A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

THE ELIXIR OF HATE 49 absence of I] Vecchio and the lovely girl. Nor did the Lombard prove more en- lightening. All Dennison’s questionings, even reenforced by the passage of coin of the realm, elicited nothing. Hard-pressed, the surly fellow merely shrugged his shoul- ders, spread his palms, and answered: “‘How do I know, M’sieur? He tells me nothing. They have gone away, that is all. Early this morning they went. Whither? To Arles, perhaps; possibly to Tarascon. Who can say? Luggage? Only a couple of hand-bags, M’sieur. Who am I to inquire of the doctor his errands? When will they return? Heaven knows!” Dennison cursed the fellow mentally, turned on his heel, and strode away. Past the house he walked. Over him lay the compelling imperative of action. His new found strength and life could no longer tolerate a mere passive attitude, a waiting for things to happen. He must be up and doing. Past now and gone were all de- sire for rest, for idleness; gone the ex- haustion of but a day or two ago. Through the orange-grove he took his way, pausing only to pick one of the golden spheres. “It may come in handy on my way,” thought he. “The day’s hardly begun yet, and already the heat is coming on.” He glanced about. Nobody was to be seen. From the kitchen piped a thin song as Marianella labored among her cas- seroles. The Lombard was invisible. “Good!” exclaimed Dennison, taking the path toward the gate. No one impeded him. He reached it, unseen, found it opened with a spring-lock which permitted anybody inside to go out easily, while pre- venting ingress from without, and pres- ently—making quite sure he was not fol- lowed—struck into the walled road lead- ing down the mountain. Striding down the steep; singing. slash- ing with a stick at the roadside Huwers, he wondered that so short a time before he could have found the ascent a crucifying task. Away below him lay the city; he could see the azure of the Mediterranean to the right. To the left, the reaches of the canals and of the Etang de Thau. Fifteen minutes later he was in the town. Quickly he walked to the railway sta- tion. Tipping liberally, he made _ in- quiries of a porter. Yes, Dr. Pagani and his niece had left Cette that morning on the eight-sixteen. The porter knew them well. Had he not often carried the doc- tors luggage, and— Dennison had to check the man’s ver- bosity. Where were they bound for? Ah! That would be hard to say. Could the porter find out at the booking-office? Im- possible! Dennison redoubled the tip. Still impossible. Convinced at last that he was confronting a real sphinx, he with- drew. No, evidently nothing could be vained that way. He must wait as pa- tiently as possible. All in good time he would know the object and the purpose of this hasty departure. On the way back, after a late lunch, he stopped at a hardware shop in the Rue de I’Esplanade and for six-francs fifty purchased an electric flash-lamp and a stout screw-driver. “Now,” said he, as he headed for the mountain once more, “perhaps before long I shall learn a thing or two—something extremely vital to my plans. We'll see.” He returned slowly, thoughtfully, by way of the Citadel and the Phare St. Clair. By the time he reached the gate in the wall it was already growing dark. Not wishing to knock, as that would have given the Lombard more information than would have been prudent, he scaled the wall—unmindful of a few cuts from the broken glass set in cement—and dropped soundlessly into the high grass inside. He regained the house, rang for the Lombard, and ordered dinner. The fellow, outwardly polite enough, nevertheless re- garded him with a disquieting expression. His eye, small and muddy and fringed with piglike lashes, was far from being one to inspire confidence at any time. Now, as it fastened itself on Dennison’s face, the American felt a strange uneasi- ness. He noted, too, that the man’s cloth- ing looked dirty and disorderly, and that it was flecked here and there with pe- culiar whitish spots. But from all this he could infer noth- ing. Very likely the gardener had been doing some rough outdoor work. He ate heartily of the excellent mutton and salad, which he followed with a half- liter of Chambertin. Then he betook him- self to the study, where the man-of-all- work had already lighted the student-lamp and had started a welcome little blaze in COMICOC|S (C(O)