Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Reggie looked at his watch in pleased astonishment.

  “Why,” he said, “you’re right on the dot!”

  “I am always on time,” Jonathan said quietly. “A person who can’t keep appointments is, in my opinion, suffering from a form of mental unbalance.”

  “Is that so?” Reggie said, climbing into the front seat, alongside the young nerve specialist. The solid, powerful car moved away from the curb slowly as Reggie settled himself comfortably. He risked a side glance at Jonathan’s stern, serious profile, debating the advisibility of telling him the side-splitting story he had heard the night before at the club. With a sigh he decided that it would be a waste of time. What Alice saw in this straight-faced bloke

  “Frankly,” Jonathan said, “I was rather surprised to hear from you last night, I didn’t know that you were going down to the Montmacy’s for the week end.” He drove along for a moment in a dour silence. “Alice didn’t mention it to me,” he said in a severe voice which implied that Alice damn well should have. “Are you sure she expected you today?”

  “Why, yes, I guess so,” Reggie said. He pointed out the window at two cows grazing in a meadow alongside the road. “What do you suppose those biffers think about all day?”

  “You guess so,” Jonathan said sharply, displaying no interest in the cerebral habits of Reggie’s cows. “Do you mean to tell me you aren’t sure?”

  Reggie shifted uneasily. Jonathan always made him feel as if he were on the witness stand, defending himself for annoying young girls.

  “Well,” he said, “I talked to Alice in the middle of the week and she invited me down for Saturday or Sunday, I don’t remember which. When I found out you were driving down today I decided to cadge a lift, as it were.”

  “This is terrible,” Jonathan said in a hollow, despairing voice. They had left the city limits and were driving through the open country. The lake was to their left, sparkling and blue in the morning sun; at their right were the large, well-kept estates of the suburb of Glencoe. “I can’t drop you off here,” Jonathan said. “It’s miles from the train.”

  “What’s so terrible about me coming down a day early?” Reggie asked. “Are they going to butcher an old aunt, or something?”

  “Please!” Jonathan said frostily. “I don’t find such vulgar allusions amusing.” He frowned over the steering wheel. “Alice’s father, Professor Thaddeus Montmacy, is holding one of his Saturday evening salons tonight. Naturally only the most intelligent sort of people are invited to attend. I am afraid that your presence may annoy Professor Montmacy. Alice obviously invited you down for tomorrow. She certainly wouldn’t be thoughtless enough to have you down for her father’s salon.”

  “Well,” said Reggie, “can’t I just keep out of the way tonight? I can talk over the high cost of living with the butler, while the great brains, are threshing the world’s problems about in the drawing room. Or maybe I can take Alice out for a gander at the moon.”

  JONATHAN glanced at him sharply and almost ran down a stray dog.

  “Alice always attends her father’s salons,” he said stiffly. “Alice appreciates intelligence as much as does her father.”

  “That’s fine,” Reggie said gloomily. The conviction was growing in him that he was in for a rather dismal time over the week end. He had intended to use this opportunity to convince Alice of his sterling virtues and irresistible charm. There would be little chance for that, he thought moodily, with a bunch of mighty intellects kicking around the Einstein theory and occupying all of Alice’s attention and admiration. Even Jonathan probably understood Einstein’s theory, he thought disgustedly.

  He coughed. “I say, do you understand this theory of Einstein’s that everyone’s talking about?”

  Jonathan smiled with smug superiority.

  “Why, of course,” he murmured. “The conclusions are actually elementary.”

  Reggie settled back and fell victim to a quiet despair.

  “Who’s going to be there tonight?” he finally asked.

  “I doubt if you’d know any of them, even by name,” Jonathan said. “Major Lionhead, the eminent military author is expected. Also, Dr. Adams, the famous Viennese surgeon will be present. I expect that he and I shall have much in common to discuss. And Jeremy

  Taylor, the industrial airplane designer, is coining.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Reggie said hopefully.

  “I’m not surprised,” Jonathan said. “His name has been on the front page for several months. His designs have revolutionized the building of aircraft for the war effort.”

  “Quite a crowd,” Reggie muttered. “You can understand now,” Jonathan said in a pained voice, “how awkward your arrival will be. Please don’t consider me rude, but you must see that you just won’t fit.”

  “I suppose so,” Reggie sighed. “Maybe I can find one of the horses to talk to.”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t persist in treating this matter so lightly,” Jonathan said. “It’s really a serious problem. I suggest that you remain silent for a while and I will apply my full attention to it.”

  “It’s awfully good of you,” Reggie said. “I won’t say a word.”

  He was silent for several miles and he occupied the time thinking how delightful it would be to smack Dr. Jonathan Sloan squarely on the button.

  After about an hour’s ride through the beautiful brown-and-gold countryside Jonathan said:

  “I’m making a stop at the Stateville asylum before we go on to the Montmacy’s. Would you care to come in with me and look the place over?”

  “Asylum? You mean a loony bin?” Jonathan frowned in pained annoyance.

  “The Stateville asylum is one of the most efficient institutions in the country for the treatment of mental disorders. I happen to foe one of the consulting specialists on the staff. My stop will be brief. I have a few routine matters to check and then we’ll be on our way again. You may wait in the car if you wish.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll go along,” Reggie said enthusiastically. “You know, I’ve never been in an insane asylum.”

  “Amazing,” Jonathan said dryly. “Absolutely amazing.”

  IN ANOTHER few minutes they came to the Stateville asylum, a large brick building set back several hundred yards from the road. It was completely surrounded by a high wire fence and the only entrance was guarded by a husky chap in boots and breeches. This guard seemed to know Jonathan, for he swung the gate open and permitted him to drive up the graveled lane that led to the main building.

  They got out of the car and walked up the steps to a wide porch and Jonathan rang the doorbell with the sharp assurance of the man who isn’t selling brushes.

  A high-domed individual in baggy dark clothes and spectacles opened the door. He beamed at Jonathan.

  “Welcome, Dr. Sloan. How nice of you to drop by.”

  “Thank you. Dr. Livingstone, this is my friend, Reginald van Porter.” Reggie smiled blankly and shook his hand that Dr. Livingstone extended.

  “How do you do,” the doctor smiled, “I’m sure you will be very happy with us, Mr. van Porter. Here, you will find it restful and—”

  “Mr. van Porter,” Jonathan said hastily, “is not a client of mine, Dr. Livingstone.”

  “Oh,” Dr. Livingstone said. He sounded disappointed. He looked appraisingly at Reggie and shook his head from side to side with a doubtful look in his eye. It was obvious that he wasn’t convinced.

  Reggie shifted uneasily. His collar suddenly seemed a little too tight. “Perhaps I’d better wait in the car after all,” he said to Jonathan.

  “Nonsense,” Jonathan said crisply. “I’ve already locked the machine. Come along.”

  They followed Dr. Livingstone into the cool spacious depths of the asylum ante-room. A receptionist in a crisp white dress and nurse’s cap was the only occupant of the room. She was a grimly efficient young lady and she regarded Reggie with a professional gleam in her eye.

  Reggie was relieved when he passed fro
m her presence into a well-furnished room, lined with books and dominated by a huge desk facing the window. In this room were several severe-looking men with long hair and eyeglasses. They were seated about in a circle and the object of their attention was a wispy-looking little man who stood abjectly in the center of the room and who, Reggie learned later, was under the illusion that he was a fried apple.

  The doctors looked up when they entered and Jonathan made the introductions. Everyone nodded vaguely in Reggie’s direction and promptly turned their attention again to the fried apple in their midst.

  “An interesting case,” Dr. Livingstone murmured to Jonathan. “I’d very much like to have your opinion of our tentative diagnosis.”

  “Which is what?” Jonathan said crisply.

  “Dementia praecox,” Dr. Livingstone said.

  Dr. Jonathan Sloan tapped his teeth with a pencil, looked at a slip of paper Livingstone had handed him, then moodily regarded the patient, who, in turn, was moodily regarding the tip of his index finger.

  “So,” Dr. Sloan said kindly, “you think you’re a fried apple, do you?”

  “Yes. I’ve got cloves stuck in me, haven’t I?” the patient said triumphantly.

  Reggie regarded the little man with interest.

  “I say, that’s a shrewd point,” he said, nudging Jonathan.

  Jonathan turned and surveyed him with quiet annoyance, in which a shade of loathing was definitely mingled.

  “Will you leave us for a while, Reginald?” he said sternly. “Your presence here will hardly be needed.”

  “Oh,” Reggie said. Shrugging, he left the room. Let them keep their old fried apple, he thought dejectedly.

  HE CLOSED the door behind him and turning around he found himself at the head of a long corridor, which was flanked on both sides by barred doors.

  In a spirit of idle curiosity he strolled down the corridor peering casually into the cells as he passed. Several men, seated in the cells, glanced up from such mundane tasks as reading or writing, nodded to him and returned to their work.

  Reggie was slightly puzzled. He had expected to find people fishing in buckets and wearing Napoleonic costumes, but such was apparently not the case. When he reached the end of the corridor he was about to turn when a quiet, cultivated voice said:

  “Pardon me. Will you do me a favor, please?”

  Reggie turned and saw a small, neatly dressed man with a pointed beard and steel-rimmed glasses regarding him with calm, twinkling blue eyes.

  The man was standing at the door of his cell and there was a pleasant smile on his small, intelligent face.

  “Why, certainly,” Reggie said. “What is it?”

  The man shifted his head and peered down the corridor in both directions. Then he smiled again at Reggie.

  “My name is Professor Smythe,” he said. “Possibly you have heard of me?”

  “Nope,” Reggie said, shaking his head, “can’t say that I have.”

  The little man who called himself Professor Smythe sighed audibly, but he continued to regard Reggie with a friendly smile.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” he murmured. “Although at one time I was quite well known. I did a great deal of work in chemical transformations.”

  “Is that so?” Reggie said.

  “But that is neither here nor there,” the little professor said, smiling. “I want you to do a favor for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I dropped something,” the professor said. “I would appreciate it very much if you would pick it up for me.”

  “Dropped something?” Reggie regarded the little man blankly. “Can’t you pick it up?”

  “Well,” Professor Smythe said with a tolerant smile, “if I could, I wouldn’t be troubling you. I dropped it outside the door of my cell and I am unable to reach it. It’s right at your feet.” Reggie glanced down at the floor and saw nothing. The smooth concrete was completely bare. He scratched his head and frowned at the professor. “You’re sure you dropped it here?”

  “Yes, yes,” the professor said eagerly. “Can’t you see it? It’s right at your feet.”

  Reggie looked down again, and again he saw nothing. Nothing, that is, except his own trousered legs and comfortably shod feet.

  “I’m sorry to let you down like this,” he said, “but I can’t seem to see this thing you dropped. What is it?”

  “A thinking cap,” the professor said Irritably. “I wish you’d look a bit more carefully. It’s the only one I have.”

  “A thinking cap?” Reggie said in astonishment.

  “Yes, my last one.”

  “That’s tough,” Reggie said. He looked down at the floor again and then back to the professor. “What does is look like?”

  “Really, my dear boy,” Professor Smythe said exasperatedly, “what would you expect a thinking cap to look like? It’s small and fits the skull very neatly.”

  “What color is it?” Reggie asked.

  THE little professor looked at him for an instant with a peculiar expression on his face and then he broke out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Reggie demanded.

  “I’m sorry, really I am,” the professor managed to say, between chuckles. “It’s not your fault; I should have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “About the thinking cap. It’s invisible. That’s why you can’t see it.”

  “Oh, is that it?” Reggie nodded thoughtfully. “That would make a difference, at that. But how am I supposed to find it?”

  “You’ll just have to feel around for it, I’m afraid,” the professor said. “Just around for it, eh?”

  “Yes. Get down on your knees and run your hands over the floor. It shouldn’t be too much trouble. I feel terrible about putting you to all this bother, but it’s really important that I find my thinking cap.”

  “Naturally,” Reggie said. He wasn’t quite sure whether to believe this little man or not. He seemed very rational and logical but still—

  Feeling slightly silly he got down on all fours and began to feel about the floor with his hands. The little professor watched him anxiously,

  “Are you sure this is where you dropped it?” Reggie asked.

  “Of course,” the Professor said peevishly.

  Reggie continued his odd hunt, but slight doubts were beginning to steal into his mind.

  “I simply must have it,” the professor said worriedly. “With my thinking cap I am the most brilliant man in the world.”

  “Is that so?” Reggie was making an effort to be polite but it was coming hard.

  “Without it,” the professor went on moodily, “I am only the most brilliant man in North America. You see why it is so necessary that it be found.”

  This was an argument that Reggie could understand. He redoubled his efforts.

  “Don’t worry, Professor,” he said cheerfully, “well find it.”

  He crawled about the corridor in ever widening circles, feeling every inch of the floor with his groping fingers. His head was lowered and he was applying all of his feverish concentration, when his outstretched hand collided with a very solid object.

  “Found it!” he cried.

  HE LOOKED up at the object he had felt, but it was not a cap. And it was not invisible. It was a very large, very visible shoe and, as he lifted his eyes with a feeling of sudden foolish guilt, he saw that the shoe connected to a trouser leg which led inevitably to a very large white-jacketed young man who was regarding him with polite suspicion.

  “Uh . . . hello,” Reggie said weakly.

  “Hello,” this young man said mildly. “What are you looking for?”

  “A cap,” Reggie said. He swallowed nervously as the realization came to him that he was in a somewhat compromising position. Explanations were obviously in order.

  He gestured feebly toward the professor’s cell.

  “It’s his hat,” he said.

  “His?” the guard repeated politely. He glanced toward the cell an
d slowly back to Reggie. With a slightly sick feeling Reggie followed his gaze and saw that the professor had left the door of the cell and was lying on a comfortable cot, apparently engrossed in a thick book.

  “He wanted me to look for his cap,” Reggie said. He tried to chuckle, but the result was a rather hideous giggle. “It’s his thinking cap.”

  “Oh.” The guard pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. He glanced solemnly down at the floor and shifted his gaze in a slow circle.

  “It doesn’t seem to be here, does it?” he said mildly.

  “It’s invisible.” Reggie blurted.

  “And that’s why we can’t see it,” the guard said. He reached down and took Reggie’s arm in a gentle but firm grip. “Supposing we come back and look for it later. Right now I think you’d better come along with me.”

  Reggie suddenly realized that the guard thought he was a loony.

  “Now wait a minute,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Naturally not,” the guard said. “Whoever said anything about that? Come along now.”

  There was obviously nothing else to do. Reggie started to rise his feet, but at that moment his hand brushed against a very light object on the floor. He looked down quickly but saw nothing. His hand closed slowly over a soft filmy object which felt surprisingly like a skull cap.

  “I’ve found it!” he shouted.

  “Come on now,” the guard said, and there was a hint of grimness in his voice. He lifted Reggie none too gently to his feet.

  But Reggie still held the light, invisible cap in his hand. At least he presumed it was a cap. For that was what the professor had said, and the most brilliant man in the world wouldn’t likely be wrong. Thus reasoned Reggie. And he knew it was invisible, for the simple reason that he couldn’t see it. That conclusion was simple.

  The guard was propelling him down the corridor.

  “Now wait a minute,” Reggie said frantically. “I’ve got to give the professor his cap.”

  “You can do that later,” the guard said.

  REGGIE looked at the barrel chest and wide shoulders of the guard and, with a sigh, conceded the point. He slipped the cap on his head and allowed the guard to lead him to the door at the end of the corridor and into the presence of Dr. Livingstone, Dr. Jonathan Sloan and their associates.