Lovers and Other Monsters

by Marvin Kaye (ed)

  “Listen! in my pocket you will find two letters. Take them—there! You will know the handwriting. But promise you will not read them until you are in a place of safety. Promise me!”

  Jack did not speak, but held the letters between his fingers as if they had been burning coals.

  “Promise me,” said Hamilton faintly.

  “Why?” asked Oakhurst, dropping his friend’s hand coldly.

  “Because,” said the dying man with a bitter smile—“because—when you have read them—you—will—go back—to capture—and death!”

  They were his last words. He pressed Jack’s hand faintly. Then his grasp relaxed, and he fell back a corpse.

  ❖

  It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidly upon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussed the politics of the country in the barroom of the hotel. It was a warm night, and the French window looking out upon a little balcony was partly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raised her eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the window was hurriedly thrust wide and a man entered.

  Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm.

  “For Heaven’s sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a little while—he may return at any moment. Come an hour later—tomorrow—any time when I can get rid of him—but go, now, dear, at once.”

  Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced her without a word. His face was haggard, his coat sleeve hung loosely over an arm that was bandaged and bloody.

  Nevertheless, her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him. “What has happened, Jack? Why are you here?”

  He opened his coat, and threw two letters in her lap.

  “To return your lover’s letters—to kill you—and then myself,” he said in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

  Among the many virtues of this admirable woman was invincible courage. She did not faint, she did not cry out. She sat quietly down again, folded her hands in her lap, and said calmly—

  “And why should you not?”

  Had she recoiled, had she shown any fear or contrition, had she essayed an explanation or apology, Mr. Oakhurst would have looked upon it as an evidence of guilt. But there is no quality that courage recognizes so quickly as courage, there is no condition that desperation bows before but desperation; and Mr. Oakhurst’s power of analysis was not so keen as to prevent him from confounding her courage with a moral quality. Even in his fury he could not help admiring this dauntless invalid.

  “Why should you not?” she repeated with a smile. “You gave me life, health, and happiness, Jack. You gave me your love. Why should you not take what you have given? Go on. I am ready.”

  She held out her hands with that same infinite grace of yielding with which she had taken his own on the first day of their meeting at the hotel. Jack raised his head, looked at her for one wild moment, dropped upon his knees beside her, and raised the folds of her dress to his feverish lips. But she was too clever not to instantly see her victory; she was too much of a woman, with all her cleverness, to refrain from pressing that victory home. At the same moment, as with the impulse of an outraged and wounded woman, she rose, and with an imperious gesture pointed to the window. Mr. Oakhurst rose in his turn, cast one glance upon her, and without another word passed out of her presence forever.

  When he had gone, she closed the window and bolted it, and going to the chimney piece placed the letters, one by one, in the flame of the candle until they were consumed. I would not have the reader think that during this painful operation she was unmoved. Her hand trembled and—not being a brute—for some minutes (perhaps longer) she felt very badly, and the corners of her sensitive mouth were depressed. When her husband arrived it was with a genuine joy that she ran to him, and nestled against his broad breast with a feeling of security that thrilled the honest fellow to the core.

  “But I’ve heard dreadful news tonight, Elsie,” said Mr. Decker, after a few endearments were exchanged.

  “Don’t tell me anything dreadful, dear; I’m not well tonight,” she pleaded sweetly.

  “But it’s about Mr. Oakhurst and Hamilton.”

  “Please!” Mr. Decker could not resist the petitionary grace of those white hands and that sensitive mouth, and took her to his arms. Suddenly he said, “What’s that?”

  He was pointing to the bosom of her white dress. Where Mr. Oakhurst had touched her there was a spot of blood.

  It was nothing; she had slightly cut her hand in closing the window; it shut so hard! If Mr. Decker had remembered to close and bolt the shutter before he went out, he might have saved her this. There was such a genuine irritability and force in this remark that Mr. Decker was quite overcome by remorse. But Mrs. Decker forgave him with that graciousness which I have before pointed out in these pages, and with the halo of that forgiveness and marital confidence still lingering above the pair, with the reader’s permission we will leave them and return to Mr. Oakhurst.

  But not for two weeks. At the end of that time he walked into his rooms in Sacramento, and in his old manner took his seat at the faro tabic.

  “How’s your arm, Jack?” asked an incautious player.

  There was a smile followed the question, which, however, ceased as Jack looked up quietly at the speaker.

  “It bothers my dealing a little, but I can shoot as well with my left.”

  The game was continued in that decorous silence which usually distinguished the table at which Mr. John Oakhurst presided.

  Dashiell Hammett

  In the Morgue

  Samuel Dashiell Hammett (1894-1961), Americas greatest writer of “hardboiled” detective fiction, completed six unforgettable novels (Red Harvest, The Dain Curse, The Maltese Falcon, The Glass Key, The Thin Man, Blood Money) and several volumes of tough, realistic shorter tales. “In the Morgue,” an early, little-known short-short story, was collected in a posthumous volume of Hammett’s fiction, A Man Named Thin.

  WALTER DOWE took the last sheet of the manuscript from his typewriter with a satisfied sigh and leaned back in his chair, turning his face to the ceiling to ease the stiffened muscles of his neck. Then he looked at the clock: 3:15 a.m. He yawned, got to his feet, switched off the lights, and went down the hall to his bedroom.

  In the doorway of the bedroom he halted abruptly. The moonlight came through the wade windows to illuminate an empty bed. He turned on the lights and looked around the room. None of the things his wife had worn that night were there. She had not undressed, then; perhaps she had heard the rattle of his typewriter and had decided to wait downstairs until he had finished. She never interrupted him when he was at work, and he was usually too engrossed by his labors to hear her footsteps when she passed his study door.

  He went to the head of the stairs and called: “Althea!”

  No answer.

  He went downstairs, into all the rooms, turning on the lights; he returned to the second floor and did the same. His wife was not in the house. He was perplexed, and a little helpless. Then he remembered that she had gone to the theatre with the Schuylers. His hands trembled as he picked up the telephone.

  The Schuylers’ maid answered his call.... There had been a fire at the Majestic Theatre; neither Mr. nor Mrs. Schuyler had come home. Mr. Schuyler’s father had gone out to look for them, but had not returned yet. The maid understood that the fire had been pretty bad....

  Dowe was waiting on the sidewalk when the taxicab for which he had telephoned arrived. Fifteen minutes later he was struggling to get through the fire lines, which were still drawn about the theatre. A perspiring, redfaced policeman thrust him back.

  “You’ll find nothing here. The building’s been cleared. Everybody’s been taken to the hospitals.”

  Dowe found his cab again and was driven to the City Hospital. He forced his way through the clamoring group on the gray stone steps. A policeman blocked the door. Presently a pasty-faced man,
in solid white, spoke over the policeman’s shoulder:

  “There’s no use waiting. We’re too busy treating them now to either take their names or let anybody in to see them. We’ll try to have a list in the late morning edition; but we can’t let anybody in until later in the day.”

  Dowe turned away. Then he thought: Murray Bornis, of course! He went back to the cab and gave the driver Bornis’s address.

  Bornis came to the door of his apartment in pajamas. Dowe clung to him.

  “Althea went to the Majestic tonight and hasn’t come home. They wouldn’t let me in at the hospital. Told me to wait—but I can’t! You’re the police commissioner—you can get me in!”

  While Bornis dressed, Dowe paced the floor, babbling. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and stood suddenly still. The sight of his distorted face and wild eyes shocked him back into sanity. He was on the verge of hysterics. He must take hold of himself. He must not collapse before he found Althea.

  Deliberately, he made himself sit down, made himself stop visualizing Althea’s soft, white body charred and crushed. He must think about something else: Bornis, for instance....

  But that brought him back to his wife in the end. She had never liked Bornis. His frank sensuality, and his unsavory reputation for numerous affairs with numerous women, had offended her strict conception of morality. To be sure, she had always given him all the courtesy due her husband’s friend; but it was generally a frigid giving. And Bornis, understanding her attitude, and perhaps a little contemptuous of her narrow views, had been as coolly polite as she. And now she was lying somewhere, moaning in agony, perhaps already cold....

  Bornis finished dressing and they went quickly to the City Hospital, where the police commissioner and his companion were readily admitted. They walked down long rooms, between rows of groaning and writhing bodies, looking into bruised and burned faces, seeing no one they knew. Then to Mercy Hospital where they found Sylvia Schuyler. She told them that the crush in the theatre had separated her from her husband and Althea, and she had not seen them afterward. Then she lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  When they got back to the cab, Bornis gave directions to the driver in an undertone, but Dowe did not have to hear them to know what they were: “To the morgue.” There was no other place to go.

  Now they walked between rows of bodies that were mangled horribly. Dowe had exhausted his feelings: he felt no pity, no loathing, now. He looked into a face; it was not Althea’s; then it was nothing; he passed on to the next.

  Bornis’s fingers closed convulsively around Dowe’s arm.

  “There! Althea!”

  Dowe turned. A face that stampeding leather heels had robbed of features; a torso that was battered and blackened and cut, and from which the clothing had been torn. All that was human of it were the legs; they had somehow escaped disfigurement.

  “No, no!” Dowe cried.

  He would not believe this begrimed, mangled thing was exquisite white Althea!

  Through the horror that for the moment shut Dowe off from the world, Bornis’s vibrant, anguished voice penetrated—it was almost a shriek:

  “I tell you it is!” Flinging out a hand to point at one smooth knee. “See! The dimple!”

  Thomas D. Sadler

  Himeros’s Daughter

  Thomas D. Sadler lives with his wife, four children, a dog, a cat, a goldfish and a parakeet in a small Michigan city some sixty miles south of Detroit. A science-fantasy fan for more than three decades, he began writing it during the past five and has been published in several periodicals, including Beyond, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Minnesota Fantasy Review, Starsong and several others. His comic tale of sorcery, “Fat Chance,” appeared in my earlier anthology, Witches & Warlocks.

  AS BRAD PHILLIPS fumbled with his keys he became aware of loud noises coming from the apartment next to his. Someone had moved in while he was at work. “It’s about time,” he thought as he opened the door. The building needed a few more tenants to make it seem less lonely and empty.

  Brad set a sack of groceries on a kitchen counter and listened to the muffled sounds next door. Maybe it’ll be some good-looking young woman. That would really be great. This place really needed someone like that. As he put things away, he realized there were few opportunities to make friends.

  Brad broke off his thoughts and took a can of coffee from the refrigerator to brew a fresh potful. Might as well not worry about who could be moving in next door, he decided. Most people these days weren’t willing to be friendly and usually seemed to avoid contact with others.

  He looked up, startled, at a loud thump from next door. What the hell is going on over there? It sounded as if the person were trying to knock a hole in the wall. When he heard no other ominous loud noises, Brad went on preparing for his date that evening with Shirley Becker.

  Shirley Becker. He’d been trying for months to get a date with her with no success, and now she would be coming over. He had big plans for a long, pleasant night. Brad smiled in anticipation as he headed to the bathroom to prepare for the evening.

  Half an hour later, just as he stepped out of the shower, the phone rang. Annoyed and dripping wet, he answered. His date was at the other end, apologizing profusely for having to break her date with him. Although she sounded sincerely sorry and upset about it, he still felt angry and hurt but he tried not to show it. It was the third time she’d broken a date. She promised to call him the next day and set up a new date. He thanked her for calling and disgustedly hung up.

  Brad looked at the wall clock. Seven p.m. Great. What could he do now? Have a thrilling evening in front of the television? That was a hell of a way to spend a Friday night. Maybe he’d go out someplace and have a few drinks, maybe get lucky and pick up some woman. He knew if he did she wouldn’t be anywhere as good as Shirley Becker. Right now, he didn’t give a damn.

  He stormed into his bedroom, finished toweling off and got dressed. The hell with it, and to hell with Shirley Becker. He owed himself a night out and he was going to have it. Brad grabbed a jacket on his way through the living room and headed for the door. Just as he put his hand on the knob, someone knocked.

  Brad yanked the door open. A tall, slender woman dressed in grey slacks and a loose, long-sleeved blouse open at the throat looked back at him. Her long black hair framed a face with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. She had a sepulchral look about her that Brad found incredibly attractive. He held onto the doorknob and stared into a pair of eyes a darker green than the ocean and so deep he almost felt as if he were falling into them. The woman smiled and Brad fought the compulsion to lean forward and kiss her perfect lips.

  “Hello,” the woman said with a Tallulah Bankhead voice that made Brad tremble. “My name is Lilia Moulasska. I just moved in next door and I was wondering if you could spare the time to help me with something. If you aren’t too busy, that is.”

  “Busy? Me? Uh—no. I was just going out for dinner and a couple of drinks.”

  “Oh. If you’ll lend me a hand I’ll fix you a nice big dinner for your trouble. Better than anything you could get in some restaurant. How does that sound?” Lilia smiled again, seductively, and moved her body suggestively.

  “I guess I could spare the time. Yeah. Sure.” Brad stepped into the hall and shut and locked the door. He followed Lilia the few steps to her apartment, appreciating the lithe way she moved and the perfect pear shape of her derrière. She was all woman, and he felt desire for her rising inside him.

  “Uh—where are you from originally?” Brad asked, trying to get his mind on more practical matters.

  “Out East,” she replied vaguely swaying her hips.

  Lilia led him into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished room where a low couch and a chair covered in earth-tone fabric sat on a bare wooden floor. In the center of the room lay a small Persian carpet with a mystical design on it of shooting stars and a crescent moon. The only light came from a pair of jug-shaped lamps sitting on shor
t tables with clawed, animallike legs. Brad noticed with curiosity there were no pictures or any other decorations hung on the walls. Even more curious was the absence of a television or stereo. Lilia must be a very strange woman, he decided.

  “Please excuse the way the place looks,” Lilia said. “I fear it will take a while for me to get settled in. The thing I need your help with is right in here.” She headed for her bedroom. His heart hammering away, Brad followed, his mind filled with lustful thoughts.

  Lilia pointed to a tall, intricately carved wardrobe composed of some dark shiny wood. “The moving men brought it in here and left it right there. They were very rude about it.” Her face clouded over and the sight made Brad uncomfortable. “I tried to move it myself but it’s just a little too heavy. Do you think you could help me slide it to that wall over there?”

  “Sure. It can’t be that heavy.” Brad strode up to the wardrobe and grabbed hold of one side, moved it experimentally, and grunted in surprise. “I guess it does weigh more than I thought. But I think we can manage.”

  Lilia smiled and took hold of the other side. Together they carefully slid the wardrobe across the bare floor. Once they had it in place, Brad took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. He couldn’t help but notice Lilia hadn’t perspired at all and that filled him with nervous curiosity.

  “Thank you so very much,” Lilia said. With a smooth, supple motion she came up to Brad and kissed his cheek, one hand resting on his chest and the other lightly brushing his crotch. His face grew hot and he wanted to take her in his arms.

  “This just isn’t right,” Brad said, pulling back. “I mean, you don’t even know me. I could be a rapist.”

  “Are you? Somehow I doubt it. But perhaps I’m not what you think. I could be something beyond your experience.”

  “Like what? The Devil in disguise, maybe?”

  “The Devil!” Lilia laughed and pressed close to Brad. “How foolish. Do you think all mysterious things are the Devil’s work?” She placed a finger to his lips. “Now, as I promised, I will fix you a nice dinner.” She took his hand and led him back to the living room.