The Beetle (16 page)

He shrunk back.

'I don't know what you're talking about.—I don't want the thing.
—Take it away.'

'Think twice,—the chance may not recur.'

'I tell you I don't want it.'

'Sure?—Consider!'

'Of course I'm sure!'

'Then the cat shall have it.'

'Let the poor brute go!'

'The poor brute's going,—to the land which is so near, and yet so
far. Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with
this toy gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass
pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the
glass box which contains the Apostle's cat,—you'll observe it
fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.
—I am about to release the spring.—Close attention, please.—
Notice the effect.'

'Atherton, let the brute go!'

'The brute's gone! I've released the spring—the pellet has been
discharged—it has struck against the roof of the glass box—it
has been broken by the contact,—and, hey presto! the cat lies
dead,—and that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still
it is,—how still! Let's hope that, now, it's really happy. The
cat which I choose to believe is Paul Lessingham's has received
its quietus; in the morning I'll send it back to him, with my
respectful compliments. He'll miss it if I don't.—Reflect! think
of a huge bomb, filled with what we'll call Atherton's Magic
Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and twenty ton gun, bursting at
a given elevation over the heads of an opposing force. Properly
managed, in less than an instant of time, a hundred thousand men,
—quite possibly more!—would drop down dead, as if smitten by the
lightning of the skies. Isn't that something like a weapon, sir?'

'I'm not well!—I want to get away!—I wish I'd never come!'

That was all Woodville had to say.

'Rubbish!—You're adding to your stock of information every
second, and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is
supposed to know all about everything, information's the one thing
wanted. Empty your glass, man,—that's the time of day for you!'

I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its
contents, then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the
tumbler from him. I had placed—carelessly enough—the second
pellet within a foot of the edge of the table. The shock of the
heavy beaker striking the board close to it, set it rolling. I was
at the other side. I started forward to stop its motion, but I was
too late. Before I could reach the crystal globule, it had fallen
off the edge of the table on to the floor at Woodville's feet, and
smashed in falling. As it smashed, he was looking down, wondering,
no doubt, in his stupidity, what the pother was about,—for I was
shouting, and making something of a clatter in my efforts to
prevent the catastrophe which I saw was coming. On the instant, as
the vapour secreted in the broken pellet gained access to the air,
he fell forward on to his face. Rushing to him, I snatched his
senseless body from the ground, and dragged it, staggeringly,
towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging the door
open, I got him into the open air.

As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood
outside. It was Lessingham's mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend,—my
morning's visitor.

The passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was
a passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure, standing
in the shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses
reeled. It was only because I had resolutely held my breath, and
kept my face averted that I had not succumbed to the fate which
had overtaken Woodville. Had I been a moment longer in gaining the
open air, it would have been too late. As it was, in placing
Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over him. My senses left me.
Even as they went I was conscious of exclaiming,—remembering the
saying about the engineer being hoist by his own petard,

'Atherton's Magic Vapour!'

My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found
myself being supported in someone's arms, a stranger's face was
bending over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had
ever seen were looking into mine.

'Who the deuce are you?' I asked.

Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant
ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was
streaming through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was
lying close beside me,—stark and still.

'Is he dead?' I cried. 'Percy.—speak, man!—it's not so bad with
you as that!'

But it was pretty bad,—so bad that, as I bent down and looked at
him, my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it
could be. His heart seemed still,—the vapour took effect directly
on the cardiac centres. To revive their action and that instantly,
was indispensable. Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could
not even think of how to set about beginning. Had I been alone, it
is more than probable Woodville would have died. As I stared at
him, senselessly, aimlessly, the stranger, passing his arms
beneath his body, extended himself at full length upon his
motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy's, he seemed to be
pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man's. As I
gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of
Percy's body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By
degrees, the motions became convulsive,—till on a sudden he
bestirred himself to such effect that the stranger was rolled
right off him. I bent down,—to find that the young gentleman's
condition still seemed very far from satisfactory. There was a
rigidity about the muscles of his face, a clamminess about his
skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about the way in which his
teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed, which was
uncomfortable to contemplate.

The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind,—not
a very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he
said, with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had
seemed like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then.

'All will be well with him.'

'I am not so sure.'

The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side
of the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand
to and fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic
all semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy's features, and,
to all appearances, he was placidly asleep.

'Have you hypnotised him?'

'What does it matter?'

If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The
conditions were both unusual and trying, the effect produced
seemed all that could be desired,—the change brought about in
half a dozen seconds was quite remarkable. I began to be aware of
a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul Lessingham's friend. His
morals might be peculiar, and manners he might have none, but in
this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have justified the
means. He went on.

'He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been.
Leave him,—the night is warm,—all will be well.'

As he said, the night was warm,—and it was dry. Percy would come
to little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the
pleasant breezes. So I acted on the stranger's advice, and left
him lying in the yard, while I had a little interview with the
impromptu physician.

The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot
or two away from it. I was further within the room, and was
subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted.
Beyond doubt he was conscious of my observation, yet he bore
himself with an air of indifference, which was suggestive of
perfect unconcern. The fellow was oriental to the finger-tips,—
that much was certain; yet in spite of a pretty wide personal
knowledge of oriental people I could not make up my mind as to the
exact part of the east from which he came. He was hardly an Arab,
he was not a fellah,—he was not, unless I erred, a Mohammedan at
all. There was something about him which was distinctly not
Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a
flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The
portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself,
sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick
and shapeless,—and this, joined to another peculiarity in his
appearance, seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more
than a streak of negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his
semblance of great age. As one eyed him one was reminded of the
legends told of people who have been supposed to have retained
something of their pristine vigour after having lived for
centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one began to wonder
if he really was so old as he seemed,—if, indeed, he was
exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are
apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk' one
sometimes encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by
the passage of centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would
entitle them to regard themselves, here in England, as in the
prime of life. The senility of the fellow's countenance, besides,
was contradicted by the juvenescence of his eyes. No really old
man could have had eyes like that. They were curiously shaped,
reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some queer
creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could
not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with
the force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More
uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,—their possessor
could not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing,
probably, to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt,
as one met his gaze, that he was looking right through you. More
obvious danger signals never yet were placed in a creature's head.
The individual who, having once caught sight of him, still sought
to cultivate their owner's acquaintance, had only himself to thank
if the very worst results of frequenting evil company promptly
ensued.

It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of
vision. I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met.
Yet, as I continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it
was only by an effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful
something which seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It
might have been imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an
imaginative man; and, if it was, it was imagination of an
unpleasantly vivid kind. I could understand how, in the case of a
nervous, or a sensitive temperament, the fellow might exercise, by
means of the peculiar quality of his glance alone, an influence of
a most disastrous sort, which given an appropriate subject in the
manifestation of its power might approach almost to the
supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the traditional evil
eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such profound
believers, it was he.

When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five
minutes, I began to think I had had about enough of it So, by way
of breaking the ice, I put to him a question.

'May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?'

He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them,
palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental.

'Indeed?—Is that so?—Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you,
but, for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it
into words. Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my
back yard?'

Again nothing but the gesture.

'Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners
and customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach
of the pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the
police you would find yourself in an awkward situation,—and,
unless you are presently more explanatory, called in they will
be.'

By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance
which might have been meant for a smile,—and which seemed to
suggest that he regarded the police with a contempt which was too
great for words.

'Why do you laugh—do you think that being threatened with the
police is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.—Have you
suddenly been bereft of the use of your tongue?'

He proved that he had not by using it

'I have still the use of my tongue.'

'That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how
you got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will
tell me why you got there.'

'You know why I have come.'

'Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is
precisely what I do not know.'

'You do know.'

'Do I?—Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the
reason which appears upon the surface,—to commit a felony.'

'You call me thief?'

'What else are you?'

'I am no thief.—You know why I have come.'

He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I
felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I
seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my
shoulders.

'I have come because you wanted me.'

'Because I wanted you!—On my word!—That's sublime!'

'All night you have wanted me,—do I not know? When she talked to
you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and
all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour
in her eyes.'

I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that
he could mean, or—there was confusion somewhere.

'Take my advice, my friend, and don't try to come the bunco-
steerer over me,—I'm a bit in that line myself, you know.'