“Why, I—”
“I don’t like greedy women.”
Agatha was silent. For the fortune soon to be hers, she could well endure a few insults.
Then she blinked. For Jonathan was fumbling with the ring on his finger, and he was handing it to her.
“Here, Agatha.” His smile was vaguely mocking. “Take this. A little token of my esteem. No, don’t thank me—”
He made a feeble gesture and sank back on his pillow.
“You’d take it after I’m dead, anyway—so I give it to you now.”
“Jonathan! Really, I had no idea of—”
“Keep the ring,” Jonathan said softly. “It has helped me—a great deal.” His shoulders rippled with silent laughter.
Agatha stared at the ring. It was not a diamond. A large rosy crystal, gleaming lambently in the dim light. Set in a massive base of silver with strange symbols carven on it.
“What do you mean, Jonathan—helped you?”
Her cousin did not seem to hear her. He was staring at the ceiling. His lips were trembling. “My soul,” he whispered. “I’m afraid the bargain wasn’t… quite… just.”
“What?”
No answer.
Agatha looked at him. Jonathan’s eyes were closed.
He was not breathing.
Agatha drew a deep breath and went to the door.
Walter Simmons, standing in the parlor, saw his wife emerge from the bedroom. He blinked guiltily, and quickly hid his cigar.
“Walter! He’s dead. Dead, you hear? This house—his money. All ours.” She was jubilant.
“Uh—fine,” said Walter, though inwardly he flinched at his wife’s callousness.
The doctor came back from the kitchen, his hypodermic filled. “What’s this? Did you say he was—”
“Dead,” said Agatha, and hardly could restrain her morbid pride in possession of the house until the doctor had completed the necessary formalities and departed.
Walter Simmons heard the front door slam behind the physician and felt quite sorry for him, having to deal with Agatha in her present mood.
“Walter!” His wife’s voice was shrill.
“Yes, dear.”
His wife sniffed suspiciously. “Cigar smoke. How often have I told you—”
“I’m sorry,” Walter said nervously.
“Well, let’s see. There’s this living room—ghastly old place. Gloomy. We’ll have chintz curtains put in instead of those dreadful black drapes. The whole place needs remodeling. Maybe we’ll sell it… later.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Of course you’ll quit your bookkeeping job,” mused Agatha. “We’ll live here for the time being.”
Walter Simmons nodded meekly. Ever since their marriage ten years ago he’d led a dog’s life. Do this. Do that. Don’t smoke cigars in the house. You know they’re bad for my asthma. Now Agatha would have all the money. His life would be worse than ever…
He saw her tall, ungainly figure move about from doorway to doorway, criticizing, exclaiming, planning.
Walter sighed and went into the study. It was a huge dark place, with queer paintings on the walls. Near the center of the room was a dusty desk piled high with books.
Walter looked at these books. Old they were, crumbling with mildew. He paused, fascinated. He opened one book which was lying on the desk, closed. He frowned.
“Greek,” he murmured disgustedly. He’d had four years of it in college. Squinting, he tried to decipher some of the words sprawling blackly across the pages…
Walter Simmons turned very pale. He shut the book quickly, and moved away from the desk where he stood for a moment, rubbing his hands suspiciously as if something had contaminated them.
Presently, fascination overcame his horror, and he stepped forward, looking at the book. But he did not touch it. His lips moved as he tried to decipher the faded dark words on the cover.
“The Nec—Necro—” he blinked. Cautiously, he turned the cover and looked at the first page.
Small and precise, the scrawl read:
Greek Trans. Abdul Alhazred.
Walter Simmons did not look into the book again. He remembered what he had read, and shivered.
He glanced at the other books. One caught his eye.
De Vermis Mysteriis. Prinn.
There was a little slip of white paper thrust in the middle as a bookmark. Gingerly, he opened it. He frowned. It was in Latin, of which he knew little, and there were penciled translations upon the sides. On the piece of paper was scrawled:
Trans. E103—
Never accept a gift from a necromancer or demon. Steal it, buy it, earn it, but do not accept it, either as a gift or legacy.
The word legacy, was circled in red pencil.
Walter Simmons stared at some of the strangely shaped hieroglyphics just beneath the notation. He licked his lips.
He looked around the huge dark study, and suddenly got out of there—fast.
* * *
“WAL—TER!”
“Yes, dear,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stepped into the living-room. Agatha looked at him sharply.
“Here I tell you about how I’m going to redecorate this place, and I turn around and you’re off browsing somewhere. Fine thing, I must say…” She paused in mid-sentence.
“Did you hear something?”
Walter swallowed uneasily. “No, I—”
The sound was repeated. The faint tinkle of the doorbell.
Walter and Agatha stared at each other.
“Probably the doctor,” sniffed Agatha, brushing back a lock of straggly brown hair. “Phoned the undertaker, probably, to take the body away.”
Walter answered the door. He blinked nearsightedly and stepped back.
The stranger standing in the doorway bowed. He was tall, and impeccably clad in striped trousers and tails.
Walter stared entranced at his flourishing auburn beard.
“Good afternoon.” Their visitor straightened and stepped into the room, smiling disarmingly at Agatha.
Agatha stifled a faint feeling of apprehension. “What do you want?”
“I?” The man smiled—oddly, it seemed to Walter. “I was wondering about Jonathan. Is he—”
“He’s dead,” said Agatha. “Passed away ten minutes ago.”
“What a pity. Ten minutes, eh? I hardly expected him to last so long. Exceeded his time by a good three hours. Ah, well. Hardy fellow Jonathan. I—ah—decided I’d stop by and see what the delay was.” One hand stroked his long beard absently.
Walter Simmons took a step backwards. There was a strange shine to this fellow’s eyes he did not like, nor the way he kept looking about the big house, almost—reflectively.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
“My name?” The man’s eyes glowed. “Sat—never mind. Never mind. I managed Jonathan’s—legal affairs for him.”
“Legal affairs?”
“Certainly. It was largely through me, Madame, that Jonathan acquired all his money… this house.” His eyes flicked around the room briefly, fixed themselves upon the crystal ring on Agatha’s left index finger.
“Ah!”
“What’s wrong?” inquired Agatha uncomfortably.
“That ring. Believe it or not, I gave that to Jonathan. It—helped him, a great deal.”
“Oh,” snapped Agatha. “You gave it to him. Well, it’s mine now, see? He gave it to me.”
“Gave it to you?” The stranger’s shoulders shook silently, and he made a laughing face, though no sound came forth. “My, but that’s good. Lively fellow, Jonathan. Always did have a sense of humor. Well, I always give warning…”
“Warning?”
“Yes. That ring. It’s Jonathan’s. It really should remain with him, you know.”
“If you’re trying to threaten me—”
“No indeed, I assure you.” Again came that strange smile, and one hand stroked the brown flowing beard. “And this house was in the contract we made. It was to be taken too…”
Walter Simmons was not listening. He was staring, aghast, at the man’s head. At the two little curls of hair jutting up just off his brow.