Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He went on about the copy, until Jim thought there was nothing left to critisize but the paper it had been typed on; then he began on the art work.

  Jim listened for a while, helplessly. Then he focused his eyes on the ceiling and tried to forget the rasping, insulting voice that was ripping him up one side and down the other.

  Everything had gone smash. David Dewitt David was going to be unhappy, Davina, his black haired daughter, was going to be unhappy. Jim knew that he, himself, was going to be the most unhappy of all.

  Suddenly he became aware of a prickling sensation on his left middle finger. He glanced down and noticed the ring he had bought on the way to the conference. He removed it and rubbed his finger; then he looked at the ring.

  J. Darrel’s voice droned on.

  Jim looked at the tiny figure of the girl on the ring and he felt a sudden resentment. She looked calm and poised, her patience molded forever in unchanging brass. She was lucky! She could afford to look smug, not to care.

  “Indifferent little witch,” he murmured to himself. “Watching men make fools of themselves and not caring. Relaxed, composed, forever quiet; what do you care of the problems of flesh and blood, the anguish of human beings? You have quiet and peace for all time. Lucky little brass witch.”

  “Mr. Ward, am I boring you?”

  Jim’s head snapped up. J. Darrel was glaring at him.

  “N—not at all, sir. I—I think that’s a good point.”

  “Hmmmm,” J. Darrel said. He looked suspiciously at Jim for a moment, then went on with his diatribe.

  Unconsciously, almost against his will, Jim looked down again at the ring. And got quite a start.

  The tiny brass figure had disappeared!

  He rubbed the smooth surface of the ring and then he rubbed his forehead. Was he going nuts? One minute the figurine had been in place. Now it was gone!

  “I’m right over here,” a light voice said. “Please don’t be startled.”

  Jim’s stomach turned a queasy somersault.

  He raised his eyes in the direction of the voice. Unbelievingly it had come from J. Darrel’s position at the head of the conference table.

  THERE was a girl sitting on the arm of his chair smiling impishly at him; a slender, red haired girl with light blue eyes and fine creamy skin. She had a pert nose and a square stubborn little chin.

  The image of the figure on his ring; only now her face was alight and the composed, relaxed expression was gone.

  Jim felt his senses swimming. He knew he had gone suddenly, incredibly crazy, but he was still shocked. His tottering reason was not assisted by the clothes the girl was wearing, or rather the lack of them, for she was practically nude although she didn’t seem to mind. There was a wisp of something about her waist, another wisp about her breasts and golden sandals on her slim bare feet. That was all. Not even a hat, he thought idiotically.

  “What the hell’s the idea?” he said.

  J. Darrel’s voice choked on a word. “Are you talking to me, young man?”

  “Of course not,” Jim said reasonably. “I’m talking to that girl sitting on the arm of your chair.”

  “Oh, I see,” J. Darrel said. He picked up a piece of paper and said, “Well, to get on—” He stopped abruptly. “What girl?” he roared. “Have you gone mad?”

  “They can’t see me,” the girl said, with a tiny grin. “You’re the only one who can, which makes you pretty lucky.”

  J. Darrel was glaring at him, as were his satellites. The girl grinned sweetly. “They think you’re slightly cracked,” she said.

  “I am not cracked,” Jim said stiffly. J. Darrell said, “I am relieved to hear it.” He looked down at the paper again, then shot a suspicious look at Jim, as if expecting him to be cutting paper dolls. Reassured he went on talking.

  The girl smiled and came over, sat down on the arm of his chair. “They can’t see or hear me. Now listen to me; I don’t know much about what’s going on, but I’m pretty sharp. Why don’t you sell him the idea of using an age-old mysterious formula for his perfume? Call it Forbidden, or something like that and give him a story that the ancients banned its use because it drove men and women crazy? Wouldn’t that work?”

  J. Darrel said, “Are you following me, Ward.”

  “No,” Jim said to the girl.

  J. Darrel’s fist crashed onto the table. “Don’t you find me clear?”

  “But perfectly,” Jim stammered. “You see I wasn’t talking to you. I—I was talking to someone else.”

  “In that case,” J. Darrel said gently, “I think we might as well terminate this discussion. If you have some astral communicant who is more interesting than I, please don’t let me interfere. Gentlemen, the meeting is over.” He stood up decisively.

  The girl shook Jim’s shoulder. “You simpleton, what’s wrong with my idea? Give it to him with both barrels and watch him bite.”

  Jim stood up, too, partly because J. Darrel had, partly because of the girl’s shove. He knew something had to be done, and the girl’s pitch was just crazy enough to work. She didn’t exist, of course, he told himself hysterically, but what difference did that make? Maybe nobody existed. Maybe J. Darrel was just a toy balloon with a face painted on it. Philosophies had been built on screwier ideas.

  “Now hold everything,” he said. He raised his voice over the shuffling of feet and scraping of chairs. He knew advertising, he could sell. And the girl’s suggestion had stirred him from his despair.

  HE FIXED his eye on J. Darrel. “I brought you a presentation, Mr. Fallonsby that you think is putrid. Did it ever occur to you that I might also realize that it is worthless?”

  There was a moment’s silence in the room and then J. Darrel sat down slowly. Everyone immediately sat down also. “Just what do you mean?”

  “Simply this; it is a bad idea. You know advertising, you know it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Now why do you suppose I brought it to you? Was I trying to fool you?” He made a slight gesture indicating the complete impossibility of anyone’s fooling J. Darrel Fallonsby. “Maybe you think I was merely trying to insult you?” He raised an eyebrow. “No advantage in that, surely. No, Mr. Fallonsby, I brought you that copy just to show you the conventional, mediocre type of thing that is being done these days. That is what you don’t want. I’ll tell you now what you do want.”

  The girl clapped her hands excitedly. “You’re terrific!”

  Jim went on. “You want a program that will move Magic-Moment perfumes off the counter so fast that your factories will be six months behind in their deliveries. Listen to me; the ancient rulers of Egypt once had a very grave problem. There had come into usage among the people an exquisite, maddening perfume, made from a formula that had come from Phoenician traders. Imagine if you can a scent as subtle as a breath of mimosa in a long closed room, as exhilirating as dawn over snow-capped mountains, and as promise-laden as the dark and murmuring Nile, itself. Imagine this scent which transformed the lowest maiden of Egypt into a glorious Aphrodite and drove the men into frenzies of ecstatic intoxication!

  “Think of the perfume! So maddening, so glorious that it caused murder, intrigue and caused tremors that finally shook the throne of Egypt. Faithful wives turned harlot; the priests became libertines; fields were left idle, work stopped, while that great nation lost its soul to the promise of beauty and enchantment that was carried in the slightest whiff of this perfume.”

  Jim paused, then: “Finally, steps were taken. Steps were taken,” he repeated solemnly, “to outlaw the use of this scent. The rulers of Egypt knew their nation was doomed unless it was suppressed. Fines were imposed for anyone using it; smugglers lost their lives; dealers were imprisoned. And finally their campaign of extermination, which the officials and police of the nation conducted, began to have results. The stocks of this perfume were destroyed, the formula was burned in the public mosque at Cairo. And slowly, gradually, the people regained their sanity.”

  Jim paused and looked about the ta
ble. Five pairs of wide eyes returned his gaze; five mouths were hanging open foolishly. They were hooked.

  “That is what I have brought to Magic-Moment. The formula of this ancient Egyptian perfume, which was known in history as Forbidden! Are you interested?”

  J. Darrel said after a long silence. “You have this formula?”

  The girl said, “He’s nibbling.”

  Jim settled back in his chair and grinned. “Of course not. I have just told you a pretty story. But,” his fist crashed suddenly on the table, “it’s a story that will move Magic-Moment into every home in the country!”

  “That’s a mistake,” the girl said anxiously, “You should have told him you had a formula.”

  J. Darrel’s brother-in-law said, “It sounds fishy to me. I think—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Jim said to the girl. “I know what I’m doing.”

  J. Darrel’s brother-in-law flushed. “What do you mean telling me to shut up?”

  J. Darrel chuckled. “He means for you to shut up, Abner. Isn’t that clear?”

  J. Darrel’s brother-in-law smiled weakly. “Of course. Ha, ha. Perfectly.”

  “Get to work on it,” J. Darrel said. “It’s terrific. Make it big, Ward. Spread it all over the country. Everything is in your hands. My lawyers will send the contracts over tomorrow. Gentlemen, the meeting is over.”

  WALKING down Michigan Boulevard Jim felt like a man in a dream. Not the least of his dazed attitude was a result of the girl who walked at his side, half trotting to keep up with his long strides.

  “Go away,” he said, rather desperately. “I could stand pink elephants or green snakes. But you are too much.”

  “I won’t go away,” the girl said. “You brought me here, so it’s up to you to at least be polite to me. I helped you out with that perfume idea, didn’t I?”

  “You have been most kind,” Jim said with a kind of glassy-eyed horror. “Now goodbye.”

  He walked firmly into a bar and ordered a double shot of rye. The bartender looked at him dubiously. “Been on a big one?”

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” Jim snapped to the girl who had followed him inside and seated herself on a stool beside him.

  “Well, all right,” the bartender said moodily. “I was just being sociable.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Jim said irritably.

  The bartender looked up and down the long room. “I see,” he said gently. “You was talking to that girl sitting beside you?”

  “Can you see her?” Jim demanded eagerly.

  “Sure,” the bartender nodded, as he poured the drink. “She’s about nine feet tall and has snakes growing out of her head.”

  “I like his nerve,” the girl snapped. Jim put his face in his hands. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  The bartender shrugged and walked away.

  The girl pulled a hand from his face. “Now you listen to me,” she said. “I got in trouble a long time ago with a mugg named Yogar. He was a wheel in Calcutta a few centuries back. One night he invited me up to his room. I knew the pitch but I thought I could take care of myself. That shows how smart I was.”

  Jim turned slightly to look at her, reminding himself firmly that she didn’t exist; that he was crazy. She was sitting sideways on the stool, the heels of her sandals hooked over the top brace of the stool, her chin supported on her two fists. She looked very glum.

  “Well, what happened?” he asked. “Oh, the usual thing. I’m just telling you this so you’ll understand about me. He had the candles down low, there was a cozy fire in the grate and a swell dinner fixed for us on the patio. After dinner and a few drinks he wants me to go into the bedroom to look at his collection of knives.”

  “We use etchings,” Jim said.

  “You’re all alike,” she went on moodily. “Anyway I said thanks but no thanks. I told him I liked the dinner and was grateful for the drinks but that I was going home. He got very mad. He was quite an operator. Knew all about magic and things like that. He did something to me that transformed me into a tiny bronze figure. Then he had me fitted to his ring. He wore it all his life. After he died the ring I was on got passed all over the world. The guys who have had me on the hook!” She shook her head half-humorously. “Anyway part of Yogar’s deal was that if anyone ever believed in me I could get off the ring and finish out my life. You kind of believed in me and I’ve made the first step. Now if you keep on believing in me I’ll be all right. Maybe then other people can see and hear me, too.”

  She caught his hand anxiously. “You believe in me, don’t you?”

  JIM had another double rye. “No,” he said firmly, after he finished the drink. “I believe I am nuts. Go away. Come back as a pink elephant or a green snake and I’ll throw a bromo-seltzer at you.”

  He put some money out on the bar and walked out. Keeping his eyes straight he walked to the curb and hailed a cab. When he got in and closed the door he was alone. He glanced cautiously at the street and saw no sign of the red-haired apparition. He felt his heart slowing down to normal. He gave the driver an address, settled back and closed his eyes.

  When he walked into the lobby of the Palmer House ten minutes later Davina jumped up from a chair and hurried to meet him.

  “You’re late, dear,” she said, smiling. “Oh, yes,” he said vaguely. He glanced about the busy lobby with the uncomfortable feeling the red haired girl might be somewhere around.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  Jim sighed and looked down at Davina. “No, I had a crick in my neck,” he said. “Shall we have some breakfast?”

  “Yes, then I want to know everything that happened.”

  Jim knew he couldn’t tell her of the red haired figment of his imagination whom he had left, half-clad in a Michigan Avenue bar. Davina was not the type who would understand.

  When they had ordered breakfast she leaned forward and said, “Just one word, Jim. Did you get it?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  She relaxed against the satin chair back and smiled slowly. “Now isn’t that sweet,” she said softly.

  “Practically delicious,” he muttered. She looked beautiful, he thought, with her black hair brushed down to her shoulders, gleaming red lips and round eyes; but he was annoyed. He was getting back to normal again and his conscience was bothering him about the preposterous campaign he had sold J. Darrel Fallonsby. What an end to use advertising for! The whole deal was an insult to the intelligence of the people who would read it, to the helpless people who have it blasted into their ears on the radio. Where, he wondered dismally, was his once noble idea of selling tolerance and wisdom to the people, instead of stupidity and soap?

  He glanced up and suddenly his heart almost stopped beating.

  “Oh, my God,” he said in a low voice. “What is it?” Davina asked.

  ZOOMING forward with a smile was the red haired girl. She was still wearing the wispy loin cloth, the wispy bra and her bare shoulders and bare legs gleamed whitely from the overhead light. She walked through the crowd of people, through waiters and tables with the ease of a ray of sunshine. And she sat down beside Davina with a cheerful grin on her face.

  “Didn’t expect to get rid of me so easily, did you?”

  “Go away,” Jim said in a hollow voice.

  “Jim!” Davina gasped.

  He felt tired of explaining that he was talking to an apparition.

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m upset today.”

  “But you closed the deal with Fallonsby, didn’t you? I should think that would make you pretty happy.”

  “Oh, sure,” Jim said. “I sold a stupid man a bill of goods so he can go on selling it to people still more stupid.”

  “You aren’t feeling noble again, are you?” Davina said with a little smile.

  “You mean my big idea about educating the people, about tolerance, honesty, intelligence and all that sort of thing? Maybe I am.”

  “That’s just sophomoric.”


  The red hair girl looked at Davina with distaste. “This, I suppose, is your big romance,” she said to Jim. “What a prize package. Naturally she wouldn’t go for ideals. Not enough money in them. She’s like a big warm contented cat. Look at her fingernails. Just like claws. And how about that little pink tongue she shoots out to lick at creamed chicken?”

  “Jim,” Davina said, “is something wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. But you’re watching my hands and you’re watching me eat in a very peculiar way.”

  Jim choked. “Sorry, if I stared,” he said. “I—I was thinking of something else.”

  “You should think of something else,” the red haired girl said. “Something that’s got a heart and soul instead of red ink in her veins.”

  “What do you know about her heart and soul,” he snapped.

  Davina put her napkin down warningly. “You’ve been drinking, Jim! I smelled it on your breath when I met you. Maybe you’d better go home and sober up.”

  Jim looked helplessly at the red haired girl and shuddered. “I think I will,” he said.

  He got up from the table and hurried to the street. He grabbed the first cab and went to his apartment. Inside he locked the door and poured himself another drink. The last in the bottle, he noticed gloomily.

  HE SAT down and closed his eyes.

  Why was he so upset? Because he was going crazy? Or because he knew Davina and he would never get along? Or because he felt like a louse about his work?

  What difference did it make?

  “This is about my last chance,” a voice said.

  He opened his eyes, saw the red haired girl sitting on the edge of his bed. “You,” he said wearily.

  “Yes, it’s me.” She sounded sad. “This is about my last chance to make you believe in me. Why can’t you Jim? You see me, touch me, hear me?”

  “Hallucination,” he said briefly. “You did what I told you to and it worked,” she said, defensively. “Neurotic reflex,” he said.