Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Sari sat up abruptly. She stared at Clive and shook her head slowly, incredulously. “No, it’s not true,” she said. “Tell me it’s a joke, Clive.”

  Clive raised his eyebrows a quarter-of-an-inch, which was sufficient to indicate what he thought of the propriety of a gentleman’s gentleman “joking.”

  “The Master has gone out it appears,” he said.

  Sari swallowed a vast apprehension. “And he’s worth—I mean, he can spend—it’s all his to do with as he wants?”

  “Precisely,” Clive said calmly.

  Reggie and Ferdie decided that it would require a few stiff pegs of liquor to ease their disappointment, and they promptly began to utilize that therapy. Their disappointment stemmed from the fact that Uncle Algernon had left the club several minutes before they arrived. A neighing horse in the street had sent him charging out to the sidewalk, blackthorn staff raised to strike, and the last that was seen of him (according to the doorman) was his coattails flapping out of sight around a corner.

  “Next time better luck,” Ferdie said moodily.

  “Dashed bitter let down,” Reggie said. Then his spirits lifted. “Well, things aren’t too bad. I mean, long quiet afternoon facing us. Nothing to do but chat, have a drink, all the rest of it. Not too bad, eh?”

  It was several minutes later that two substantial looking gentlemen stepped up to the bar alongside Reggie and ordered Scotch and sodas. Without meaning to eavesdrop, Reggie heard some of their conversation, which revolved about money in large and impressive amounts.

  Finally the man nearest him—a large and handsomely tailored chap with white hair and benignly sharp eyes—put a hand on Reggie’s arm, and said, “Excuse me, but my friend has just told me a story that’s too good to confine to a limited audience. I’d like to give it the circulation it deserves if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Reggie said. He waved to the bartender for a round of drinks, immensely flattered that the man had spoken to him; usually the respectable members of the club treated him with a toleration which he found very depressing.

  “Well, it’s like this,” the man said, fingering his glass. “I’m in the investment business by the way. Names Harrington. My friend here is Dr. Iseminger, of whom you’ve probably heard.”

  There was a general handshaking at this point, and a muttering of names and how-are-you’s. Ferdie crowded in shamelessly, to Reggie’s annoyance. But his annoyance faded very quickly, particularly when he recalled how sporting Ferdie had been about Uncle Algernon.

  “Well, it’s this way,” the man who called himself Harrington said. “My friend, the good doctor, is not a business man, but he nevertheless invests a certain part of his income in good stocks. This morning he called me at my office and, since we’re old friends, I talked to him personally.”

  Dr. Iseminger, a neatly dressed little man with sparse gray hair and thoughtful eyes, was shaking his head and smiling sheepishly as Harrington began the story.

  “It seemed,” Harrington went on, chuckling good-humoredly, “that the doctor wanted a hundred shares of Western Consolidated. He had read the prospectus of this company’s assets and so forth, and thought it would make a fine investment. A touch speculative, but basically sound, you understand.”

  “I say!” Reggie said.

  “HOWEVER, I didn’t like Western Consolidated,” Harrington went on. “I know the company well, and I know the chaps who took over the reorganization two years ago. And it seemed to me that caution was indicated. A few more months to see how things shaped up, and so forth. But the good doctor was impatient. ‘Buy it now!’ he ordered, and I reluctantly agreed to do so.”

  Harrington sipped his drink and then laughed aloud, a good hearty, one-man-to-another laugh. “Well, Western Consolidated split their stock today and just about doubled the doctor’s money for him. But the hilarious thing is this,” Harrington went on, putting a big, beautifully manicured hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “The joke is that the doctor actually wanted to buy Eastern Consolidated, quite another company, and got the names mixed up. So what can you do? I ask you, what can you do?”

  “Hmmmm,” Reggie said, understand nothing of all this, but realizing that some issue was being put squarely to him. He hedged cleverly. “Hmmmmm,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Harrington cried. “What can you do in the market when you make money even by accident?”

  “I say, is it really that easy?” Ferdie said.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to be taken literally,” Harrington said. But with good sound advice it’s not too difficult a matter. Intelligent men are adding to their capital every day. It’s an interesting time, a highly interesting time, I might say, for a man with surplus cash to invest. If I had a million dollars—”

  “I have a million dollars,” Reggie said conversationally. “Just got it today.”

  Harrington smiled at him. “Would you like to have two?”

  “Well, no thanks,” Reggie said.

  “Sensible man,” Harrington said. “You know when to stop.” He glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Well, I’m stuck for an hour or so. The Governor warned me he might be late. What do you say we take a table? Might even have another round of drinks?”

  They repaired to a mahogany table in the corner of the lounge and their waiter brought them fresh drinks. In the next half-hour they had quite a few drinks. Reggie and Ferdie were vastly over-stimulated by the respectability of their companions, and went hog-wild in sheer exuberance. Ferdie at last excused him to go to the bathroom and Dr. Esiminger followed him. The doctor returned alone. He nodded to Harrington who moved his glass aside and put a firm fatherly hand on Reggie’s arm.

  “Your friend isn’t coming back,” he said. “I think he’s been taken ill.”

  “Pity,” Reggie said, blinking a bit. “Chap should watch his health, what?”

  “Precisely. However, I must say I’m gratified at the chance to talk to you in private. Unless I’m way off, you’re a shrewd and careful operator. Now be honest with me: is that a fair estimate?”

  “Well,” Reggie said, “I’m not very clever, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Sly dog!” Harrington chuckled. “But to be serious: I have a little deal you might be interested in. Just listen a moment.”

  HARRINGTON talked persuasively for at least half-an-hour, describing the potential of an oil well in southwestern Texas. Figures flowed easily and hypothetically from him, each digit blessed by the tone of benediction in his big rolling voice. Finally he paused and looked solemnly at Reggie. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Preposterous,” Reggie said, nodding. “Silly business, expecting to get oil out of the ground and make buckets of money with it. Couldn’t agree more.”

  Harrington’s smile became slightly strained. He glanced quickly at the doctor and then took a handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead. “You are a sly one,” he said, patting Reggie’s shoulder. “But joking aside, I’d like your views on this matter. If a man wanted to turn a million dollars into five or even ten million dollars, this is the quickest way to do it. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I suppose so,” Reggie said. He was getting very bored; what had begun as a pleasant afternoon of guzzling had turned into a lot of silly chatter about oil wells and interest rates.

  Harrington leaned closer to Reggie. “I like you,” he said. “I’m going to cut you in on this deal. I’m going to take your million dollars and do tricks with it. I’ll make ten dollars for ever one you invest—or my name isn’t George Worthington.”

  “Harrington,” Reggie said, pleased at his alertness.

  Harrington coughed strenuously. “Ah, to be sure. Harrington. George Harrington. Silly slip. Well, what do you say?”

  “Oh, anything that pops into my mind as a rule,” Reggie said. “No set rules about it. Just say something. Anything.”

  “I mean, what do you say about this particular deal?” Harrington said in a rising voice.

  “Oh.” Reggie
frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, let me see.” He stared in glassy absorption at the wall. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, old bean. Don’t need more millions. Just get involved with more lawyers. Bloody mess.” He shuddered and waved to a waiter. “Need a drink here. Drink all around.” Then he patted Harrington’s shoulder. “Good of you to think of me. Remember it all my life.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Harrington said.

  “No law against it,” Reggie said. “Free country, what?”

  “But isn’t there anything you want?”

  “Yes, but it’s a bigish order,” Reggie said, and sighed. He had suddenly thought of Sari. Grand and amazing girl. And how did he treat her? Like a cad. No other word for it. She wanted the moon with a fence around it, that was all, and he hadn’t stirred a finger to see about it. The only thing she’d ever asked him for, and what had he done? Nothing. Hadn’t given it a thought. “I’d like the moon,” he said to Harrington, speaking crisply and decisively. “Not for myself, understand, but for a good old friend.”

  Harrington and the doctor stared at each other for a second in silence. Then the doctor shook his head quickly. He had become quite pale. “No,” he said. “No.”

  But Harrington suddenly pounded the table and began to laugh. He stared at Reggie and said, “This is the most amazing coincidence! Dr. Iseminger owns the moon. He’s got a pure and uncontestable title.”

  “I say,” Reggie murmured. He looked at the doctor and said wistfully, “I don’t suppose you’d care to sell it?”

  EVENTS moved swiftly and bewildering after this. Harrington insisted they go to his hotel room to discuss the whole matter in peace and quiet. But there wasn’t any peace and quiet at Harrington’s hotel. Instead there were powerful drinks, and a tall brunette who looked as if she might have played fullback on some team of Amazons. She took an instant fancy to Reggie. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him, she hinted with a twist of her heroic shoulders.

  There was a lot of talk about the moon, and a gala moment as Reggie signed a check and received a receipt.

  After that things calmed down. The doctor left with the check, and Harrington began stuffing things into a suitcase. Reggie and the tall brunette played a game of hide-and-seek which terminated with Reggie hidden away artfully in a closet. He fooled her completely; a whole hour went by and when he finally tip-toed out into the bedroom the silence struck him as unnatural. That was when he learned that he was alone, that Harrington, the doctor and the brunette had vanished.

  Reggie felt very sad and very sleepy. Find a grand bunch of friends, lose ’em the same day. Life! And all the rest of it. Sighing, he stretched out on the sofa and fell fast asleep.

  When he woke several hours later he realized that he was in possession of an epic hangover. Gloomy and depressed he stared about the strange room, at the empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. His memory, always an antic instrument, was little help to him; he recalled missing Ferdie’s uncle at the club, and a vague something about bringing Sari a drink. The last splintering thought filled him with remorse. He’d stood Sari up somewhere. Fine way to treat a true-blue Sari, he mused. Well, best set things straight. Off to the old homestead in sackcloth and ashes. Bend the bloody head and beg forgiveness. Least a chap could do.

  It wasn’t until he was zipping homeward in a cab that he remembered the business about the moon. He began to chuckle. Yes, he’d bought the moon. For Sari. That would put a sparkle in her eye. No need for sackcloth and ashes. Hail the conquering Hero!

  When he entered his apartment Sari was pacing the floor, wringing her hands together anxiously.

  “Oh dear, are you all right?” she said breathlessly. “We’ve been so worried. Clive’s out at the police stations, and the lawyers buzzed off hours ago.”

  “I’m tip-top,” Reggie said. “You look hung.”

  “Well, a bit maybe. Nothing serious. A clacking in the old forehead.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Shopping,” Reggie said with a casual little wave of his hand. “Just shopping.”

  “Reggie, did you spend any money?”

  HE smiled and patted her shoulder. “No question for a dear little female to bother her head about. I brought you a present, just a little thing. But cute.”

  “What did you buy me?” Reggie took her hand and led her to the window. “Look,” he said, pointing to the sky. “There! It’s all yours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The moon. I bought it for you. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Darling, I’m in no mood for jokes.”

  “No joke. Girl wants the moon with a fence around it. What’s a doting chap to do? Simple. Get the moon. No fence yet. Have to see about carpenters, I suppose.” Sari looked at him for a few seconds. Then she said quietly, “Reggie, who sold you the moon?”

  “Couple of chaps. Good fellows.”

  “What did you pay them?”

  “All I had. Moons don’t come cheap. Million dollars.”

  A key sounded in the door and Clive entered. “Good evening, sir,” he said pleasantly to Reggie. “I’ve been taking the liberty of trying to find you.”

  “Clive!” Sari cried. “Make him tell you what he did.”

  Reggie was feeling defensive and confused. And a little bit hurt. Sari’s reaction wasn’t what he’d expected. No wildly grateful hug, no flush of pride and pleasure at the gift.

  Clive looked at Reggie. “What have you done, sir?” he asked politely.

  “I bought her the moon,” Reggie said moodily. “From a couple of chaps. Paid a million. What’s all the fuss about?”

  Clive swallowed hard. For an instant there was quite definitely an expression of horror on his face. Then he recovered himself. “Congratulations, sir,” he said stiffly.

  Sari began to weep. And through her tears, she said, “Reggie, I can’t take anymore. I’m through. You got drunk and squandered your money. I don’t care about the money, but I can’t face life with a madman. Supposing we had children? You might sell them or give them away to someone at the club.”

  “Good bunch at the club,” Reggie said weakly. “Take good care of the tots. Nothing to worry about.”

  Sari shook her head blindly and ran to the door.

  “Wait,” Reggie cried.

  But the door slammed and Sari was gone.

  The silence that followed was thick and oppressive. Reggie went to the windows and looked long and thoughtfully at the moon. Nothing wrong with it. Perfectly good moon. Fine color. Reggie rubbed his long vacant face. But you couldn’t buy and sell it. Definitely not. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew this to be so. Any fool should know that much.

  When he turned Clive was regarding him gravely.

  “Pretty silly business,” Reggie said, trying for a light touch. He laughed, but the sound of it was hollow and false. “I guess Pm a bit of an ass, eh what?”

  “Not a bit, sir,” Olive said cryptically.

  SEVERAL hours later the household had returned to something approaching normality; Reggie was sound asleep and Clive was doing the silver. It was then—at nine-thirty—that the front doorbell rang shrilly.

  A lesser man that Clive might have been intimidated by the three men who stood in the corridor. Two of them were in military uniform, and the stars on their shoulders indicated that their rank was but one shade below the chief of staff. The man between them wore a black Chesterfield overcoat and a black Homburg. He was in his early sixties, but his face was smoothly tanned and his cold gray eyes were sharp and alert. And something in the manner of the general officers made it plain that he was solely and completely in command of the group.

  “Yes?” Clive said quietly, and in the voice he would have used with a door-to-door magazine salesman.

  The man with the Homburg glanced at a card in his hand. “Is this the home of Reginald van Ameringen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’d like to see him.”
r />   “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Tell him Mr. Smith from the Department of State,” said the man in the Homburg drily.

  “Very well. Won’t you come in, gentlemen?”

  At the door Clive paused and glanced back at the three men. “I should like to tell you that Mr. van Ameringen has recently undergone a most upsetting experience,” he said. “And, considering that, it might be wise if you gave me some inkling of your business.”

  “I would prefer to discuss that privately with Mr. Ameringen,” Mr. Smith said.

  Clive hesitated an instant. Then he said, “Mr. van Ameringen is an—ah—unusual young man. And on occasion I have noticed that he takes information from me in a happier mood than he does from strangers. And therefore—”

  “Now see here,” one of the Generals said shortly, “we want to see him alone, and right away. So be good enough to tell him that please.”

  Clive looked at the General for an instant. “Very well, sir,” he said softly, and left the room.

  REGGIE was in an extremely fragile mood as he met the three gentlemen in his drawing room. For one thing, his head was still throbbing ominously, and there was a distinct flutter in the region of his stomach. But more debilitating was his conviction that he had played for a limp-brained fool in the business of the moon. And on top of this Sari was gone forever. It was, all in all, enough to make a chap feel low.

  “You’re Mr. van Ameringen?” Mr. Smith asked him.

  “That’s right,” Reggie said listlessly. He didn’t care for the way the two blokes in the doormen’s uniforms were peering at him—as if he were some dangerous freak.

  “I understand you bought the moon this afternoon,” Mr. Smith said.

  Reggie started. Then he laughed weakly. “All a lot of nonsense. Nothing to it.”

  “This is a very grave business. Tell me this: do you know who I am?”

  Reggie looked carefully at Mr. Smith and he shook his head.

  “You’ve never seen me before? On television, or in the newspapers?”

  “Sorry, old chap.” Reggie felt relieved to have got away from the moon. “Don’t have a television set, and I’m not sure I can read. Sometimes the old words make sense, other times they don’t. How about a drink, eh?”