Black Bargain and Other Raw Deals

  I sent a man off to find him. The old man, utterly collapsed, slept. I spent an anxious hour waiting.

  The rajah entered. A glance at my face told him the story.

  "You know now?" he said. "I thought you would never come to your senses. I could do nothing without your belief, for she knows I understand, and she hates me. I have tried very hard to forget; but now men die and this thing must be stopped. Ganesha may send me to a thousand hells for this, but it is better so. It is magic, my friend."

  "How do you know?" I whispered.

  "I know." He smiled wearily, but there was black despair in his eyes. "I watched from the beginning. She is cunning, that Leela, so very cunning. And she knows arts."

  "What arts?"

  "You of the West call it hypnotism. It is more than that. It is transference of will. Leela is an adept; she can do it easily with the elephant as medium."

  I tried vainly to understand. Was the rajah crazed? No—his eyes burned not with derangement but with bitter hatred.

  "Post-hypnotic suggestion," he breathed. "When the fools came to watch the Sacred Elephant, she was always there. Her eyes did it; and when they watched the gleaming trunk of the beast it acted as a focal point. They came back again and again, not knowing why. And all the while she was willing them to act; not then, but later.

  That is how the two men died on the boat. She experimented there, told them to drown themselves. One went immediately, the other waited several days. All that was needed was for them to see her once at the time she willed for them to die. Thus it was. And here, in the menagerie, it has been the same way. They stare at the silver elephant. She willed them to die during the performance. At the proper time she stood in the entrance-way; I have seen her there. And the men died—you saw that.

  "She hates the show, and will ruin it. To her the worship of Ganesha is sacred, and she is wreaking vengeance. The old priests that sent her must have instructed this, and there must be an end. That is why I dare not face her."

  "What's to be done?" I found myself asking. "If your story is true, we can't touch her. And we can't give up the show."

  "I will stop her," said the rajah slowly. "I must."

  Suddenly, he was gone. And I realized with a start that the show was almost ready to begin. Quickly I roused the old man from his slumber. Then I dashed out. Collaring a roustabout, I ordered him to find the rajah at once. There would be a showdown tonight; there must be.

  * * * *

  I had two guards with guns secretly posted at the side entrance to the tent, where the performers came in. They had orders to stop anyone who loitered there during the show. There must be no Leela watching and commanding that night.

  I dared not incarcerate her at once for fear of a row while the show was on. The woman was evidently capable of anything, and she must not suspect. Still, I wanted to see her for myself. A half-hour before the menagerie opened I hurried in. The elephant's stall was again untended!

  I ran around to the side entrance. There was no one there. Out on the midway I raced, mingling with the crowd. Then it was that I noticed the excited throng before the side show. Elbowing through, I came upon two men and the barker as they emerged from the tent carrying a limp form in their arms. It was the girl assistant of Captain Blade, the knife-thrower. He had missed.

  Leela passed me in the crowd, smiling. Her face was beautiful as Death.

  When I rushed back to the boss tent, I found the roustabout and the rajah. The latter was trembling in every limb.

  Hastily I collared the potentate and dragged him through the crowd toward the main tent.

  "I believe you now," I whispered. "But you're not going to do anything rash. Give me your knife."

  I'd guessed correctly. He slipped a dirk out of his sleeve and passed it to me unobserved.

  "No more bloodshed," I muttered. "I have two men at the side entrance. She'll not watch this show and cast any spells. When the performance is over, I'll have her behind bars on your testimony. But no disturbance before the crowd."

  I shouldered my way into my regular box and he followed after me.

  The big tent was crowded. There was an air of grim waiting, as if the spectators were expecting something. I knew what they expected; hadn't the papers been full of "the Hoodoo Circus" for the past three days? There was a low murmur as of massed whispering voices. I thought of a Roman amphitheater and shuddered.

  The big drums rolled. The parade swept into view, and I cast an anxious glance at the side entrance when it cleared. There were my two guards, armed with efficient-looking guns. No trouble tonight! And the rajah was safe, with me.

  The Sacred Elephant swept into view; serene, majestic, lumbering gigantically on ivory hoofs. There was only one Hindoo leading him tonight and—the howdah was on his back!

  In it sat—Leela, the High Priestess of Ganesha.

  "She knows," breathed the rajah, his brown face suddenly animal-like with convulsed terror.

  Leela was smiling ...

  Then horror came.

  The lights flickered, failed, blinked out. The vast tent plunged into nighted darkness and the band ceased. There was a rising wail of sound, and I rose in my seat with a scream on my lips.

  There in the darkness glowed the silver elephant—the Sacred White Elephant of Jadhore. Like a leprous monster, its body gleamed with phosphorescent fire. And in the darkness I saw Leela's eyes.

  The elephant had turned now, and left the parade. As shrieks rose in a thousand throats it thundered forward—straight for our box.

  The rajah broke from my grasp and vaulted over the railing to the ground. My hand flew to my pocket and I cursed in dismay. The knife he had given me was gone. Then my eyes returned to the hideous tableau before me.

  The elephant charged with lifted trunk, tusks glistening before it. There was a shrill trumpeting from its silver throat as it bore down on the slight figure of the man who raced toward it.

  He ran to death, but his head was high. He was seeking that black figure in the howdah on the beast's back.

  In a moment everything was over. A gleaming arc in the air as something long and thin and silver whizzed up to the elephant's back. A woman's shrill scream and gurgling sob. A mighty bellowing of brutish, berserk rage. A thud of massive feet as the silver giant trampled on. The crunching ... the screams, the shots, and the great shock as the great body turned and fell.

  And then the audience rose and fled. When the lights went on once more, there was nobody in the tent but the performers and the roustabouts.

  In the center of the areaway lay the gigantic Ganesha, silver sides streaked with scarlet in death. The crumpled howdah held all that remained of Leela the High Priestess. The rajah's knife had struck home, and her torn throat was not a pretty sight.

  As for the rajah himself, there was only a slashed red horror dangling on the end of those ivory tusks; a mashed and pulpy thing.

  * * * *

  Thus ended the affair of the Sacred White Elephant. The police accepted our story of the animal's running amok during the show when the lights failed.

  They never learned of the Hindoo who had so horribly short-circuited the connection with his own body, and we buried his seared remains in secret.

  The show closed for two weeks and we re-routed it for the rest of the year. Gradually, the papers let the story die and we went on.

  I never told the truth to the old man. They're all dead anyway, and I'd like to forget it myself. But I have never liked novelty acts since, nor visited the Orient; because I know the rajah's story was true, and Leela had killed those performers as he had explained it. Those priests and priestesses have secret powers, I am convinced.

  I've figured it all out—Leela found out that the rajah had told me the facts; knew she'd be exposed, and acted accordingly.

  She sent the Hindoo to fix the lights, then arranged to have Ganesha the elephant charge our box and kill the rajah as she'd planned.

  I have it all figured out, but I'd never tell
the old man. There's one other fact I know which I must not reveal.

  The rajah's knife did not kill Leela as she rode on the elephant's back. It could not, for she was already dead; dead before she entered the tent.

  One of the two guards I stationed had shot her two minutes before at the side entrance as she rode past in the howdah of Ganesha, the Sacred White Elephant.

  It seems that she must have hypnotized the beast, too—or did she? The Soul of Ganesha inhabits the body of the Sacred Elephant, the rajah said. And Ganesha wreaks a vengeance of his own.

  PHILTRE TIP

  Published in Rogue, March 1961

  Mark Thornwald had an obsession.

  Now there is nothing wrong with having an obsession in our society, provided one chooses it wisely. The man who is obsessed with the desire to make money often becomes wealthy. Those who dedicate an entire existence to the pursuit of fame frequently are rewarded, and can deduct the clipping bureau's fee from their income tax. Men who devote a lifetime to excel in athletic pursuits often wind up with a sizable collection of trophies, plus an occasional hernia.

  But Mark Thornwald chose the wrong obsession.

  Her name was Adrienne.

  It is easy to deal with this particular obsession in terms of labels—mother-fixation, chemical attraction, love object, and the like.

  Unfortunately, Thornwald wasn't satisfied with labeling his obsession. He had other plans for Adrienne. With the sorry result that he wasn't satisfied, period.

  The first time he attempted to put his plans into action, Adrienne laughed at him. The second time, she slapped his face. The third time she threatened to call her husband and have Thornwald thrown out of the house.

  Thornwald elected to leave quietly, hugging his obsession to his breast, nursing it on the juices of hatred and frustration. As a result, it grew enormously.

  Since Adrienne's husband, Charles, happened to be an associate professor of medieval history and since Thornwald was one of the regents of the university, it was no great trick to see that his contract was not renewed. After assuring himself that attrition had set in, Thornwald again approached Adrienne and made what he considered a handsome offer.

  Adrienne thought both the offer and Thornwald quite ugly, and told him so. Again he retired to defeat, comforted only by the knowledge that she would never stoop to telling her husband.

  Thornwald took stock of the situation. Of course, being obsessed, he did not consider matters realistically. When one is obsessed with avarice, one does not reflect upon the widows and orphans who may purchase the phony uranium stock; the seeker of fame at any price is quite willing to propel his pelvis in public or even run for Congress if needs be. And the man whose obsession takes a delectable, feminine form is equally lacking in ethics and scruples. To him, love laughs at locksmiths and goes into positive hysteria over the spectacle of a faithful wife.

  "The end justifies the means," Thornwald told himself, and when he spoke of "the end" in connection with Adrienne it is to be feared he had a very tangible image in mind.

  But there were no means available until Adrienne's husband provided them.

  They came to Thornwald in the shape of a bulky manuscript, delivered by Charles himself.

  "Aphrodisia," Thornwald murmured. "A Study of Erotic Stimuli Through the Ages."

  "Don't let the title deceive you," Charles told him. "It's a scholarly work. I've been doing research on it now for almost a year—ever since I lost my position at the university. See what you think. Maybe it could stand a chance with Harker House."

  "Ah yes, Harker House." Thornwald happened to be on the board of editors of the publishing firm.

  "Read it as a professional," Charles urged. "Not as a friend."

  This wasn't difficult for Thornwald, since by no stretch of the imagination did he consider himself to be Charles' friend. Rival, or deadly enemy—that was much more to Thornwald's taste, and the nourishment of his obsession.

  Still, after Charles went away, he did read it professionally. And found the answer.

  "Why did you cross out this formula for a love philtre?" he asked Charles, upon a subsequent visit. Thornwald indicated the page. "Here—the one from Ludvig Prinn's Grimoire, in the English edition." He read the ingredients listed and the description of effects.

  "The meerest droppe, if placed in a posset of wine or sack, will transforme ye beloved into a veritable bitche in heate."

  Charles smiled and shrugged. "You've just answered your own question," he said. "Most of the spells and incantations I've set down are mere curiosa. I doubt if there's any amorous incitement in owl dung, and calling a tomato a love apple is just sympathetic magic. But a few items come from sources I respect. Ludvig Prinn, for example, was a considerable sorcerer in his day."

  Thornwald elevated his eyebrows. "In other words, you decided to omit this particular formula because you're afraid it might work?"

  Charles nodded. "Look at the ingredients," he said. "Some of them I never heard of, and heaven only knows what their reaction might be in combination. The ones I do know—yohimbine and cantharadin, for example—are in themselves powerful aphrodisiacs. Added to this other stuff, the result could be trouble."

  "Just what I was thinking," Thornwald said. And made a mental note, which he at once underlined in big black encephalographs.

  "Interesting material," he told Charles. "Let me pop this in to the editorial staff and we'll see what we can do."

  He took the manuscript away and, three weeks later, called Charles. "It's practically set," he said. "You've an afterdinner appointment with the board tonight. Get into town and come back with a contract."

  That part was easy. The difficult matter had been to trace down all of the obscure ingredients for the love philtre. Some of them were only approximated in the pharmacopia and others had to be illegally obtained, but Thornwald's obsession brooked no obstacles. And now he was ready.

  As soon as he made certain that Charles had indeed departed for the city he made his final preparations. Promptly at eight he knocked on the door of Charles' flat and Adrienne admitted him.

  "Charles isn't here," she said.

  "I know, but he'll be back before midnight. And then we'll celebrate his new book contract." Thornwald waved the two bottles. "Champagne, my dear, and already iced. One bottle for when Charles returns. One to share between us while we're waiting."

  Adrienne eyed the bottles dubiously, but before she could object, Thornwald took over. "Glasses," he demanded. "And a corkscrew, if you please."

  "But—"

  "It's to be a surprise," Thornwald assured her. And he meant it.

  Adrienne, he knew, could never resist surprises. And this particular one she could resist least of all. He didn't tell her about the third bottle—the tiny one—which he carried concealed in his pocket. He waited until she brought in the glasses and the corkscrew and an ice bucket.

  "I'll open the bottle," he said. "Man's work." He winked at her. "Meanwhile, why don't you slip into that party dress of yours, so that we can give Charles a proper welcome?"

  Adrienne nodded and left the room. It was then that Thornwald opened the champagne, poured it, and added just the merest drop of the love philtre to the contents of her glass.

  He finished just in time, dropping the little vial back into his pocket just as Adrienne blossomed into the room. His hand trembled, not with apprehension but with anticipation.

  Obsession or no, Adrienne was a beautiful woman in her own right; slim, shapely, and quite probably a natural redhead. Thornwald determined to satisfy himself on this latter point the moment Adrienne downed her drink.

  She swept over to him, proffering his glass and raising her own as he turned away until he could control his shaking fingers. Now was the time for self-control. In a moment, he felt certain, it could be abandoned.

  Thornwald raised his champagne glass.

  "To tonight," he said. And sipped tentatively.

  Adrienne nodded, bent her shapely
wrist, brought the edge of the glass to her lips, and hesitated.

  "Now that we seem to be friends again," she murmured, "suppose we seal our relationship in a friendly gesture?"

  "Such as?"

  "Let us take each other's glasses."

  Thornwald gulped. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Believe it or not, I have a cold."

  "Very well." Again, Adrienne paused.

  "Drink up, my dear," Thornwald urged. "Here's to surprises."

  "Surprises," Adrienne echoed. And drank.

  Thornwald tossed off the champagne. His hands were trembling again. How long would he have to wait?

  Not very long, apparently. For it seemed but a moment before the change came.

  Adrienne moved quite close and her voice, like her smile, was soft and caressing.

  "I don't know what you put in my drink," she murmured. "But you did put something in. That's why you wouldn't switch glasses with me, isn't it?"

  Thornwald noted the warmth in her voice and felt it was now safe to nod.

  "Good," Adrienne said. "I thought as much. Which is why I switched glasses before I made the suggestion—when I handed you your drink."

  Thornwald blinked. And then the philtre took effect and he knew it worked, knew that if the merest drop would transform a woman into a bitch in heat, it was equally potent when administered to a male.

  All he could do was tremble and watch the room swirl and listen to Adrienne's laughter. If only she could understand his motivations, if only she realized he'd acted out of genuine affection! Thornwald knew he had to tell her, so he took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

  "I love you," he barked.

  METHOD FOR MURDER

  Alice went into the study when Charles called her.

  It wasn't really a study, just his workroom. The place where he wrote all his silly mysteries and suspense novels, or whatever they were called.

  Alice didn't like the study because it was filled with books, and because it was filled with Charles.