Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “You’re a swine.”

  “You’re a fool,” Den worth retorted. “After all, you killed the girl.”

  “It was moral for me to do so,” Turzee said. “I have no human sense of values. Sauce for the goose isn’t sauce for the gander. I can ethically kill the girl, but it’s immoral of you to remain unmoved.”

  “Amoral.”

  “Casuistry. Smart-Aleck stuff. And I’ll do worse,” Turzee promised. “You’ll come crawling to me on your knees before you’re through.”

  “Who do you love?” Denworth inquired, grinning crookedly.

  “Y-y-you!” Turzee screamed, almost speechless with fury, and there was a swirl of displaced air. Apparently the pixy had vanished Denworth considered. He was surprisingly untouched by Miss Bennett’s disappearance. Perhaps because it had been so complete. Death usually involves remnants, inartistic reminders of what may have been rather badly composed in the first place. Corpses are degenerate, but they have an emotional appeal through association and contrast.

  Denworth shook his head. No emotion, he decided, must touch him henceforward. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Always egocentric, he ruthlessly determined that the power of the Love sigil would work unreciprocated.

  But Myra—

  He telephoned his own house. Agatha was not there. No, the butler did not know where she had gone. Was there anything he must do? Mr. Denworth wasn’t feeling ill? He must take care of himself—

  Denworth smiled sourly and cradled the receiver. He’d have a drink, and then call on Myra, before she had a chance to dress and escape.

  It worked out that way. Myra, red-haired, arrogant, and lovely, came in to glare at her maid, who had let Denworth into the apartment against orders. Her voice was throaty, perhaps a little sharp now.

  “What’s the idea—”

  “Hello, Myra,” Denworth said, smiling. As always, his throat went dry at sight of the girl. Her sheer sensuous beauty was overwhelming. It struck out almost tangibly.

  “Listen, Ed Denworth,” Myra snapped, swinging to face him with a swirl of turquoise velvet. “I’ve told you—”

  She stopped.

  “You’ve told me?”

  Myra’s lips were parted as she stared at the man. Something leaped into view in the dark depths of her eyes.

  “I’ve—”

  “Beat it,” Denworth said to the maid, and as the woman went out, he extended his arms. Myra came into their circle without question.

  Several hours later, they spent the cocktail hour in a roof garden overlooking the city. A warm, pleasant relaxation filled Denworth. His glance was possessive as he watched Myra sipping her drink. So was hers.

  “Another?”

  “Haven’t you had enough, darling? Your health—”

  “I heal quick,” Denworth said flippantly. “By the way, did I tell you I’ve a better position?” He went into detail. “After I . . . um . . . get my divorce, we can be married immediately.”

  “It’ll take a year,” Myra said. “I can’t wait that long. But we’ll be married, yes. Only you’ve got to give up your job. I don’t want you to work. I’ve lots of money.”

  “No,” Denworth said firmly. “That won’t work out. I’m on my way up—in fact, I’ve just started. I’ve no intention of retiring just yet.”

  “But I love you. I don’t want you to work. I want to take care of you.”

  “Amazon. I’m not exactly a drone, Myra. I have plans—”

  She laughed affectionately. Denworth felt a slight irritation. Myra’s love seemed unpleasantly maternal. Well, a firm hand was necessary, before any difficulties could develop.

  And yet, curiously enough, Denworth got nowhere. Myra had firmly fixed in her mind the idea that her lover was a child, to be watched and guarded against harm. Denworth was reminded of Agatha. His wife, too, had wanted to usurp his natural domination.

  It might have been only the instinct of survival working within Myra. Perhaps she sensed that if she once capitulated and gave Denworth the upper hand, she’d be lost. Denworth would not be an easy master.

  She was lovely, though, breathtakingly so, with long sleek lines that flowed with consummate grace. It was difficult to think clearly in Myra’s intoxicating presence. Her dark eyes were pools in which a man’s senses could be drowned.

  So nothing was done, till a telephone call summoned Denworth from the girl’s side.

  He felt a small, jerky leap within his chest as he lifted the receiver.

  “Denworth speaking. Well?”

  “This is Chief of Police Fennel. I’d like to see you.”

  “Of course. Anything wrong?”

  “An accident. Your wife—”

  Denworth’s tone did not match the expression on his face. “Agatha? She’s not hurt!”

  “No,” Fennel said, after a pause. “We’ll talk about that later. I phoned your office, and they said this was one of your hangouts. Suppose I come up now?”

  “No, I’ll meet you somewhere. My office?”

  “Allright.”

  Denworth looked thoughtful as he made his way back to the table. Trouble was in the offing. He sensed it. Had Turzee been up to his tricks? Well—he fingered the sigil affectionately—he was safe, at least.

  Myra was not at the table.” After an inconclusive conversation with the waiter, Denworth paid his bill and-left. Why had Myra run out? Surely the spell of the bracelet had not worn off!

  Denworth was still brooding when he reached his office to face Chief of Police Fennel, a small, gray, harsh-faced man with singularly piercing black eyes. Fennel didn’t offer to shake hands. He jabbed his cigar in the direction of a chair, perched on the desk’s edge, and glanced around.

  “We’re alone. Good. Now, Mr. Denworth, let’s talk.”

  “Surely.” Denworth sat down, lighting a cigarette. His face was impassive, but his blue eyes were wary. “You say there was an accident?”

  “Your wife almost jumped off the top of the Carnes Building.”

  Denworth sat back with a jerk. Almost! What had stopped her?

  He didn’t ask that question, of course. Instead, he said, “I don’t understand. Agatha—I don’t believe it.”

  Fennel chewed his cigar. “I’ve been talking to Simon Henderson, your wife’s lawyer. Simon’s an old friend of mine. He told me a few things—”

  Denworth didn’t show the sudden fear that shot through him. Damn Henderson!

  “He was worried. It seems your wife changed her will last night, and Simon took the precaution of calling on her this morning. He saw her coming out of the house. She didn’t notice him. She took a taxi, and he followed. She wandered around town aimlessly. Once she almost stumbled under a truck. Finally she went up to the roof of the Carnes Building and climbed on the parapet. Then she fainted.”

  Denworth blinked. “But—”

  “Simon talked to her, after she recovered. Your wife was pretty hysterical. She seemed to feel that she should kill herself for your sake. Only she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Mrs. Denworth has a strong religious conviction against suicide.”

  “I . . . see,” Denworth said softly. So that was it. The power of the sigil was strong, but there were stronger things. At least, it had not worked on Agatha. Yet her death was not really necessary. She could easily be induced to give her money to Denworth. Agatha had no burning desire for wealth, and giving it up would not conflict with any deeply rooted emotions of her own.

  So the plan must be changed. Fair enough. The immediate danger was Fennel. For he seemed unaffected by the sigil.

  “I’ll see that my wife is taken to a physician,” Denworth said.

  Fennel grunted. “Have you ever studied hypnotism, by any chance? No? Well—” He didn’t look convinced.

  “What are you driving at?” Denworth asked, leaning back in his chair. “Trying to create a mystery? My wife hasn’t felt well lately. She’s been despondent. People commit suicide sometimes.”

  “The curious thing,�
�� Fennel said, “is that both Simon and Mrs. Denworth seemed rather impossibly attached to you. I’ve heard rumors about you around town, and I know the boys at your club. You’re not a likable man. Also, Simon has always disliked you—till now.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not superstitious. I came up here because Simon was worried, and didn’t know why. He seems torn between two desires. He thinks a great deal of both you and your wife, and for some reason those emotions are diametrically opposed. No, I’m not superstitious, Denworth, but since I saw you, I’ve decided that you’re a damned dangerous man.”

  “Indeed?” Den worth said silkily, his eyebrows lifted. “Do you wish to arrest me?”

  “No.”

  “You couldn’t, could you? Don’t you . . . ah . . . rather look on me as a son?”

  “Yes,” Fennel said, not a muscle of his face changing. “Oddly enough, that’s true. It’s why I’m worried. Why I suspect that something’s very wrong indeed. My emotions are pretty stable. I’ve gone off balance now, and I don’t like it.”

  “You wouldn’t do anything to harm me, though,” Denworth said confidently.

  He was due for a surprise. Fennel shifted his cigar and shook his head solemnly.

  “Abraham loved Isaac,” he said, a sudden fanaticism glowing in his deep-set eyes. “Remember? ‘And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.’ There are stronger things than love, Mr. Denworth. Duty, for example. I—rather worship the law.”

  The two men’s glances locked in silent battle. Denworth said, “Are you threatening me?”

  “I have no sympathy for criminals. You, I think, are either a criminal, or potentially one. I suspect hypnotism. I don’t know, of course. My point is that you’d better think twice before—” He didn’t finish.

  “There’s no point in prolonging this interview,” Denworth grunted, rising. The chief of police stood up also, relighting his cigar. From under shaggy brows he slanted, a keen glance at the other.

  “As you like. I’m merely serving warning. If you’re innocent, you won’t be insulted. If you’ve been up to skulduggery, stop it. Because the law has no emotions.”

  “Juries have.”

  Fennel’s lips clamped together. “That’s true. If you try any more of your damned hypnotism, I hope you’ll succeed in committing a murder. Because then I’ll be justified in shooting you through the heart.”

  “Get out!” Denworth said, white dents showing on his nostrils. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk hard.

  Fennel opened the door. “I’m going. Remember, though, I’ll be keeping my eye on you. And don’t depend on hypnotism to see you through.”

  “Get out!”

  “I could not love thee, dear, so much—” Fennel said, with a crooked grin, and went out. The door swung shut behind him.

  Denworth dropped into his chair, pressing his teeth together till his temples ached. He glared at the sigil, feeling an impulse to tear it off. But he repressed his fury. No use making a bad job worse. Its power was limited; fair enough. A jack plane will not smooth metal, but it has its own purpose. Den worth had simply overestimated the sigil’s capabilities.

  Agatha had not committed suicide, because her religion forbade it. Simon Henderson had spoken, though guardedly, to Fennel, because of his deep affection for Agatha. And Fennel himself—

  The law was his justification, his idol, his raison d’etre. He would sacrifice Isaac for his god. Denworth shivered uncomfortably. Fennel was too fanatical for his taste. He really feared the quiet, gray little man, sensing in him a remorseless enemy.

  “Each man kills the thing he loves—” The quotation did not cheer Denworth.

  Well, he still had the sigil. And he would have to walk warily, for a while at least. Abruptly he felt a violent longing for Myra Valentine, for the drug her nearness provided. He went angrily to the door and swung it wide. There was no sign of Fennel.

  Myra had given him a key. It took him ten minutes to go by taxicab to her apartment, and a long twenty seconds for the elevator to reach the tenth floor. And there was an eternity as the key turned in the lock.

  The maid would be out, he remembered; Myra had said that this was her afternoon off. He went into the apartment. The living room was empty.

  “Myra!” he called.

  Then, in a corner, something stirred. With a sense of abysmal shock Denworth saw that Myra had been crouching on the floor, on hands and knees. She stood up, with a slow, timeless motion. Shadows veiled her face. She did not speak.

  And, behind Denworth, something tittered shrilly. The low whisper of Turzee said:

  “So there is nothing you love, Denworth? Nothing?”

  “Myra,” the man snapped, his voice harsh with fear. “Myra!”

  “We cannot harm you, Denworth. But we have taken her Under the Hill.”

  Denworth reached the girl in a stride, his fingers clamping cruelly on her arm. He dragged her into the light from the window. She made no resistance, following him uncomplainingly.

  The red glow of sunset fell on her face. In the horrible silence the eager, satiated sniggering of Turzee fell like the goblin laughter of a brooklet.

  It was Myra’s eyes, mostly, that—

  It was the look in her eyes.

  It was the memory, in her eyes, of what she had seen.

  And Turzee tittered. “Under the Hill. She has been Under the Hill. She has seen the splendors there. She has seen the hall where we toasted Eve on the night of wrath. Tell your lover what you have seen, Myra Valentine.”

  Myra’s lips parted. She began to speak, softly and distinctly. Denworth said, “Don’t!”

  She stopped, but he could still look into her eyes. Something quite horrible had happened to Myra.

  The red sunlight flashed on the Love sigil. Myra saw it. She walked straight toward Denworth, her arms extended.

  And that was unsupportable. Denworth felt that he knew something of the horror that had touched Eve, the ultimate blasphemy. There are changes too subtle and illogical to be more than sensed; Myra had suffered such a change.

  Denworth stumbled back. Myra followed. The Love sigil drew her.

  Turzee, invisible above them, tittered maliciously.

  Denworth whirled and raced to the door. It stuck, and, as he wrenched at the knob, Myra’s arms slipped about his neck. The touch of her struck flame to the smoldering tinder of madness. He cried out inarticulately as he whirled, and—and—

  She was dead. Blood rilled from her red hair, staining it darkly, fingering out toward the heavy bronze ash tray on the carpet. She was dead.

  “And will you give me the sigil now?” Turzee whispered.

  Denworth opened the door and slipped out into the hall. His brain seemed bathed in icy flames. Yet it affected him like liquor; he did not show it outwardly. He went down in the elevator with scarcely a glance at the operator; he asked the doorman to call him a taxi.

  “Where to, pal? This is on me.”

  “Anywhere. Anywhere. Just drive around a bit.”

  He leaned back, closing his eyes. Turzee, at least, was gone, or seemed to be. Myra—

  He turned his mind from the thought. There were more important matters at hand. He was in immediate danger. It was necessary to leave town. At least, the sigil would help him there—help him to find friends.

  He had failed. The power of the bracelet had not been enough. If only he had possessed a few additional talismans—

  Wayland Smith!

  He leaned forward. “Drive up Sycamore. The eight hundred block.”

  “O. K, pal.”

  Wayland Smith, of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Smith made charms—Turzee had said so. A bottomless purse—what were the others? Denworth couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. There were certainly a number of powerful charms in the pixy shop, and if Denworth could get his hands on even a few of them, his troubles would be over.

  The current catastrophe might be a blessi
ng very much is disguise. Even Myra—She had begun to show the possessiveness that Denworth hated so much. She would have grown worse. No, life with her wouldn’t have been completely happy.

  The face of Fennel flashed into his mind, together with a picture of the weapon that had killed Myra. Fingerprints. Legal evidence. The elevator operator, the doorman—they had seen Denworth enter and leave the apartment building.

  Fennel—

  The taxi stopped. As Denworth got out, he glanced up at the swinging shutter that said, “H.R.H Oberon.” Then he was hurrying across the sidewalk in the gathering dusk, pushing open the door, descending the stairs—

  Wayland Smith had not yet turned on the lights. The interior of the shop was dim, and Denworth could see,-only the white oval of the man’s face. He turned hurriedly and vanished through curtains at the rear of the room.

  Denworth was at his heels, grinning unpleasantly. He caromed off a table, knocking it over. Tiny metal objects clinked on the floor. He pushed through the draperies.

  This was Smith’s workroom, apparently. What looked like a jeweler’s bench was set up against the wall. There was an army cot, mussy and unmade, and a table covered with dirty dishes. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling; dust rills were everywhere. Smith might keep his shop clean, but he wasted no time in this room.

  Light came through three large, frosted-glass windows. Smith was hurrying toward a door at the rear. Denworth’s hand closed on the man’s shoulder and jerked him around. The flat, pale, freckled face was frightened.

  “What’s your hurry, Smith?” Denworth asked.

  “Maybe I’ve come to give you your bracelet back.”

  Smith licked his lips. “I know why you’ve come. I’ve been watching. Turzee said—”

  “What?”

  “He said the chief of police would settle your hash, but I wasn’t so sure.”

  Denworth whistled soundlessly. “Turzee got Fennel after me? Is that what you mean? But—good Lord!—that’s crazy!”

  Smith fingered his chin. “He used the Telepath Buckle. Implanted suspicions in Fennel’s mind. But I knew it wouldn’t work.”

  “It did work,” Denworth growled. “So that’s how Fennel got on the trail.”