Each Man Kills

by Victoria Glad

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Each Man Kills

  _BY VICTORIA GLAD_

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March 1951.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]

  "_... to live you must feed on the living_"

  Heading by Vincent Napoli

  Now that it's all over, it seems like a bad dream. But when I look atMaria's picture on my desk, I realize it couldn't have been a dream.Actually, it was only six months ago that I sat at this same desk,looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. Ithad been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she hadpromised to write as soon as she arrived in Europe. Considering that myfuture rested in her small hands, I had every right to be apprehensive.

  We had grown up together, had lost our folks within a few years of eachother and had been fond of each other the way kids are apt to be. Thenthe change came: It seemed I loved her, and she was still just "fond" ofme. During our early college days I sort of let things ride, but once wewent on to graduate school, I began to crowd her.

  The next thing I knew, she had signed up with a student tour destinedfor Central Europe, and told me she would give me my answer when shereturned. I had to be content with that, but couldn't help worrying.Maria was a strange girl--withdrawn, dreamy and soft-hearted. Knowingthe section she was going to, I was inclined to be uneasy, since it isthe realm of gypsies, fortune tellers and the like. It is also thebirthplace of many strange legends, and Maria claimed to be stronglypsychic. As a matter of fact, she had foretold one or two things whichwere probably coincidental, like the death of our parents, and whicheven made an impression on me--and you'd hardly call me a "believer."

  This so-called talent of hers led her into trouble on more than oneoccasion. I remember in her senior year at college she fell under thespell of a short, fat, greasy spook-reader with a strictly phony accentand all but gave her eye teeth away, until I realized something wasamiss, got to the bottom of it, and dispatched friend spook-reader_pronto_. If she should meet some unscrupulous person now, with no onearound to get her out of the scrape--but I didn't want to think of that.I was sure this time everything would be all right.

  When she didn't write at first, I let it go that she was busy. Finally,six weeks' silent treatment aroused my curiosity. It also aroused mynasty temper, and the next thing I knew I was on a plane bound for theContinent. Within two hours after landing, I found her at a little innin Transylvania, a quaint little place that looked as if it were made ofgingerbread, and was surrounded by the huge, craggy TransylvaniaMountain range. I also found Tod Hunter.

  "What's wrong, Maria? Why didn't you write?" I asked.

  Her usually gay, shining brown eyes flashed angrily. "Why couldn't youleave me alone? I told you not to come after me. I came here so I couldthink this out. For God's sake, Bill, can't you see I wanted to think?To be by myself?"

  "But you promised to write," I persisted, wondering at this change inher, this impatience. Wondered, too, at her wraithlike slimness. She'dalways been curved in the right places.

  "Maria has been studying much too diligently," Tod said slowly. "She'salways tired lately. She hasn't been too well, either. Her throatbothers her."

  * * * * *

  I wanted to punch his head in. For some reason I didn't like him. Notbecause I sensed his rivalry; I was above that. God knows I wanted herto be happy, above everything. It was just something about him thatirritated me. An attitude. Not supercilious; I could have coped withthat. Rather, it was a calm imperturbability that seemed to speak hisfaith in his eventual success, regardless of any effort on my part.

  I don't know how to fight that sort of strategy. I look like I am: bluntand obvious. Suddenly I didn't care if he was there.

  "Maria. Ria, darling. This guy's no good for you, can't you see that?What do you know about him?"

  She looked at me, her eyes surprised and a little hurt. Then she lookedat him, seemed to be looking _through_ him and into herself, if you knowwhat I mean. A slow flush spread from the base of her throat, that thin,almost transparent throat.

  "All I have to know," she said softly. "I love him."

  She looked out the window. "I'm going up into _Konigstein Mountain_, toa small sanitarium for my health shortly; the doctor has told me I mustgo away, and Tod has suggested this place. There Tod and I shall bemarried."

  I knew then how it felt to be on the receiving end of a monkey-punch.That she had come to this decision because of my objections, I had notthe slightest doubt. She was going to marry someone about whom she knewabsolutely nothing. She was much more ill than she knew. Hunter wasundoubtedly after her money; she was considerably well-off. Obviouslyshe was once more being influenced in the wrong direction.

  "I won't let you!" I warned. "Give it some more time, if for nothingelse, then for old times' sake."

  "How about me, Morris?" Tod interrupted. "You haven't asked me myfeelings on the subject. I happen to love Maria dearly. Have I no sayjust because you're a childhood friend of hers?"

  "Childhood friend! I was her whole family for years before she everheard of you! I'll see you in hell before I let her marry you!" Ishouted. Looking back, I'm sure that had he said anything else, I wouldhave killed him, if Ria hadn't come between us.

  "That's enough, Bill Morris! I've heard all I want to from you. I'mtwenty-three, and if I choose to marry Tod, I'll do so and there'snothing you can do about it. Now, please go."

  "Okay, Ria," I said, "if that's the way you want it. But I'm notthrough. If you won't protect yourself, I'll do it for you. I'd like toknow more about the mysterious Mr. Tod Hunter, American, and I do wish,for your own sake, you'd do the same. I wouldn't care if you marriedKing Tut, so long as you knew all about him. People just don't marrystrangers; not if they're smart. For God's sake, ask him about himself!"

  "All right, Bill," she replied, smiling patiently. "I'll ask him. Now,do stop being childish."

  "Okay, darling," I said sheepishly. "But do me one more favor. Don'tmarry him until I get back. Only a little while; give me a week. Justwait a little longer."

  As I closed the door, I could still feel his smile, mocking--yet alittle sad.

  But Maria didn't wait. I was gone a week. I had walked my legs offtrying to track down the elusive Mister Hunter and discoveredexactly--nothing. All his landlady could tell me was that he was anAmerican who had come to this climate for his health, and that he sleptlate mornings. I was licked and I knew it. If I had been a pup, I wouldhave fitted my tail neatly between my legs and made for home. But Iwasn't a pup, so I headed straight for Ria's flat to face the music.

  * * * * *

  They were waiting for me, she and Tod. When I saw her, I wished I weredead.

  She lay in Tod's arms, her body a mere whisper of a body. White and coldshe was, like frozen milk on a cold winter's day. They were both dead.

  You know how it is when at a wake someone views the deceased and sayskindly, "She's beautiful," and "she" isn't beautiful at all; just amade-up, lifeless handful of clay. Dead as dead, and frightening. Well,it wasn't that way this time. Their fair skins were faintly pink-tintedand their blonde heads, hers ashen and his a reddish cast, gleamedbrightly. And they sat so close in the sofa before the fire, his headresting in the hollow of her throat. They looked--peaceful; no linemarred their faces. I almost fancied I saw them breathe. And on herthird finger, left hand, was the ring--a thin, platinum band. He hadwon, and in winning somehow he had lost. How they had died and why theyfound each other and death at the same time, I would probably neverknow. I only knew one thing
: I had to get away from there--quickly. Ialmost ran the distance to my flat. Stumbled into the place and poured atriple Scotch which I could scarcely hold. The Scotch seared my throatand tasted bitter; someone must have poured salt in it. Then I realizedthat it was tears--my tears. I, Bill Morris, who hadn't cried since myfifth birthday--I was sobbing like a baby.

  I didn't call the police. That would mean I would have to go back andwatch them cover that lovely body, carry it away and submit it to untoldindignities in order to ascertain the cause of death. The cleaning girlwould find them in the morning and would notify the police.

  But it