The Lost Bradbury Read Online Free PDF

me use the candle and pay later!”
    “Money!” The proprietor poked out a red fist. “Or return the candle, quickly! I hold no commerce with the poor!”
    “I’ll pay you when I get the money! I—”
    “Wait, then!”
    The proprietor lunged at Marcott with open hands.
    Jules wheeled to one side, snatched up the first fistful of metal touching his hands, a cumbersome blunderbuss, and struck with it, clumsily.
    The weapon hit. The proprietor shrieked with pain, fell flat, unconscious. Not dead.
    Hastily, hiding the blue candle figurine in his overcoat, Jules departed the shop of cluttered shadows. He hurried into the marrow-biting chill and strode down the street. Through his mind slipped the vision of the kitten dying, the translation of the ancient inscription on the bronze candle-base:
    * * * *
    “He who will in trouble be,
    Will quickly see the light in me!”
    * * * *
    And now—to mete out vengeance on the head of the man who loved and took Helen away. And simultaneously to teach Helen a lesson she would never forget.
    Her divorce from Jules would be of no avail now. Eldridge, her lover, would die.
    Marcott walked swiftly, confidently.
    * * * *
    Jules Marcott fitted the red ribbon bow to the package with trembling fingers. Then he penned a carefully worded note to his wife, slipped it into an envelope and attached it to the box containing the blue candle.
    It was much better this way. To send the package, the candle and the curse directly to Helen, let her follow slightly altered directions. Let hers be the lips to pronounce the doom and death of Eldridge, hers the white fingers to light the taper, bringing destruction.
    Better this way. More ironic. More searing, more unbearable for her. He wanted to hurt her intensely. For now, with all the power of a blighted existence, he hated Helen.
    Jules thought, was it not Oscar Wilde who wrote: “Each man kills the thing he loves?”
    So let Helen kill John Eldridge.
    Jules checked the package very carefully. He picked it up, handed it to the waiting Western Union messenger.
    “Deliver this immediately—to Helen Marcott, 413 Grant Street.”
    The messenger left.
    Marcott broke seal on a new packet of cigarettes. He noted the time. Eight o’clock. A night wind mourned outside.
    It would take the messenger twenty minutes to deliver the candle. And Helen scheduled her leave for Reno in the morning, to divorce Jules and marry Eldridge.
    Twenty minutes for the package to be delivered. Five minutes for her to open it, read the enclosed note.
    And then—how long?
    How many minutes before Eldridge died? An hour, two hours, and, if Helen were rushed, perhaps not tonight, but surely tomorrow night. Helen was sentimental. Jules counted on that quality. She would follow directions implicitly.
    Marcott lit his third cigarette.
    When he finished his tenth cigarette it was nine-fifteen. The package had been delivered. Now, all he had to do was wait. Go to bed and restlessly count the hours? No. Better to get out and walk in the park, breathe the night air. He’d know soon enough about Eldridge.
    Marcott chuckled. What if Eldridge fell dead right in front of Helen? Lord, would that be revenge!
    Jules laughingly ground out his cigarette and left his small, transient apartment.
    So Helen was going to get a divorce. She disapproved of Jules and his meddling with psychology and mental diseases. She didn’t like this and she didn’t like that. So she was skipping off to Reno like a confused little animal.
    Marcott smiled as he locked the door and pocketed the key. What was it she had said only three weeks ago? Something about Svengali, meaning Jules, and herself as Trilby? That was funny.
    Strange that a woman could run off because of one quarrel. But Helen was a changeable woman. Anyway—        
    Tomorrow morning—obituary column—the name Eldridge—
    * * * *
    Busy with his thoughts, Jules scarce noticed the direction in which he wandered until it was too late. He