Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

“Please,” he shouted above the din, “please listen to me.”

“He’s mad!” a woman screamed. “Just look at him!”

“A moron!” another yelped hopefully.

Pandemonium took charge. Pandemonium that would have paled into insignificance a 4-11 fire.

Women fled screaming. They fought and struggled as they forced their way out the small door, their voices shrill and hysterical.

It was worse than a shirt sale at a bargain counter!

Oscar cowered numbly against the wall, unable to move or speak. The last woman fled through the door. No — one remained. One who stepped quickly to the door, turned the key, locking it.

The girl turned and Oscar uttered a surprised squawk.

“Ann!” It was all he could think of.

“Don’t ‘Ann’ me,” she said grimly. She glared at him, hands on her hips, an incongruously business-like position for a lovely girl in a French gown.

“How did you manage to break out of jail?” she asked, and before he could answer she rushed on. “Have you gone mad, Oscar Doolittle? Stealing that bond, breaking jail, and now sneaking in here like a despicable Peeping Tom!”

“Ann, you don’t understand!” Oscar cried desperately. “I—” He broke off as a furious banging started on the door.

“Ooooh,” he moaned, “ooooooh!”

Ann looked about quickly, her manner brisk, decisive.

“Oscar,” she whispered, pointing to a small door on the far side of the room. “Quick, maybe you can get away through there. I... I...” her voice was suddenly uneven, “I can’t turn you over to them no matter what you’ve done.”

Oscar hesitated, but as the outer portal trembled under a renewed assault, he turned like a startled fawn. With a last frightened glance over his shoulder, Oscar Doolittle bolted through the other door, jerking it shut behind him.

He stood trembling, enveloped in the stygian blackness of a corridor. Suddenly from the room which he had just vacated, he heard a rending crash and then masculine voices shouting threats and curses.

With the hounds of terror nipping at his heels Oscar fled through the dark corridor, his breath rasping his throat in shuddering gasps. His heart thumped wildly against his ribs, filling his ears with a roaring river of sound. Hysterically and blindly he dashed ahead, oblivious to all else but the mad impulse of a soul in torment — flight.

But within twenty feet his headlong scramble was rudely checked by a painfully solid door. He staggered back, and then his fingers were fumbling for the doorknob. A split second later he was stumbling into another room.

It was lighted; and when his eyes focused to the sudden illumination he looked around — and froze to panic-stricken immobility.

The room was occupied. Standing in its very center, gazing straight toward him, was Lester Mercer.

Oscar quailed. But then the realization that he was facing the man responsible for his present predicament put new steel in his backbone. A frantic accusation sprang to his lips — but Mercer’s next move so astounded him that his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

Mercer was staring at the open door behind Oscar.

“Must’ve been the wind,” Oscar heard him mutter. “Nobody there.” Mercer strode past Oscar to the door, slammed it shut.

It was then Oscar realized what had happened. He stared helplessly down at his body, invisible again. He recalled the buzzing noise that he heard as he fled through the dark corridor. His body had vanished again during that mad flight.

Mercer had turned now and was walking toward another door, one that led evidently to the ballroom. It came as a surprise to Oscar that his own legs were moving, carrying him swiftly after Mercer. Without design or conscious volition he was slipping in front of Mercer, hurrying to the door. His hand reached out, twisted the key. The tumblers fell with a dry, metallic click.

Mercer stopped abruptly and peered at the lock.

“I’ll swear I heard...”

His voice choked, his mouth dropped foolishly. For before his stunned eyes the key to the door was emerging from the keyhole. A whimpering noise sounded in Mercer’s throat as the key floated across the room toward the open window. He watched glassily as the key passed through the window, then suddenly dropped from sight as it fell to the street below.

“I need a drink,” Mercer moaned shakily. “I need a whole damn bottle. I think I’d better get pie-eyed.”

“But you’re not going to.”

Oscar’s voice, grim and invisible, sounded to the left of the efficiency expert. Mercer wheeled, eyes popping.

“Who said that?” he demanded frantically. “What kind of a joke is this? Who are you?”

“Your number is up, Mercer.” Oscar tried to make his words sound ominous. “I want the stolen bond and a signed confession, or I’ll beat the living tar out of you.”

Mercer listened as a gleam of recognition dawned on his face.

“So it’s you, Doolittle,” he sneered. “You can’t bluff me with some ventriloquism trick!” His eyes swept around the room. “You’re hiding in here somewhere, trembling in your shoes. Come out and fight like a man or I’ll come after you and drag you out!”

“All right,” said Oscar. “You asked for it. Put up your hands and defend yourself.”

He would have rather shouted “en garde!” as he had heard it done once in a movie, but he wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.

“En garde, then!” shouted Mercer, who did. “Show yourself and get ready for a beating.”

He assumed a classic pose, left arm and foot extending, right arm cocked under his chin, weight balance on the balls of his toes.

“I did a bit of this in college,” Mercer said grimly as he circled slowly, waiting for his opponent to appear.

Oscar stepped around in back of Mercer, a malicious smile twisting his lips. He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and drew a bead on Mercer’s plump posterior anatomy. His foot drew back like a pendulum, stopped, and then swung down and up, describing a swift, vicious arc. Behind Oscar’s swishing foot traveled all of his accumulated anger, all of the ignominy and shame he had received at the hands of Lester Mercer.

It was a bull’s-eye.

Mercer jumped a foot in the air, a pained howl tearing from his throat. His hands clasped the seat of his pants as he pranced about, his screams filling the air.

“Where are you?” he shouted. “Fight like a man!”

But in his eyes as he glared about the room, fear and doubt were gleaming.

“All right,” said Oscar, “I will fight like a man.”

He stepped in close to Mercer. His right fist lashed out, drove between Mercer’s guard, sank into Mercer’s paunchy stomach.

Mercer gasped and doubled up, his face turning a peculiar shade of green. All of his assurance dissolved before Oscar’s invisible onslaught.

“Don’t hit me!” he cried weakly. “Don’t hit me again!”

“Will you confess stealing that bond?” Oscar demanded.

Mercer rallied desperately. “You’re mistaken, Doolittle. I don’t know anything about that check,” he moaned. “I haven’t the faintest idea—”

Fists, hard invisible fists, battered into Mercer’s face like an attacking swarm of hornets, starting a trickle of blood from his mouth and nose, driving him to his knees.

“Don’t lie to me!” Oscar panted, “Now, what about that confession?”

Mercer collapsed on his face, his fingers clawing frantically at the floor.

“Keep away from me!” he shouted hoarsely. “Keep away from me, you damned ghost!”

His voice rose to a babbling, hysterical scream.

“I stole the bond! I stole the bond, got it away. Framed you. Bribed a guard.”