A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, April 1950 — page 101: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

s° THE LITTLE DOLL DIED Everybody std see it. It was darn near embarrassing. My boys at Morne Noir spotted it first off—teave it to the Marines—and gossiped behind their hands. The native villagers—a Haitian has X-Ray eyes—saw it and discussed it in Creole. I saw it, all right. And McCoy saw it, too. That’s where he was good at handling women. I’ve seen some classy woman-handling, but I take off my hat to that Irish taxi- dermist. He had just the right attitude of large, friendly understanding and now- now-]Jenny-Lou-nothing-doing. You know. “T know how you feel, Jen, but we just couldn’t do anything to hurt old Wilf.” He was always reminding her what a bang-up scientist Peabody was. “Wilf’s going to be famous when we un- cover these Arawaks, Jenny.” Or, “Old Wilf’s sure makin’ a name for himself.” Or, “TI wish I had Wilf’s brains and money |’ d of got somewhere instead of just skinnin’ animals.” “But you’re a great artist, Terry,’ Jenny Louise might give back. “You know Wilfred says you're a greater taxidermist than Akeley.” “Aw, what’s stuffin’ a few cats? I’m just a handy man to Wilf.” eet meaning to, I eaves- dropped into a couple of conversa- tions like that. It was a funny little drama to reach Morne Noir, as if a stock com- pany had arrived with Camille way up there in the Haitian jungle in the midst of the Caco War. The war was going on all this time, re- member. Some guerillas ambushed a Ma- rine column up near Hinche and cut off a lieutenant’s head. A wild bandit named Batraville killed one of our officers close to Port au Prince; dug out and ate his heart. A company of loyal Haitians were massacred at Petianville. Things like that happened all the while; the war drums kept thumping around the mountains, and I never knew when we were going to catch it at Morne Noir. But with all my worries I couldn’t help specu- lating on that little drama between Mrs. _ Peabody and friend McCoy. Everyone in the place knew about it.. Everyone ex- cept Peabody. At least, that’s how it looked. He was so darned intent on tracing animals and Arawaks his wife could have run off with the Prince of Wales and you’d think he wouldn’t have noticed it. I felt kind of sorry for the little fella. When he did come out of the fog and pay attention to Jenny Louise, perhaps bring her a bunch oi wild flowers, she was liable to yawn or something. Anybody else would've real- ized where her heart was. “She’s overboard about the Irishman for fair,” the topsergeant remarked to me at mess one night. “How long do you think he’ll hold out?” The sergeant meant it was hard to hold out against a romantic woman in the tropics. The boys in my outfit were bet- ting that a morning would come when Mc- Coy and Jenny Louise would leave Pea- body flat. I didn’t think so. Stealing Jenny Lou from Wilfred Peabody would be like taking candy from a baby, and McCoy was Peabody’s best friend. “You'll see, though,” the sergeant told me. “I was_married once, myself, and I know. Something’s bound to happen. It can’t go on this way.” Of course it was none of my business. My business was to protect Morne Noir against Charlemagne, mayhem and mur- der. Still, I couldn’t help watching, -be- cause the thing was right under my nose. I don’t like domestic problems, and there were times when Mrs. Peabody irritated me so much I wanted to shake her. 1 put her down as a silly dame with about as much sense as an Angora cat. She had no realization of the danger she and her husband were in, either. McCoy had to tell her not to wander away from the camp. Her sighs and_ heart-flutters were as obvious as something in the films. EOI I mean, soupy. I thought it must be an | uncomfortable situation for McCoy, con- sidering. Certainly he looked as if he was trying hard to be loyal to Peabody and ignore Jenny Lou’s heaping dish of Valen. tines, So that was how things stood at Morne Noir. Bandits lurking in the surrounding mornes, Peabody grubbing i in the jungle. McCoy stuffing artistic specimens. Jenny Lou making eyes at McCoy. My sergeant was right when he said something was bound to happen; in a mess like that how, could it miss? And it was plenty, (eo) cComiebooks :