HEARTTHROB (3 page)

He had his ideas about what the stuff was. Some
kind of hallucinatory drug, like LSD or something like that, one
which threw a real scare into the person who inhaled its fumes after
touching a match to the powder. It had worked, yes, but what really
was required was to scare him from wanting to light that pipe
again. A larger dose, perhaps....

He recalled the tobacconist's warning, of course but thought that the
warning had been given only to make sure that no one with a weak
heart tried to frighten himself too much. Well, Malcolm didn't have a
weak heart, and then too he knew what the stuff really was. Thus it
was that perhaps he overdid the additional amount of the powder he
placed into the wooden bowl. Making sure that he was seated
comfortably, he struck the match and brought it closer —

The flash within the room was as if lightning had struck, the
sulfuric stench burning Malcolm's nostrils as if he were inhaling a
real fire. And the thing congealing in the waves of air around him...
It was the same beast with the horrible smell and terrifying face as
before. As it came closer, Malcolm shrank back into his chair, vowing
never again to use so much of the stuff. Hallucination or not, this
really was frightening.

It was when the dark green something placed a hairy claw on Malcolm's
trembling arm that he knew. His cry was short since Valefar, having
been called from the beyond for just a little while, was in a hurry
to feed...

Ah, I see you smoke a pipe. Please,
in the humidor on the table you'll find something I think you'll
agree is quite different. I have this tobacconist friend who is an
expert at delicate blends. True, he dabbles in black magic, but he
keeps his two vocations completely separate for the most part.

 

 

 

In
order for any large organization to run smoothly there must be both
leaders and followers. The pity is that, often, a follower such as
Durwood Beech, even though he has neither the talent nor the wish to
put in the long hours of toil necessary to succeed as a leader, still
aspires to that success. It can lead to all sorts of
unpleasantries... even death. Such was the case with Durwood Beech.

It was not so much Mr. Mulgrave's job that
Durwood Beech wanted. It was what went with the job. The pretty
secretary, the office with its sofa and chairs
of leather and old wood, and wide expanse of antique desk, the lush
deep purple carpet... the
things,
in other words, which would
accrue to Durwood Beech if it were he and not Mr. Mulgrave who held
the high-sounding title of general manager. Perhaps it was the silver
carafe, though, which came to symbolize for Durwood all that he was
not and all that his superior was.

It was a lovely thing. Old, yes, but carefully polished so that each
tune Durwood was summoned into Mr. Mulgrave's presence, the light
from its bright surface immediately brought the carafe to Durwood's
immediate and rapt attention. Many times he found himself staring at
it — there on the corner of the baroque credenza of dark wood behind
Mr. Mulgrave's desk, there on its silver tray, surrounded by four
water glasses, each of which was ready to take into itself the lovely
cool water which was protected within the smooth, sleek-lined silver
carafe. And, thinking of what the water poured from such a device
might taste like, often Durwood would be brought abruptly back to
more mundane things by a sharp suggestion from his superior that he
was not paying attention to what was being discussed.

Meekly Durwood would apologize, but once back into his little office,
that of the administrative assistant to the general manager, an
office, which contained meager furniture and a dull brown plastic
carafe from which Durwood never, drank, Durwood would smile. For, day
by day, the plot he was hatching was nearing completion. For, day by
day, Durwood was doing things to the company records — things which,
when revealed, would show Mr. Mulgrave to be at the very least a most
incompetent steward of company property and which might even hint
that the general manager had been feathering his own nest from what
rightfully might have been expected to line the company coffers.
Carefully, slowly, did Durwood Beech plot. Then he struck. A single
telephone calls to Chicago headquarters, a mention of an uncovered
"irregularity," brought an executive vice-president to Mr.
Mulgrave's office two days later. With the powerful company official
came a team of auditors. They were all very efficient. In three hours
they had enough to confront the general manager with what they called
a number of "serious discrepancies." Further investigation,
to take place the following morning, would complete their findings.
In the meantime, would Mr. Mulgrave mind terribly if the executive
vice-president kept the office keys?

What went on in Mr. Mulgrave's mind — well, one can only guess. As
for Durwood Beech, already he was rubbing his hands together,
anticipating the feel of Mulgrave's chair, and inhaling a thick cigar
behind that wide desk. For he felt that once the hated Mulgrave was
deposed, the despot's throne would be given to the faithful servant.
And he was right. The executive vice-president, mistaking the gleam
of greed in Durwood's eyes for a gleam of intelligence, did in fact
promote the "loyal" employee to the position of general
manager. The very next morning, it was. The morning they found Mr.
Mulgrave dead in his office chair.

He evidently had another set of keys. Also
evidently — and this evidence was furnished by the police — he had
poisoned himself. There was enough arsenic in the water in the silver
carafe to kill
three
men. Durwood was not acting when he said
he was shocked. He'd not expected his little ruse to end this way.
He'd hoped only for Mulgrave's removal. But... inwardly he could not
help smiling. Certainly Mulgrave had been removed, hadn't he?
Therefore, once the offer came from the executive vice-president, he
felt there was absolutely no reason for him to wait to take up his
new quarters. Out of respect for the dead, however, he did wait until
Mr. Mulgrave's body was removed. It was as he was getting adjusted to
his swivel chair that he noticed that something was missing. The
carafe! It was gone. Of course, the police would have taken it for —
ah, but no, they hadn't. Mulgrave's secretary — no, now she was
Durwood's secretary — explained that all the police wanted was what
was inside the silver container. They were efficient, the police,
having already noted for the record that the only fingerprints on the
shiny surface were those of the dead man's. She, in fact, was just
engaged in washing it thoroughly.

"You'll not want it in the office," the secretary said.

"Not
want it?" Durwood
laughed. "Of course I want it." He then directed her to be
very sure that it was
very
clean... and to fill it with cold
water. He felt a bit thirsty.

The girl did as she was told, not bothering to hide the look of
distaste she held for the new general manager as she placed the
filled carafe on its tray and then left, closing the door behind her.
As for the new general manager, he was swift in filling a tumbler
full of water, which sparkled almost as much as the silver from which
it came. He lifted the glass high, his toast a silent one, but one
which was in its very gesture the height of triumph. Then he drank...
in one gulp he emptied the tumbler. He gagged a bit... cried out...
choked... coughed... and seemed to be trying to swim on the plush
purple carpet.

According to the police, there was nothing
unusual about the water in the carafe. But within Durwood Beech there
was a good deal of arsenic — "enough to-kill
three
men,"
the medical examiner said....

The story is true. Don't ask me
how.
It
is true even though there may be no explanation. Unless... well, Mr.
Mulgrave
was
a leader, after all... and Durwood Beech a
follower...

 

 

 

Parties. They can be such crushing bores. The
outcome of a gathering of people depends a bit, I suppose, upon the
frame of mind of those who attend, but for the most part it is the
ingenuity of the host or hostess, which really makes the event. Or is
that really so? Let us consider the party to which Alma and Eldon
Glade were invited. Their hosts had been doing the same sort of thing
year after year... frighteningly so. And yet it was clearly a
howling
party, mark my word...

The Glades had transferred from Atlanta to a small sales district,
which had some very small towns, some of which had very curious
names; such as the village of Remorse, in which our story takes
place. They were both in their late twenties, the Glades were, and
they had found Atlanta a bustling place. Now, however, the town in
which they lived was so dreary that Alma accompanied her husband on
his sales tours through his district, the travel being the only
diversion the poor girl could get. It was in Remorse that she
received a bit more diversion than she — or Eldon — had bargained
for.

The inn was old, dusty, and had about it the musty smell of decay. It
was not much more than ten in the evening, but there being little
else to do, the Glades decided that they would turn in early. Then
the soft knock came upon the door. It was the landlady. She wanted to
invite the two guests, the only guests in the inn, to Qarisse's
birthday party. Little Clarisse would be so happy, the middle-aged
woman said. Alma and Eldon looked at each other and sighed. Neither
was tired, and if it would make some little girl happy...

When they arrived downstairs, they found the
dining-room table set for five. The landlady and her husband insisted
the guests sit to the right and to the left of Clarisse's empty
place. As the Glades and the landlady's husband sat down, the
landlady herself shuffled about. First she brought out the cake, then
she turned out the lights, and then, sitting down, she began to light
each of the candles on the cake — with a pale, cracked yellow tallow
that looked as old as the hills surrounding the small village of
Remorse. It was then that Alma asked about Clarisse. Where was the
dear little girl? "Soon," the landlady replied as she
continued lighting the candles, and now both Alma and Eldon realized
that there were quite a number of the flaming columns of wax upon the
top of the cake. "Little" Clarisse certainly was no child,
not by the count of them, no indeed.
There were at least twenty — no, thirty... forty... and the tallow
still was moving to wicks still darkened.

"Clarisse so loves the candles!" the landlady said. The
husband chuckled to himself, and the young couple began to feel
somewhat uneasy. It was not just that a sudden wind had begun to moan
outside the window behind the chair, which had been reserved for the
guest of honor. It was partly the fact that both Alma and Eldon still
were counting the candles on that cake. Both of them had passed the
ninety mark. "A hundred!" Alma gasped as she reached that
number. The landlady cackled. "A hundred is not but half of
them!" she said. And then the moaning wind began to intensify.

"Hurry!" the husband urged, and the landlady hurried,
sighing with relief when the very last candle was lighted. Neither of
the Glades had completed the count when it happened. There was a
crashing of glass, the cold wind from outside now entered the room —
which was plunged into darkness as the gust of air, with a dreadful
sound, put out each and every one of the candles which had been in
flame. In the pale of the moonlight Alma and Eldon could see the
smoke wisp and curl upward from the top of the cake... wisp and curl
and turn and... and then at the very top of the column of smoke there
was a face. White... pale... with hollowed eyes... and skin, which
looked as if it had been deep in its grave for a long, long time.

"Happy birthday, Clarisse!" the landlady and her husband
said joyously. The woman looked at the Glades. "Aren't you going
to wish the dear girl happy birthday?"

But, alas, the Glades did not think to do so. They were too busy
screaming...

Parties? Ah yes, they really know
how to throw a party in Remorse...

 

 

 

I always find it amusing when I hear well-to-do
people complaining about what they call the "servant problem."
I frequently am reminded of a saying they have on the Malay
Peninsula, which translates "Don't bleed the cook." The
saying is used when one member of the household is cautioning another
not to insist upon a certain dish prepared for a certain meal, and at
first foreigners do not make the connection between the meaning of
the warning and the words of its content. Not until they hear the
story behind the saying, the true story of a local Malay ruler who
came to be known as the
Rajah Bersiong
... Rajah with fangs. As
we have our dinner, I shall tell you the tale...

It happened more than five hundred years ago in
the vicinity of what is now known as Kedah. The rich ruler of the
area was a proud man, proud of his military
might, his immense wealth, his palace with its immense and finely
woven tapestries, his handsome looks, his wives and his children, the
fine marriages he had arranged for his sons and daughters. Of all
these things was the Rajah proud, but he took perhaps his greatest
delight in the culinary delights with which he continually surprised
his guests at table. For the Rajah had, within his kitchen retinue,
an old man who, based upon the testimony of many of the nobility as
well as the testimony of his own palate, was the finest cook in that
part of the country, and perhaps in any part of the East. And so it
was that the Rajah never dictated to the kitchen as to what was to be
served — never. While the number of people to be fed and their
relative importance always was communicated to the august preparer of
the meals, always the decision regarding what to serve and how was
left to the cook himself.