Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  All of Oscar’s suits were gray but he and Chico never mentioned this fact. When he switched suits he simply asked for his gray suit. Chico understood.

  “I’m going to a party at Miss Prim’s,” Oscar said, “so I’m afraid I may be a little late.”

  Chico nodded.

  “You play crystal ball games tonight?” he asked. His bright smile lit up his face.

  Oscar winced. Chico’s question was in reference to his Agatha’s almost fanatic preoccupation with various mediums, fortune tellers and the like from whom she derived the vicarious thrill of peering into the future lives of her friends.

  “I’m afraid we will,” he said, sighing. “Agatha met some woman at a party recently who told her of a medium who has made an intensive study of reincarnation.” Oscar glanced at Chico, almost apologetically. “That’s very interesting, of course,” he said.

  Chico nodded brightly.

  “This medium will be there tonight,” Oscar said, “so I suppose we’ll spend the night listening to her discuss reincarnation.” He coughed slightly. “Stimulating evening.” He shook his head and went into the dining room where he ate an excellent meal before showering and dressing for Agatha’s party.

  Chico followed him to the door of the apartment and helped him into his coat.

  “I will leave glass of warm milk on stove,” he said.

  “Thank you, Chico,” Oscar said. He picked up his hat, set it squarely on his balding head and left for the party . . .

  AGATHA met him at the door of her apartment with a glad smile. She was taller than Oscar by several inches and put together at rather sharp angles. She wore a quiet dark dress and no make-up. Her eyes were large and bright in the pallor of her face.

  “You must come right in, Oscar,” she said excitedly. “Madame Obary is here and she is simply fascinating!”

  “I’m sure she is,” Oscar said drily.

  He was led into the apartment, his coat and hat were taken by Agatha’s colored maid, and then he was introduced to the assembled guests.

  Most of them, he reflected gloomily as he dutifully smiled and shook hands, were not worth meeting. Then he was escorted across the room to a large divan, where an even larger woman was holding court.

  “Madame Obary,” Agatha said breathlessly, “I want you to meet Oscar.”

  The creature on the couch turned her solemn, bovine eyes in Oscar’s direction and nodded slowly, sending a tremor down her many chins that was like the effect of a stone tossed into a quiet pool.

  She was dark with oily black hair in a bun on her neck and her arms were circled with dozens of weird bracelets. Her plain dress fitted her like a sagging circus tent.

  “How do you do?” she murmured, in a quiet throaty voice. “I am always pleased to meet new disciples.”

  “Well, I’m hardly that,” Oscar said with an uneasy laugh.

  “You will be,” Madame Obary said.

  “Madame Obary,” Agatha said, turning to Oscar with breathless animation, “has been telling us the most incredible things. Really the things that go on are simply amazing.”

  “Things?” Oscar said blankly.

  “I mean incidents in the occult,” Agatha said a trifle impatiently. “You’ve simply no idea!”

  “I guess I haven’t,” said Oscar, feeling somehow that his reaction was a bit inadequate.

  “Madame Obary,” continued Agatha with a rush, “is one of the four people in the world who completely understands the theory of reincarnation.”

  Madame Obary cleared her throat impressively.

  “One of the three persons in the world who understands it,” she corrected severely.

  “Isn’t that marvelous?” Agatha said, turning an enraptured face to Oscar. “Just think! One of the three!”

  “Well, well,” Oscar said.

  “Madame Obary’s theory,” Agatha went on with a breathlessness that paid high tribute to the importance of Madame Obary’s theory, “is that our ancestors are alive today, but living on another time plane, and—”

  “Please!” Madame Obary said, raising one hand sternly. “I will explain.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Agatha chastened.

  “ALL life is simultaneous,” Agatha said in her rich booming voice, “the terms of Past, Present and Future are inaccurate misnomers. Such categories do not exist. The lives of our ancestors and our grandchildren are being lived this moment, but on a separate time plane from our own. Do you understand?”

  She directed the question at Oscar and from her stern features and beetling brows it was obvious she would brook no nonsense. Oscar, her tone and manner clearly implied, had damn well better understand.

  “I get the point,” Oscar said. “It’s a little vague,” he added apologetically. “The main idea is clear enough, but the business about the grandchildren—” his voice trailed off weakly. He couldn’t go on. The whole damn, nonsensical theory was more than a little vague. It was as cloudy as an opium smoker’s dream and not half so attractive.

  “Naturally,” Madame Obary said, with a superior smile, “you will not be able to understand the more subtle implications of the theory. A trained mind is needed for such comprehension.” She turned to Agatha. “Is this young man to be our subject for this evening?”

  “What?” said Oscar blankly.

  Agatha put her hand anxiously on his arm.

  “Now don’t get excited, Oscar,” she said, smiling nervously at him. “I didn’t tell you before, but Madame Obary needs a subject for her demonstration and I told her that you wouldn’t mind. Please be helpful.”

  “Just what is required of me?” Oscar asked warily.

  Madame Obary said, “You will be put into a trance and I will explore your subconscious mind. It is my hope to establish contact with your ancestors through your subconscious and, if the séance is successful, you may be able to communicate with them also. This is done by bridging the time planes that separate you from your ancestors. The success of my undertaking will depend completely on the sensitivity of your receptive powers.”

  Oscar reflected with a definite bitterness that if Madame Obary’s ridiculous experiment should happen to work she would get all the credit; but if it failed, which was by all odds the more certain probability, the blame would fall on his shoulders. It didn’t seem fair.

  But there was nothing he could do about it.

  MADAME BOVARY had struggled to her feet and was already making preparations. She ordered him to lie on the divan and then asked that all the lights, with the exception of one dim lamp, be turned off. From an enormous handbag she drew forth a sheaf of papers on which were inscribed designs that looked as if they were results of a drawing class of morons.

  She sat down on a chair beside the couch and spread these designs over her ample lap.

  “Empty your mind of everything,” she said to Oscar, as if she were referring to a garbage hopper. “Your consciousness must be a complete blank.”

  One of the guests in a dark corner of the room chuckled and remarked that that shouldn’t be too hard for Oscar. There was a general laugh.

  Oscar squirmed angrily on the couch. Was he brought here to be mocked, humiliated, insulted? He decided that he was and, having reached that conclusion, closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest with icy deliberation.

  Agatha and the guests were in the shadows of the room and they watched tensely as Madame Obary laid one plump hand on Oscar’s forehead.

  Oscar felt as if a damp fish had been suddenly dropped across his eyes, but he said nothing. For he was conscious of a peculiar sensation of drowsiness. Darkness seemed to be drifting in on his mind and his eyelids were heavy. He stirred slightly on the couch and tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too much. He breathed heavily, rhythmically and the last sound he heard was Madame Obary’s voice saying,

  “Sleep and let your mind rest.”

  Oscar drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER II

  WHEN Oscar awoke the ligh
ts were on in Agatha’s apartment, but the guests were gone. Agatha was sitting on a chair beside the couch looking at him with what appeared to be a disappointed expression.

  “What happened?” Oscar asked blankly, struggling to a sitting position.

  “Nothing!” Agatha said sharply. “You were a complete washout, Oscar. Madame Obary was quite disappointed. And so were all the guests.”

  Oscar put both hands to his temples and shook his head slowly. There was a funny sensation in his head, a tired, dazed feeling. As if a legion of pygmies had walked over his brain with spiked shoes.

  “Nothing happened, eh?” he said.

  “Madame Obary tried for an hour to establish contact with your ancestors through your subconscious, but you were thoroughly uncooperative.” Agatha pursed her thin lips in irritation. “I was humiliated.”

  Oscar put his hands to his head again.

  “How do you know nothing happened?” he asked. “My head certainly feels as if something had.”

  “Madame Obary said the attempt was unsuccessful,” Agatha said.

  “Who are you going to believe? Madame Obary or my head?” Oscar said belligerently. He stood up and straightened his coat carefully. “I’ll be going now. I think this whole thing has been completely ridiculous.”

  “All right, if that’s the way you feel about it,” Agatha said. “I’ll get your coat.”

  “Thank you,” said Oscar coolly.

  He didn’t sleep very well that night. And the next morning it took all of Chico’s gentle ministrations to bring him back to a fairly pleasant frame of mind. He breakfasted, dressed carefully and left his apartment, still feeling depressed.

  He reached the bank on time and went directly to his small private office in back of the vaults. Oscar’s job with the bank entailed handling the records of the safety deposit vaults and he was daily in contact with large sums of money. He had been given the job because the president of the bank was of the private opinion that Oscar was too timid to steal and too stupid to know what to do with the money if he did steal it.

  Oscar’s private secretary glanced up when he entered the reception room of his office. She was a very pretty blonde girl, efficient and careful, but at sight of

  Oscar her mouth dropped open in a very unbecoming fashion, And her blue eyes widened with astonishment.

  “Close your mouth, please, Miss Brown,” Oscar said testily.

  Miss Brown closed her mouth, but the expression of astonishment remained on her face.

  “Whom did you wish to see,” she asked in a faint dazed voice.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Oscar demanded. “I don’t wish to see anyone. I want to get to work and I’ll need you for dictation. Can you come right in?”

  Miss Brown rose from her chair and backed slightly away from him, her eyes glassy.

  “Mr. Doodle is busy now,” she managed to gasp. “You’d better come back later.”

  “Mr. Doodle is busy?” Oscar cried. “What kind of nonsense is this? I’m Mr. Doodle. How could I be busy and talking to you at the same time?”

  “You look like Mr. Doodle,” his secretary said, “but Mr. Doodle is in his office. He’s been here for an hour working.”

  OSCAR regarded his secretary severely.

  “Miss Brown,” he said with quiet deliberation, “I am not amused by your joke. For some reason you are acting in a most irregular manner. I am willing to overlook your conduct if you can assure me it will not happen again. I am going to my office now and I will give you a half-hour to get control of yourself. Then I will expect you for dictation. Am I making myself quite clear?”

  He started firmly for his office door, but Miss Brown stepped in front of him.

  “You can’t go in there,” she said frantically. “I’ve told you Mr. Doodle is working. He’ll be terribly annoyed if you go in without an appointment. I don’t know who you are but if you wish to see Mr. Doodle you’ll have to phone for an appointment.”

  “You’re fired!” Oscar yelled, losing control of his dignity. He shoved the girl aside, opened the door and strode into his office, shaking his head angrily.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” a voice from behind his desk asked quietly.

  Oscar stared with bulging eyes at the man behind his desk. The man wore a gray suit, black tie and white stiff collar, identical with his own. And the man looked exactly like he did, scant, mousy brown hair, watery blue eyes, thin, pressed lips. All of Oscar’s physical characteristics were duplicated to an amazing degree by the man behind his desk.

  As Oscar stared unbelievingly at this twin of his, the man tapped the top of the desk with nervous fingers—a gesture Oscar recognized as his own when irritated.

  “And what is the meaning of this intrusion, may I ask again?” the man behind the desk inquired icily.

  “Who are you?” Oscar blurted. “What are you doing at that desk?”

  “My name is Doodle,” the man replied. “And this happens to be my desk.” He smiled and said sarcastically, “Is there anything else you wish to know?”

  “You’re an impostor,” Oscar cried. “I’m Oscar Doodle and that’s my desk. You’d better clear out of here before I call the guards and have you thrown out.”

  “Precisely my own idea,” the man at the desk said calmly. He punched a button and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve stood as much of your insolence as I intend to.”

  “Now just a minute,” Oscar said. He was experiencing a desperate, trapped feeling. Maybe this was all some wild dream! “I belong here,” he said weakly. “I’ve worked here for years.”

  THE door of the office opened and two of the husky, uniformed bank guards entered.

  They glanced at both men in the office and their faces were surprised, but their attention was directed to the man behind the desk.

  “Did you ring, Mr. Doodle?” one of them asked.

  “Yes, I did,” the bogus Mr. Doodle said. “This gentleman here,” he waved a hand at Oscar, “broke into my office a few minutes ago and I think he might be violent. Please escort him to the door. If he gives you any trouble call the police.”

  “Right, Mr. Doodle,” one of the guards answered respectfully. He glared at Oscar. “Come on, chum, you heard what Mr. Doodle said.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” Oscar cried frantically. He glared at the man behind the desk who was impersonating him. “You’re a fraud! You know you are!” he shouted.

  One of the guards grabbed him from behind and dragged him to the door.

  “Shut up,” he said, “or we’ll call the wagon. I think you belong in a strait-jacket myself.”

  “I demand to see Mr. Haskins, the president,” Oscar yelled. “I won’t be treated this way. It’s—it’s unAmerican, that’s what it is.”

  The other guard opened the door and Oscar was hustled through the reception room, out into the main section of the bank and finally deposited on the sidewalk before the great bronze doors.

  The two guards placed themselves in front of the door, arms crossed.

  “Now be a good guy and beat it,” one of them said. “You’ve caused enough trouble already. Go home and take a nap for yourself and you’ll feel better.” Oscar stared mournfully, despairingly at the massive portals of the bank and then at the grim guards who barred the entrance. His world was collapsing about his head.

  “But this is all a mistake,” he said tearfully, “I belong here, I’m Mr. Doodle, I—”

  “Stop wasting our time,” the second guard said irritably. “If you aren’t on your way in ten seconds, I’m gonna call the cops.”

  “But—”

  “Beat it!”

  Oscar winced at the harshness of the guard’s voice. He gazed wistfully at the doors of the bank and then, with a dispirited sigh, he turned and shuffled away, not knowing or caring what direction he took.

  HE walked for an hour, oblivious to the people he passed, dazed and numb. His brain wasn’t functionin
g. He couldn’t make any sense out of what had happened to him, nor could he figure out what he should do.

  Finally he stopped at a small park and, from shear weariness, sat down. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Never had he felt so completely rudderless and helpless.

  He glanced dully at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He hadn’t been away from his desk at ten o’clock on a weekday morning for over twelve years.

  What could he do?

  He decided, with a flash of his old invincible efficiency, to review the matter logically and calmly. Someone had decided to impersonate him, take over his job at the bank. That put him, Oscar, on the outside looking in. His task, therefore, was to expose this impersonator, turn him over to the authorities and thus reclaim his rightful position.

  How was this to be done? He frowned and thought for a while without reaching any definite conclusions. What he needed was a confidant, someone with whom he could discuss the entire affair in all its various ramifications and then, through the discussion and in exchange of ideas he might possibly find a solution to this dilemma.

  Agatha was the only person he could think of, and while she was not ideal, she would have to do. He hoped she had gotten over her annoyance of last night.

  Armed with a definite plan of action he felt better. He stood up, set his hat at an angle that was extremely rakish for him and strode to the corner to wait for a street car . . .

  HE reached Agatha’s apartment building in about twenty minutes and went up, as was his custom, without ringing. He knocked on the door and took off his hat when he heard Agatha’s light swift steps approaching.

  She opened the door and a blank expression of astonishment dropped over her thin features as she saw him. She opened and closed her eyes, as if she didn’t believe the evidence they were reporting to her brain.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “May I come in? I’m in trouble, Agatha, and I need your help.”

  The flustered expression on Agatha’s face faded as she got herself under control. She straightened her shoulders and regarded him with eyes that were suddenly impersonal and haughty.