Генри Каттнер: Lord of the Lions

THERE was a curious odor in the little grocery, acrid and unpleasant. It seemed to Kenneth Drake, leaning on the fly-specked counter, that the wizened, snaggle-toother oldster facing him was actually afraid of the strange smell. The grocer held a dirty handkerchief to his nose, and his rheumy eyes were furtive.

“A man telephoned from here just an hour ago—at about one-thirty,” Drake repeated. “You must have seen him, if you were here then.”

“Man? I dunno. Mebbe I was asleep.” Yellowed eyes watched, fear in their depths.

“Did anyone telephone from here today?” Drake asked.

“Eh? Well, now—” The oldster scratched his head. “My memory ain’t so good, mister. I don’t rightly recollect anybody phoning today. Mebbe when I was out, or asleep?”

Drake cupped a silver dollar in his palm, and let the grocer glimpse the dull metal. He slid the coin back into his pocket.

“It’ll pay you to tell the truth,” he snapped. “The boys can sweat the truth out of you down at Headquarters, if necessary. Now let’s have it. What happened to the man who phoned from here at one-thirty?”

The grocer’s lips were trembling beneath the tobacco-stained mustache. He licked them furtively.

“Ye—ye’re from the police!”

Drake didn’t answer. His cold grey eyes bored into the other.

The grocer whispered, “They come an’ got him! The little—”

Cutting sharply into his words came a startling sound—harsh, angry, menacing. The roar of a lion!

The oldster’s jaw dropped. For a moment he stared at Drake, a look of stark fear on his face. Then he drew back swiftly. His eyes dropped.

“I ain’t seen—or heard—nothin’!” he growled. “Git out! Pryin’, snoopin’—”

Drake eyed the man, and then, shrugging, turned on his heel. He knew fear when he saw it—and the grocer was thoroughly intimidated by a terror that would not let him speak. What had caused it? A lion’s roar?

Outside the little store Drake hesitated, staring around. This was a well-paved highway, but a little-traveled one. The wayside grocery was the only building in sight, save for a high-walled enclosure some distance away. A dirt road led to it, and a faded sign proclaimed:

Twenty-five giant jungle cats, including Nero, man-killing outlaw. See the lions fed! View the lion cubs! Admission 50c, children 25c.

A horn blew impatiently. Drake went to the roadster that was parked nearby.

“No luck, Joan,” he said to the girl at the wheel. “Petrie called up from that store, though. The operator traced the call, all right.”

“I wish I could have understood more of what he said,” Joan frowned. “But his voice was—funny, somehow. All I could understand was: `Help! Joan, that little devil has—`” Then the line went dead.”

“If Petrie weren’t so old, I’d feel jealous,” Drake said, smiling wryly. His eyes were brooding on the sign that advertised the lion farm.

Joan put her hand on his arm “Ken, John Petrie gave me my first job when he almost had to starve himself to pay me.” Her eyes were misty. “He’s been gone three weeks now—without any explanation.”

“And the formula with him,” Drake grunted. That was the crux of the matter. The formula for making flexible glass—and making it cheaply—by a process Petrie had discovered after years of experiment.

He had never entrusted the secret to paper, despite the urging of the other members of the company that had been formed to exploit the new glass.

“You take care of the business end of the thing,” Petrie had told his backers. “I know the formula, and it’s safe in my head. Not that I don’t trust my colleagues—”

THE big, ruddy-faced scientist had grinned sardonically. “But it isn’t necessary for anybody else to know the process. I’ll personally supervise the making of the glass.”

Nor could he be moved from this stand. And now he had disappeared without trace. The police had searched vainly; there was absolutely no clue. Not until the telephone call that had brought Joan, and Drake, her fiance racing to this lonely road.

“I’m afraid they may be torturing him,” Joan said somberly. “And he’s sick, you know.”

“Sick?” Drake stared. “He never looked it.”

“He was under a doctor’s care. I had to remind him every day about his medicine. He may be dying, Ken—or dead.”

Talk isn’t going to help, then. I’ve a hunch I may be able to find out something in that lion farm. Listen, Joan —you stay here. If I don’t come back in half an hour, go for help. Get the police.”

“Why not get the police now?”

“Remember what you said—Petrie may be under torture. If he’s as sick as you say, he can’t stand much of that. Besides, time’s an important element. After we came back with the police, we’d probably find the bird flown—if there is a bird. It won’t do any harm to snoop around a little, anyway.”

Drake leaned over the door and kissed Joan perfunctorily. Then, with a jaunty wave of his hand, he hurried away, conscious of the girl’s anxious eyes following him.

Heat shimmered from the baked ground. He was perspiring when at last he reached the faded wooden gate of the lion farm. A sign proclaimed that the place was “Closed for Repairs.”

Drake pressed a button set in the wall, and heard a bell jangling far away. After a time a wicket slid open, and two black eyes regarded him intently.

“Well, what do you want?” asked a high-pitched voice.

“I didn’t know you were closed,” Drake said. “I’ve driven out here a long way just to see the farm. I wonder if—”

“Everybody’s on his vacation,” said the other. “Except a skeleton staff. Sorry.”

The wicket slammed shut. Drake knocked on it peremptorily.

“I’ll be willing to pay,” he said, pushing a bill through the bars. “I just want to say I’ve been here. I won’t take up much of your time. Can’t you make an exception?”

“Well, if you’re that anxious,” the voice murmured. “We’ll see.” The eyes disappeared, and presently the gate opened. Drake stepped into a ramshackle office, from which several doors led into unknown regions.

Facing him was a midget. A little man, scarcely reaching to Drake’s waist, about three feet high. His bland, pink-cheeked face was curiously doll-like, but the wise eyes were betraying. At the midget’s side hung an incongruously large pistol. Drake tried not to stare.

“I’m Carse,” the midget murmured. “Captain Carse, formerly of Pinnacle Shows. You may have seen me?”

“I’m afraid not,” Drake said. “Sorry “

“You needn’t be. Too many people saw me. That’s why I retired to this —farm. It isn’t pleasant to have everyone stare at you—and laugh.” The midget’s voice was silky. He glanced down at the bill in his hand.

“The lions, then. Come along.” He led the way through an inner door that opened upon a great high-walled yard.

“First, though, your coat.”

“Eh?” Drake stared, puzzled.

Quietly the midget extended a grey smock. “It’s necessary, for the farm is—well, rather dirty.” He took Drake’s coat and hung it on a clothes-tree. Drake, donning the smock, followed the midget outside the office.

THE lion farm was an unimpressive place. It reminded Drake of a zoo, with the half dozen great cages scattered about the walled enclosure. Within these lay or paced tawny forms, and occasionally a grumbling roar would be heard. The air was strong with acrid lion stench.