Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  I felt the hair tighten on my head. “And did you stop him, son?”

  “Well, we never got that far. Latso had made the chemical formula and the machine, and—”

  Tom Welker was fiddling with his notebook. He said, “I guess none of that’s very important—”

  “You’d be surprised how important it is!” I snapped. Then I turned to Johnny. “Now son, think hard! The cave Latso was supposed to hide in—where is it?”

  “We didn’t have one, Dad. I was going to use the basement.”

  I’d had enough experience with Hey-You to know what to do—if we had time. I said, “Tom—we’ve got to work fast or this town’s liable to go up in a burst of glory. Do you know of any holes around close?”

  He gaped. “Holes? What are you talking about?”

  “Caves, man—caves! You know, where that robot could hide. Think!”

  “I don’t know of any caves in town—there aren’t any.”

  “Then he must have made one of his own. We’ve got to call the army post over at Dayton—fast!”

  “What on earth do we want of the army?”

  I didn’t take time to answer. I got on the phone and put the call through and inside an hour, a squad of soldiers arrived. They carried the equipment necessary to locate underground bombs and such, and they went to work.

  It took three hours to find Hey-You, because the devise kept signaling for old sewer pipes, buried scrap metal and what not. But they finally located the robot in a grown-over, long-unused well two blocks away. Hey-You had camouflaged the entrance very carefully, just like it said in the comic book. It had its machine ready to detonate the chemical bomb it had made, and the soldiers said that while the bomb would hardly have destroyed the earth, it would have made a grand mess of the town.

  The village fathers were pretty scared and pretty indignant and they immediately passed a law barring robots from the city limits and I think maybe the law will stand for a long time.

  Frankly, I doubt, now, that robots are here to stay and will do everything in my power to stem their march of progress.

  So, as I asked in the beginning of this letter, please be cooperative and return my money. You’ll still come out way ahead, because, on the strength of the information furnished herein, you’ll be able to recall all the other robots you’ve sold before disaster strikes and you are sued for everything you have.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel Bell.

  MIRACLE IN MANHATTAN

  First published in the July 1954 issue of Amazing Stories.

  At midnight Larry Taylor got hurriedly out of bed. He had to keep an appointment he didn’t have with a girl he didn’t know in a place he’d never heard of. For this was the night there was to be a—

  HE CAME out of an apartment building in the East Sixties at midnight—into an apparently deserted street. He wore a black Homburg, carried the inevitable briefcase, and looked every inch the diplomat, the State Department career man. And his presence in the dimly-lit, deserted street added a touch of intrigue that was entirely in keeping. He looked in both directions, then stepped toward a small unobtrusive car parked at the curb.

  But, quite suddenly, the street was no longer deserted. From somewhere in the shadows, there came two men—two slim efficient men who knew their business. They were on top of their victim before he realized what was happening. He had only an instant to wonder—no time at all to resist—before a blackjack descended on his skull at just the right spot and with exactly the right amount of force. A quick blow, and two men were supporting a third after the manner of two friends escorting a drunk from a late party. In no time at all, they got keys from his pocket, put him in the car, got in with him, and the car rolled away into the night, down mysterious Manhattan streets.

  The car rolled south, observing all traffic regulations, staying carefully within all speed limits, giving all other cars a wide berth so as to avoid even a possibility of trouble. Fifteen minutes later, it vanished into the maze of streets and alleys known as Greenwich Village at the lower end of Manhattan Island.

  The car arrived, eventually, in the rear of a dirty brown-stone, where the two men half-led and half-carried the unfortunate diplomat into the building and up a dark, dirty stairway.

  In a small apartment on the second floor, another man awaited their coming. He sat on a specially-built lounge nervously chewing a dead cigar. An ugly man, everything about him merited disgust.

  His short, stubby body had long-since gone to fat. It hung in great folds upon his face until his eyes were mere slits through which he peered mistily. Glasses with thick, convex lenses were perched on a button of a nose, turning the pupils of his eyes to baleful pin-points. His body, a shapeless mass of blubber, was clad in shapeless, made-to-order clothing.

  As the two kidnappers entered, he came off the lounge like a ball rolling onto the rug and formed the fat of his face into a scowl. “It took you long enough.”

  One of the kidnappers, a tall, blond man, scowled back. “What’s the beef? We got him, didn’t we?”

  “Did you get the briefcase?”

  “What do you think this thing is? A bass drum?”

  “Don’t get cute.”

  The blond man sneered as the fat one grabbed the case and clawed it open. His bulbous fingers trembled as he pulled out the contents. He threw the papers on the table and riffled through them until he found what he wanted—a large blue envelope sealed with red wax. He broke the seal and took forth a sheaf of onion skin paper covered with mathematical symbols. His little pig eyes gleamed behind the glasses. “This is it! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  The blond man was unimpressed. He glanced at his companion and then back at the fat man. “Okay. Let’s settle up so we can get out of here.”

  The fat man looked up suddenly, as though he had completely forgotten the other two. “Oh, yes—certainly.” He dug a fat wallet from the pocket of his tent-like pants. “There’s something else, first,” he said.

  The blond man scowled. “Now listen! We made a deal and kept our end of it.”

  “Oh, I’m not trying to cheat you. In fact I’ll make additional payment. I want you to kill Simmons and get rid of his body.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  The fat man shrugged. “Why not? You’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

  Hostility flared in both the kidnappers. The blond man said, “That’s none of your damn business. Maybe we have and maybe we haven’t.”

  “Don’t get mad. I wasn’t insulting you. I was just making a business proposition.” The blond man glanced at his companion, then jerked his head toward a far corner of the room. “We’ll have a little conference.”

  “By all means,” the fat man said, affably. As the two men moved away from him, he turned and bent down, with great effort, to a small safe standing by the table. He was smiling and a soft chirp of contentment escaped his thick lips. Sprawled on the lounge, the stricken diplomat opened glazed eyes and stared at the fat man. He watched the latter open the safe and put the blue envelope inside but the act did not appear to register in his stunned brain. The fat man closed the door of the safe and sighed expansively as he straightened. Then his glasses fell from his nose and his mood changed instantly to that of a whining child. He said, “Craig—Craig—come here and help me, please. I dropped my glasses.”

  The blond man frowned from the far corner in which he was whispering to his companion. “Then pick the damn things up. I’m not your servant.”

  “I can’t. I’m blind without my glasses. I don’t dare even move. I’ll step on them.”

  The man called Craig stared at the fat man in quizzical surprise. “You mean to say your as helpless as that without your specs?”

  “I said I was, didn’t I? Come and find them for me.” The eyes of the diplomat on the couch closed slowly as Craig crossed the room. A few moments later, Craig said, “There they are—by your foot—there. Now keep them on your nose after this.”

  The
fat man put on his glasses. “All right. Are you going to do as I ask?”

  “No. We decided against it. There’s been risk enough. If we stretch our luck we’re liable to end up in the can. Give us what you promised and we’ll be on our way.”

  The fat man shrugged. “Very well. But you can at least tie him up for me. He’ll have to stay here a few hours until I can make other arrangements.”

  “Okay. We’ll do that much.”

  They tied the diplomat with his own belt and a towel from the bathroom. They were experts and did the job well. There would be no miraculous escape from this bondage.

  “Put him on the bed in the next room, please. I won’t be able to get rid of him for several hours.”

  The kidnappers deposited their bundle on the bed as directed, Then the blond man fingered the diplomat’s head, not with any regret, but certainly with curiosity. “I guess I banged him pretty hard. His skull may be busted. They die sometimes, from that.”

  “You won’t reconsider my offer?”

  “We’ve made up our minds. Quit stalling.”

  “I had no intention of defrauding you,” the fat man said, stiffly. Without further words, he handed the blond man a sheaf of bank notes. “Do you wish to count it?”

  “You’re damn right!” He counted carefully, pocketed the money, and grinned. “Okay. So long, now. And be sure to forget you even knew us.”

  As they left, the fat man looked after them with open contempt. “That won’t be at all difficult,” he said.

  Larry Taylor awoke suddenly. It was a peculiar awakening in that it was more abrupt than usual. Larry was a heavy sleeper; the type who hated to go to bed and hated to get up. He invariably fought the wakefulness of morning. So it was surprising when he found himself abruptly conscious. He snapped on the light on the night table.

  A small gold clock said two-thirty. Larry yawned and scowled. Why had he awakened at this unearthly hour? He threw back the covers and put his feet on the floor. He took a cigarette from a pack on the night table and lit it with an angry flourish of the table lighter. He was wide awake. Sleep was now out of the question. He sat smoking the cigarette, wondering. Had he gone to bed with something on his mind? Some worry? There was nothing he could think of. Everything was fine at the office. In fact he’d landed a big advertising account just the day before. Maybe that was it, he thought. But no; he’d landed accounts before and when the contracts were signed, forgot about them and went on to other business. He was used to landing: accounts.

  Maybe it was—Oh, sure! He was due at Robb’s Tavern in Greenwich Village. Past due. He’d have to hurry. He crushed out the cigarette and jerked off his pajamas. He didn’t even stop to shower, but threw on his clothes, dashed cold water on his face, grabbed his hat and coat and headed for the garage in the basement of his apartment building. A couple of minutes later, his yellow coupe could have been seen cutting out of the side street and heading south on Fifth Avenue.

  He found a parking place directly in front of Robb’s Tavern down in the Village. He locked the car and went inside. It was an off-night. No orchestra, and not too many customers. A few couples at the bar. Near the door there sat two men—one a small dark nondescript individual, and the other, a tall blond man with a knife scar across his right cheek. As Larry entered, the blond man got up and collided with him.

  Larry caught him, smiled. “Sorry.”

  “Think nothin’ of it. Nothin’ ’t all.” The man was drunk and jovial. He shuffled away toward the washroom and Larry forgot him.

  Larry’s eyes went immediately to the fourth table from the far end against the wall. He was to meet a tall, willowy girl with ash-blonde hair and blue eyes. If she had arrived first, she should be seated at the table, waiting.

  She had arrived first. She was sitting at the table. There was a Martini on the table in front of her, apparently untouched. She toyed at the stem of the glass with the long beautiful fingers of her right hand.

  Larry walked down the room, seated himself across the table from her, and said, “Hello. Sorry I’m late.”

  She smiled, a trifle uncertainly. “That’s quite all right.”

  Then Larry blinked and shook his head suddenly, as a fighter in the ring shakes his head after a hard blow. Larry said, “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. This is absurd.” The girl appeared to be reacting in a similar manner. She said, “Yes—isn’t it. I don’t understand—”

  Larry got up from his chair, but she extended her hand and he dropped back down. “Please—don’t go yet. I—”

  “Maybe you’d better take a crack at that Martini.”

  The girl raised the glass to her lips; did so gratefully, realizing Larry had made the suggestion so that she might have time to gather her thoughts.

  A waiter appeared beside the table. “Scotch and soda,” Larry said without looking up. His eyes remained glued to the girl’s face. She lowered the Martini glass and her smile was almost a plea. “I can’t understand it,” she said. “I got out of bed in the middle of the night thinking I had an appointment with a man about twenty-five; a man with brown eyes and black curly hair. I was to meet him here at Robb’s at this table.”

  She took a deep breath and colored slightly. “You’re here—at this table. A young man with curly black hair and brown eyes. Yet I don’t know your name and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  Larry grinned, but there was little humor in the expression. “That’s my story exactly, except I’d have to substitute a beautiful blonde with blue eyes.”

  Her color deepened. “Are we crazy?”

  “I’ve been wondering. People do go out of their minds, of course, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I’ve never heard a case of two people doing it at the same time in the very same manner and—and, well, doing it together.”

  The girl took another sip from her glass. “Maybe it’s the latest thing in abnormal behavior.” She tried to speak lightly but her voice was tight.

  The waiter brought Larry’s drink, set it down, went away. They used the silence to study each other.

  “I guess we can at least introduce ourselves,” Larry said. “I’m Lawrence Taylor.”

  “My name is Patricia Morley.”

  “Fine. Now let’s try and figure out what we’re doing here.”

  She had a nice smile, but there was tension and doubt behind it. “You make it sound so easy.”

  Larry closed his eyes for a moment as a feeling of weariness came over him. Weariness—yet not that exactly. It was a mental thing rather than physical, and Larry sensed that it was not happening to him, but rather to someone else and that he was merely an observer; but so close an observer that he himself felt the tiring effect of the vast effort. But what effort? It was all so vague and frustrating that Larry pushed it from his mind.

  “We might start with some mutual investigation of ourselves,” Larry said. “I’m an advertising man. Junior partner in a Madison Avenue firm—Hays, Collyn & Spencer. I’m single, twenty-six years old, and as normal as an advertising man can be—I guess.”

  Patricia Morley bit her lower lip with very white teeth. Larry thought: If she’s an actress, I’ll bet those teeth are capped. Far too perfect.

  “I’m a designer. Women’s clothes. I have a studio of my own on Fifth Avenue.” She looked at Larry thoughtfully, colored slightly. “I’m twenty-five—single too. And I’ve always thought I was entirely sane, normal—until now.”

  Larry sighed. “Well, that doesn’t get us anywhere, does it. Maybe we’d better just charge the whole thing off to ‘boy meets girl’ or something like that.” But his attempt at the light touch failed somehow. Their mood and inner feelings were not conducive to humor.

  “I guess we’d better just go home and try to forget being so foolish.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Larry said. Then, “Wait a minute. I wonder if we have met somewhere before. I’m sure we must have. Do you suppose we have any mutual friends. Do you e
ver attend Madison Avenue cocktail parties?”

  Patricia shook her head. “No. Since I’ve been in New York I haven’t had much time.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A little over a year. I came from Washington, D. C.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve never been there. Tell me—did you ever come to this tavern before?”

  “Yes. Twice. Both times with the same person. A friend of mine from Washington—” Her eyes grew a trifle vague. “Well, somewhat more than a friend. His name was John Simmons. He—”

  “John Simmons!” Larry’s eyes came up abruptly.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of course. He’s one of my best—”

  Larry broke off sharply as though that particular train of thought had been wiped completely from his mind. He looked at his wristwatch. “We’re late,” he said, sharply. “We shouldn’t be sitting here, Pat.”

  Pat Morley reached for her bag. “Of course not. We’ll have to hurry.”

  They left the tavern. Outside, Larry said. “Do you have a car?”

  “No. I came in a cab.”

  “Then we’ll use mine.”

  They got in and Larry started the motor. He turned to Pat. “Do you know the address?”

  “No—not exactly. But it’s east, off Sheridan Square. I think I’d recognize the house, though.”

  Larry drove around the block and headed east. Two streets over, he turned right. He was aware of Pat beside him—the pleasant scent of her perfume—the warmth of her body. Her presence occupied only a small corner of his mind, however. Paramount, was the grim urgency of getting to the house off Sheridan Square; the fear that they would not find it; that his mental picture of it was not accurate. The fear that they would fail was stark and grim in his mind; yet his mind went no further than that.

  It made no attempt to find the reason for the urgency nor the penalty for failure.

  “Not the front of the house,” Pat said. “The back entrance.”

  “That’s right. There are 14 four garbage cans beside the gate.”