Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “And that,” he said in a low voice, “is the climax of my thirty years of labor.” He turned to me and bowed mockingly.

  “Au revoir, my inquisitive friend,” he murmured. “We shall not meet again.” And with that cryptic remark he left the room and closed the door behind him. I heard a bolt slide shut. And that was all. I was still as completely in the dark as I’d been when I stumbled into the laboratory room an hour before.

  I looked at Polly. She was squirming helplessly in her bonds and the adhesive gag over her mouth was twisting about with the effort she was making to speak.

  “Well,” I said sourly, “this is certainly a fine mess you got us into. If you hadn’t been so ultra smart and brought a cat along to grease your way into this place, we wouldn’t be in this spot now.”

  She made a wheezing, choking sound behind the gag and glared at me angrily.

  “One of the shrewdest things you’ve ever said,” I nodded. “You’ve no idea how a gag raises the general level of your conversation.”

  She made another inarticulate sound and stamped both of her small feet on the floor. She had to stamp them in unison because her ankles were bound tightly together.

  “Save your energy, honey chile,” I told her. “Fortunately I can’t hear a word you’re saying. We’ll just have to sit tight until someone—”

  I stopped talking as I saw she wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her eyes had shifted to the door and there was an expression of terror on her face.

  I squirmed around in my chair and saw that slim tendrils of smoke were crawling under the crack of the door. The sight brought a most unpleasant sensation to my stomach. As if a cold hand on my insides had suddenly tightened into a fist.

  The smoke crawled up in steadily thickening coils and there was a funny noise in my ears, like someone was frying eggs in the room. Then I saw an orange flicker of flame curling up the edge of the door. The door was wood, dry, unpainted, and the rest of the room was in the same condition. A fire trap. The smoke was billowing into the room now in heavy, suffocating layers, and the crackle of fire had crescendoed into a blazing roar. More greedy fire appeared at the edges of the door and leaped hungrily for the dry ceiling and ran along the walls.

  This looked like curtains for us. I glanced at Polly. She was still staring in fascination at the climbing flames; but, to give her credit, she didn’t seem frightened.

  I was within two feet of the door and the heat on my back was becoming uncomfortable. And that gave me an idea. My legs weren’t tied, so by putting both feet on the floor and shoving hard I was able to slide the chair back to the door. The hairs on my neck crackled with the heat, but my bound wrists were within reach of the flames.

  POLLY was staring at me in amazement as I jammed my hands against the burning edge of the door; but then she saw my purpose and her eyes became hopeful.

  The sleeves of my coat started to char and the ropes began to burn; something else was burning too, but X sank my chin into my chest and clamped my jaw shut and hung on.

  I tugged at the ropes, but they held like handcuffs. It was getting harder to breathe. The room was so full of smoke that Polly was just a blurred figure across the room. I took a deep breath and put everything I had into a last effort. The burning ropes bit into my wrists for an agonizing instant—and then they snapped!

  I struggled to my feet, shook the ropes from my wrists and lurched across the room to Polly. I cut her loose from the chair but here was no time to untie her hands and feet, so I slung her onto my shoulder and started for the window on the opposite side of the room.

  Half-way there, Polly started kicking like a mule and squirming about on my shoulder like a Mexican jumping bean. I thought she was strangling, so I eased her down to the floor where it wasn’t quite so smoky, and pulled the adhesive tape away from her mouth.

  She gulped a mouthful of air gratefully.

  “Angel,” she gasped, “I—”

  “Shut up!” I said. “This is no time for endearments. We’ve got to get—”

  “But, Angel,” she cried, “you—”

  “If you want to call me cute names,” I said, “that’s okay. But we aren’t going to sit here in a burning building and whisper sweet nothings to each other.” I started to lift her in my arms but she kicked me in the stomach with her high-heeled, sharply-pointed shoes.

  “You conceited egoist!” she yelped shrilly. “I’m not calling you sweet names. I’m trying to tell you we can’t leave without Angel.”

  “Who the hell is Angel?” I snarled. “My cat,” she said, coughing out smoke. “She’s in a cage under the laboratory bench. I won’t leave without her.”

  I dumped her on the floor—and not gently.

  “Okay,” I yelled, “then stay right where you are! And I hope you and Angel have a gay old time.”

  I leaped to my feet and started for the window. I was bluffing of course, but I wanted her to call me back. Maybe it was silly and childish, but that girl got under my skin until I wanted to scream. I wanted her to know she was wrong and I wanted to dent her cocksure attitude if it was the last thing I ever did.

  But she didn’t call me back. I turned and saw that she was sitting just where I’d left her, hands and feet bound, in the middle of an inferno—and the little imp was gazing about as unconcernedly as if she were in an art gallery.

  “Oh hell!” I groaned.

  She glanced at me coolly.

  “I thought you were leaving,” she said.

  I DASHED across the room and peered under the lab bench. I heard Angel before I saw her. She was meowing plaintively and then I saw her. She was sitting in a little wire cage, a terrified ball of yellow fluff.

  I grabbed the cage and ran back across the smoke-filled room to Polly’s side.

  “Here’s your cat,” I snarled. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  “Poor Angel,” Polly cried. “Is muvver’s ’ittle baby frightened?”

  I gagged. “Stop it,” I said hoarsely. “I have a weak stomach.”

  I shoved a table under the window, climbed onto it and smashed the glass pane with my fist. The draft of cool air that blew into my face must have come directly from Heaven.

  Angel went first. I tossed the cage out the window and prayed it would fall into a well. A nice deep one.

  Then I went back and got Polly. I hoisted her onto the table and from there I was able to roll her out the window onto the grass. When I clambered out, the room was a roaring mass of fire. We hadn’t been a second too soon.

  I untied Polly and helped her to her feet. Her arms and legs were so cramped she could hardly move, and I was in pretty bad shape myself. My wrists were burned almost raw.

  But Polly’s first question was:

  “Where is Angel?”

  I picked up Angel’s cage with a sigh.

  “Here’s your precious Angel,” I said sourly. “Now let’s get out of here before the house falls on us. Not that I care for myself,” I added sarcastically, “but we must think of Angel.”

  “That’s right,” Polly said.

  The fire department was on hand when we reached the street. Also the police. I introduced myself to the captain.

  “There’s a couple of men you want in that house,” I told him. I looked back at the huge mansion. It was completely enveloped in flames. “But I think this fire is going to save you a job.”

  “The job’s over,” the captain said. “We met the two men you mentioned as they were leaving. We ordered them to stop and the tall guy in the baggy clothes pulled a gun and started firing. He seemed awfully surprised when he went down with about six slugs in him.”

  Polly was listening with both ears at a point.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” she demanded.

  “Certain,” the captain said.

  She turned to me entreatingly. “Please, Mack,” she said, “get me to a phone. I’ve got a story that can’t keep.”

  “I’m a reporter too,” I said.

  “Oh, please,
Mack,” she said imploringly. She looked up at me with big, pleading eyes. “Give me a break now, and I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’ve never had a story like this in my life.”

  “Okay,” I sighed.

  We got in the car and drove to a drug store. I got a couple of slugs and went to the phone booth. I handed Polly one of the slugs.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “You’ve got the story. I haven’t the faintest idea of what the professor was up to.”

  “But I have,” Polly smiled, “and what a yarn it is. It’s the kind of story no man would ever get.”

  SHE stepped into the phone booth and reached for the slug slot, but her hand faltered and the slug slipped from her fingers.

  “Oh darn,” she said helplessly. She turned to me and said, “You’ll have to help me, Mack. My arms are so cramped I can’t lift them over my head. Will you get my number for me, please?”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  I went into the booth and my shoulder was between her and the phone while I dialed. When a voice answered I said, “Give me re-write. This is hot.”

  Then I moved aside and let Polly put her mouth to the receiver.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Get this straight and fast,” she spoke crisply into the receiver. “The police have just shot and killed Professor Thorndyke and his assistant, Peter Veler, of 118 Post Road, Elmville, Illinois. The professor had been conducting experiments in prolonging human life. For several weeks he has been advertising in the local papers for cats. I went out there, got in to see him by bringing a cat with me. The professor examined my cat, Angel, and then ordered his assistant, Peter Veler, to see that I didn’t leave. Veler bound me to a chair in the laboratory and then Professor Thorndyke told me his story. Are you getting all this?”

  Polly’s voice was sharp with excitement.

  “Don’t interrupt,” she said. “Just take this down and don’t forget my byline. Who is this? Are you crazy? This is Polly. Now stop interrupting. The professor told me that he spent thirty years tracing down the legend that cats have nine lives. He studied in Persia, India, all over the world I guess. And, according to him, he found an actual scientific basis to that superstition. Some alchemist in the Ninth Century had perfected a formula which could transfer to humans the quality of longevity that cats possess. And here’s the absolute pay-off. The professor needed a special type of cat to test his theory and my cat, Angel, was just the one he wanted. That’s why he wouldn’t let me leave. How did I get out? Well Mack from the Express happened to stumble in after the professor had completed his experiment on Angel. Then the professor fired the house and left us there to die. But Mack got loose and saved us both. He’s been an absolute honey, so mention his name in the story. Now that’s about all. The police shot the professor and Veler while they were trying to get away. Send that right through. I’ll have a follow-up story when I get to the office. Yeah. Goodbye.”

  I hung up the phone for Polly and we went up to the fountain to get a coke.

  “Was all that one the level?” I asked her uneasily as we climbed on stools.

  Polly nodded emphatically. “The professor was sure that he’d have nine lives to live after he injected his serum into his arm. And,” she said thoughtfully, “I think he was on the level. I don’t think he was just a crack-pot.”

  “You mean that mularkey about nine lives?” I asked. “If he was on the level why didn’t it work? You heard the captain say he was dead as a doornail. According to his theory, he should still have eight lives to go.”

  Polly sipped her coke deliberately.

  “I think he made one mistake,” she said. “Angel is a pretty active cat and she’s been in a lot of trouble.” She looked up at me and said seriously, “I think Angel had already used up eight of her lives when the professor got to her. So instead of having eight lives he only had one. That was Professor Thorndyke’s mistake.”

  “Well,” I said, “everybody makes mistakes.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Anyone who can use his head won’t make mistakes.”

  I looked at her with a slow smile. Her chin was tilted in the air and her pert features wore their slightly maddening expression of calm confidence. I almost regretted what I had to do.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, stirring my straw around in the coke, “but using your head won’t always keep you out of trouble. Sometimes,” I said slowly, “being able to use your arms will keep a person from making mistakes.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. She saw the smile on my face and she began to look slightly uneasy. “Mack, what do you mean?”

  She glanced worriedly at the phone booth and then back at me.

  “I don’t get you, Mack,” she said. Her confidence was fading fast. She chewed nervously on her lower lip. And then slowly, a look of horrified certainty appeared on her face.

  “Mack,” she cried, “you didn’t! No one could be that low.”

  I turned on the stool and faced her, a happy smile on my face. This was my moment.

  “Honey,” I said gently, “I can be as low as necessary. I didn’t dial your office. I dialed the Express. You told your very interesting story to Paddy Kane, the editor of the Express. And it’s on its way to the stands by this time.”

  LEFTY whistled admiringly when I stopped talking. He poured me another glass of Scotch.

  “You sure got reason to hate cats, Mack,” he said. “An experience like that’d sour anybody on ’em.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that so much,” I said moodily. I got up and put my hat on and yawned. “The thing that gets me was that Polly was wrong about Angel being down to her ninth life.” I lit a cigarette disgustedly. “Hell, that cat still has eight to go, I’ll bet.”

  I walked toward the door with the cigarette hanging from my mouth.

  I stopped in the doorway and looked back at Lefty.

  “Do you realize what that means?” I demanded. “I’ll be takin’ care of Angel for the next fifty years.”

  “Well,” Lefty grinned, “you got something out of the deal besides Angel. Give my best to Polly when you get home, will you?”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  THE THINKING CAP

  First published in the September 1944 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Reggie, they said, was an amiable idiot then he went to college—in an insane asylum!

  CHAPTER I

  ON A brisk autumn morning Reginald van Porter shoved his way through the revolving doors of his swanky apartment hotel, feeling a mellow glow of satisfaction and contentment somewhere in the region of his heart.

  He paused under the canopy that extended from the entrance of the hotel to the street and nodded benignly to the uniformed doorman.

  “Great day, what?” he said enthusiastically.

  The doorman nodded.

  “I mean,” Reggie went on, determined to make himself absolutely clear, “it’s one of those days that Nature pops as a surprise. Makes a man feel absolutely pious.”

  He drew a deep breath of the keen autumn air and stretched his arms wide. “I mean, it’s just one of those days.”

  The doorman eyed Reggie’s tweed-coated figure with sour disapproval. In his opinion—and he was a thoughtful, discerning man—Reginald van Porter was a blooming ass. He had nothing against the young man personally and he had never heard any scandalous reports of his conduct, but there was just something in the vacantly cheerful attitude with which Reggie surveyed life that annoyed him profoundly.

  “I see what you mean, sir,” he said.

  “Shall I call you a cab?”

  “No,” Reggie said, taking another deep breath. “I’m waiting for a lift from Jonathan Sloan.” The mention of the name caused a fleeting shadow to flit across his normally cheerful face. “Dr. Jonathan Sloan, the eminent young nerve specialist.”

  He brooded for a moment, gnawing solemnly at a finger of his pigskin glove. Finally he turned thoughtfu
lly to the doorman.

  “I say, Thomas, would you care to marry a nerve specialist?”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly. “Considering everything, sir,” he said politely, “I’d rather not.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that,” Reggie said hastily. “I mean if you were a very lovely girl with dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, then would you want to marry this nerve blighter?”

  “Is there any alternative for this young lady?” Thomas inquired.

  “Yes, indeed!” said Reggie emphatically. “She could marry me instead of the nerve chap.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Of course you do,” Reggie said. He regarded Thomas with dubious eyes. “Well, what would you do?”

  “The young lady’s course would seem to be obvious,” Thomas said. Reggie smiled cheerfully.

  “It’s a relief to hear you say that, Thomas.” He smiled for a few seconds and then he suddenly realized that the doorman’s answer had been slightly ambiguous. He frowned worriedly.

  “But, Thomas—”

  “Will you excuse me, sir?” Thomas said. “I think the desk clerk needs me.” He turned and marched through the revolving doors with aloof dignity.

  Reggie walked to the curb, still frowning.

  “Good chap, Thomas,” he muttered. “Mind of his own.”

  A CAR turned into the street and pulled to a stop in front of the hotel canopy. A dark, serious young man with heavy glasses was seated behind the wheel. He wore a somber fedora set squarely on his head and his clothes were quietly conservative. There was something solid and substantial about this young man that impressed and reassured everyone he met.

  “Here,” a person would say to himself, meeting him, “is a person of character and ideals.”

  This quality of solidity in Jonathan Sloan was what had made him, at the age of thirty-five, one of the most distinguished nerve specialists in the city of Chicago.