The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

Duncan’s Dreadful Doll

First published in Fantastic Adventures, July 1942.

Duncan Digit was a tall, amiable young man with an immense capacity for Scotch whisky and an equally immense capacity for making a fool of himself on any and all occasions.

Perhaps he had other qualifications but no one had ever noticed their existence. If such qualities did exist they were dwarfed by his two more prominent characteristics.

At the present moment he was displaying these two major idiosyncrasies to the crowd that thronged about his night club table.

With a wide smile, that had a fixed frozen quality, he raised his glass in an unsteady gesture.

“Eat, drink and be merry,” he chirruped gaily, “for tomorrow I die.”

The blonde at his right hiccoughed apprehensively but Duncan regarded her solemnly.

“Ish truth,” he assured her mournfully. Over the din provided by the exceedingly brassy band, he repeated sadly, “tomorrow I die. My dear aunt ish arriving tomorrow to cut me out of her will. Like that!”

With an emphatic gesture, he brought the edge of his palm down on the table. A glass toppled and spilled. Scotch dribbled to the floor. Duncan watched this waste sadly.

“Ish shame,” he muttered. “Tomorrow I die.”

In spite of Duncan’s state of mind, everyone else at the small, crowded night club seemed to be in high spirits. Liquor flowed merrily and the babel of voices was frenziedly gay.

The only other person who seemed to share Duncan’s melancholy was a wrinkled, ragged Gypsy who stood in one corner of the room and moodily observed the festivities. On her fat brown arms a dozen charm bracelets clinked together as she moved, and a red and white bandana was draped over her dark greasy hair.

Madam Pilar had every right to be unhappy. She had to spend six nights a week in the hot, airless, smoke-filled club, and that was enough to make anyone unhappy.

She worked at the club as a fortune teller and seer, and since the fortunes of the crowd were invariably not worth telling, the job was very dull.

Disconsolately she moved about the room and finally stopped before Duncan’s table.

He looked up and blinked drowsily. Then he shook his head and took another gulp from his drink.

“Ish better than pink elephants,” he muttered philosophically. Looking again, he was pleased to discover that the apparition had not vanished. Maybe it wasn’t an apparition.

“Have a drink?” he asked warily. “Tomorrow I die,” he added in the way of further inducement.

Thank you,” Madam Pilar said in a toneless voice. She sat down. “Why do you die tomorrow?”

“I got enemies,” Duncan said vaguely.

“Who... are they?” the Gypsy demanded.

Duncan burped sleepily. “Too many to count.”

The Gypsy leaned forward and regarded him steadily.

“I have charms to protect you,” she whispered.

Duncan brightened. “Thas’ good. Need lotsa charms.”

The Gypsy brought forth a small ragged doll from the voluminous folds of her dress. It was about ten inches high. The face of the doll was completely blank.

“Do you notice the resemblance?” the Gypsy whispered impressively.

“Spitting image,” Duncan said, nodding vigorously.

“This will protect your body from physical harm,” said the Gypsy. “Never leave it out of your possession.”

Duncan stared blearily at the doll. “Ish cute,” he said fondly.

The Gypsy dug into her dress again and brought out a small scissors. With a quick gesture she snipped a lock of hair from Duncan’s head.

Duncan nodded approvingly.

“Just a trim, though,” he said, wagging a finger.

The Gypsy took his hands in hers then and rapidly snipped the nails from his index and middle fingers. She wrapped the lock of hair about the nail parings and stuffed the tiny ball into an opening in the doll’s chest.

“The voodoo spell of the doll will protect you always,” the Gypsy said solemnly. “Keep it always with you and you will be safe. Never, never, leave it out of your possession. Do you understand?”

Duncan looked into the eyes of the Gypsy. They burned strangely at him, piercing through his alcoholic stupor.

He reached out and took the doll in his arms.

“I understand,” he said, hiccoughing jerkily. “The li’l guy stays with me from now on. Jush like to see somebody take him away.” He smiled blissfully down into the doll’s blank face. “We’re pals, thatsh what we are!”

When he looked up again the Gypsy was gone.

Duncan awoke the next morning in his own apartment. The events of the previous night were vague and cloudy, but he was agreeably surprised to discover that his head felt normal.

He lay in bed for a few moments staring at the ceiling, and then he became aware that he seemed to be bouncing slightly on the mattress.

The sensation was not unpleasant, but it was definitely disturbing. He sat up straight, but he continued to bounce up and down.

“Well, well,” he said aloud.

The door of his room opened then, and his valet, a thin, impeccable, imperturbable little man, entered, bearing a tray in one hand and an ice pack in the other.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Is it?” Duncan was still rocking about on the bed and his mind was occupied with that problem. He didn’t care whether, it was a good morning or not.

“Look here, Beetle,” he said abruptly, “am I bouncing around on this bed, or am I not?”

Beetle set the tray down and considered the situation.

“Yes, sir,” he said gravely.

“Yes, what?”

“You definitely seem to be bouncing.

Do you find it diverting?”

“Hang it, Beetle,” Duncan said plaintively, “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Really sir,” Beetle’s tone was politely astonished, but not particularly interested.

Duncan continued to bounce on the mattress. “Was I very drunk last night, Beetle?” he asked.

“No more than usual, sir.”

“I presume I made an utter fool of myself,” Duncan said gloomily.

“I presume so, sir.”

Duncan climbed from the bed. The solid floor felt comforting, but his shoulders and body were still shaking in an annoyingly rhythmic fashion. Even though he was absorbed with this disturbing phenomenon, he gradually became aware that Beetle was waiting to tell him something. And one look at the strained lines on the man’s normally impassive face was enough to warn him that the news he bore was unpleasant. “Well, Beetle,” he said resignedly, “what is it?”

“Your aunt has arrived, sir.” Beetle’s voice was quietly despairing as he added, “She is waiting for you in the sitting room. If I may say so, sir, she seems a most determined woman.”

“Hah!” Duncan cried bleakly. “That’s a classic understatement. Is she alone?”

“There is a young lady with her,” Beetle stated. “Her name is Elvira Scragg.”

“Lovely name,” Duncan said bitterly. “Reminds one of a riveting factory during the rush hour. Elvira Scragg! Bah!”

“Shall I tell them you will see them right away?” Beetle asked.

Duncan sat gloomily on the edge of the bed, and although he was still bouncing about, his mind was on other matters. His aunt, a majestic creature named Agatha, was here for the express purpose of cutting him out of any share in her estate. Duncan gnawed nervously on his finger nails. That was a pretty situation. If he couldn’t keep on the right side of her during her stay, there was no chance of her changing her mind. He sighed heavily.

“Tell them I’ll be right out. Ask them if they’ve had breakfast. Be nice to them Beetle. Remember the old Digit fortunes hang in the balance.”

A half hour later Duncan, dressed and shaved and looking reasonably, fresh, strode into the sitting room of his apartment a desperately cheery word of welcome on his lips.

“Dear old Auntie!”

His full-throated bellow brought a flicker of annoyance to the face of the large, granite-visaged female who was sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair.

Duncan’s Aunt Agatha looked up at him in faint disgust.

“How do you do, Duncan,” she said, with a commendable attempt at civility. “This,” she said, waving a careless hand at a large, lumpy girl who was looking anxiously at Duncan, “is Miss Elvira Scragg, the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend — for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Duncan’s shoulders were still bouncing and jogging about and there was nothing he could do to improve the situation.

His aunt was peering closely at him with a slightly alarmed expression on her face.

“What is it? St. Vitus Dance?”

“Oh, no, no,” Duncan said quickly, “nothing like that. How do you do, Miss Scragg.” He changed the subject and nodded to the young lady and was rewarded by a toothsome grin and an awkward mumble in acknowledgment.

But his aunt was not to be distracted.

“Duncan!” she said sharply. “You don’t seem well. Why are you shaking and bouncing about? Stop it this instant, I say!”

It was a time for desperate measures.

Duncan executed a hippety-hop dance step and writhed his shoulders like a snake with prickly heat.

“Just a little dance step I picked up,” he explained glibly. “It’s the rage of the town now. They call it the Jive Bomber. Everybody’s doing it.”

“Oh,” Miss Elvira Scragg cried, “it looks exciting. Can we do it together?”

From the firing pan into the fire, Duncan thought miserably.

“It’s strictly a solo,” he said rapidly.

“Oh.”

At that fortunate moment Beetle entered the room to announce breakfast.

“Fine,” Duncan cried. “I’m starved. Would you care for a spot of bacon and eggs, auntie?”

“At three in the afternoon!” Aunt Agatha was aghast.

“Oh,” Duncan said.

Elvira and his Aunt followed him into the breakfast nook that commanded a sweeping, inspiring view of the park. It was a cozy spot but Duncan was in no mood to enjoy his breakfast or the esthetic appeal of the scenery.

As Beetle brought in the coffee, Aunt Agatha cleared her throat impressively. Duncan was still bouncing around on his chair, wondering when the hell the crazy nonsense would stop.

“Duncan,” Aunt Agatha said, “I have good news for you. Frankly, at one time, I considered disposing of my fortune to charity, instead of leaving it to you, my sole relative.”

Duncan listened hopefully and forgot about his jouncing, bouncing body.

“But I have changed my mind,” Aunt Agatha continued. “I feel that my money should stay in the family. While I do not consider you competent to handle my affairs, I believe that if you selected a proper marital partner, one who would exert a temperate influence over your irresponsible nature, the steadying result of such an arrangement might transform you into the sort of person to whom I could safely leave my property. In short Duncan, you must marry; and you must marry a girl who will be a rock of caution and prudence and firmness. A rock to which you can anchor yourself forever.”

Duncan gagged slightly on his coffee. The horrible vision his aunt’s words called up was bad enough; but he had a terrible premonition of the “rock” his aunt had in mind.

Again Aunt Agatha cleared her throat.

“Such a girl,” she declared impressively, “is Elvira Scragg, daughter of my dearest friend. She would be a wonderful wife for any man, but for you Duncan she would be absolutely perfect.”

Duncan’s terrifying premonition had not been wrong. He allowed himself a quick glance at Elvira Scragg. God! Things were far worse than he had imagined. If he wanted any slice of his aunt’s vast estate, and he certainly did, he would have to link himself with this lumpy, streaky-haired, toothsomely grinning creature.

So perturbed was he by this dreadful thought, that he didn’t notice it immediately when his peculiar bouncing and shaking suddenly ceased.

When he did realize that once again he was his normal stable self, he felt immensely relieved. It was difficult enough to face Aunt Agatha and her strategems, without having the thing complicated by an attack of whirling dervish tantrums.

Elvira Scragg noticed his sudden immobility; the sudden cessation of his twitching torso apparently fascinated her.

“Oh,” she said, “is that the end of the Jive Bomber dance?”

“What?” Duncan asked blankly. Then: “Oh yes, that’s the wind-up. There’ll be a slight wait for the next show.”

“I do not intend to be unreasonable,” Aunt Agatha continued, impervious to the interruptions. “I will give you and Elvira a period to become acquainted before you become betrothed. I am sure Duncan, that you appreciate the wisdom of my decision in this matter. Even if you don’t, it does not matter. Aunt Agatha knows best.”

Elvira looked hungrily at Duncan.

“I’m sure she does,” she said in a voice that practically gloated.

Duncan felt suddenly faint. Like a condemned man he slowly began to eat his bacon and eggs...

At the same time, but in another section of the city, a taxi driver-by the name of Mike Rafferty, climbed from his cab before a wooden building which housed his favorite saloon.

Mike Rafferty was feeling in a very glum state of mind as he opened the rear door of the cab to make his usual morning inspection for chance dimes or nickels sometimes dropped on the floor of his cab.

He was feeling glum because the last of his passengers had been a drunken young playboy, who had passed out before Mike could get him to his destination. It had been necessary for him to practically carry the young sot up to his apartment, and the young bum was not a light load.

Grumbling morosely to himself he opened the door. The first thing he saw on the floor of his cab was a small rag doll. He remembered then that the drunken playboy had been holding the doll in his arms when he got into the cab, but in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten to take it with him.

The thing was of no value at all, Mike decided. Just a cheap rag doll the young man had taken a drunken fancy to. The young drunk, he remembered, had placed it carefully on the seat beside him, but it had fallen to the floor.

“Sure,” Mike said aloud, “it must have taken a bouncing around here on the floor of the cab.”

Disgustedly he picked up the doll and entered the saloon. The bartender was wiping the bar with a damp rag when he saw Mike walk in, carrying the rag doll in one hand.

“So you finally reached your second childhood, eh?” he jeered. “Started carrying dolls, have you?”

Mike sat wearily on a bar stool and ordered a drink. He tossed the doll onto the damp bar.

“Some drunken young fool left it in my hack last night,” he explained. He shook his head gloomily. “What’s the young generation comin’ to, I wonder.” He looked more closely at the doll, “Sure, and that’s funny,” he said. “What is?” the bartender said, sliding a stein of, suds along the bar.

“I just noticed,” Mike said, “that this little raggedy doll looks surprising like the young man who left it in my hack.” The bartender bent over and joined in the scrutiny.

“Well,” he said, “the young fool couldn’t’ve looked like much, is all I can say.”

“He didn’t,” Mike said gloomily. “What’re you goin’ to do with it?” the bartender asked.

“Me? What would I be doin’ with it? Throw it out, that’s what, and good riddance.”

The bartender picked up the doll and tossed it carelessly under the bar.

“That’ll save you the trouble,” he said. “My sweeper will throw it into the garbage when he cleans up tonight.”

The two men went on talking and the doll was forgotten.

Neither of them noticed that it had landed under the beer spigot and that the steady drippings from the spigot splashed across its head. In a very few moments the doll had become a soggy beer-saturated mess...

Duncan ate his breakfast without relish. Even though the bacon was succulently crisp and the eggs were smoothly golden, he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm.

His Aunt Agatha and Elvira regarded him unwinkingly as he ate, and that didn’t help his composure particularly.

The ultimatum which his aunt had delivered left him with a limp battered feeling. The gruesome proposition boiled down to one of two things. Marry this repulsive girl, Elvira, and be in the money; spurn her and face the world a pauper.

Duncan shuddered. It was ghastly. He opened his mouth to pop in a piece of toast, but before he could do so, he suddenly hiccoughed, unmistakably, loudly and clearly.

There was a moment of startled silence in the room.

Aunt Agatha looked at him as if he were a bug under a microscope slide.

Duncan mumbled an apology and went back to his food guiltily.

But something was terribly wrong!

The fork fell from his suddenly clumsy fingers. He knocked over a glass of water reaching for it. In the middle of this confusion he hiccoughed again.

Aunt Agatha and Elvira were peering at him in startled amazement.

“What is the matter?” Aunt Agatha demanded.

Duncan hiccoughed gently and the knife fell from his fingers with a strident clatter.

The room seemed to be whirling about before his eyes. There was a dull roaring sound between his ears and a hot ball in his stomach.

The signs were unmistakable.

He was drunk! Absolutely. There could be no doubt of it. In another few minutes he would fall on his face. But he hadn’t taken a drink since he’d climbed out of bed.

What was the matter with him?

Even in his foggy state he realized that there was something monstrously peculiar about the whole situation: How could he have suddenly become blind drunk without so much as having smelled a cork? It was impossible! It was incredible! Still — it was a fact!

He glanced owlishly from Aunt Agatha to Elvira. He noticed with dismay that they were both looking at him in frozen horror.

That wouldn’t do. This wasn’t the way to creep into their hearts and impress them with his sterling virtues.

He’d have to show them the true Duncan. The gentleman and scholar, the bon vivant, the hail-fellow-well-met.

He leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. His eyes shifted lewdly from Aunt Agatha to Elvira.

“What a pair of bags,” he muttered thickly.

“What!” cried Aunt Agatha, rising to her feet.

“No offense, no offense,” Duncan said in a vain attempt at mollification. “Just a slang expression I picked up in the pool room. Neat, isn’t it?”

He also rose to his feet, but he knocked his chair over backwards in the effort. He swayed slightly on the balls of his feet, while the room swayed with him.

At that point, Beetle entered. To his credit he took in the situation in one rapid glance.

Gently, but firmly, he took Duncan’s arm and led him from the room. Duncan’s last memory was sprawling on a comfortable bed and licking his lips contentedly. Then the scene faded into oblivion.

When he opened his eyes again Beetle was standing beside the bed, arms folded, face expressionless and eyes sternly disapproving.

“Whash a matter?” Duncan said thickly.

“Are you feeling better?” Beetle asked frigidly.

“What happened?” Duncan demanded. “How did I get drunk?”

“Is the modus operandi important, sir?” Beetle asked icily.

“Yes,” Duncan said, making an effort to sit up. “How I got drunk is the most important thing of all. I didn’t take a drink. I didn’t even look at a bottle. And still I suddenly pass out. Maybe it was something I ate.”

Beetle sniffed the air significantly. “The aroma you notice, sir,” he said, “is hardly that of bacon or eggs. If I may suggest sir, it is the fumes of strong ale that permeate the room.”

Duncan sniffed. Beetle was right. The room smelled like a brewery. A sudden ghastly thought struck him.

“Aunt Agatha!” he cried. “Is she still here?”

“Yes,” said Beetle. “I succeeded in persuading her that what she witnessed was a violent attack of Septileam Injectorius. I explained that you had been subject to its malign effects for several weeks.”

“What the hell is Septileaum Injec — whatchamecallit?” Duncan demanded anxiously.

“Nothing, as far as I know, sir. It is merely a name I coined on the spur of the moment to meet the emergency.”

“Thank you, Beetle,” Duncan said gratefully.

“You’re quite welcome, sir.”

“You’ve got to help me, Beetle. This thing is driving me crazy. Why should I get drunk when I haven’t been drinking? And do you remember this morning? The way I bounced around like a roulette ball and couldn’t help myself? Something’s happening to me, I tell you. Beetle, you’ve simply got to put the brain to work on this thing, before I go completely potty.”

Beetle frowned faintly and tweaked his nose. Duncan took heart. That was one of the infallible signs that Beetle was thinking. Duncan had great faith in Beetle’s mental equipment. He waited humbly while Beetle turned the matter over.

“It might help, sir,” Beetle said, at last, “if you would tell me in detail what you remember of last night.”

Duncan told everything he remembered talking stimulated his own memory and finally the incident of the Gypsy and the doll came back to him. He had forgotten that completely. Now he unburdened-himself of the entire story, feeling quite sheepish.

But Beetle was not amused. Instead he tweaked his nose again reflectively.

“A doll, was it?” he said softly. “How extremely interesting. And did I understand you to say that the Gypsy warned you not to leave the doll out of your possession?”

“Yes,” Duncan said, “she seemed quite insistent about that.”

“Where is the doll now?” Beetle asked.

“Hang it, I don’t know,” Duncan said. “What difference does it make?”

“Have you ever heard of Voodooism, sir?” Beetle asked.

“Certainly,” Duncan said. “It’s that nonsense they put on for the tourists down in Harlem.” He paused and looked uncertainly at Beetle. “Isn’t it?” he asked weakly.

“While serving Lord Hummerly in Haiti,” Beetle said, tweaking his nose thoughtfully, “it was my pleasure to learn something of the rites of the Voodoo clan. One of the most common means a native employs to rid himself of an enemy is to construct a doll that resembles the intended victim and then stick pins into this doll until the enemy is — ah — no more. Quite interesting, what?”

“Damn it, what’s interesting about it?” Duncan said nervously. “It sounds perfectly silly.”

Beetle smiled and stroked his chin.

There was a mellow, reminiscent light in his eyes.

“I remember as if it were yesterday the case of Lord’s gardener and the native cook. The gardener angered the cook and the cook took a very neat revenge through voodoo. Ah! Those were the days.”

“Well, what happened?” demanded Duncan. He felt a touch of perspiration on his forehead.

“Nothing sensational,” Beetle said. “The gardener, poor chap, died a raving madman a week or so later. I remember to this day how distressed m’Lord was over the whole affair. You see, this gardener was the only fellow in the neighborhood who could make tulips grow in that climate. Naturally, he was missed.”

“Naturally,” Duncan croaked.

“Do you see,” Beetle smiled, “why I think it is rather necessary that we learn the whereabouts of this doll the Gypsy gave you. If it is a true voodoo doll the situation is rather serious. For anything that happens to the doll will likewise happen to you.”

“Oh,” groaned Duncan. “This is terrible. Why did she give it to me anyway?”

Beetle shrugged.

“Gypsies have a rather nasty sense of humor, sir. Of course, had you kept the doll in your possession, nothing could have harmed you. Since you have lost the doll you are in a somewhat serious predicament.”

“Well, we’ve got to find it,” Duncan said desperately. “The last thing I remember about last night is getting into a cab.”

“Ah!” Beetle cried. “You see it is working already. The bouncing, jostling sensation that affected you this morning was undoubtedly a result of the doll’s bouncing about in the rear of the cab. This narrows down our field of speculation quite considerably. Now in what club did you encounter this Gypsy? I think it expedient that we contact her without delay. Really, I find this problem quite absorbing.” Duncan was feeling quite sick. The thought of a dreadful doll, his alter ego, lost in the wide city where it could be stepped on, kicked around, torn apart or thrown into the lake, was unnerving. The unnerving thought was that whatever happened to the doll would happen to him. Some brat might pick it up and pull the stuffings out of it!

He lay back weakly, while his insides performed a complete flip-flop. A sheen of perspiration beaded his forehead.

“It was at the Scimitar club,” he said faintly. “And for God’s sake hurry!”

“Righto, sir. Cheerio.”

With that Beetle left.

For the next hour Duncan tossed from one side of the bed to the other, his imagination running riot. Every possible assault and indignity that could be perpetrated on the human frame leaped before his mind’s eye, and was only banished by the thought of some more horrifying possibility.

Supposing a car ran over the doll!

He could almost feel the pressure on his chest and for several seconds he could hardly breathe. Or maybe someone, would decide to use the doll for a pin cushion!

This anguishing idea was replaced by the thought of what would happen to him if the doll were discarded into a garbage can somewhere.

When Beetle finally returned Duncan was bathed in a pool of nervous perspiration, and his body was limply exhausted. Beetle’s first remarks did not cheer him.

“It’s very odd, sir, but the Gypsy seems to have disappeared,” he said. “No trace of the woman at all. That complicates matters a bit. Incidentally, your aunt and the young lady are still waiting in the sitting room. Have you any word for them?”

“Nothing printable,” Duncan muttered. “We’ve got to do something about this—” He broke off suddenly.

“What is it, sir?”

“Beetle,” Duncan cried in a strangled voice. “Something is happening to me.”

“Excellent,” Beetle beamed. “Perhaps the symptoms will afford a clue as to the whereabouts of the doll.”

Duncan unknotted his tie and opened his collar.

“I’m getting warm,” he gasped. “No! I’m getting hot! All over. Do something!”

Beetle tweaked his nose agitatedly.

“That is a rather vague symptom,” he pointed out. “Couldn’t you give me something more definite?”

“I’m starting to roast!” Duncan howled. “What more do you want? A barbecued arm with salt and pepper?” With sudden decision Beetle reached for the phone.

“I think I have something,” he said. “Operator, will you give me the fire department, please.”

Duncan swallowed nervously.

“Fire Marshal?” Beetle inquired pleasantly, a moment later. “How do you do, sir. This is the residence of Duncan Digit. What? No, we do not have a fire here. Yes, that is fortunate.”

“Cut out the play-by-play description,” Duncan shouted.”

Beetle looked coldly at Duncan and then turned back to the receiver. “Perhaps you can tell me, sir, if there have been any fires reported within the last few moments. It is rather urgent. Yes, I’ll wait.”

“What did he say?” Duncan yelled. His shirt was hanging damply to his shoulders and he felt as if he were sitting on a griddle.

“He said,” Beetle replied slowly, “that he would find out. Compose yourself, sir.” He turned back to the receiver. “Yes? A tavern? Will you repeat that address, please? Thank you, I have it. Thank you, very much.”

He hung up.

“What’s the dope?” Duncan demanded.

“A tavern sent in an alarm not three minutes ago,” Beetle said triumphantly. “This is capital, sir. Your drunken orgy this morning is now understandable. Somehow, the doll was taken to a tavern. There it became saturated with ale — a poor grade, I might add — and your subsequent inebriation was the result. Now that tavern is burning to the ground. It is a wooden frame and I understand that it is going quite rapidly. That accounts for your uncomfortable feeling at the moment.

Can’t you see how undeniably logical the chain of events is, sir?”

“Damn the logic,” Duncan shouted. “What’s going to happen to me when that infernal doll goes up in smoke?” Beetle cleared his throat delicately. “Hasn’t it always been your wish to be cremated, sir?”

Duncan leaped from the bed and struggled into his coat.

“Yes, damn it,” he said, “but not until I’m dead.”

“What are your plans, sir? Do you wish a change of clothing? A light snack, perhaps.”

“Hell no,” Duncan exploded. “I’m going to save that doll if I have to become a one-man fire department. And you’re coming with me. You’ve got the address. Snap into it.”

He tore out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the sitting room like a race horse. Aunt Agatha and Elvira leaped to their feet as he burst into the room.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Agatha demanded shrilly. “I demand that you remain here. I forbid you to leave. Your manners are positively barbarous. Elvira has been waiting two hours to talk to you and now you are trying to rush out of the house like a madman. I won’t have it, I say. I refuse to be treated like a sack of ashes.”

Duncan continued his-sprint for the door. Over his shoulder he shouted: “That goes for me, too!”

He practically flew down the three flights of steps to the street. Beetle was at his heels, panting but grim.

“A cab! A cab!” Duncan shouted. He waved wildly at the whizzing traffic. Even in the cold spring air Duncan was as warm as toast — burnt toast. “If we don’t get a cab soon, it’ll be too late,” he moaned.

As if in answer to prayer a Yellow Cab noticed his frantic gestures and slashed over to the curb with a shrieking wail from protesting brakes.

“Hop in, buddy,” the cabby snapped.

Duncan jumped into the cab and dragged Beetle after him. Beetle gave the driver the address. It was at the lower end of town and a good distance away.

“We would appreciate it,” Beetle said, settling back comfortably, “if you take the shortest route. We are in somewhat of a hurry. However, I shouldn’t advise you to drive recklessly.”

Duncan grabbed the cabby by the shoulder before he released the clutch.

“Listen, Buddy,” he said tensely, “I don’t care how you drive but get us there in three minutes and it’ll be worth a hundred bucks to you. I’ll take care of any tickets you get for speeding.”

“For a hundred bucks I’d take you to Mars,” the driver yelled over his shoulder. “But don’t worry about tickets for speeding. Any tickets we get will be for flying too low!”

The cab shot away from the curb like a scorched rabbit. Horns blasted angrily as the cab sliced through the traffic like a broken field runner and streaked down the left side of the street through a red light and onto the boulevard.

Beetle covered his eyes with his hands and sank against the cushions. The ride was a nightmare. Over safety islands, through red lights, around redfaced policemen, the cab scurried across the town like something inspired from Dante’s Inferno.

And Duncan continued to sweat. As the minutes passed his condition grew worse. Any minute he expected blisters to start popping out on the back of his neck.

Finally the cab swung off the boulevard, raced down a side street and came to a shuddering stop before an intersection that had been roped off by the fire department.

“Close as I can get,” the cabby panted.

“Close enough,” Duncan snapped. He kicked open the door of the cab and raced toward the roped-off crowd that was watching the dramatic and fiery destruction of the wooden frame building that housed the tavern.

Using his elbows, his knees and his voice, Duncan jammed and fought his way to the front of the line, but there he was stopped by a shouting cop, who placed a heavy hand on his chest and shoved him backward.

“We got our orders,” he snarled. “Nobody goes through and that means you, mister.”

“Oh, yeah?” Duncan shouted.

With all his strength he kicked the cop squarely in the shins. The cop doubled over with an agonized bellow and Duncan slipped under the rope and sprinted across the cleared area that surrounded the burning building.

The heat was intense. In fact, it would have been unbearable had not Duncan been practically burning up himself. As it was, he hardly noticed the blasts of scorching air that billowed against his face and body.

He dashed through the raging flames that forked tongue-like from the blazing interior and staggered into the main room of the tavern. Instinct led him unerringly through the inferno to the bar. He knew the doll must be there, for it couldn’t have made him drunk unless it was close to the liquor supply—

Not liquor. Ale!

He clambered over the charred and burning bar and dropped behind it. Choking and blinded he fell to his knees and crawled toward the ale tape. His hands swept over the floor in circles as he inched painfully forward. Then a roaring draft of air swept along the bar blowing the dense billowing smoke away, and in that sudden instant of vision Duncan saw what he was looking for.

The doll, badly scorched and smouldering was within inches of him. It took him only an instant to reach it and stuff it into his shirt.

Then he staggered to his feet. He realized he was only barely in time. The heavy beams of the ceiling were already sagging dangerously. In another twenty seconds the whole building would probably give way with a crash.

He was staggering toward the door when he heard a faint sound that stopped him in his tracks. Turning he peered into the swirling smoke and leaping flames.

In the corner of the room a man was lying on his stomach, helplessly attempting to crawl to his knees. It was his moan that Duncan had heard. The man was huge and fat and a white apron he was wearing identified him as the bartender.

Duncan lurched to the man’s side, knelt and hoisted him to his shoulder. It took all of his waning strength to struggle to his feet. Swaying perilously he moved toward the door, blinded by the acrid smoke and the perspiration that poured from his forehead.

As he reached the doorway, he heard the timbers of the ceiling give way with a tremendous rending crash. A rush of scorching air swept over him, and long, greedily licking flames roared with suddenly increased fury about him.

With his last rush of strength he charged through the doorway and fell into the cleared area that surrounded the building. He didn’t hear the building crash; he didn’t hear the sudden sharp roar from the crowd as they saw him stagger from the blazing doorway; he didn’t hear the popping of flashlight bulbs as quick-thinking photographers recorded for posterity the evidence of his heroism.

He heard none of this, saw none of this. For he was completely out...

Three days later, swathed in bandages, Duncan was able to sit up in his comfortable bedroom. Scattered about the floor were dozens of papers carrying the story, complete with pictures of his daring rescue.

Duncan was the city’s hero. If an election had been held that week Duncan could have been elected Mayor.

Aunt Agatha tip-toed cautiously into the room and seeing that he was sitting up, hurried to his side.

“My dear boy,” she cried solicitously, “are you feeling better? Is there something I can do for you? Something I can bring you?”

“Nothing at all,” Duncan said. “Except for a general fricasseed feeling, I’m all right.”

“That’s splendid,” Aunt Agatha said enthusiastically, “because I want to talk to you about a very important matter. I’ve definitely decided that you are just the type to handle all of my affairs. Your heroism has proven your true worth beyond a doubt.”

Duncan beamed through the network of bandages that swathed his face. Things couldn’t be better.

“But,” Aunt Agatha said, “I haven’t changed my mind about the necessity of choosing a suitable matrimonial partner for you. Elvira is still my choice and when you are well you will have the opportunity to become better acquainted with the dear girl. I’m sure you’ll agree with me then that she will make an ideal mate for you.”

Duncan’s face frowned beneath the maze of bandages. Things couldn’t be worse! Had he gone through all of this only to wind up tied to Elvira for life. If he had known that was in store for him he would have stayed in the burning tavern. At least, he thought darkly, that wouldn’t have been permanent.

A discreet knock sounded on the door then and, an instant later, Beetle entered, suave and imperturbable as always. With him was Elvira Scragg. She was beaming idiotically.

“Elvira,” Aunt Agatha said, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Beetle took Elvira’s hand and smiled at Aunt Agatha.

“Elvira and I,” he said succinctly, “have been to the City Hall. There a brief but touching service was performed which made One where once had been Two. In short, Elvira and I were married this morning. With both of us it was love at first sight.”

With a sad bow he turned to Duncan. “As much as I regret the necessity,” he said, “I must ask you to accept my resignation.”

“Elvira!” Aunt Agatha shrieked. “It isn’t true. It can’t be true.”

“But it is,” Elvira said dreamily. “It was love at first sight — just like Beetle says. He’s wonderful!”

Duncan leaned back against his pillow with a contented sigh. Things couldn’t be better. Not in a million, years. This removed for all time the menace of Elvira, and it probably would have an excellent effect on his aunt. It would prove to her the inadvisability of amateur match-making.

A half hour later Beetle said goodbye to Duncan. Aunt Agatha was in her room with a bottle of smelling salts, prostrated.

“Is there anything I can do before I leave?” Beetle asked.

“Not a thing,” Duncan, said. “Oh, there is something at that.” He dug into the covers of his bed and pulled out the ragged, scorched doll. “This blamed thing has still got me worried. I might lose it again. I’m not the responsible type, you know. So I wish you’d keep it for me. With you it will be safe and I’ll have a little peace of mind.”

“Certainly, sir.” Beetle took the doll and put it carefully in his pocket. “I shall keep it close to me always. Goodbye, sir.”

Duncan watched him leave with regret. Good man, Beetle, hard to find another like him. He felt relieved that Beetle had the custody of that damned doll. Beetle wasn’t the type to shirk a responsibility like that. If he said he’d keep it with him, he’d keep it with him. All the time. That night Duncan woke from a sound sleep with a start. For a moment he was at a loss to determine what had awakened him. His face felt hot and flushed. It was a most peculiar and disturbing sensation.

He switched on the light and picked up the hand mirror from his night table. For an instant he couldn’t believe his eyes.

He was blushing!

Then as understanding dawned on him he chuckled to himself and flicked off the light. After all, Beetle was just sticking to his word. Good fellow, Beetle.

Anyway, honeymoons didn’t last forever.