Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Reggie hurried into the living room and found Clive flicking a dust rag about with an air of aloof elegance.

  “Clive, I just beaned Uncle Ed. Stand by with the old ice pack like a good chap.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “I can’t get married today. Got to go to California. Tell Sari. Tell her I love her.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Give her my best.” Reggie paused, chewing on his lip. He realized dimly that he was inconveniencing her to some extent. “Tell her I’ll bring her back something nice,” he said, by way of amends.

  “Yes sir.”

  And with that Reggie was off. Downstairs in the bright morning sunlight he hailed a cab. “California,” he told the driver and settled back comfortably. “Really quite simple,” he said to Der.

  Then he realized the cab wasn’t moving. The driver, a sorrowful-looking man with a shiny bald head, was looking back at him with narrowed eyes.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “California,” Reggie said, glancing at his watch.

  In some intuitive manner the cab driver realized that he was not dealing with a wise guy, a drunk, or a moron. He wasn’t quite sure what he was dealing with, but he knew this was no ordinary type.

  “Mister, I can’t take you to California,” he said. “It’s too far. But I can take you to a train, or maybe an airplane. How about that?”

  “Well, grand,” Reggie said. “Let’s make it the train, shall we? I think planes are a giant hoax. Fellow at my club told me that. The idea is preposterous, if you think about it. Tons of metal flying about in the air! Ridiculous what!” Reggie laughed pleasantly. “Well, off we go, eh?”

  “Yes, mister,” the driver said, taking a long breath.

  But within the distance of a block Reggie came to grips with another problem. “Money,” he muttered aloud.

  “What’s that?” Der said.

  “We need money. Tickets, meals, hotels, all the rest of it.” Reggie’s tone was worried. Money was something he didn’t understand at all. Trading bits of paper for things was a very unnerving business, if you thought about it. Any minute people might laugh at you, chase you away for attempting to trick them.

  “Well, get some money,” Der said impatiently.

  “But where?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Reggie stewed about it for awhile, rubbing his long jaw nervously. Only one thought filtered into his spongy brain; repair to the club, take up the problem with Ferdie. He told Der about this, got his okay, then changed his directions to the driver.

  Ten minutes later he was in the blessed sanctuary of the men’s bar, contentedly sipping a brandy milk punch with Ferdie. Ferdie took a dim view of Reggie’s standing-up Sari.

  “Caddish thing to do,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But I had to,” Reggie said. “I still love her wildly. But I must go to California. That’s why I came here.”

  “That doesn’t follow,” Ferdie said, pouncing on this non sequitur.

  “I need a bit of the old ready for tickets, meals, all the rest of it,” Reggie said.

  “Hah!” Ferdie said in a bleak voice. “Money! I haven’t seen any of the stuff for years. When I ask the old man for it he starts babbling about camels and eyes of needles and my getting into Heaven.”

  “Well, let’s have a drink,” Reggie said.

  “Grand idea.”

  They had several drinks. Der became impatient; his voice was acquiring an ominous ring.

  Finally Ferdie snapped his fingers. “You’ll go out on the Super Chief, right?”

  Reggie nodded hopelessly. “If I find some cash.”

  Ferdie began to laugh. “Don’t need money. Something just occurred to me.” His laughter rocketed about the room and several members departed in a rage. “The old man owns the Santa Fe,” Ferdie said happily. “You see, his father wouldn’t buy him an electric train years ago, so the old man bought himself a bunch of railroads when he came of age. I’ve got a pass on the road.” He brought out a wallet, fumbled through a collection of cards until he came to one that was stamped and signed by the Santa Fe.

  “Good anywhere, anytime,” Ferdie said. “Take it, old man.”

  “I say, what luck,” Reggie said. “Let’s have a quick one for the road, eh?”

  “For the railroad,” Ferdie cried with a scream of laughter He pounded Reggie on the back. Reggie pounded him on the back.

  The bartender stared at them with a bright and active dislike . . .

  When Reggie got to the train he was in a mellow mood. The pass worked wonders. A conductor led him to a drawing room, begged him to think of himself as a guest of the road, and then tiptoed away, closing the door reverently behind him. Reggie was tired from the emotional explosions of the day, and pleasantly numbed by half-a-dozen brandy milk punches. He stretched out on the bed, sighed comfortably and fell at once into a dreamless sleep.

  The train was roaring along when he woke. Reggie was conscious of a slight hangover and acute hunger. Well, off to the diner, he thought. Guest of the road and all that. For a moment he looked at his clothes with a skeptical frown. Cutaway, striped trousers, spats, all pretty elegant. But it wasn’t the right time of day for them. Finally hunger triumphed over his sartorial misgivings, and he shrugged and set off to find the diner.

  Reggie’s concern over his attire was needless. He had few accomplishments of any consequence, but, he did wear clothes with elegant authority. He could have worn a bathing suit and got away with it.

  The dining car was crowded but Reggie found a seat next to an elderly gentleman with a hearing aid. After a few polite bellows about the weather, he ordered a large dinner from the steward and settled back to stare at the passing scenery. His mood was less mellow now. He thought of Sari and sighed. How would he ever straighten this mess out? He sighed again and nibbled on a cracker. Might be best to enlist in the. Foreign Legion. Come home thirty or forty years hence. He saw himself in a rakish uniform, limping slightly, hair streaked with silver, meeting Sari in some far-off, bitter-sweet future. They would talk sadly of what might have been, and he would dandle her child on his knee. No, her children would be too big for that. Maybe a little dog. He would tell Sari about the sacking of this or that place, the great battle that took place here or there. And they’d have a drink. Maybe half-a-dozen. Good stiff Scotches. Reggie began to feel better. Maybe they could start all over again, pleasantly tight. Get the filthy little dog off his knee straight away. Get Sari on his knee. That would be the maneuver. Have a few more drinks. Ask Ferdie over. Make a real party out of it. Reggie chuckled and nibbled another cracker. Why wait thirty or forty years? And to hell with that Legion nonsense. The thing to do was go straight back and put Sari firmly on his knee. Right!

  He looked up, still smiling happily, and saw Sari’s Uncle Ed enter the dining car.

  For an instant he sat frozen, the grin fixed horribly on his face, while his heart leaped about in his chest like an imprisoned bullfrog.

  Then Uncle Ed saw him.

  “Har! Scoundrel!” he cried, in a voice that might have teed-off a cavalry charge.

  Reggie grabbed a fistful of crackers and ran for it. Uncle Ed made the tactical mistake of pausing to get the stiletto out from under his trouser leg, and when he straightened up Reggie had disappeared. With a bellow of rage Uncle Ed set after him.

  REGGIE ran through three cars like a nimble goat, aware of nothing but Uncle Ed’s stiletto and the wild fury he had seen in the old fool’s eyes. He knew Uncle Ed was gaining on him; his shouting voice was closer every second. The trouble was that Reggie’s headlong flight was clearing the track for Uncle Ed. Finally Reggie skidded to a stop, jerked open the door of the nearest room, and hurled himself inside. He closed the door, put his back to it and closed his eyes.

  Uncle Ed went roaring past, screeching like a banshee. The voice died away as he banged out of the doors at the end of the car.

  “Whew!” Reggie said.


  “Have we met?” another voice said coldly.

  For a second Reggie thought Der had spoken. But when he opened his eyes he realized his mistake. There was a girl sitting in the seat by the window looking up at him with a very cold expression on her face.

  “Why, hello there,” Reggie said pleasantly.

  “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing in my room?”

  “Not at all. It’s a rather good yarn, as a matter of fact.” Reggie sat down, crossed his legs and beamed at the girl. Sensible type he thought approvingly. “A few years back, I met a delightful girl named Sari,” he began. “Well, one thing led to another and—”

  “I don’t want your autobiography, I just want you to clear out,” the girl snapped. “Unless you leave immediately I’ll ring for the conductor.”

  “No! If I go outside I’ll be killed.”

  “What nonsense! Do you think this is the Orient Express?”

  “I’m serious.” Reggie caught her slim hands in his and sank to one knee. “There’s a preposterous crackpot roaming about this train with a knife, and his only passion in life is to cut me into tiny pieces.”

  “What’s he got against you?”

  “Oh, it’s a madly complicated business,” Reggie said. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Something changed in the girl’s face. She looked a bit more interested now, and her eyes were softer. “Well, you don’t look like the criminal type, I must say.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Stay here if you like for a while. Perhaps you can get off at the next stop.”

  “I say, that’s good of you,” Reggie said fervently.

  The girl smiled slightly and looked out the window. Reggie settled back comfortably and let his heartbeat return to normal. They sat in silence for several minutes. The girl’s profile was to Reggie and he was therefore able to study her in a clinical manner. And she was well worth studying! She had silky blonde hair, a complexion like white satin, and wide baby-blue eyes. Her lower lip was gently swollen into a sensuous provocative pout. She wore a yellow silk dress that hugged the ripe luscious curves of her body as if it thoroughly enjoyed the job. Her legs were bare, lightly tanned and absolutely perfect.

  But despite all these physical endowments she didn’t look happy, Reggie thought.

  The silence wore on, making him uncomfortable. Finally he said, “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing you could help, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, we mustn’t strike the colors without a fight,” Reggie said. “I’m good at cheering people up. Let’s give if a try.”

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Well—no.”

  “I’m Mona Maxwell.”

  “Reggie van Ameringen.”

  She sighed. “I’m an actress. Lots of people would know who I am. Or maybe they wouldn’t. You’ve never heard of me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Reggie said. “Well, maybe you’re the kind of guy I should talk to,” she said, studying him with a bit more interest. “You’re outside the racket, and maybe you’ve got a fresh slant on things. The thing is, my quote career unquote is going to hell because I’m not a lady.”

  “What an absurd idea!”

  She let him have a grateful little smile. “That’s sweet, but don’t kid me. I know what I am. And that’s the trouble. I can do only one thing, and that’s the Dead End Kids sort of work. And there’s no demand for it right now. But there is a wonderful part open in a picture they’re doing at Magnum, and that’s what I’m going back to take a crack at. Maurice Mann, the big boss at Magnum, is willing to let me test for it, but the director is unsold on me. He doesn’t think he can teach me to act like a lady, and that’s what the part needs. A lady. Fancy me as a pure-bred little debutante?” She laughed shortly and shook her head. “It’s crazy.”

  “LADIES are ladies,” Reggie said. “One doesn’t act like a lady. One is a lady.” He settled back, clasping his hands about a bony knee. “This director must be a priceless ass. Supposing you teach a man to act like a horse. Make him paw the ground and whinny. Does that make him a horse? No, he’s still a man acting like a horse. Same with ladies. Dogs. Trout. Really, it’s frightfully simple, don’t you see?”

  “But how about manners, and stuff like that? Knowing the right fork, saying the right thing. That’s where I get caught with my breeding down. The wrong side of the tracks is always getting into the act.”

  “My dear girl, you mustn’t worry about things like that,” Reggie said gently. Here was a sweet and earnest little thing, he thought, being bothered by an absolute lot of nonsense. “Take this fork business for instance,” he went on, determined to sweep away her anxieties. “Ghastly bore, really. Knives, forks, spoons, stretching stupidly out on either side of your plate. By the time you get to the end of them you’re in your dinner partner’s soup.”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “And you never know which one to use.”

  “Oh, rot. Give you a good tip on that. Friend of mine named Ferdie told me about this one. You’d like him,” Reggie said warmly. “He’s a grand chap. Anyway, here’s his little trick. There you are facing a square yard of cutlery, all of it smug and shining. Knives are the worst, you know. Very smug, actually. Well, let’s say it’s soup time. You don’t know what spoon to take. Well, you don’t take any of them. Got that?”

  “Don’t take any of them?”

  “That’s right. You stare at them with a fishy eye, and keep your hands in your lap. After a bit the hostess will start to squirm. Let her squirm. Serves her right. Then she’ll give the eye to the butler, and he’ll come padding up behind you. ‘Is something wrong, sir’ he will whisper. Then you say in a cold, stony voice, “If it’s not too much trouble, may I have a clean soup spoon?’ That will do it. He’ll pop back with a clean spoon, which you examine very, very carefully, and then you go on with dinner.”

  She began to laugh. “Oh, you’re not serious,” she said.

  “Ferdie does it all the time. And he’s got another trick, too. He picks up all the cutlery, one piece at a time, and gives its the fishy eye. Then he selects just one of them and eats the whole meal with it. That little maneuver puts an end to this nonsense about which fork to use. You use the clean one, that’s all.”

  “You make it all sound so funny,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever worry about knives and forks again. Go on, tell me some more.”

  “Well, none of it’s important,” Reggie said. “Just have a good time, be yourself. If you meet stinkers, well be a little stinker yourself. Take dukes. Dukes are usually stinkers. Don’t know why. But it works that way. So you meet the Duke of Blenheim. He looks down his nose at you, mutters something you can’t understand. Frightful manners. All dukes act that way. Well now. You smile at him and say, ‘Jove, I’ve always wanted to meet the Duke of Blandings.’ He raises his eyebrows and says, ‘I say, old chap, I’m the Duke of Blenheim.’ Then you stare at him. For a longish bit of time. Then you say, ‘Oh!’ That’s all. Not another word. Then stroll off. Ten to one he’ll be after you like a shot to have you for week-ends of grouse hunting. It always works.”

  “Tell me,” she said smiling, “do you use these gags?”

  “Well, no. But Ferdie does. All the time.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Reggie blushed. “Well, they’re not really very kind,” he said shyly.

  Mona Maxwell regarded him in silence for a few seconds and then she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips.

  “You’re kind of goofy,” she said, drawing back from him, “but you’re the sweetest guy I ever met.

  “It’s very good of you to say so,” Reggie said, touched.

  Mona took one of his hands and patted it in a friendly manner. “Look, Reggie, I’m going to make you a very un-ladylike proposition. How about staying here with me until we get to the coast? You can help me a lot, I know it. Somehow you give me confidence. You make all these things that worry me seem kind of funny and silly. Won
’t you do it, please?”

  Reggie thought of Uncle Ed prowling about the train with his stiletto. “Delighted,” he said, smiling. “I want to cooperate.” She looked away from him, coloring slightly. “-I shouldn’t say this, I guess, being that I’m such a perfect lady and you’re such a perfect gent, but you don’t have—well, anything else in mind, do you?”

  Reggie looked at her in alarm. “Don’t get the wrong idea about ladies and gentlemen. If you’re confused about that, I shall have to tell you where little ladies and little gentlemen come from.”

  “Oh, I know all about that,” she said. “I was just thinking of us, specifically.”

  “Well, that’s better,” Reggie said, relieved. “No, I have nothing in mind but convincing you that this director is a frightful fool.” He patted her hand. “You’re a very real lady, my dear. And now let’s order dinner, shall we?”

  THIRTY-SIX hours later Reggie strode briskly into the sunny brilliance of the Los Angeles station. Der had become active again now they were nearing his destination. However, there had been a change in his manner. He had dropped his dictatorial brusqueness.

  “We’re close to the exact spot where I must meet the machine,” he said excitedly. “Let’s get a cab. I can tell you how to direct the driver.”

  “Very well.”

  They commandeered a cab and presently were bowling out of Los Angeles toward Hollywood.

  “You’ve been a good sport about this,” Der said. “I’m sorry about messing up all your plans.”

  “Well, it’s done and that’s that,” Reggie said philosophically.

  “—Er—that girl,” Der said. “Quite attractive, I thought. By your standards, of course,” he added hastily. “On Mars, she would seem very weird.”

  “I daresay.”

  “Oh, of course. I wouldn’t look twice at her on Mars.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine so.”

  “Tell me,” Der said plaintively, “Are you people getting anywhere with inter-planetary travel. You know, space ships, things like that?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  “Hmmmm! Well, if anything breaks in that line, why don’t you come up for a visit?”