Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  A pleasant picture appeared in his mind, the picture of himself exhibiting the vase casually at bars or in the homes of friends, and saying, “Just a little thing I found on the beach one night. Pays to keep the old eye peeled, you see.” He wondered if he could say then that he found lots of things in his nightly rambles. Well, why not? Make a good longish story out of it that way.

  Feeling immensely buoyed by his discovery he dropped the vase into his outside pocket and headed on toward home.

  Reggie lived in the heart of the city in a good men’s club. He was arrears in his dues and house account, and had been for so long that it seemed the normal situation by now. The dunning letters he received from the club secretary were as much a part of his life as his love for Deborah.

  The board of governor’s at the club were slightly reluctant to kick Reggie into the street because he was a van Schuyler. And there had always been van Schuylers at the club. Reggie’s great-grandfather had been a charter member; and since that time van Schuylers of various branches of the family tree had been members. They were not remembered with any fondness, but rather as disputatious bores who cluttered up the various bars and reading rooms and made civilized conversation impossible. However, in spite of the bad reputation of his ancestors, Reggie was the last of the line and so got away with murder.

  On this night he asked the room clerk if there was any mail for him and then strolled on toward the elevators without waiting for an answer. The room clerk didn’t bother looking in Reggie’s mail slot, of course. It was Reggie’s feeling, shared by the clerk, that no one would ever bother writing to him.

  Upstairs in his two-room suite Reggie put the vase on his dresser and stared at it admiringly. It did give the place tone.

  Whistling contentedly Reggie got into a robe and then took a long shower after which he opened the windows wide and prepared to settle down in bed for ten hours of solid sleep. He was plumping up the pillows with an anticipatory smile on his face when a voice, a rather small but querulous voice, said: “Let me out, dash it. I say, let me out!”

  Reggie straightened slowly and peered in confusion about the room.

  Obviously, he was the only one present. It occurred to him that he might have been talking to himself, but that didn’t hold water. He had given up that practice when he realized how boring he was to listen to. He shrugged and went back to making his bed more inviting and comfortable. “Well, did you hear me?”

  This time Reggie realized that the mysterious voice had taken on a sharper edge. He became annoyed. The chap, whoever he was, had a boorish approach.

  “Of course I heard you,” Reggie said. “There’s no point in being sullen about it, old chap.”

  “Then let me out!”

  THE VOICE emanated an over lone of controlled anger and Reggie became slightly apprehensive. He was easily bulldozed by a show of anger, since he subconsciously realized that any anger directed at him was probably justified.

  “All right, all right,” he said, placatingly. “But where in the deuce are you?”

  “I’m in the vase, you ass! Where did you think I was?”

  “Well, I’m no mind reader,” Reggie said huffily. “You might have been anywhere.”

  He went to the dresser, picked up the vase and inspected it thoughtfully.

  “You’re inside, eh?” he said, making a shrewd guess.

  “Well, I’m not outside!” the voice said sarcastically. “Remove the stopper and you’ll see.”

  “Righto,” Reggie said.

  He tugged at the stopper with his fingers but the wood had expanded in the water and he couldn’t get it out. Next he tried thumping the bottom of the vase in the hope of popping the stopper out as he had seen clever fellows do with corks in wine bottles.

  But that was equally unsuccessful. Finally he had an inspiration. Digging into his drawer he found a corkscrew and with that he attacked the wooden stopper.

  “Well!” the voice said impatiently. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “I say, take it easy,” Reggie said, panting with the exertion of attempting to draw out the wooden plug.

  Finally it eased slightly and started to come out. Reggie pulled harder and it popped out suddenly, almost causing him to lose his balance.

  He put the vase on the bureau and then stepped back in astonishment as a thick column of thick smoke streamed up toward the ceiling. The smoke came from the mouth of the vase and formed a solid mass above the dresser.

  Reggie shook his head bewilderedly and retreated to the door from where he watched the smoke with a disturbed frown. This was getting a bit thick, he thought with a touch of anger. Here he was ready for bed and this had to happen!

  The thick cloud of smoke formed into a ball several feet in diameter and drifted down toward the floor, silently, spectrally.

  Gradually the shape of the smoke began to change. It lengthened into an oblong column about six feet tall on the top of which a circle roughly the size of a bowling ball emerged. The density of the smoke increased as its wavering motion disappeared imperceptively.

  Reggie saw with a start that the smoke had formed the shape of a human being!

  “Well, well,” he muttered.

  Suddenly, the swirling motion of the smoke stopped altogether, and the smoke itself was abruptly gone, and in its place stood a tall, aristocratic gentleman with silky white hair and skin the color of well-seasoned mahogany.

  “What ho!” Reggie said weakly.

  “I take it that those unrelated and imbecilic words constitute something of a greeting,” the brown-skinned man observed icily.

  “Hmmmm,” Reggie said. He studied the man thoughtfully, noting the handsome, acquiline features, the lean, elegant body, and the conservative dark clothes. “I say,” he blurted suddenly, “did you come out of that vase?”

  “That is correct.”

  Reggie grinned suddenly. “That’s a dashed good trick. I mean, at a cocktail party one could startle hell out one’s friends with that sort of thing.”

  “It is hardly a trick,” the man said, looking at Reggie carefully, and with just a touch of confusion in his intelligent gray eyes. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Ragore, Sir Mahanda Ragore. I am a Genii.”

  “Oh,” Reggie said, disappointed. “That popping out of the vase is natural for you then. I mean, it’s nothing you could teach me, for instance. It’s probably just for Geniis.”

  The man who had introduced himself as Sir Mahanda Ragore stared at Reggie for an uncomprehending instant; and then he took a monocle from his vest pocket, screwed it into his right eye socket and studied Reggie as one might some strange but harmless insect.

  Finally he said: “What precisely do you know about Geniis, young man?”

  “Not too much, I’m afraid,” Reggie said. “But here, have a seat. And a smoke. No point in our standing about as if we were strangers at a college reunion.”

  “Ah—thank you,” Ragore said slowly. He sat down and took a cigarette from the box that Reggie offered him. “You don’t seem—ah—surprised or alarmed at my arrival,” he said, when Reggie had taken a seat and was puffing on a cigarette.

  “Gave me a turn, all right,” Reggie said, crossing his legs and settling down comfortably in his chair. “But there you were, are, for that matter, so the matter is pretty well settled. You’re here and we’ll have to make the best of it. Now—”

  Reggie suddenly slapped his forehead with his palm and leaped to his feet. Ragore straightened in alarm.

  “Well, well, well,” Reggie said, beaming down at him with a wide grin. “I am slow on the uptake tonight!”

  “I beg your pardon, but I don’t understand.”

  Reggie chuckled. “Let’s go to the kernel, shall we? You’re a Genii, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you were stashed away in an old vase, eh? Probably by some wicked sorcerer, right?”

  “No, it was a sea captain, but what is your point?”
<
br />   “Ha! Righto! Get to the kernel. I rescued you, eh?” Reggie patted the Genii on the shoulder and grinned amiably. “Glad to do it, old boy. And now—” He paused and winked slyly. “And now you’ve got a little something for me, eh?”

  “I haven’t the slightest notion of what you’re talking about,” Ragore said firmly.

  Reggie frowned. “You’re not playing the game, old man. According to my information, now’s the time for you to cough up a few trays full of jewels and the like.”

  “A few traysfull of jewels!” Ragore said, with an expression of well-bred astonishment. “I don’t quite see—” He stopped and a look of understanding appeared on his face. Smiling, he said: “Forgive my ignorance. I’d forgotten for the moment the extremely odd behavior of my ancestors. Yes, you’re quite right, they frequently gave away jewels and money and gold to their rescuers. You see they were very simple, childish people, so we can’t blame them for their extravagant and ridiculous behavior. They did all sorts of silly things.”

  “Silly!” Reggie cried. “I call it dashed decent of them to show a little gratitude.”

  RAGORE, the Genii, smiled. “Times and customs change. You must keep in mind that when my ancestors were making such grand gestures that there was no income tax. Nor had the British arrived in India with their generous proposal to trade us the English bible for our oils, jewels and gold. The lot of a Genii today is hardly the rosy thing it was a few short thousands of years ago, my young friend.”

  “You mean then I get nothing for rescuing you?”

  “That is the essence of the thought I am attempting to convey,” Ragore said, smiling.

  Reggie sat down dejectedly. What a cropper! One instant he had seen the solution of all his troubles, and the next thing he was right back in the glue.

  “It’s not fair,” he muttered.

  “You have my sympathy,” Ragore said, lighting another cigarette. “But if I spent my income foolishly in grand gestures of gratitude I’d soon be digging into my capital. And I presume you know what that means. Also, I’m a younger son, which is unfortunate.”

  Reggie looked at him in alarm. “You’re not working up to ask me for a loan, are you?”

  Ragore smiled tolerantly. “No, I’m comfortably fixed at the present. You see, the original family fortune was large and productive. I was well educated, at Oxford it so happened, and always enjoyed the best things of life. My last unfortunate imprisonment occurred in the latter part of the nineteenth century while I was sailing from London to Calcutta. There was a party, you see, and we were in the captain’s quarters drinking rather heavily.” Ragore put out his cigarette and smiled embarrassedly. “I had rather of a load when someone suggested I vaporize myself and get into that vase.” He pointed sheepishly at the vase on the dresser. “Well, I did it all right, because there was a pretty girl present I was trying to impress, but then some idiot put a stopper into it and the captain, an unmannerly dog, who also liked the pretty girl, threw it into the channel. I’ve been sort of a drifter ever since,” he concluded, with a deprecating smile for his pun.

  “Well, you did have things pretty nice,” Reggie said, in an injured voice. “And you’re still in top-hole shape, I gather.”

  Ragore blew a contented stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Yes, I have no major complaints,” he said.

  “Well, look,” Reggie said persuasively. “How about helping me out a bit?”

  Ragore pursed his lips cautiously. “As I’ve explained, I just can’t go around letting my heart rule my head.”

  Reggie found himself developing an active dislike toward Ragore, Genii or not.

  “However,” Ragore continued with an expansive smile, “I will help you any way I can. I will give you the benefit of my advice, my business acumen, and I will turn a fatherly and interested eye on your affairs.”

  “Well, that’s decent of you,” Reggie said, nodding.

  “But first, I need sleep,” Ragore said, rising and moving briskly to Reggie’s bed. He felt its resiliency with his hands and smiled cheerfully. “A capital bed,” he said.

  “I say,” Reggie said.

  “If you’ll turn the lights off in here I daresay I can make out very well,” Ragore said. “Now until tomorrow morning my young friend, I bid you au revoir.”

  Feeling all in all as if he’d made a bad mistake in bothering to open the vase, Reggie trudged into his small sitting room where he spent a miserable night on the sofa . . .

  THE NEXT morning Reggie hurried into the bedroom and frowned bewilderedly when he found it empty. Had he dreamt all that business about Ragore, the tight-fisted Genii? Hardly! The Bed had been slept in.

  Reggie was concerned because he had remembered that he did have a business proposition which Ragore might help him analyze and investigate. It was an offer from a man named Big Foot Maguire, and Reggie had been mulling it over for several days. The trouble was he had mulled it over until it slipped out of his mind altogether. Now, with Ragore’s acumen and experience, the thing might be got into operation.

  He was showering when he heard the door of his suite open. Finishing his toilet hurriedly, he popped into the bedroom and found Ragore sitting in the easy chair at the window looking at the morning paper with an absorbed expression.

  “Ah, you’ve been out,” Reggie said, making a quick deduction.

  “Yes. Fascinating city, I must say. Progress has been amazing since my time. And by the way. I arranged for a room here and a guest card. That, I presume, is satisfactory?”

  Reggie grinned weakly. “That’s fine. You’ve had breakfast?”

  “Yes, an excellent one. I found the dining room and the barber shop. I’ve also had a stroll. The place abounds with business opportunities.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Reggie beamed. “I have a friend who’s made me a proposition, and I thought—”

  “Capital. I like business propositions. Keeps the wits sharp. I’ll be delighted to give you my advice.”

  “Great!” Reggie felt a new surge of confidence and optimism. “Let’s be off.”

  Big Foot Maguire lived in the penthouse of a fabled hotel with a blonde chorus girl named Mimi. Reggie wasn’t exactly sure what Big Foot did for a living. It had something to do with horse racing and slot machines though. That much he knew for sure.

  He and Ragore took an elevator to the penthouse where a bored young man with very cold blue eyes met them at the doorway.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “I wish to see Mr. Big Foot Maguire,” Reggie said. “He knows me. I’m Reginald van Schuyler.”

  The bored young man put a toothpick in his mouth and studied Reggie carefully. Finally he shrugged and closed the door.

  Ragore, the Genii, glanced at Reggie with raised eyebrows. “Rather cool reception, don’t you think? Just what sort of a business proposition are we investigating?”

  “It’s awfully complicated,” Reggie said, frowning. He was trying to find words to explain it, when the door opened and the bored young man said, “Come on in fellas. Big Foot’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  They entered the foyer which led to an immense sunken living room. The draperies and rugs were light gray and the blonde-wood furniture was modernistic in design. A picture window at the far end of the room gave them a fabulous view of the city.

  Ragore smiled happily. “I like this very much,” he murmured. “It’s so—rich.”

  BIG FOOT MAGUIRE came in a few minutes later. He was a stocky, vigorous looking man in his early forties, with a ruddy, healthy complexion, and a volatile energy that was as overwhelming as a tidal wave.

  “Reggie, you old son of a gun,” he shouted, slapping him on the back with a thick hand. “Glad to see you finally got some sense.” He turned to Ragore and punched him suddenly in the ribs with an extended thumb. “Ha!” he yelled, as Ragore jumped nervously. “Friend’s of Reggie’s are friends of mine.”

  “This is Mahanda Ragore,” Reggie said.

  Big Foot let ou
t a delighted scream. “Mahanda Ragore! Silliest damn name I ever heard of.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but—”

  Big Foot broke into Ragore’s pained protest by abruptly jabbing him again with his thumb. He slapped his thigh and gasped for breath as Ragore leaped into the air like a jack rabbit.

  “Don’t do that, sir!” Ragore cried.

  Mimi, Big Foot’s girl friend, walked into the room and said petulantly, “Why don’t you stop screaming, Big Foot? Can’t get a minute’s rest around here without you jabbing people in the ribs and bellowing like a moose.”

  “Ha!” Big Foot yelled good naturedly. “Quite a sense of humor she’s got, eh?”

  That was not all Mimi had, Reggie reflected pleasantly. She was a statuesque, gorgeously molded creature with long exciting legs, and hair the color of a brandy milk punch.

  Ragore cleared his throat noisily and Reggie saw that he was staring at Mimi like a starving man at a Smorgasbord.

  She nodded perfunctorily at Reggie whom she’d met before, but stopped when she noticed Ragore. “Well, I’ll be darned,” she said, grinning. “He looks like a Man of Distinction sort of, don’t he?”

  She patted him on the cheek and then strolled on to a divan where she nestled down with an amiable purr. Ragore’s eyes swiveled around in their sockets as she crossed her slim bare legs.

  Big Foot looked at him and then jabbed him in the ribs with his thumb. “Wake up, wake up,” he cried, purple with mirth. “Get your eyes off the merchandise. That’s a sample and it ain’t for sale.”

  “I assure you,” Ragore sputtered, “that—”

  “I know, I know,” Big Foot said, chortling. “When guys stop collapsing when they see her I’ll throw her out. Until then she’ll get you nothing but a cement overcoat. Now, let’s get down to some shop talk. You thought about my idea, eh Reggie?”

  “Well, er, yes. So I told Ragore—”

  “Now where does he come in?”

  “I am his financial adviser,” Ragore said, stiffly.

  “Okay, okay. Now here’s the pitch. I got books, handbooks, you know, all over the east. We got service for anybody who wants to put down a bet—but there’s a hitch. We got no representatives in them snooty clubs. There’s lots of money around there and those blue-blooded schmoes got just as much right as the next guy to put down a bet when they want to. Am I signifying, chums?”