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Philtre TipMARK 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. “On 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. |
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