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Acolyte, v. 1, issue 1, Fall 1942
Page 9
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Norton carried me down the icy sidewalk to the nearest cab stand, three blocks away, on Fourth and Chestnut. Snow began drifting downward and my host involuntarily pulled his coat collar tighter about his throat. I tried to keep from thinking as the cab wheeled us through the frosty, brilliant streets to Everett Vincent's house on Lexington Avenue. I tried to keep from remembering Elsa's sweet, carmine lips upturned for the stranger's kisses... Poignant memories haunted me like hellish imps, pushing me onward with murder in my heart. The driver stopped and Norton climbed out, paid the man generously. I remembered suddenly that I would never be able to reimburse old Norton, no matter how long I lived. He carried me up the sidewalk, snow and darkness blurring the abrupt lines of Dr. Vincent's palatial home. Norton walked across the porch and touched the door bell. Presently lights sprang up in the hall, then overhead. A middle-aged butler with graying hair opened the door, a look of surprised inquery on his bland face. I had Norton's lines ready. "Is Doctor Vincent in?" he said stiffly. "Why, yes. You're Norton, aren't you? Come in." He glanced at the satchel, but made no remark. His presence in the house would complicate matters, make my escape difficult; but I knew I had to take that risk. We entered the long, familiar hallway and were led to a door I had seen many times before. Norton was announced and we swept into the Doctor's study. "Hello, Norton," he said, rising. "Anything wrong? You look like you'd seen a ghost---" Vincent's eyes were lustreless, shoulders sagging in the expensive gray suit. On his desk were piles of notes illuminated by an antique lamp. When he saw the satchel his eyes bulged with terror; then narrowed, blazing with fury. "You dolt, what are you doing with that? Put it down!" Norton didn't answer. I gave him instructions, and he drew the revolver---the old '38 belonging to Vincent himself. The doctor's face paled, turned a ghastly yellow. He took three jerky steps backward, crafty eyes darting from me to Norton and back again, twisting crazily like the frightened eyes of a trapped animal. I told Norton what to say. "You fiend, you murdered me---now I'm going to kill you! The only thing I hate is that I can't torture you the way you tortured me!---that I can't do it with my bare hands, and watch your face turn purple, feel the lift go out of your carcass inch by inch. The worst thing of all is that Norton has to do it for me!" -- 13 --
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Norton carried me down the icy sidewalk to the nearest cab stand, three blocks away, on Fourth and Chestnut. Snow began drifting downward and my host involuntarily pulled his coat collar tighter about his throat. I tried to keep from thinking as the cab wheeled us through the frosty, brilliant streets to Everett Vincent's house on Lexington Avenue. I tried to keep from remembering Elsa's sweet, carmine lips upturned for the stranger's kisses... Poignant memories haunted me like hellish imps, pushing me onward with murder in my heart. The driver stopped and Norton climbed out, paid the man generously. I remembered suddenly that I would never be able to reimburse old Norton, no matter how long I lived. He carried me up the sidewalk, snow and darkness blurring the abrupt lines of Dr. Vincent's palatial home. Norton walked across the porch and touched the door bell. Presently lights sprang up in the hall, then overhead. A middle-aged butler with graying hair opened the door, a look of surprised inquery on his bland face. I had Norton's lines ready. "Is Doctor Vincent in?" he said stiffly. "Why, yes. You're Norton, aren't you? Come in." He glanced at the satchel, but made no remark. His presence in the house would complicate matters, make my escape difficult; but I knew I had to take that risk. We entered the long, familiar hallway and were led to a door I had seen many times before. Norton was announced and we swept into the Doctor's study. "Hello, Norton," he said, rising. "Anything wrong? You look like you'd seen a ghost---" Vincent's eyes were lustreless, shoulders sagging in the expensive gray suit. On his desk were piles of notes illuminated by an antique lamp. When he saw the satchel his eyes bulged with terror; then narrowed, blazing with fury. "You dolt, what are you doing with that? Put it down!" Norton didn't answer. I gave him instructions, and he drew the revolver---the old '38 belonging to Vincent himself. The doctor's face paled, turned a ghastly yellow. He took three jerky steps backward, crafty eyes darting from me to Norton and back again, twisting crazily like the frightened eyes of a trapped animal. I told Norton what to say. "You fiend, you murdered me---now I'm going to kill you! The only thing I hate is that I can't torture you the way you tortured me!---that I can't do it with my bare hands, and watch your face turn purple, feel the lift go out of your carcass inch by inch. The worst thing of all is that Norton has to do it for me!" -- 13 --
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