room by an imperturbable butler, dressed for the occasion in a flowing robe and great baggy trousers of white silk that clasped at the ankles a few inches above curling suede slippers.

  Sharon gasped with delight when they entered the splendidly decorated room. Walls and ceilings were hung with luxurious, jewel encrusted drapes and great animal skins were scattered over the gleaming floor.

  Huge divans, covered in gaudy silk and strewn with fluffy pillows had replaced the conventional furniture; braziers of incense were hanging in all corners of the room and from their brass tops a yellow, aromatic smoke was issuing.

  Except for a handful of Americans and Britons in evening clothes, everyone was wearing the flowing silk robes of the ancient East. The men wore turbans around their heads and the women, many of whom were beautiful, were decked with jeweled tiaras.