Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I might order you shot immediately,” he said softly, “or I might have you tortured a few weeks until you tell me what I wish to know. I have no desire to resort to either of these alternatives. I hope I can be lenient with you. But it is up to you gentlemen. The matter, you can see, is out of my hands. What will your choice be?”

  The silence that followed the colonel’s words was broken by a sharp rap on the door. The orderly opened the door and an instant later strode to the colonel’s desk, a paper in his hand.

  “This just arrived, Herr Colonel, from the Central Headquarters in Berlin.” He laid the paper on the desk in front of the colonel and withdrew.

  The colonel’s eyes flicked over the papers rapidly.

  “Good,” he murmured. “Excellent.”

  He put the paper carefully to one side and glanced up at the men facing him.

  “Well, gentlemen, have you made up your minds?”

  He stood up and walked slowly around his desk.

  “I am not trying to hurry you,” he said. “Think the matter over. Talk it over if you like. I am, you will find, a most reasonable person.”

  HE STROLLED to the rack of foils, selected a gleaming sword from the case and, holding it at hilt and tip, bent it double. When he released the tip the sword straightened like a live thing, quivering delicately.

  “Excellent steel,” Aramis murmured.

  “You are a good judge,” Colonel Rinehart smiled. “Swords are a hobby of mine. I was fortunate enough to win the fencing championship of the Imperial army last year with the very blade I hold in my hand. Do you like swords?”

  “Very much,” said Aramis.

  “You are wise,” Colonel Rinehart said. “A true blade is like a true friend.”

  “But one must know how to use the blade,” Aramis said.

  The colonel smiled.

  “One must know how to use friends also,” he murmured.

  He strolled toward them holding the sword carelessly.

  “Naziism is like a sword,” he said. “Hard, bright and effective. It is not hampered by sentiment or morals. It does its work thoroughly, quickly.” He smiled. “Am I being too loquacious?”

  “No,” Aramis said thoughtfully, “but I think your simile is inaccurate.”

  He had turned slightly to face the colonel and while his plump body was relaxed carelesssly there was an expression in his light blue eyes that was as challenging as a clenched fist.

  “Yes?” the colonel said. “And how so?”

  The smile had left his face.

  “A sword by itself is nothing,” Aramis said. “It needs someone to wield it. And its success is determined only by the skill of the user.” He smiled quietly. “When the sword of the dictator strikes the sword held by a free man there can only be one result.”

  “I agree with that,” the colonel said, “but I think we disagree on what the result is likely to be.” He smiled and handed the hilt of his sword to Aramis. “I know you are too wise to attempt anything foolish. My orderly has a gun and there are a dozen men within sound of my voice. I know I’m taking no chance in letting you feel the balance of this blade. It is good, yes?” Aramis flexed the sword and nodded his head.

  “Yes, it is excellent,” he said. “I am not sure that I ever held a better blade in my hand.”

  The colonel smiled and took another blade from the rack.

  “Carrying on our little simile,” he said casually, “let us suppose for the moment that you represent the forces of what you term free men. And let us further suppose that I symbolize the power of absolute dictatorship. We are facing each other, swords in hand.” The colonel shifted slightly and his sword rose to guard position. “Now,” he said, and his voice was suddenly mocking, “do you see the stupidity of your statement?”

  Aramis shifted his sword to a guard position, almost touching the colonel’s, and he smiled coldly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said.

  “You are blind, then,” the colonel snapped. “You have the better blade, you represent free men, but I, with an inferior weapon, could run you through within five seconds.”

  PORTHOS suddenly laughed his rumbling laugh and stepped away from Aramis’ side. He waved to Phillip.

  “Step aside, little comrade,” he said.

  Aramis had not taken his eyes from the colonel.

  “You are very sure of yourself,” he said. The quivering tip of his blade lightly touched the colonel’s foil. “Supposing you prove your point. I will count five for you, my boasting friend.”

  The colonel flushed angrily.

  “You may not have the chance,” he said.

  He moved forward, his legs slightly crouched. The blade in his hand suddenly moved like something alive, flashing in a tight arc about the tip of the musketeer’s sword and then driving like a striking snake.

  Aramis whipped his sword back with the same speed and steel rang on steel as the colonel’s thrust was parried.

  “One!” Aramis counted slowly;

  The colonel lunged in again and the force and power of his drive forced Aramis back a step, but again his deadly stroke was countered.

  “Two!” Aramis said.

  The colonel didn’t pause to study his opponent. With superlative footwork he advanced inexorably, driving Aramis slowly across the wide room; but he held his lunge, waiting for an opening.

  Their blades rang together with a steady crashing roar as they fought across the room. Sparks flew from their flashing swords and still the colonel continued to advance.

  Porthos glanced worriedly at Phillip.

  “The colonel is no amateur,” he muttered. “It would be better if Athos or D’Artagnan were facing him.”

  Aramis was fighting with his back to the wall. A bead of sweat broke on his forehead, but his eyes were cool as he fought desperately against the colonel’s lightning-fast blade.

  The colonel’s mouth was parted slightly and his breathing was coming faster. A glittering intensity shone in his eyes as he struck and struck again—crashing vainly against the defense of Aramis’ skillful blade.

  And finally his moment came!

  His feint drew Aramis out of position, leaving his side exposed.

  “Now!” he cried.

  He lunged forward, his blade striking out like the forking tongue of a snake; but Aramis ducked under the thrust, escaping it by a hair’s breadth.

  The colonel’s blade struck the wall and Aramis leaped free, swinging about instantly, snapping his sword into a guard position.

  “Three!” he said, smiling coolly.

  THE colonel wheeled from the wall and drove into Aramis again, using an overhead saber stroke in a slashing, chopping swing.

  Aramis blocked the cut and the swords crashed the length of the blades and locked at the hilt. The colonel threw his weight against his sword to hurl Aramis back, but the musketeer countered the move with his own weight—and the two opponents came together, grim-lipped, face-to-face, over the angle formed by their locked blades.

  “Four!” Aramis said tensely. “You have but one more chance, Colonel.”

  “It will be all I need,” Colonel Rinehart cried, panting heavily.

  He lunged again, almost blindly and Aramis turned his blade away with a flick of the wrist.

  “Five!” Aramis said.

  He began a cautious advance, circling the colonel to the left but he was smiling confidently.

  Perhaps that was why the colonel’s sudden attack caught him off guard. One instant the colonel had been retreating slowly, but then he lunged to the left and back again to the right with lightning speed.

  Aramis wheeled but his foil, whipping back to cover his side, was caught squarely by the slapping downward stroke of the colonel’s blade.

  And it flew from Aramis’ hand in a spinning arc and struck the floor ten feet away with a metallic clatter.

  The colonel’s orderly grinned triumphantly.

  “Excellent!” he cried.

  The colo
nel’s blade-tip was grazing the front of Aramis’ shirt.

  “You are an accomplished swordsman,” he said. “Allow me to salute you. But I am going to teach you a little lesson that you will remember the rest of your life, particularly,” he smiled coldly, “when you gaze into a mirror.”

  His sword-tip flicked up to Aramis’ face and poised there, a fraction of a inch from his cheek.

  “I,” the colonel said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “am going to cut a swastika on each side of your face to remind you that the free man never wins against the logical forces of dictatorship. I have already proven that point to you; now I shall impress it upon you indelibly.”

  Aramis met the colonel’s eyes coolly.

  “This is quite superfluous,” he murmured. “I am already completely humiliated.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you were actually a good swordsman, but of course you are far from being even mediocre. Losing is bad enough—but to lose to an incompetent butcher is really quite annoying.”

  “You can’t anger me that way,” the colonel smiled.

  Phillip watched in horror as the colonel’s sword moved closer to Aramis’ face.

  “Wait!” he cried. “You can’t do that.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the colonel murmured, “but if you watch a moment you will see that I can.”

  HIS blade moved again, but just as its tip grazed Aramis’ cheek there was a sudden knock on the door.

  “See who that is,” the colonel said over his shoulder to his orderly. “And send him away, whoever it is.”

  The orderly answered the door and turned to the colonel.

  “I’m sorry, Herr—”

  “Fool!” the colonel blazed, “I told you to send whoever it is away.”

  The door was thrust violently open, almost knocking the small orderly off his feet, and a tall slim young man strode arrogantly into the room.

  “I am not accustomed to waiting rooms,” the new arrival said curtly. He glared about the room and his eyes centered on the colonel and Aramis.

  “Am I to report to Herr Goebbels,” he said scathingly, “that Colonel Rinehart of Paris has nothing better to do with his time than practice fencing lessons on defenseless prisoners?”

  The new arrival was tall, wide-shouldered, and he moved with the lithe grace of a jungle cat. His peaked officer’s cap shadowed his face, but his eyes, flashing and hard, were like twin diamonds.

  Colonel Rinehart lowered his blade slowly and faced the young man. His face was hard with suppressed rage.

  “At whose orders do you break into my offices?” he demanded.

  “I am from the Ministry of Information,” the young man snapped. “Herr Goebbels has sent me here to escort three prisoners back to Berlin for intensive questioning. I wish to leave immediately.” He whipped a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them curtly to the colonel. “My authorization and identification.”

  The colonel glanced at the papers and the anger faded from his face. A worried, nervous frown collected over his eyes.

  “Why does Herr Goebbels want the prisoners questioned in Berlin?” he asked.

  “I did not ask Doctor Goebbels the reasons behind his orders,” the young man said sarcastically “But after my insight into the strangely juvenile operation of your office, Colonel, it is not difficult to hazard a guess. Herr Goebbels wants the job done efficiently, and he doubtless realizes that that would be a literal impossibility under your bungling direction.”

  Colonel Rinehart sucked in his breath sharply and his cheeks flushed angrily.

  “You will pay for your insulting attitude,” he stormed. “I refuse to release these men until I have talked to your superiors.”

  The young man gestured sharply to the orderly.

  “Get Doctor Goebbels’ office on the wire immediately,” he said crisply.

  “Yes sir,” the orderly said. He started for the phone.

  “Wait!” the colonel said. His voice had changed. “There is no necessity for our being hasty. We mustn’t bother Herr Goebbels with anything so trivial as our slight misunderstanding. I am sure we Understand each other. Perhaps I was a bit hasty, and for that I’m sorry.”

  “Good!” the young man said. “Now, where are these men?”

  “These three in the room are the ones referred to in your authorization,” the colonel said.

  The young man glanced from Porthos to Phillip and finally to Aramis. Then he shook his head disgustedly.

  “A miserable looking group,” he said.

  He took off his peaked, swastika-emblazoned cap and ran a hand through his brown curly hair. His features were youthful and handsome and there was a curiously humorous glint in his brown eyes, as if he might be struggling to keep from laughing.

  Phillip heard Porthos draw a sudden sharp breath; and then Phillip recognized the slim, brown-haired young man in the Nazi officer’s uniform and his heart began to beat with a fierce, frantic excitement.

  For the mocking, insolent young man who stood nonchalantly facing the colonel was the cavalier Gascon from D’Artagnan—the bold, cheerful, danger-loving young man who had led the musketeers through their most glorious exploits and whose sword and name had been known in every corner of France.

  He was D’Artagnan!

  CHAPTER IV

  WITH an effort Phillip fought back the exclamation of astonished recognition that almost burst from his lips. He forced an expression of blank indifference over his face.

  Colonel Rinehart said, “Must you be leaving right away.”

  “Yes,” D’Artagnan said emphatically, “time is of the essence. I must get started immediately.”

  “You will require a guard, of course,” Colonel Rinehart said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” D’Artagnan said. “I have my own men in the staff car. I assure you they will be more than sufficient.”

  “As you think best,” Colonel Rinehart said. “I am sorry you couldn’t stay longer. Will you please give my regards to Doctor Goebbels when you see him?”

  “Why, yes, I’ll be happy to,” D’Artagnan said.

  “You won’t forget the name? Rinehart. Colonel Rinehart. I’ve met Herr Goebbels several times but I doubt if he would remember me.”

  “We’ll refresh his memory then,” D’Artagnan smiled. “Now the name was Rinewold, wasn’t it?”

  “Rinehart,” the colonel said, with just a tinge of desperation in his voice.

  “I won’t forget,” D’Artagnan said. “Rinehart, Major Rinehart—that’s easy enough to remember.”

  “Colonel Rinehart,” the colonel said. “Ah, yes, I have it now,” D’Artagnan said. “And now I must be getting along.” He nodded to Porthos, Aramis and Phillip. “Come along, you three.”

  D’Artagnan paused at the door while his three comrades filed through ahead of him. He glanced back at the colonel, smiling.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel Rinehead,” he said. “I shall see that Doctor Goebbels hears of you.”

  “The name is Rinehart,” the colonel said.

  But the door of his office had already closed on D’Artagnan’s smiling face.

  D’Artagnan led his charges through the lobby of the building to the street where a high-powered Imperial staff car was waiting at the curb, a driver and a guard seated in the front.

  The guard sprang out and opened the door when D’Artagnan appeared.

  “Thank you,” D’Artagnan said, climbing into the tonneau. Phillip, Aramis and Porthos clambered in after him and seated themselves in the comfortable rear compartment.

  Porthos began to chuckle, his great shoulders shaking with his mirth until the car was rocking on its springs.

  “Gascon, you will be the death of me yet,” he managed to gasp between chuckles. “I—”

  “You will be the death of all of us,” D’Artagnan said curtly, “if you don’t control yourself.” He leaned forward and opened the glass that separated the front and rear tonnea
u. “Drive us to the Metropole hotel,” he directed the driver and closed the glass partition.

  “You are my prisoners,” he said quietly to his three companions. “You must try and act like it until we leave the shadow of the commandant’s office. The driver and guard are underground workers, them we can trust.” He glanced out the rear window. “I’m not too sure I fooled the colonel,” he muttered. “He may decide to have us trailed.”

  BUT they turned a corner and no car had pulled away from the commandant’s building. D’Artagnan turned around and stared at his three companions, but not for long could he keep his features solemn. A smile broke over his good-natured handsome face and he chuckled aloud.

  “Well, that was like old times, comrades,” he grinned. He slapped Aramis and Porthos on the thighs and winked at Phillip. “Just like old times. These two horse thieves in danger of losing their heads and Gascon D’Artagnan, the faithful friend, there to save them in the nick of time.”

  “Your dramatic entrance,” Aramis said dryly, “was almost too late this time. Your timing is slipping. That pig was ready to carve when you arrived.” Porthos laughed hugely.

  “You should have come earlier,” he said, slapping D’Artagnan on the back. “Aramis received a dueling lesson from the colonel that would have made your sides ache from laughing.”

  “There was nothing funny about It, I can assure you,” Aramis said gloomily. “That man is a demon with a sword in his hands. I doubt if even Athos could stand against him.”

  D’Artagnan pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “He must be good,” he said. He looked up suddenly. “Where is Athos?” Aramis told him what had happened as quickly as possible.

  “We must try and get in touch with him immediately,” D’Artagnan said. “We need him.”

  “Do you have any plans?” Porthos asked.

  “Only vague ones,” D’Artagnan said. “We arrived from Africa only a week ago. I learned through the underground of your capture last night. They provided me with this uniform and the authorization for your custody.”

  “You say ‘we’ ?” Porthos asked, frowning. “Do you have a tape worm?”

  “You resemble the elephant in everything but memory, Porthos,” D’Artagnan grinned. “Don’t you remember the lovely girl with the flaming red hair we encountered in America?”