Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He called me into his office one day and pointed to an advertisement that had been running for several weeks in the Express.

  The ad read:

  “Cats wanted! Highest prices

  paid for certain specimens.

  Contact Professor Thorndyke,

  118 Post Road, Elmville, III.

  He looked at me inquiringly when I had glanced at the ad.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Somebody wants cats,” I said.

  “I wonder why,” faddy said.

  “Search me,” I said. “Maybe it’s some sort of scientific research this professor is doing. Or maybe—”

  “Let’s stop guessing,” Paddy said. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his right bright blue eyes on me meaningly. “Let’s find out for sure, Mack.”

  “But this is feature stuff,” I said. “I’m a police reporter, Paddy.”

  “I know,” Paddy nodded, “but this is a chance to see what you can do on another line. Get going now. I think there might be an interesting story behind this ad.”

  ELMVILLE is a little suburb about twenty miles from Chicago and it took me about forty-five minutes to get there by car. I found 118 Post Road without any trouble. The professor’s home was a huge sprawling place set back a couple of hundred yards from the road and boxed by a high iron fence. A drive led up to the big house, which was visible through the trees that dotted the lawn.

  I tried the front gate but it was locked. The noise I made brought a caretaker in overalls from a small stone hut on one side of the driveway.

  He was a big hulking brute with a couple of days’ whiskers on his face, and his eyes looked small and mean. He looked at me without much friendliness.

  “Whadda you want?” he growled.

  “I want to see Professor Thorndyke,” I said, as amiably as I could. “I’m from the Express and I’d like to talk to him for a few moments.”

  “What about?”

  “About the cats,” I said.

  “Have you got some cats?” he asked.

  “Well, no,” I said, “but—”

  The little eyes peered at me suspiciously.

  “The professor ain’t seein’ anybody,” he said. “Beat it!”

  “Now wait a minute,” I said, trying hard to hang onto my patience, “supposing you tell him I’m here and see if he won’t change his mind.”

  “I said, beat it,” the caretaker said, moving up to the gate until he was a few feet from me. One hand had slid into his pocket and I saw that there was a hard bulge under the cloth. “Beat it!” he repeated.

  He might have had his hand on a pair of pliers or a wire cutter, but I didn’t think so. That bulge in his pocket looked like a gun to me, and I didn’t intend to hang around and find out definitely.

  “Okay,” I said and walked back toward the car. He watched me until I got in, then he disappeared back into his stone shack.

  I SAT there for a while in the growing darkness, trying to figure things out. The whole darned thing looked pretty suspicious to me, but there might be a perfectly simple explanation to the affair. While I was stewing the matter over in my mind a small coupe pulled up on the opposite side of the street and a red-haired girl got out.

  I recognized her with a start of surprise. She was Polly Malone, a feature writer who worked for the News. After my first moment of surprise I began to feel the peculiar irritation I always experienced, whenever I met this saucy, carrot-topped creature. She got under my skin—but definitely. I could never figure out why. Maybe it was because she was so cocky and sure of herself. Or it might have been because she treated most of the newspapermen in town like they were stupid clods. Whatever it was, I felt like taking her over my knee and spanking the daylights out of her.

  I got out of the car and called to her. She turned her head at the sound but didn’t recognize my voice.

  “Who is it?” she said.

  “Mack,” I said. “What brings you out here?”

  “Oh, hello,” she said. There was a slightly worried note in her voice. “I, might ask you the same question.”

  “I came out to see Thorndyke,” I said, “but it was no soap. He’s got a Garbo complex. You’ve got to have a cat before the caretaker’ll let you in.” She patted my cheek with mock solicitude.

  “What a pity!” she murmured. “And you didn’t have a cat, did you?”

  “No,” I said grimly, “I didn’t.”

  I was beginning to experience the usual sensation that a few moments of her company brought about.

  “I suppose you thought to tuck one away in your purse,” I added sarcastically.

  “Go straight to the head of the class, you big smart man,” she grinned.

  I heard a faint meow then as she reached into her car and pulled out a big fluffy Angora. She cradled the cat in her arms and smiled maddeningly at me.

  “If you’re a nice little lamb,” she told me, “I’ll tell you all about Professor Thorndyke—after your deadline.”

  I almost strangled trying to think of something to say. I didn’t mind so much being scooped—that happens to every newsman—but being scooped by this grinning, red-haired Jezebel was enough to give me a permanent attack of apoplexy.

  She smiled sweetly at me and then walked across the street to the iron gate—a slim-legged little girl in a gabardine suit with a yellow cat cuddled in her arms.

  I watched hopefully as I saw the burly caretaker emerge from the shadows behind the gate. Maybe she’d get brushed off in spite of the cat. Then it would be my turn to laugh.

  But nothing like that happened.

  The iron gate creaked open and Polly’s slight figure disappeared. I heard the gate close and a heavy lock snap.

  I lit a cigarette disgustedly. She’d made it. And Paddy Kane would want to know why I hadn’t. I shuddered thinking about what he would say when he saw the story in the News.

  I went back to the car and finished the cigarette. I was ready to leave then, for there was no point in hanging around on the chance that Polly would break down and give me the story. That little girl wouldn’t give her mother a break. She had typewriter ink in her veins and a printer’s plate for a heart.

  But still I decided to wait a while. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I settled down and lit another cigarette . . .

  I FINISHED the pack of cigarettes and started puffing on a pipe a few hours later. The clock on the dashboard said 10:30. Polly, I thought, must be getting a real yarn. I yawned and stretched out as comfortably as possible in the narrow front seat and closed my eyes. I wasn’t tired, but I must have dropped off to sleep for, when I opened my eyes again, the hands of the clock stood at 2:25.

  “Judas Priest!” I muttered, sitting up straight. Hell, it’d be dawn soon.

  My first thought was that I had missed Polly, but I saw that her coupe was still parked on the opposite side of the street. And that brought a worried frown to my forehead.

  What was she doing in there so late? I tried telling myself I didn’t give a damn what happened to her, and that if she got herself into a mess it would serve her right, but that didn’t work. I was still worried.

  I got out of the car and walked over to the iron gate. The house was a big bulky black mass through the trees, without a light showing. The iron gate was still locked, but there was no sign of the unpleasant caretaker about.

  I tried the gate several times and then gave it up. I walked up and down before the entrance for a few minutes trying to figure out what I should do. If I called the police I might be making a fool of myself. Probably Polly was just worming a good story out of the professor over a pot of tea. That would be like her, I thought bitterly.

  Finally I decided the only sensible and cautious thing would be to make a little investigation on my own. That entailed climbing over the high iron fence which wasn’t as tough as it looked. I ripped my coat up the back and almost broke a leg, but otherwise it wasn’t very hard.

  The grounds were completely unli
ghted and there was no moon, so I bumped into just about every tree and shrub on the place, but eventually I reached the house.

  I started up the broad dark front steps, but then I changed my mind and decided to do a little more reconnoitering before I announced myself.

  I don’t know why I changed my mind.

  I suppose it was one of those occasions where God was watching over fools, drunkards and reporters—all one species, really.

  Instead of banging on the front door I walked around the side of the house and I saw light streaming from a basement window about thirty feet ahead.

  I pushed through the high coarse grass that surrounded the house until I could bend down and peer into the window. It was so caked with grime and dirt that I had to rub my hand about in a circle to make a clean patch to see through.

  Then I stuck my face close to the glass and took a good look. The room I saw was fitted as a laboratory. Beakers of foaming acid were set on regular lab benches against the wall, and a network of glass tubing led from one set of test tubes to the other like a crazy spider web. There was so much smoke drifting in the air that I couldn’t, for a while, make out the figures in the room. But then I saw a tall, dark-haired man of about fifty standing beside one of the beakers of acid, peering into its foaming mouth with a crazy sort of smile on his lips.

  He was dressed shabbily, but his face was lean and clean-shaven and his eyes seemed unusually bright in the dim illumination of the smoke-filled room.

  I looked over, then, to the other side of the room and my heart started pounding faster. Polly was there, but she was bound tightly to a straight-backed chair and there was a white patch of adhesive tape across her mouth. Her face was white and drawn and there was terror in her eyes.

  FOR a moment I couldn’t think straight. My first impulse was to smash the window in and leap into the room and maybe things would have been better if I’d obeyed that impulse. Instead I tried to think things out calmly. And while I was squatting there, thinking very calmly, I suddenly felt a hard object shoved against my back.

  And an unpleasantly harsh voice said. “Don’t make a move, or I’ll blow you in two.”

  I started to straighten up instinctively, but the hard cold object suddenly was jammed against my temple.

  “I ain’t foolin’, mister,” the harsh voice warned grimly.

  I settled back down on my haunches then and didn’t make a move while heavy hands went swiftly through my clothes and over my body.

  “All right,” he said, when the frisk was completed, “stand up and walk ahead of me to the front of the house.”

  There wasn’t anything else I could do, so I obeyed like a good little Boy Scout. When we reached the front of the house my belligerent guard opened the heavy door and shoved me into a small dimly-lit hallway.

  I got the first look then at my captor and he turned out to be the thick-shouldered caretaker who had chased me away earlier in the evening.

  He recognized me, also.

  “Too bad you didn’t take my advice,” he said grimly.

  I looked down at the big gun in his hands and realized that he spoke the truth. If I had kept my big nose out of this mess I would have been snoozing comfortably in my own little bed instead of playing the lead role in what was apparently going to be a murder drama.

  But I thought of Polly then, strapped to a chair in the basement, and I suddenly felt glad I was standing right where I was. I might not be able to help her, but at least I could make a try.

  I still didn’t know, though, why I wanted to help that little red-haired snip.

  My guard motioned to an open door that faced a flight of dark steps, leading downward.

  “Down you go,” he said, “and no tricks.”

  I FELT my way down the steps into the dank coolness of a basement, my captor right at my heels. And the gun in his hand was stuck firmly into my back.

  “Okay,” he said, when we reached the bottom of the steps, “stand right where you are.”

  He moved away from me, but I had the feeling the gun was still pointing at my back. I heard him fumble at a doorknob and then an oblong of light fell across the floor as he opened a door.

  “In here,” he said.

  I stepped into the laboratory I had seen through the window from the outside of the house. My guard followed me in and slammed the door.

  He said to the tall, shabbily dressed man who had turned to the door at my entrance, “I found this guy prowling around outside, boss. He’s a reporter. I chased him away a few hours ago, but he’s got nose trouble.”

  I glanced over at Polly. There was a bright look of hope in her eyes, but it faded as she saw the gun the caretaker held at my back. I felt an unreasoning anger at her. She was probably thinking what a hopeless fool I was to allow myself to be caught like a Peeping Tom. What the hell! Did she expect me to arrive with the U.S. Marines? I was glad her mouth was taped.

  The tall dark guy in the shabby clothes was regarding me with an amused expression when I turned from Polly.

  “How unfortunate for you,” he murmured, “that you couldn’t control your curiosity.”

  “What’s the idea of this?” I demanded. “Are you Professor Thorndyke?”

  He bowed from the waist.

  “At your service,” he smiled.

  “You’re getting yourself into a mess of trouble,” I said, with a lot of confidence I didn’t feel. “Kidnaping is a Federal crime, you know.”

  “I am aware of that,” Professor Thorndyke smiled, “but it doesn’t worry me particularly.” He glanced over my shoulder and said to the caretaker, “Make out guest comfortable, Peter.” The caretaker put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me down into a chair. He pulled a rope from his pocket and before I realized what he intended doing, my hands were bound securely to the back of the chair. I tugged frantically, but the ropes only bit deeper into my wrists.

  The caretaker shoved his gun against my temple.

  “Take it easy,” he said softly.

  I relaxed and glared at Professor Thorndyke.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” I shouted. “Our editors are expecting us back. They knew where we were going, and they’ll send a riot squad out here if we aren’t back by tomorrow morning.”

  “Precisely,” Professor Thorndyke nodded agreeably. “And the diligent representatives from the police department will find you here when they arrive—but—” he paused and allowed the silence to gather ominously “—they won’t find either of you in a very talkative mood. You will both be dead.”

  I TRIED to tell myself he was bluffing, but there was something in his deliberately cold voice that warned me he wasn’t. The professor meant exactly what he was saying. I felt an unpleasant shudder run down my spine.

  “Why do you want to kill us?” I asked. “You haven’t got anything against us personally. You never saw either of us until tonight.”

  “That is correct,” the professor said calmly. His large glowing eyes were touched with a glint of sardonic amusement. “Nevertheless you both must die. There is, as you mention, nothing personal in my decision. In a sense I regret having to kill you, but since it is inevitable, I am not wasting time in idle lamentations. Within a very short while you will both be dead. I am sincerely sorry for you. I would hate to be in your place. There is nothing on this Earth more wonderful than life. I have devoted twenty years of scientific study to the problems of life and death, and with each passing year my horror of death and my love of life have grown proportionately. The thought of death fills me with dread; and the thought of endless life brings me an ecstasy that is almost too sweet for my brain to endure!”

  I was watching his eyes as he talked and I didn’t like the wild gleam I saw there. He looked like a prime candidate for a strait jacket, in my opinion.

  I tried to be soothing.

  “Well,” I said, “nobody lives forever. Death isn’t so terrible if you figure that the smartest men in the world have never been able to figure a way around i
t.”

  “You are right,” the professor said in an odd voice. “The smartest men in the world have failed, but I, Professor Thorndyke, have succeeded.”

  “You what?” I said. I knew what the professor meant and I knew he was cracked as the Liberty Bell; but I was trying to stall for time.

  “I have succeeded where the greatest minds of the world have failed,” Professor Thorndyke said in the same strained, odd voice. He wasn’t looking at me any longer. His bright gleaming eyes were fixed on the ceiling and his powerful hands were clenched at his sides.

  “I have beaten death!” he cried. “I have pried from the lost lore of antiquity the secret of immortal life. The secret is mine and the power it gives me will be mine to use as I see fit.”

  “You’re crazy!” I yelled. I couldn’t help it. Listening to him rant was more than I could take. I regretted my tactlessness before the words had stopped echoing. But strangely enough they didn’t seem to bother the professor.

  “Whether you believe me or not,” he said good-naturedly, “makes not the slightest difference.” His mood of fanatic enthusiasm had passed and he seemed almost pleasantly contented.

  He smiled over my head to the caretaker, Peter.

  “I think it is about time for the last step, Peter,” he said quietly. “Make the necessary preparations, will you, please?”

  Peter nodded silently and left the room.

  I felt a bead of sweat breaking on my forehead. The final act, whatever it was, seemed to be ready to start.

  “Now Just a minute,” I said desperately. “You can’t murder two human beings without any reason or explanation. There’s no sense to it!”

  “But I have excellent reasons,” the professor said blandly. “You see, I must prevent your speaking of what you have seen tonight, and there is only one way to make sure of that. Therefore,” he shrugged casually, “you must die.”

  HE TURNED away from me and picked up a large hypodermic syringe from the laboratory table. It was filled with a murky yellow fluid. He rolled up his sleeve and plunged the hypodermic needle into his arm and slowly squeezed the plunger. When the glass cylinder was empty he withdrew the hypodermic and replaced it on the table; then he rolled down his sleeve.