A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

THE ELIXIR OF HATE 77 tically sure to find him in the lower gar- den, down among the new-set orange trees. “‘That’s a good fifth of a mile from the house. Stasia won’t be visible today; I’m positive of that. And Marianella is quite deaf. ‘Well, then, there’s only Lombard to consider. If he’s with the old man, it will be easy enough to send him on some plausible errand or other. Even though I have shrunk so in the past week, the old man 1s still no match tor me in strength. Match for me? Pshaw! I could break him as I might a rotten stick! And, not a hun- dred yards from the lower garden. the cliff—hallo, what the deuce!” His calculations ended in a sharp word of surprise as he reached the stair-head and turned to go down. For there, seated comfortably in a low, cane-bottom chair in the hall below, was Lombard, every line and look of him spell- ing out “Watchdog” in ictters a foot high. The American, pausing a moment in astonished chagrin, peered down through the cool, close-shuttered gloom of the an- tique stairway. Instinctively he telt a numbing check upon his plans, his hopes. And, as in a flash of inspiration, he knew that Lombard was to be his guard lest he, by any violence to himself or to the patri- arch put an end to Vecchio’s diabolical observations, records, tabulations and cold scientific ghoulishness. “Ah!” he breathed, bitterly, a doubled hate and rage breaking up over him. “So, then, this Shylock is bound to have his pound of flesh? Deternuned I shall drink the draft down to its lees, while he stands, gloating, over me, pencil and note-bouok in his withered claws!” Down the stairs he started, determina- tion bristling out all over him. But, recol- lecting his previous error, he stopped a moment, then forced « smile to his lips, and with an assumption of casuality in- quired: “Well, my trend, what hour 1s 1t? I’ve been oversleeping. llave you the time?” Lonmberd Jouked up with a surly grin- ace, trom the cheap “Novella” he was reading. Half past eleven,” he answered grufily. ‘Thank you. Beautiiul day for a walk, for working in the parden, isn’t it?’ And Dennison descended a few more steps. “Go back, m’sieur.”’ “What ?”’ “Go back!” “Why, you—you—what do you mean?” exclaimed Dennison, with difficulty hold- ing hack his sudden anger in the bonds of prudence. ‘“‘On whose orders?” “His.” “You mean—I can’t come downstairs, or go out in the garden, or—or any- thing?” His voice broke with passion. ‘“T cannot talk, m’sieur. You must go back.” “Yes, I will!” shouted the American, red rage blinding him. “You cur! You— you sit there and order me around! I guess not!” And down the stairs he started again, his face black with passion, fists clenched, chest heaving. The Lombard rose to meet him. “Go back!’” he shouted angrily. Lost, now, were all the simulacra of respect; lost the “‘m’sieur.” Brutal and plain the order was, thus given by a dull, clodlike beast of a man to this highly sensitive, scholarly New Yorker. Like oil upon a blaze, it sent the madness rushing to Den- nison’s brain. Where now the American’s thoughts of diplomacy, of ruse and cunning ? ee G beyond human endurance, fran- tic with the culmination of all this interminable series of goadin abuses, and horrors, Dennison self on the tormentor. “Take that—from me!” he shouted, leaping down the last few steps and aim- ing a blow at the bull-necked brute’s face. With surprising celerity Lombard ducked. | Came a clinch; a grunting, straining, breathless clutch and struggle. Then all at once his now-diminished strength no longer any match for the gorilla vigor of this helot, the American went down. A second later he was lying on the tiles, with Lombard astride his heaving chest. Vain were his raging struggles. Calmly the huge, hulking creature held him in a grip of steel, till, quite exhausted, Den- nison lay still. Then pulling from his pocket a long insults, ung him- (C(O) nn) (C 6)(0)©) Ss (C(O)