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                         Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from Weird Tales August-September 1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. The Medici Boots


                         By PEARL NORTON SWET


     _The amethyst-covered boots had been worn by an evil wanton
      in medieval Florence--but what malefic power did they carry
      over into our own time?_

       *       *       *       *       *




For fifty years they lay under glass in the Dickerson museum and they
were labeled "The Medici Boots." They were fashioned of creamy
leather, pliable as a young girl's hands. They were threaded with
silver, appliqued with sapphire silks and scarlet, and set on the tip
of each was a pale and lovely amethyst. Such were the Medici boots. Old Silas Dickerson, globe-trotter and collector, had brought the
boots from a dusty shop in Florence when he was a young man filled
with the lust for travel and adventure. The years passed and Silas
Dickerson was an old man, his hair white, his eyes dim, his veined
hands trembling with the ague that precedes death. When he was ninety and the years of his wanderings over, Silas
Dickerson died one morning as he sat in a high-backed Venetian chair
in his private museum. The Fourteenth Century gold-leaf paintings, the
Japanese processional banners, the stolen bones of a Normandy
saint--all the beloved trophies of his travels must have watched the
dead man impassively for hours before his housekeeper found him. The old man sat with his head thrown back against the faded tapestry
of the Venetian chair, his eyes closed, his bony arms extended along
the beautifully carved arms of the chair, and on his lap lay the
Medici boots. It was high noon when they found him, and the sun was streaming
through the stained-glass window above the chair and picking at the
amethysts, so that the violet stones seemed to eye Marthe, the old
housekeeper, with an impudent glitter. Marthe muttered a prayer and
crossed herself, before she ran like a scared rabbit with the news of
the master's death. [Illustration: "She imparted to me those terrible secrets of the Black
Arts which were deep in her soul."] Silas Dickerson's only surviving relatives, the three young
Delameters, did not take too seriously the note which was found among
the papers in the museum's desk. Old Silas had written the note. It
was addressed to John Delameter, for John was his uncle's favorite,
but John's pretty wife, Suzanne, and his twin brother, Doctor Eric,
read it over his shoulder; and they all smiled tolerantly. Old
Dickerson had written of things incomprehensible to the young moderns:

"The contents of my private museum are yours, John, to do with as you
see fit. Merely as a suggestion, I would say that the Antiquarian
Society would snap up many of the things. A very few are of no
particular value, except to me. One thing I want done, however. The
Medici boots of ivory leather must either be destroyed or be put for
ever under glass in a _public_ museum. I prefer that they be
destroyed, for they are a dangerous possession. They have gone to the
adulterous rendezvous celebrated in the scandalous verses of Lorenzo
the Magnificent. They have shod the feet of a murderess. They were
cursed by the Church as trappings of the Devil, inciting the wearer to
foul deeds and intrigue. "I shall not disturb you with all their hideous history, but I repeat,
they are a dangerous possession. I have taken care to keep them under
lock and key, behind plate glass, for more than fifty years. I have
never taken them out. Destroy the Medici boots, before they destroy
you!" "But he did take them out!" cried Suzanne. "Uncle was holding the
boots when--when Marthe found him there in the museum." John reread the note, and looked thoughtfully at his young wife. "Yes. Perhaps he was preparing to destroy them right then. Of course, I
think the poor old fellow took things a bit too seriously--he was very
old, you know, and Marthe says he practically lived in this museum of
his." "And why call a pair of old boots dangerous? Of course, we all know
the Medicis were plenty dangerous, but the Medici boots--that's
ridiculous, John. Besides----"

Suzanne paused provocatively, her red lips pouting. She looked down at
her trimly shod feet. "Besides, I'd like to try on those Medici
boots--just once. They're lovely, I think." John was frowning thoughtfully. He scarcely heard her suggestion. He
spoke to Eric, instead, and his voice seemed a bit troubled. "I believe that Uncle _was_ getting ready to destroy those boots that
very morning he died; else why should he have taken them from their
case--after fifty years?" "Yes, I believe you're right, John, because that note is dated fully a
month before Uncle's death. I think he brooded over leaving those
boots to one he cared for. Poor old man!" "I wouldn't call him so, Eric. He had his dreams of adventure realized
more fully than most men. I--I think I'll do as he says. I'll destroy
the Medici boots." "If you'd feel better about it," assented his brother. But Suzanne did
not speak. She was looking at her shoe, pursing her lips thoughtfully,
seeing her feet encased in the gay embroideries of the Medici boots. John seemed relieved by his decision. "Yes, I'd better do it. We'll be
getting back to town in a few days. Old Erskine, you know, Uncle's
lawyer, is coming down this afternoon. Then soon we'll be on the wing,
Susie and I--Vienna, Paris, the Alps--thanks to Uncle." "Maybe you think I'm not thankful for my chance at a bit more work at
Johns Hopkins," said Eric, and they did not again speak of the Medici
boots. *       *       *       *       *

The deaf old lawyer of the Dickerson estate arrived, and Suzanne, with
the easy capability that was part of her charm, saw that he was made
comfortable. At seven there was a perfect dinner served on the awninged terrace
outside the softly lit living-room. The stars aided the two little
rosy lamps on the table, and swaying willows beside a stone-encircled
pool swung the incense of the garden about them. As dinner ended, John took from the pocket of his coat a small,
limp-leather book. He pushed back his dessert plate and laid the book
on the table, tapping it with a finger as he spoke. "This is the history of the Medici boots. It was in the little
wall-safe in the museum. After all Uncle said of the Medici boots,
shall we read it?" And turning to the old lawyer, he told of Silas
Dickerson's letter concerning the boots. Erskine shook his head, smiling. "Most collectors get an exaggerated
sense of the supernatural. Read this, by all means--it should prove
interesting." "Yes, read it, John." Suzanne and Eric spoke almost together. So, in the circle of rosy light at their little table, John read the
story of the Medici boots.