Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Clark stood up, ran a hand through his crisp dark hair. “Well, the search goes on then. I’ll get back to Kirkland,” he said, speaking to the stocky young man. “Take good care of Miss Masterson. Her clothes are down in my car. I’ll leave them with the guard before I go.”

  “Please be careful,” Denise said, suddenly; and then she colored. “I know you’ve got your job to do, but Kirkland is an absolute madman.”

  “Yes, I know. But he—or Rilke—is now in possession of a force that six governments have been fighting to get hold of since the war. Should the wrong ones get it, we can say goodby to civilization as we know it.”

  He nodded to her and went out the door.

  CHAPTER IX

  CLARK STEPPED from the elevator on Kirkland’s floor half an hour later; and as he did so, he saw a small sallow-faced man just leaving Kirkland’s suite.

  They passed in the corridor. Something tugged at Clark’s memory. He had seen that sallow-faced man somewhere, sometime. He stopped at Kirkland’s door, and glanced back frowning. The little man was waiting for an elevator, hands clasped behind his back, staring innocently at the indicator-arrow above the elevator door.

  Clark shrugged, and gave it up. He’d remember who the little man was about the middle of next month, and probably just as he was about to fall asleep. And then the little man would perhaps turn out to be a waiter he’d known before the war.

  He tapped on Kirkland’s door, and Kirkland’s loud confident voice answered, “Come in.”

  Clark strolled in, automatically shifting his mind and body into the role he was playing for Kirkland. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and grinned at Kirkland, who was sitting in a deep chair with a drink in his hand. Karl, the giant SS sergeant, was still standing stupidly at the wall.

  “I take it from that gesture that everything has been handled satisfactorily,” Kirkland said.

  “But perfect. She’s out of the way for good, and there won’t even be a corpus delectable for the cops to worry about.”

  “Excellent!” Kirkland sipped his drink slowly. He seemed very calm, very deliberate, as he turned his pale eyes full on Clark. “Now we can take up another slight case of treachery.”

  “Yeah? Who’s that?”

  Kirkland smiled and got to his feet. “I had a caller in your absence, Clark.

  A man who knew you quite well—in other surroundings. He told me some interesting things about you.”

  “Yeah, who was this guy?”

  “He’s associated with the group I am heading,” Kirkland said softly. “You remember the group, don’t you? You went there with me tonight.”

  A warning bell was sounding in Clark’s mind. He shrugged. “Sure, I remember it. A bunch of crackpots, I thought. I told you not to get mixed up with them.”

  “One of those—ah—crackpots recognized you tonight and, as a dutiful servant, promptly came to me with his information.”

  “Cut out the double-talk,” Clark said, forcing a hard, belligerent tone Into his voice. “What’re you trying to tell me?”

  Kirkland smiled. “Merely that I know of your association with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Clark. You were childishly optimistic to expect to fool me, you know.” Clark now remembered the sallowfaced man he’d met in the hallway. D’Annulio was his name. He’d bumped into him on a job in California four years ago. The man had remembered him. Obviously.

  “You’re crazy,” he said nonchalantly to Kirkland. “You think I’m a G-Man? That’s a laugh.”

  “You’re lying,” Kirkland cried, suddenly furious. “You’re all lying, cheating, filthy, ungrateful dogs. I would have given you wealth, power, women. But no! All you’re capable of is wanting to hold to the miserable world you now know.” He put his hand inside his coat; but Clark was watching him, and his own hand speared into his pocket and came out with a gun.

  “Just freeze, if you want to live,” he said tightly. “Get your hands up fast. High, higher!”

  “Kill him, Karl!” Kirkland screamed.

  The giant SS sergeant leaped forward in mindless obedience, and crashed a fist the size of a ham into the side of Clark’s head. Clark went down, as pinwheels of light exploded in his brain. The gun fell from his hand, and then Karl was on top of him, raining blows on his face and body.

  Clark rolled onto his stomach, dazed and weak, yet aware that, unless he could protect himself from Karl’s attack, he’d be dead in a matter of minutes. He worked his knees up under his body, raising Karl’s bulk a foot from the floor, and then he hurled himself to one side and the German fell awkwardly to the ground. Clark scrambled to his feet and kicked Karl in the mouth with all his strength as he attempted to crawl to his knees. The German sprawled on his back, kicking his arms and legs like a helpless turtle. Breathing painfully, Clark looked about for the gun, found it and scooped it up in his right hand.

  When Karl staggered to his feet, Clark had the gun trained on him.

  “Stop!” he snapped.

  But Karl kept advancing, his blasted mind knowing only the command given it by Kirkland; the command to kill.

  “Stop!” Clark shouted again, and then pulled the trigger twice as Karl suddenly charged.

  The German halted abruptly, a look of surprise on his face, as the slugs tore into his body. Then, with a strangled sob, he doubled-up and crashed to the floor.

  Clark wheeled about swiftly, his gun ready for a new target. But there was no need for a gun. The room was empty, the door open.

  Kirkland was gone.

  THE TALL, worried-looking man behind the wheel turned with an annoyed start as Kirkland slipped in beside him and slammed the door.

  “Hey, what’s the idea? I’m waiting for my wife.”

  “I thought we’d take a little drive,” Kirkland murmured. He glanced back at the ornate entrance of his hotel, and smiled a secretive little smile as he thought of how he handled those who had betrayed him.

  “You getting out, Mister, or do I call a cop?”

  Kirkland turned back to the driver and took the slender mind-destroying tube from his vest pocket. He pressed the catch on the side and a beam of light struck the driver in the eyes. He let out a hoarse, surprised cry, and then shook his head slowly as his eyes and face became blank.

  “Start the car and drive north,” Kirkland said. He settled back and lit a cigarette with a feeling of satisfaction. Everything was working beautifully now, he knew. His mind was clear and sharp. His plans were vast, exciting and practical. What were his plans? He frowned at the tip of his cigarette as that question occurred to him. Well, no matter. A man like him didn’t need plans. Plans were for dolts and idiots. True brilliance was in improvisation. Kirkland was aware of a very pleasant sensation. He seemed to be drifting in space, and his mind was spinning swiftly, effortlessly. A thousand ideas came to him, but he discarded them almost instantly. He discarded ideas so swiftly that he hardly took time to identify them. All he knew was that in the spinning brilliance of his mind there was no room for the mediocre, the second-rate. And that was as it should be.

  The countryside was beautiful in the darkness. Kirkland stared at the trees, the meadows, the occasional snug farms, all covered with nighttime mystery. The wind in his face was cool and sweet. He thought of Jane Reynolds and Clark and the foolish Rilke, and laughed pleasurably. They were naughty children. He had been a father to them, kind, protective, powerful; but they had chosen to disobey him. That was the greatest sin a man could commit, Kirkland realized suddenly. The thought caused his heart to pound with excitement. It was the very core and tissue of all knowledge. Obey! Kirkland had obeyed his father. Naturally. His father had whipped him from the time he was a toddling child, had whipped him for every infraction of the thousand strict rules of the house. That memory brought a sudden sharp pain to the base of Kirkland’s skull. He tried to push the thought away, but it persisted on the fringe of his consciousness. It lurked there, a small shadow, hiding
from him. He laughed and looked away from it, pretending to be interested in something else, trying to lure it back in the open so he could catch it. But it was clever. It hid just out of reach, and it was laughing too.

  Suddenly the car stopped. They had reached an intersection, and the driver stared at the forked road helplessly-

  Kirkland looked out at the road signs. He saw an arrow pointing to the left. Under it was a sign: ARMY AIR BASE.

  “Turn left,” Kirkland ordered the driver.

  Lost in the brilliant refractions of his spinning mind, Kirkland rode on with an amused smile on his lips, until he became aware of a light shining in his eyes. Behind the light was a visored cap, and under the cap was a young stern face.

  “Wake up, Mac!” It was the mouth in the young face talking. “This is the Army Air Base. You got off the road back at the intersection. Turn around and drive straight for about ten minutes and you’ll be okay.”

  Kirkland craftily raised the mind-destroying tube until it pointed at the young soldier’s face. Then he depressed the switch. The bolt of light shot forth, and the soldier let out a cry of surprise.

  “Take me to the commanding officer, please,” Kirkland said.

  The soldier rubbed his forehead and then straightened up to attention. Stepping onto the running board, he said in a metallic voice, “Straight ahead to the large building beyond the flag post.”

  “Straight ahead,” Kirkland said to his driver, and folded his arms comfortably.

  THE GENERAL of the Post was a tall, thin man with straight black hair and eyes that were accustomed to express any emotion he happened to be feeling. Generals do not need to mask their reactions. Their rank gives them that privilege. They can be angry, fretful, sarcastic, or furious, secure in the knowledge that their emotional excesses will be met only by straight-backed impassive silence from subordinates.

  Now as the General of the Post stormed out of his private office he was angry. He was angry at being disturbed at this hour of the night by a sentry who should have been on guard at the main gate. He was making no effort to conceal his anger. His snapping black eyes raked Kirkland.

  “What in the name of thunder do you want?” he shouted.

  His anger stopped the spinning blades of Kirkland’s mind. He shook his head slightly as that sensation disappeared. He felt very solid and very calm as he advanced toward the General.

  “I wish to talk with you,” he said, and raised the mind-destroying tube and let out a beam of light that caught the General between the eyes. “Go back to your office. I have no intention of discussing matters with you in a reception room.”

  Turning slowly, the General walked with stiff legs back to his office. Kirkland followed him and closed the door. He knew what he wanted now; what he had to do.

  “Issue these instructions,” he told the General. “Order a twin-engined plane with a maximum bomb load to be fueled and readied for a take-off within the hour. Do you fly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. We won’t need a pilot. Get busy.”

  The General nodded stiffly and reached for a phone . . .

  WHEN CLARK realized that Kirkland had escaped, he grabbed the phone and called the local police. He got through to an inspector and told him to send out a general alarm for Kirkland. After that he called Washington and got his superior. The sound of that crisp quiet voice was reassuring.

  “Very well, Clark. We’ll pin him down, don’t worry. You handle the local end.”

  The connection was broken abruptly.

  Clark hurried into the corridor, and walked to the elevators. Several persons were peering out their doors, awakened by the shots. He knew that the house detective would be up soon; and, having no desire to waste time in explanations, he walked down two flights before getting an elevator. In the street he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the Federal Building.

  Denise Masterson was sitting on the couch and Jerry Trenton was talking on the phone when Clark entered. There were cartons of coffee on the desk, and the air was blue with cigarette smoke.

  Trenton hung up, glanced at Clark.

  “That was the boss. I understand Kirkland got away.”

  “That’s right.” Clark helped himself to a paper container of coffee and sat down wearily beside Denise. “Well, what now?”

  “We wait,” Clark said, in a flat tired voice. “We wait and pray to God they get him.”

  KIRKLAND was enjoying the roar of the plane’s engines. He paced up and down along the runway, inspecting the graceful lines of the ship, admiring its metal sheen. Mechanics were making final checks of the wheels, the bomb racks, the communication system. They worked with swift, automatic expertness, but their faces were curious and anxious as they flicked occasional glances at their General, who stood, ram-rod straight, watching their work with blank, glazed eyes.

  Kirkland stopped beside the General. “Do you know the route to New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we make it comfortably in this ship?”

  “Yes.”

  Kirkland smiled contentedly and watched yellowish dawn breaking in the east. His thoughts were calm and happy . . .

  TRENTON answered a phone, spoke briefly, then waved to Clark. “Here’s something,” he said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece.

  Clark picked up the extension. He heard the police Inspector’s nasal voice. “We got a funny report from out at the Army Air Base. They got a couple of fellows there who seem to be in a state of shock. And the Exec there tells me a civilian drove in a few hours ago and took off in a plane with General Myers, the Commandant.”

  “They’ve already taken-off?” Clark snapped.

  “That’s right. And the mechanics who serviced the plane say they loaded it with bombs.”

  “Did they say anything about how the General acted? Did he seem to be behaving strangely?”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing. They said the General was acting queer. Didn’t talk to anyone, acted like he was in a coma, or something.”

  Clark hung up the extension and called his chief’s private number in Washington. He talked swiftly, urgently, then replaced the phone and rubbed his forehead.

  Denise came to his side. “What is it?”

  “Kirkland is flying somewhere with a bomb-loaded plane. My chief is getting hold of the Chief of Staff now. That plane has got to be intercepted.”

  “How?”

  “They’ll have to shoot it down.”

  “Will they do that? I mean, isn’t one of their own Generals flying the ship?”

  “That’s right.” Clark rubbed his lean tired face. “I don’t know if they’ll do it or not.”

  The minutes ticked by in the small room. Outside a gray cold dawn was changing the color of night. Clark sat beside Denise, and, instinctively, held her hand. It was an unconscious gesture, an unspoken appeal for human warmth and assurance.

  Then, twenty-five minutes later, the phone rang. Clark bounded to the desk and scooped up the receiver. He listened for a moment, his face taut and anxious, then put the phone down slowly.

  “They’ve charted the plane on a course to New York,” he said. “The Air Force is sending up fighters to intercept it. Trenton, see if we can pick up anything on the short-wave.” Trenton snapped on the radio and went to work, his big fingers surprisingly agile on the frequency rheostat.

  Static chattered weirdly through the room, interspersed with nightmarish fragments from weather stations throughout the world, from hams and airline transmitters. Then, a strong casual voice with an unmistakable Southern accent sounded:

  “Major Rovere reporting at sixteen thousand feet above the base at Jersey City. We have contacted a twin-engined bomber, an Army B-25, heading roughly toward New York at a speed of about two hundred and seventy miles per hour. The plane is numbered 024789. Standing by. Over.”

  Another voice broke through a crash of static, and at the sound of that voice, Trenton glanced at Clark significantly. “You re
cognize him?” he asked.

  Clark nodded. “Somebody had the sense to wake a five-star General.” The second voice was crisp, almost harsh in its authority. “Major Rovere, remain on 024789’s course, and stay in contact with me. I want to know when and if it changes course. Do you understand?”

  “Roger, Wilco, sir.”

  Clark struck the desk savagely. “They’re going to wait and see,” he said. “Damn it, why don’t they shoot it down now?”

  “That’s pretty tough duty,” Trenton said. “There’s an Air Force General flying that ship, remember.”

  “That’s right, it’s tough,” Clark said in a low bitter voice.

  KIRKLAND stared happily into the golden dawn, marveling at the delights of flying. Everything below seemed so small, so pitiful. There was truth in flight, he told himself serenely. Things were small, were pitiful, when you got on top of them and saw them in their proper perspective.

  To the stiff-backed General at his side, he said: “Can you plot a course to Lake Success?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do so.”

  Kirkland beamed. That was the inevitable destination. There was the cancer of mankind, a literal monument to man’s foolish insistence on discussion, on relative rights, on the pointless sovereignty of the human will. Destroy that breeding ground of illogic, and there would be chance for one strong voice, one strong man, one strong plan.

  He fingered the slim mind-destroying tube and there was a contented smile on his lips as the General banked slightly to the new course . . .

  CLARK stopped pacing as Major Rovere’s soft voice eased through the static.

  “Major Rovere reporting, sir. B-25 024789 is changing course a bit. Seems to be heading north north-east.”

  Clark lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor. Then he snapped his fingers and grabbed a phone. He had been trying to think of all that he knew about Kirkland, trying to make some sense out of his present action. And now he saw that there was only one place that Kirkland would logically head for.