Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  A person equipped with a more orthodox attitude than Reggie would quickly have relegated such a theory to oblivion. But Reggie was strangely enchanted with it. A thinking cap seemed logical enough to him. After all, he had believed in Santa Claus until he was seventeen years old.

  He put his hand tentatively to his head and felt the soft, flimsy texture of the cap. It was invisible; but it was definitely there. And it was definitely transforming him into a brilliant sort of chap.

  This thought caused him to brighten. Why, everything was wonderful! With the aid of this invisible bonnet he would cover himself with glory and earn Gloria’s undying respect and admiration.

  Gloria was still holding his arm, and he smiled into her eyes.

  “You have such a stimulating mind,” Gloria said with enraptured surprise. “I’d never noticed that before. I simply must have a nice long talk with you. Would you like to take a ride before dinner?”

  “Tallyho to the hounds, and all that?” Reggie asked. “Sounds splendid”

  “Now just a minute,” Professor Montmacy said to his daughter, “I don’t want you to monopolize Reginald completely. I want to talk to him. He has—er—unsuspected depths.

  “Young man,” he said, turning to Reggie, “I’ll confess that I was slightly worried when I saw you. I was afraid you wouldn’t fit in, so to speak, at my salon this evening. But I realize now that my fears were unjustified. I shall be honored if you take part in the discussion tonight at eight sharp, here in the library.”

  “Professor Montmacy,” Reggie said solemnly, “I shall be honored.”

  Gloria held his arm possessively. “Come on, Reggie, we’ll just have time to change and ride before dinner.”

  “Righto,” said Reggie.

  In a corner, Jonathan sulked moodily and Major Lionhead was still gnawing his beard in annoyance as Reggie and Gloria left the room.

  Reggie knew then how Alexander must have felt.

  CHAPTER III

  IN HIS room overlooking the stately Montmacy gardens, Reggie changed quickly into trig riding clothes. His feeling of ebullient elation expressed itself in an off-key tenor that made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in quality and pitch.

  When he was ready to leave he thought of the thinking cap. For a moment he thought of taking it with him, but a certain pride prompted him to leave it behind. He would need it chewing the intellectual fat with the professor, but he felt he could out-think a horse without any extra mental aids.

  He met Gloria in the stable, and she looked lovely and boyish in smooth jodphurs and a pert derby that fitted her small dark head perfectly.

  “You look just like Lady Godiva,” he said gallantly.

  “Reggie!” Gloria cried. “What do you mean?”

  Reggie remembered too late that Lady Godiva, while an excellent horsewoman, had also been completely ungilded for her epic ride. For years he had been telling girls on horseback that they looked like Godiva, and for years he had been puzzled by the peculiar reaction to what he had meant as a gracious compliment. He realized he had made a mistake in doffing the thinking cap.

  “Just a figure of speech, y’know,” he said lamely. “Let’s hit the old cinder path, shall we?”

  He helped Gloria to mount, then climbed aboard his own horse. They followed the winding, elm-sheltered path through the Montmacy domain until they reached the wider road that branched out into the wooded sections that flanked the estate.

  They were back in an hour and Reggie knew that he had made definite strides. When they had rested their mounts at the half-way mark, there had been something soulful in Gloria’s eyes that turned his insides into a frothy custard. She was undoubtedly impressed with his noble mastery of the steed and his quiet air of confident authority. There had been a slightly embarrassing moment when his saddle slipped and he had fallen into the road, but his recovery had been deft.

  “That was lovely,” she said, as they dismounted.

  “Ripping,” Reggie said heartily.

  This was a rather accurate choice of word, for his breeches chose that moment to snag on the pommel and lend a loud sound effect to his adjective.

  In some confusion, Reggie retreated to the house.

  Gloria smiled at him.

  “Hurry and dress,” she called. “Dinner is at six, and Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Righto,” Reggie cried.

  He retired to his room feeling that he had done an excellent afternoon’s work. Now if he could just further establish himself in Gloria’s graces at the big brain bust tonight, why everything would be perfect.

  He showered, shaved and dressed, feeling quite complacently pleased with himself and his prospects. He combed his hair carefully and then collected his watch, change and keys from the bureau, dropped them into his pockets and started for the door.

  Half way there, he paused, smiling. There was just one thing he’d forgotten and that was the extremely essential thinking cap. In the present circumstances he would as soon have gone down without his pants as without that bit of apparel.

  He went back and ran his hands slowly over the top of the bureau, for that was where he remembered leaving the thinking cap. But it was not there.

  “Heh, heh,” Reggie laughed hollowly.

  A damp sweat broke out on his forehead and his knees suddenly felt unequal to the task of holding him erect. He sagged against the dresser and took a deep breath to steady himself.

  “Brace yourself, old boy,” he said to his pale image in the mirror.

  When his nervous tremors had passed he made a frantically thorough search of the room, under the bed, through the closet, into the drawers, but the results were nil.

  There was no trace of the thinking cap in the room.

  Reggie sat numbly on the edges of the bed and let the slow horror of the situation seep into his soul.

  Dinner was in another few minutes. Immediately after came the professor’s salon. He was expected to be present; he was expected to participate in the great battle of brains. And without the aid of the thinking cap he would be proven for all time as a complete imbecile and moron.

  A pretty mess!

  For several seconds he nibbled his fingernails nervously; then some of his cheerful confidence returned. After all, he was no worse off than before he had the thinking cap; and someone else was much better off, so it all balanced up.

  He continued to sit for another few seconds gazing moodily at the floor and then he stood up slowly and a great light broke over the blackness of his soul.

  Someone was better off for having the thinking cap I Obviously! But how had that “someone” gotten it? That was the question he asked himself triumphantly.

  And there was only one answer.

  Someone had stolen the thinking cap while he had been out riding with Gloria. Someone had somehow learned of its existence and had peached the jolly thing.

  That was it!

  Reggie began pacing nervously, but there was a charged air of purpose in his excitement now. He wasn’t the type to take a thing like this lying down. If someone had stolen his thinking cap that party was in for trouble.

  He ran over the list of suspects and, like Abou ben Adhem, Johnathan’s name led all the rest.

  “The snake!” thought Reggie bitterly.

  But he couldn’t discard others altogether. How about Taylor, the industrial designer? Nervous, shifty type, probably a bedroom drinker. Would bear watching.

  Major Lionhead? Maybe. Although bearded men were usually reliable and solid. Look at the Smith brothers.

  Dr. Adams, the Viennese surgeon? Possibly. No definite proof, but something about the man led Reggie to suspect that he would lift not only a thinking cap but any silver that might be lying around loose.

  The professor of course was eliminated. Why would he need a thinking cap? Coals to Newcastle.

  REGGIE left his room purposefully.

  He had only a minute or so before dinner and he meant to make it count. The door of
the next room was slightly ajar and, after a cautious knock, he slipped inside.

  This was Jeremy Taylor’s room. Reggie looked around and scratched his head. Assuming Taylor was the guilty party, where would he hide a thinking cap? Of course he might be wearing the thing but he’d have to wait until he saw Taylor to investigate that angle.

  He ran quickly over the bureau and then through the drawers. In the second drawer there was a sheaf of papers which held his interest for a moment. They were covered with mathematical symbols and intricate geometrical figures. The design seemed to be that of a fuel pump, but Reggie thought it probably wasn’t. It didn’t look like any fuel pump he had ever seen.

  He was just closing the drawer when he heard the door of the room open slowly.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that Dr. Adams, the eminent surgeon, was standing in the doorway, regarding him with a slightly amused expression.

  The doctor’s monocle glinted with what seemed to be an accusing glare; and his gleaming bald dome was righteousness itself. He rubbed his small pointed beard reflectively and stepped a few feet into the room.

  “Darn that collar button,” Reggie said, with a weak laugh. “Always losing it here or there.” He waved his hand about the room. “Just can’t find it anywhere.”

  Dr. Adams frowned.

  “Was it your collar button, may I ask?”

  “Why, sure.”

  “Then let me suggest,” Dr. Adams said, “that you might have better luck looking for it in your room instead of Mr. Taylor’s.”

  He bowed solemnly, turned and left the room.

  Reggie followed him, shortly. There was absolutely no point in going about the search this way. Added to the difficulties of finding an invisible object in a large room was the fact that someone was liable to come stumbling in at any time, just as had Dr. Adams. He would have to use strategy. While he was drifting down the hallway like the ghost of Hamlet, the elder, he ran into Gloria.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “We’re having a drink before dinner. Father sent me to get you.” She took his arm and smiled at him. “He’s taken a definite change of attitude toward you. He says you surprise him with your brilliance and modesty. Only a moment ago he was saying that be can hardly wait to hear you tonight in the discussion after dinner.”

  “Heh, heh.” Reggie’s laugh had all the jollity of a man who has been saved from a gas chamber in order to be strapped into an electric chair.

  CHAPTER IV

  IN THE library, bolstered by a few drinks, Reggie remembered his chief problem, which was the finding of his thinking cap.

  Jonathan was standing by the fireplace, looking solid, substantial and well groomed. His dark hair was combed carefully and lay close to his well-rounded skull. He looked above the common failings.

  No one, Reggie thought gloomily, would ever conceive of Jonathan doing anything small or petty. He would never get drunk; he would never go to a stag party. Of course, he wouldn’t ever be invited to a stag party, but that wasn’t the point.

  Looking at him, solid, worthwhile, upright, it seemed hard to envision him sneaking in to steal a thinking cap from a chap’s room.

  Still, Reggie was too desperate to rely completely on appearances. He walked to Jonathan’s side and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “What ho!” he cried He reached out suddenly and with a smile of good-fellowship on his face tousled Jonathan’s neatly combed hair quite thoroughly.

  Jonathan stiffened and looked at him in disgust.

  “Really,” he said frigidly. “I can’t say that I share your enthusiasm for horseplay.” He set his drink on the mantel and smoothed his hair with his hands and turned a wounded back to Reggie.

  Reggie sighed and shrugged. At least Jonathan wasn’t wearing the thinking cap now.

  Several minutes passed and Reggie was beginning to feel completely miserable. He was a lamb being led to an intellectual slaughter and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He glanced moodily about the room. In a corner, Jeremy Taylor and the professor were discussing hydraulic pressures with the delight of small boys arguing baseball; before the fire, Jonathan, Gloria and Major Lionhead were chuckling merrily over a passage from Spinoza.

  He was glad when the butler announced dinner. If he couldn’t think, he could at least eat. After all, one man’s as good as another with a roast beef.

  As they filed in to dinner Dr. Adams joined them, and Jeremy Taylor excused himself for a moment and went back upstairs.

  They were taking their seats when Jeremy Taylor burst back into the room. His lean face was pale; his hands were trembling violently.

  “Professor Montmacy I have a serious charge to make against some member of this party,” he said tersely. “Plans, important government plans concerning airplane engines, have been taken from my room. I brought them down here for study.”

  He glanced slowly from face to face about the table.

  “I have already notified the F.B.I. Until they arrive I must insist that no one leave the house.”

  EVERYONE began to talk at once when Taylor stopped. The professor raised a hand to quiet the noise.

  “We will do precisely what Mr. Taylor wishes,” he said in his clipped voice.

  “I sincerely hope that this will turn out to be some misunderstanding. It grieves me to think that anyone would take advantage of my hospitality for the purpose of betraying this country. I—”

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” Dr. Adams said, “but I think I might be able to cast a light on the disappearance of Mr. Taylor’s important papers.”

  “Speak up, man,” Taylor snapped. “What do you know about this thing?”

  “Simply this,” Dr. Adams said. “When I was going to my room about half an hour ago, I passed your room and noticed that the door was open. I looked in to see if you were there. You were not. But the room was not empty.” He paused and stroked his short silken beard slowly. “It pains me to say that Reginald van Porter was standing in front of your bureau in the act of searching the drawers.”

  Dr. Adams shrugged expressively. “Possibly the young man has an explanation for his conduct. I, for one, hope so. I only mentioned this because of the gravity of Mr. Taylor’s loss.”

  A silence followed Dr. Adams’ statement. It was a deafeningly loud silence, that pressed down on the table with oppressive weight.

  Reggie became conscious that he was the center of attention. Everyone at the table was regarding him to the exclusion of all else. Jonathan wore a smug, “I told you so” look; Major Lionhead was grave; Professor Montmacy was stern; Gloria looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

  “Do you have any explanation, Mr. van Porter?” Taylor asked, his voice as cold as the Russian steppes.

  “Well,” Reggie wiggled uncomfortably, “I—”

  “What were you looking for in my dresser?” Taylor asked.

  “A cuff button,” Reggie said. He was glad he thought of that. Wouldn’t do to change his story now. Stick to it. “Cuff button,” he repeated firmly.

  “I see,” Taylor said significantly. He glanced at Professor Montmacy. “I think it is our duty to search Mr. van Porter’s rooms. It is not my wish to appear arbitrary or high-handed, but it is impossible to over-emphasize the importance of those missing designs.”

  Professor Montmacy nodded. He seemed very tired.

  “Very well. Go ahead.”

  Taylor nodded to Major Lionhead and Dr. Adams.

  “Will you gentlemen assist me, please?”

  When the three men had left the room, the professor shoved back his chair and stood up.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said dryly. “I’ll be in the library if I’m needed.”

  “Isn’t anyone going to eat?” Reggie asked.

  “I’m afraid my appetite is gone,” Gloria said. She smiled faintly. “I suppose I’ll feel better when Mr. Taylor comes back and tells us that they found nothing in your room.”

  “Why, of course
you will,” Reggie said.

  “I hope you will,” Jonathan said, in a voice that indicated what a lost hope that really was.

  Reggie was eating his shrimp cocktail with considerable relish when Jeremy Taylor returned, followed closely by the major and Dr. Adams. Taylor carried a sheaf of papers in his hands. His face was white and set.

  Reggie stopped chewing on his shrimp. There was a large hollow in the region of his stomach. He had a feeling in his bones that the sky was about to fall in on him.

  And with Taylor’s first words it did.

  “We found this in your valise,” he said evenly. “The evidence is conclusive. You will be placed in custody, van Porter, when the F.B.I. agents arrive.”

  Reggie resumed chewing his shrimp. There was no point in going to pieces, he reasoned.

  CHAPTER V

  WHEN Reggie finished his shrimp cocktail he was led into the library and left in the center of the room like a pariah. Gloria was crying in a corner and Jonathan was comforting her. The professor was bitterly silent and stony-faced.

  Major Lionhead stood close by as if he were expecting Reggie to make a break for it. Dr. Adams was equally zealous on the opposite side. Taylor was pacing the floor and glancing nervously at his watch.

  “Really,” Reggie said for about the fifth time, “this is sheer nonsense. I haven’t the foggiest idea how those papers got into my valise.”

  “Perhaps the F.B.I. will refresh your memory,” Taylor said.

  Reggie lapsed into another moody silence. He started to do a little thinking. Since he hadn’t taken the papers, it stood to reason that someone else—someone present right now—had taken them. That seemed simplicity itself but no one else could apparently understand it.

  He frowned and shook his head. There seemed to be quite an epidemic of kleptomania rampant on the Montmacy estate. First, the thinking cap; now this. He wondered if there could be any connection between the two thefts.

  And with that thought a little cog in his head slipped into place and he realized that the thinking cap hadn’t been stolen at all. No! He had taken it off in the bathroom to comb his hair.