The Lost Bradbury Read Online Free PDF Page A

feeling that he should say something. So, he said, “This candle isn’t a weapon,” rather matter-of-factly.
    “The kiss of a woman,” replied the proprietor, “is the most lethal of all weapons. Yet, who looks on it as such? Judge a thing not by its looks, but by its deeds.”
    Jules doubted.
    “This candle will destroy,” said the proprietor.
    “How?”
    Jules thought angrily of Eldridge, the man he hated, the man he wished to kill. And he thought of Helen.
    The proprietor answered. His voice was cheerless.
    “You light the candle in the evening hours. You wait until it has flamed steadily for a number of minutes. Then, three times, you breathe the name of the person you wish to destroy.
    “This done, the designated individual will conclude his existence immediately.”
    Marcott was wary. The passing minutes had given him opportunity to collect his wits. It sounded too utterly simple to be accepted in the sunlight of reason, to stand the probing of the scalpel of intellect.
    But Marcott’s problem demanded a solution. This trouble with Helen, his wife, and Eldridge, her lawyer friend, was not an easy one.
    Marcott held the candle close, forming words.
    “How do I know that this candle works?” he said. “What sort of witchcraft is this?”
    “You do not believe?”
    “No. I do not.”
    “Then—I will show you.”
    The proprietor struck a match. The flame glittered in his deep blue eyes, and on the snowy hair and ruddy face.
    He lit the candle. He waited a few moments.
    Previously, without flame, the candle had filled the room with soft, wondrous light from its phosphorescent body. Now, flamed, it shot out torrents of soul-filling brilliance that was like the illuminating of a great full moon.
    Marcott sensed something moving softly against his legs. He looked down. It was the furry white cat with the huge green eyes still staring up at him, mewing, clawing at his coat-tail, exposing a red tongue.
    Marcott heard the proprietor murmuring three times. Three times the old man spoke, and his breath made the candle flame lean to one side, quivering.
    The candle flickered….
    And the cat, one moment playfully alert at Jules’ feet, the next crying out in animal pain, leaped as if kicked, clawed the air, rolling and writhing and spitting.
    For a moment it recovered. It leaped up, gained a hold upon the counter next to Jules and tumbled over into a nest of metal. Then it spat froth and blood, snarling. Its little, milk-coloured head twisted as if an invisible hand were wringing it. The green eyes bulged nightmarishly. The little red tongue was caught between clamped teeth. It gave one last convulsive shudder, jerked, and fell silent, its tail twitching.
    * * * *
    It was dead.
    Jules sickened suddenly. His face paled, his thin lips were dry and he swayed unsteadily. He turned away from the kitten and looked at the candle with the oddly peaceful feminine figure, the contented face.
    The proprietor blew the flame out. “You see—it works?”
    Jules nodded.
    The proprietor handed the candle back to Marcott. “I cannot sell you the candle,” he said, softly. “But I can rent it to you for a short period of time. You pay half when you rent, half when you accomplish your work and return. Fair?”
    A throng of thoughts crowded Jules’ mind. He had little money saved. And he had proof, horrible proof, that the candle worked. Here in the shadows he could not doubt. Rationality had fled. But he didn’t want to spend too much money. A bullet might be cheaper—maybe—
    He feared to ask the price.
    “Three thousand dollars….” came the answer to the unworded question.
    THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS!
    As well demand a ton of soil from the planet Mars! Jules Marcott’s bank account advanced to three pitiful figures.
    But with the unreasoning blindness of a potential killer, Marcott would not, could not give up this candle and its alleged powers.
    He whirled and started for the door.
    “I have no money,” he said. “Let