The Beetle (6 page)

My condition was one of dual personality,—while, physically, I
was bound, mentally, to a considerable extent, I was free. But
this measure of freedom on my mental side made my plight no
better. For, among other things, I realised what a ridiculous
figure I must be cutting, barefooted and bareheaded, abroad, at
such an hour of the night, in such a boisterous breeze,—for I
quickly discovered that the wind amounted to something like a
gale. Apart from all other considerations, the notion of parading
the streets in such a condition filled me with profound disgust.
And I do believe that if my tyrannical oppressor had only
permitted me to attire myself in my own garments, I should have
started with a comparatively light heart on the felonious mission
on which he apparently was sending me. I believe, too, that the
consciousness of the incongruity of my attire increased my sense
of helplessness, and that, had I been dressed as Englishmen are
wont to be, who take their walks abroad, he would not have found
in me, on that occasion, the facile instrument which, in fact, he
did.

There was a moment, in which the gravelled pathway first made
itself known to my naked feet, and the cutting wind to my naked
flesh, when I think it possible that, had I gritted my teeth, and
strained my every nerve, I might have shaken myself free from the
bonds which shackled me, and bade defiance to the ancient sinner
who, for all I knew, was peeping at me through the window. But so
depressed was I by the knowledge of the ridiculous appearance I
presented that, before I could take advantage of it the moment
passed,—not to return again that night.

I did catch, as it were, at its fringe, as it was flying past me,
making a hurried movement to one side,—the first I had made, of
my own initiative, for hours. But it was too late. My tormentor,—
as if, though unseen, he saw—tightened his grip, I was whirled
round, and sped hastily onwards in a direction in which I
certainly had no desire of travelling.

All the way I never met a soul. I have since wondered whether in
that respect my experience was not a normal one; whether it might
not have happened to any. If so, there are streets in London, long
lines of streets, which, at a certain period of the night, in a
certain sort of weather—probably the weather had something to do
with it—are clean deserted; in which there is neither foot-
passenger nor vehicle,—not even a policeman. The greater part of
the route along which I was driven—I know no juster word—was one
with which I had some sort of acquaintance. It led, at first,
through what, I take it, was some part of Walham Green; then along
the Lillie Road, through Brompton, across the Fulham Road, through
the network of streets leading to Sloane Street, across Sloane
Street into Lowndes Square. Who goes that way goes some distance,
and goes through some important thorough fares; yet not a creature
did I see, nor, I imagine, was there a creature who saw me. As I
crossed Sloane Street, I fancied that I heard the distant rumbling
of a vehicle along the Knightsbridge Road, but that was the only
sound I heard.

It is painful even to recollect the plight in which I was when I
was stopped,—for stopped I was, as shortly and as sharply, as the
beast of burden, with a bridle in its mouth, whose driver puts a
period to his career. I was wet,—intermittent gusts of rain were
borne on the scurrying wind; in spite of the pace at which I had
been brought, I was chilled to the bone; and—worst of all!—my
mud-stained feet, all cut and bleeding, were so painful—for,
unfortunately, I was still susceptible enough to pain—that it was
agony to have them come into contact with the cold and the slime
of the hard, unyielding pavement.

I had been stopped on the opposite side of the square,—that
nearest to the hospital; in front of a house which struck me as
being somewhat smaller than the rest. It was a house with a
portico; about the pillars of this portico was trelliswork, and on
the trelliswork was trained some climbing plant. As I stood,
shivering, wondering what would happen next, some strange impulse
mastered me, and, immediately, to my own unbounded amazement, I
found myself scrambling up the trellis towards the verandah above.
I am no gymnast, either by nature or by education; I doubt
whether, previously, I had ever attempted to climb anything more
difficult than a step ladder. The result was, that, though the
impulse might be given me, the skill could not, and I had only
ascended a yard or so when, losing my footing, I came slithering
down upon my back. Bruised and shaken though I was, I was not
allowed to inquire into my injuries. In a moment I was on my feet
again, and again I was impelled to climb,—only, however, again to
come to grief. This time the demon, or whatever it was, that had
entered into me, seeming to appreciate the impossibility of
getting me to the top of that verandah, directed me to try another
way. I mounted the steps leading to the front door, got on to the
low parapet which was at one side, thence on to the sill of the
adjacent window,—had I slipped then I should have fallen a sheer
descent of at least twenty feet to the bottom of the deep area
down below. But the sill was broad, and—if it is proper to use
such language in connection with a transaction of the sort in
which I was engaged—fortune favoured me. I did not fall. In my
clenched fist I had a stone. With this I struck the pane of glass,
as with a hammer. Through the hole which resulted, I could just
insert my hand, and reach the latch within. In another minute the
sash was raised, and I was in the house,—I had committed
burglary.

As I look back and reflect upon the audacity of the whole
proceeding, even now I tremble. Hapless slave of another's will
although in very truth I was, I cannot repeat too often that I
realised to the full just what it was that I was being compelled
to do—a fact which was very far from rendering my situation less
distressful!—and every detail of my involuntary actions was
projected upon my brain in a series of pictures, whose clear-cut
outlines, so long as memory endures, will never fade. Certainly no
professional burglar, nor, indeed, any creature in his senses,
would have ventured to emulate my surprising rashness. The process
of smashing the pane of glass—it was plate glass—was anything
but a noiseless one. There was, first, the blow itself, then the
shivering of the glass, then the clattering of fragments into the
area beneath. One would have thought that the whole thing would
have made din enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers. But, here,
again the weather was on my side. About that time the wind was
howling wildly,—it came shrieking across the square. It is
possible that the tumult which it made deadened all other sounds.

Anyhow, as I stood within the room which I had violated, listening
for signs of someone being on the alert, I could hear nothing.
Within the house there seemed to be the silence of the grave. I
drew down the window, and made for the door.

It proved by no means easy to find. The windows were obscured by
heavy curtains, so that the room inside was dark as pitch. It
appeared to be unusually full of furniture,—an appearance due,
perhaps, to my being a stranger in the midst of such Cimmerian
blackness. I had to feel my way, very gingerly indeed, among the
various impedimenta. As it was I seemed to come into contact with
most of the obstacles there were to come into contact with,
stumbling more than once over footstools, and over what seemed to
be dwarf chairs. It was a miracle that my movements still
continued to be unheard,—but I believe that the explanation was,
that the house was well built; that the servants were the only
persons in it at the time; that their bedrooms were on the top
floor; that they were fast asleep; and that they were little
likely to be disturbed by anything that might occur in the room
which I had entered.

Reaching the door at last, I opened it,—listening for any promise
of being interrupted—and—to adapt a hackneyed phrase—directed
by the power which shaped my end, I went across the hall and up
the stairs. I passed up the first landing, and, on the second,
moved to a door upon the right. I turned the handle, it yielded,
the door opened, I entered, closing it behind me. I went to the
wall just inside the door, found a handle, jerked it, and switched
on the electric light,—doing, I make no doubt, all these things,
from a spectator's point of view, so naturally, that a judge and
jury would have been with difficulty persuaded that they were not
the product of my own volition.

In the brilliant glow of the electric light I took a leisurely
survey of the contents of the room. It was, as the man in the bed
had said it would be, a study,—a fine, spacious apartment,
evidently intended rather for work than for show. There were three
separate writing-tables, one very large and two smaller ones, all
covered with an orderly array of manuscripts and papers. A
typewriter stood at the side of one. On the floor, under and about
them, were piles of books, portfolios, and official-looking
documents. Every available foot of wall space on three sides of
the room was lined with shelves, full as they could hold with
books. On the fourth side, facing the door, was a large lock-up
oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old bureau. So
soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an arrow from
a bow,—indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that I was
propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow.

It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers
and the doors was a flap to let down. It was to this flap my
attention was directed. I put out my hand to open it; it was
locked at the top. I pulled at it with both hands; it refused to
budge.

So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of
a thief to open. I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that
nothing, and no one, could make me such a thing. Yet now that I
found myself confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that
pressure, irresistible pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by
any and every means, access to its interior. I had no option but
to yield. I looked about me in search of some convenient tool with
which to ply the felon's trade. I found it close beside me.
Leaning against the wall, within a yard of where I stood, were
examples of various kinds of weapons,—among them, spear-heads.
Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I forced the
point between the flap and the bureau. Using the leverage thus
obtained, I attempted to prise it open. The flap held fast; the
spear-head snapped in two. I tried another, with the same result;
a third, to fail again. There were no more. The most convenient
thing remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet.
This I took, brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon
the refractory flap. The hatchet went through,—before I had done
with it, it was open with a vengeance.

But I was destined on the occasion of my first—and, I trust,
last—experience of the burglar's calling, to carry the part
completely through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to
find that at the back were several small drawers, on one of which
my observation was brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite
impossible to disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and,
once more, I had to search for something which would serve as a
rough-and-ready substitute for the missing key.

There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,—I could
hardly for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question
was such a little one that to have done so would have been to
shiver it to splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather
case, were a pair of revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes
stand in actual peril of their lives. It is possible that Mr
Lessingham, conscious of continually threatened danger, carried
them about with him as a necessary protection. They were
serviceable weapons, large, and somewhat weighty,—of the type
with which, I believe, upon occasion the police are armed. Not
only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the case itself there
was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to charge them all
again.

I was handling the weapons, wondering—if, in my condition, the
word was applicable—what use I could make of them to enable me to
gain admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from
the street without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a
whirring within my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to
explain to me to what service to apply the revolvers, and I,
perforce, strained every nerve to grasp the meaning of my
invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels drew rapidly nearer,
and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling by, stopped,—in
front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a convulsion of
frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied moment,
I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard, from
the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,—it was as
if I had been rooted to the ground.

A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was
turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If
I could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but
gone at once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings
and goings were not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear
raging within, outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood,
turning the revolvers over and over, asking myself what it could
be that I was intended to do with them. All at once it came to me
in an illuminating flash,—I was to fire at the lock of the
drawer, and blow it open.

A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The
servants had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly
sleep through the discharge of a revolver in a room below them,—
not to speak of the person who had just entered the premises, and
whose footsteps were already audible as he came up the stairs. I
struggled to make a dumb protest against the insensate folly which
was hurrying me to infallible destruction, without success. For me
there was only obedience. With a revolver in either hand I marched
towards the bureau as unconcernedly as if I would not have given
my life to have escaped the denouement which I needed but a slight
modicum of common sense to be aware was close at hand. I placed
the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the keyhole of the
drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed me, and
pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the
drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about
which a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me,
immediately following the report of the pistol, I glanced over my
shoulder.