Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Very well. I’ll just have a drink, if you don’t mind.”

  The Jinn didn’t answer. He was asleep.

  Reggie must have dozed, too, he realized, for he was awakened by a sharp rap on the door. As he tip-toed across the room, he saw that it was now dark outside. The Jinn was sleeping soundly, his fat little hands locked comfortably over his fat little paunch. Poor chap, Reggie thought, all tuckered out.

  HE OPENED the door and blanched as he recognized Guinevere. She caught his arms and said, “I’m frightened, I’m all alone, I had nowhere else to turn, Reggie.”

  You might have turned into the nearest wrestling arena, he thought, as she shook him imploringly, causing his head to oscillate like the pendulum of a very fast clock.

  “S—stop it, dash it,” he cried. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Haven’t you heard it on the radio?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Blocks shot Monroe, and the cops grabbed Blocks,” Guinevere said, bending her knees in order to drop her head on Reggie’s shoulder. “I—I’ve no one but you left, Reggie.”

  “There now, old girl,” Reggie said, patting her formidable shoulder. “Come in and pull yourself together.” He led her to the sofa and sat beside her, one arm about her waist.

  Guinevere, the epitome of feminine dependence, snuggled close to him, weeping softly.

  Dare I do it, Reggie was thinking, as a fiendish, Oriental plan slowly took shape in his mind. He studied it, appalled and yet fascinated by its sheer, gleaming caddishness. Caddish, that’s what it was, and no mincing words. If it got around the club, he’d be cut dead by every decent member. They might even drum him out, and they’d be right, he thought, wagging his head thoughtfully. Still, there were things more important than the club. He couldn’t think of one right off, but there must be lots. The flag, he thought, snapping his fingers. He decided to mush ahead.

  “Guinevere, I love you,” he said, in a calm, forceful voice. “I love you. You are everything to me. Everything. I cannot live without you.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw a flicker behind the Jinn’s eyelids, and he almost lost heart. It was too monstrous, too horrendous—

  “Well, that brings up a few important problems,” Guinevere said, sitting up and wiping her eyes. There was a happy tone in her voice—the tone a board chairman might use in explaining an increase in dividends for officers of the firm.

  “Nothing else matters. I love you, I cannot live without you.”

  The Jinn laughed and got to his feet.

  Guinevere emitted a startled scream.

  “Do not be frightened, please,” the Jinn said hastily.

  “Who’s this guy?” Guinevere demanded.

  “Oh, just an old friend,” Reggie said.

  THE JINN was staring at Guinevere with parted lips, gleaming eyes. He studied her, his hands opening and closing slowly, studied her soaring bosom, her long-lashed eyes, the swell of her muscular thighs beneath the sheer silk dress.

  “Guinevere,” he said hoarsely, “do you like pretty things?”

  “Well, yeah,” Guinevere said.

  The Jinn removed a sparkling diamond necklace from his pocket and dangled it before her eyes. Guinevere rose slowly, like one entranced, her eyes fixed dreamily on the bauble turning slowly in the Jinn’s hands.

  “Say, that’s pretty,” she murmured.

  “You may have it,” the Jinn said. He backed slowly from her, and Guinevere followed him, smiling softly now, her eyes fixed on the bracelet.

  “I have other things for you,” the Jinn said, in a low caressing voice. “Jewels, furs, yachts, pleasures and luxuries beyond your dreams. Will you come with me, Guinevere?”

  “No!” Reggie cried, in what he hoped was a heart-broken voice.

  He stood up, sighing tragically.

  NO ONE paid much attention to him. The Jinn put his arm about Guinevere’s waist as she reached a hand out to touch the bracelet.

  “Will you come with me?” he said, trembling like a bowl of Jello in an earthquake. “Will you marry me?”

  “No!” Reggie cried.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Guinevere said dreamily.

  The Jinn wet his lips and smiled at Reggie. “This is the final act, my rescuer. This is, the moment of vengeance. You I spare, gladly. I leave you thus—bereft of this woman who means all to you.”

  “It’s a shoddy trick,” Reggie muttered.

  “Yes, so it is,” the Jinn said. “I rather liked you, as a matter of fact. But this game has to be played out according to the rules. On that word I’ll leave you.”

  Reggie threw an arm across his eyes and emitted a groan that would have earned him a consideration in the bloodiest of Verdi’s operas.

  When he dropped his arm a few seconds later, he was alone. Shaking his head at the enormity of what he’d done, he went to the bar and made himself a drink.

  “You rotter,” he said to himself, in a thin unhappy voice.

  After a drink he felt better. After a second he was chuckling contentedly . . .

  A week later Sari and Reggie sat comfortably before a small cozy fire in Reggie’s apartment. He had an arm about her slim waist, and in his free hand was a tall cool drink.

  “I shouldn’t have forgiven you, of course,” Sari said, in the tones of a woman enjoying complete victory.

  “Dash it, of course not,” Reggie said, wagging his head resolutely. “Behaved like a cad, no doubt of it. Should have been locked away in the old canine cabana for good.”

  “I just couldn’t resist all those midnight serenades,” Sari said. “I mean, I couldn’t resist what the neighbors were saying about them.”

  “Funny, I thought they were rather good,” Reggie said pensively. “The old mandolin had mellowed with the years, it seemed to me.”

  “Still, there’s a lot I don’t understand,” Sari said thoughtfully. She glanced up at him, smiling slightly. “Your explanation was as full of holes as a nice ripe Swiss cheese.”

  Reggie coughed abruptly. “Nonsense,” he said. “All perfectly clear. Lost a bet to Freddy. Simple, eh? Took over an old gal of his for a week. Clear, eh?”

  “But who was that little man who was here the day I got back in town?” Sari said. “You know, the day you told me we were through, and so forth.”

  “Little man? No little man. You’re raving, angel.”

  “Am I? He was very neatly dressed, and he had soft mournful eyes.”

  “Oh, him!” Reggie laughed hollowly. “Gas inspector.”

  “Well, if you won’t tell, you won’t,” Sari said. “Let’s forget him, shall we?”

  “Righto,” Reggie said, gratefully.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Dash it,” Reggie muttered. “Excuse me, pet.”

  He crossed the room, opened the door, and was nearly bowled off his feet as the Jinn, wild-eyed and trembling shot past him into the room.

  “The door, close it, bolt it,” he said, in a high, quavering voice.

  “That’s the man!” Sari said, springing to her feet.

  The Jinn stared at Sari blankly, and then caught Reggie’s arm with fluttering hands. “You may have her back, you understand?” he said. “You must take her back, I insist.”

  Reggie felt a twinge of compassion as he looked into the haunted eyes of the Jinn. The man had had a bad time, obviously. There were scratches on his cheeks, a trembling hysteria in his mouth, and a look in his eyes of a man who has been extended and drained to the limits of his capacity.

  “She’s a beast,” the Jinn wept. “Insatiable, mad. I took her to Atlantic City, established her in a fine suite—” He shook his head, his eyes glazing with horror at his memories. “I have not been out of that suite until tonight,” he muttered brokenly.

  “Well,” Reggie said, his self-interest warring with his sympathy, “you got yourself into this thing, old chap.”

  “What is this all about?” Sari demanded.

  The Jinn loo
ked at her, and a glint of recognition appeared in his eyes. “Of course, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I see it all now.” He got hold of himself with an effort, and glanced at Reggie. “This is the girl you love, of course. You took advantage of me, I see. You foisted the other one off on me, didn’t you?” He shook his head, his expression mournful and injured. “Frankly, I didn’t expect that from you.”

  “Well, it gave me a turn, I must admit,” Reggie said uncomfortably. “After all, standards, the code, all that rot. You won’t bruit it about, will you?”

  “No, but I shall do now what I should have done in the first place,” the Jinn said. “I have no other alternative.” He glanced unhappily at Sari. “There’s nothing personal in this, believe me,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I have little taste left for these maneuverings. Once they seemed quite pleasant and stimulating, but . . .” He paused, shrugging. “It’s age, perhaps, but I find it all very tiresome. The tranquility of my imprisonment I once found irksome. Now, I feel that it was the only peace I have ever known. Still, I am here, and I must do what I promised.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sari said.

  The Jinn raised a hand and pointed his finger at her.

  Reggie hid his eyes.

  Suddenly, the door vibrated under a series of blows and kicks.

  “Lemme in, you bastards,” a furious voice shouted. “I know that little twerp is hiding in there.”

  The Jinn sank to his knees. “Guinevere,” he cried, in a breaking voice.

  Another violent onslaught shook the door.

  “Seems determined,” Reggie murmured.

  “I am abandoned and lost,” the Jinn-said, striking his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  Reggie stepped nimbly to the liquor cabinet and removed the stopper from a bottle of brandy. “Psst!” he said, winking at the Jinn.

  The Jinn stared at the open bottle, his lips moving slowly. “. . . No,” he murmured.

  “Lemme in!” Guinevere yelled from beyond the door.

  “Nothing to do but open the door,” Reggie said, sighing. “Sorry, old chap.”

  “Wait!” The Jinn rose to his feet. “I—I think I will take advantage of your hospitality. Farewell.”

  He closed his eyes, and immediately his body shimmered and dissolved into a column of oily gray vapor. Sari let out an astonished shriek and collapsed into a chair. The smoke thinned out to a twisting ropy length, and headed swiftly for the refuge of the open bottle.

  Reggie watched the last wisps of it snake themselves hurriedly from sight, and then, sighing philosophically, he re-stoppered the bottle with a firm hand. Strolling to the door, he greeted a panting and outraged Guinevere with a bland smile.

  “Well, well, the lucky bride, and all the rest of it,” he said. “Congratulations, and so forth.”

  Guinevere shoved him aside and strode into the room, her manner that of a tigress stalking a young and startled deer.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “Where is whom?” Reggie said, congratulating himself on these grammatical pyrotechnics.

  “You know well enough. That twerp I met here.”

  “Oh, him,” Reggie said. “Well, he called and said something about going to Los Angeles. I bid him all the best, bon voyage, and that was that. Naturally, I assumed he had—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Guinevere said, and dashed from the room, slamming the door behind her with a grand display of pique.

  REGGIE STROLLED over and sat down on the arm of Sari’s chair. She was still huddled there, hands pressed to her eyes.

  “Well, old girl, excitement’s over,” Reggie said.

  “Did I see it? Or was I dreaming?”

  “What are you raving about?”

  “That man—he turned into smoke. Didn’t he?”

  Reggie patted her shoulder gently, thinking tenderly of what delicate webbing went into the construction of these marvelous females. Here was his Sari, as formidable as most of her sisters, surely, all in a pother about a Jinn’s going up in smoke.

  What did she expect from a Jinn, Reggie mused, slightly upset by this insight into the curious female mind. Still, the poor, dear, giddy creatures had to be protected from themselves, he decided.

  “Man going up in smoke, you say?” He laughed heartily. “Good joke, that.”

  “Then I was dreaming?”

  “And a jolly good dream it must have been,” Reggie said, feeling strong and masterful. He strolled to the liquor cabinet and picked up the bottle in which the Jinn had sought refuge. Putting it to his ear he heard a faint voice inside the bottle, a faint voice singing something in a blurred, off-key, but quite cheerful manner. Reggie put the bottle at the back of the liquor cabinet, deep in a forest of other bottles.

  Then, brushing his hands, he wandered back to Sari, thinking nostalgically of the Jinn, and comforted by the realization that the brandy in which he currently floated was imported stuff, and very, very old.

  OPERATION MIND-PICK

  First published in the July-August 1953 issue of Fantastic.

  They formed an odd cross-section of humanity: a cynical Chicago newsman, a fading New York actress, a loud-mouthed Texas cattle baron, a small boy who hated doctors, a pious old Italian woman who owned a Brooklyn fruit store, a lovely young school teacher from Maine. Six of them, confined in a room without windows or doors, held as prisoners by captors they had never seen and for a purpose none could guess.

  They were helpless, without hope—until Larry Colby remembered the one weapon even an unarmed, man can use: the limitless power of thought . . .

  August 10th, 1972

  Jerry Colby, a rewriteman on the Chicago Express, came up Michigan Boulevard at four o’clock in the afternoon. The day was hot but pleasant; a breeze off the lake had cleaned the air of smoke, dust, and humidity. Larry Colby was tall, thin, and pale; erratic hours, the pressure of his work, and too much tobacco and coffee were responsible for his run-down condition. He kept promising himself a fishing vacation in Wisconsin, or some regular gym work but never got around to it. On his nights off he sat in gin mills, listening to jazz, and the sharply flavored conversations of sports writers, bookies, fight managers, and racing addicts. This was a deplorable waste of time, he knew, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. Someday he’d go on a fresh air binge, and maybe write That Novel. Meanwhile, like most people prodigal of health and talent, he was having a fine time . . .

  A man stopped him for a light. Larry took out a packet of matches, aware without really thinking about it, that another man had come up behind him. Something sharp dug into his back, and he felt a tiny sting between his shoulderblades. It was as if he’d been stuck with a needle.

  The man who’d asked for the matches had a perfectly blank face. Too blank. It was like a mask.

  Larry started to turn but all the strength was running from his arms and legs. The men were taking him toward the curb, toward the open doors of a black sedan.

  Preposterous, he thought.

  A kidnapping in the middle of the afternoon on Michigan Boulevard. Preposterous. He thought of struggling, of yelling for help, but his muscles were out of his control.

  Preposterous, he thought once more. Who’d bother kidnapping a working stiff of a newspaperman?

  That was his last thought.

  August 10th, 1972

  Valerie Ward entered her dressing room with the sound of applause ringing pleasantly in her ears. She sat down at her dressing-table and began to rub cold cream into her beautiful but definitely-not-youthful face. She drew back from the cruelly honest examination of the lights, went on massaging her face with the tips of her fingers. I’m forty-two, she thought, making her lips move silently with the words, deliberately forcing herself to contemplate that fact. And then she shuddered. Forty-two wasn’t old.

  She said that aloud, sneering at the lie. Oh no, not old. Not old for a cathedral. Not old for a work of art. But she was a woman. She was no Duse; character bits weren’t
for her, and she didn’t have the talent for Shakespeare, or Shaw, or the Greek stuff.

  She stared at herself for a moment or two. The hair was wonderful. Black, healthy, forming a classic frame for her angular face. They couldn’t photograph her badly. She could look over her shoulder and pose, and the result was always the same in one respect, but different in subtle other ways. She always looked good, a flawless creature whose bones formed planes of beauty from any angle, but she always looked different, too. They never knew what kind of picture they’d get of her, except that in one way or another it would be compelling and exciting.

  And now she was forty-two. Lines were coming in at the sides of her eyes, and her throat, on certain days and in certain lights, looked like crepe paper.

  She began to take off her dress. There was nothing wrong with her figure. She had a marvelous constitution. Ate anything, never exercised, and her body stayed like a young girl’s. A lucky young girl’s. She was five-five without shoes, and weighed one-eighteen. There was a gentle, willowy quality in the lines of her body, but also the exciting conformation of a fully mature woman. Her legs, as she rolled down her stockings, were delicately white, beautifully molded, and the only blemish, a tiny brown beauty mark on her left calf, added rather than detracted from their perfection. The beauty mark was nature’s stamp, the tiny, almost whimsical irregularity that all beauty requires for contrast. Anything wholly beautiful is wholly unremarkable. It is the imperfections in a work of art that make us value its perfections.

  All of this had been said to Valerie by men—in one way or another. For one reason or another. She had had everything that most human beings could imagine themselves wanting over the past twenty-five years, but her appetites—for love, applause, importance—were as ravenous as ever. Supposing she went on this way? Losing the things which got her what she wanted, but never wanting to give up her rewards? That was an ugly prospect, a frightening one, and she kicked off her pumps angrily, feeling the thin cold line of fear running down her back.

  It was then that the door opened and the two men—men with blank faces—entered. They came directly toward her, not speaking, and one of them took her arm.