"The author of 'The Poisoned Waterbottle' and other stories?"
"Yes."
"Tales of crime?"
"You may call them so."
"What do you know of crime?"
The question startled me. In the first place, it was an extraordinary
one to ask under the circumstances, and in the next, it was not an easy
one to answer.
"May I inquire," I said, "why you put this question?"
"Because I wish to know."
"For what purpose?"
"That you will discover presently."
The man had evidently an object in view, so I thought I would humour
him.
"I have taken great interest in the subject," I said, "and have studied
it in books and newspapers and in the courts of justice, and have also
derived a good deal of information from persons who have come in contact
with criminals."
"Ah! you know nothing of it from personal experience?"
"How do you mean?"
"You never, for instance, saw a murderer?"
"Only in the dock."
"Would you _like_ to see a murderer?"
"Well," I replied, with a nervous laugh, "'like' is hardly the word. If
I happened to come across such an individual, I should feel interested,
no doubt."
"No doubt," this strangest of strangers echoed, adding, after a pause,
"and you never saw a murder done?"
"Never."
"Would you _like_ to see a murder done?"
This gruesome question almost startled me out of my chair.
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed, "certainly not."
"And yet you write about such things."
"That is quite a different matter. But you must excuse me for saying
that I do not understand the object of these questions. May I ask who
you are?"
"I am a murderer."
[Illustration: "I AM A MURDERER."]
My visitor said this in the calmest way, as though he were only calling
himself a clerk or a carpenter.
"A murderer?" I gasped rather than asked.
"A murderer in intention only at present. I am going to do a murder, and
I want you to witness it."
Good heavens! I looked at the stranger; I met his terrible wild eyes,
and in a moment it flashed upon me that I was in the presence of a
madman.
I started from my chair, and was about to rush to the bell and call for
help, but the stranger put his left hand on my shoulder and kept me in
my seat, while he drew his right hand from his coat pocket, and
something glittered in the lamplight. Oh, horror! a bright, new, large,
six-chambered revolver!
"Be still, be silent," he said, almost in a whisper, "or you are a dead
man."
[Illustration: "SOMETHING GLITTERED IN THE LAMPLIGHT."]
I need hardly say that I was quiet enough after this, and sat grasping
my chair arms with both hands, and staring at the stranger, perhaps with
my hair standing on end.
"I don't want to hurt you," the dreadful man went on, "unless I can get
nobody better to kill. But I mean to kill someone to-night, and I want
you to see me do it. You must come with me out into the streets, and go
about with me until we find somebody worth killing. You must keep very
quiet, utter no cry, give no alarm, excite no suspicion. Otherwise I
shall shoot you dead on the spot. I would not mind killing you, the
author of so many stories of crime, but I would rather slay someone of
higher social position, and leave you to live and record the deed."
I reflected that I should prefer this arrangement myself, but, still
better, I would rather get out of the whole horrible business
altogether. But the madman, as I regarded him, was imperative.
"Put on your hat and coat and come with me quietly," he said. "Make no
noise or I fire."
It was a frightful situation, such as I had never conceived even in my
wildest dreams, but what was I to do? In silence I attired myself for
this terrible expedition. My companion made me precede him to the street
door, opened it himself, and closed it quietly behind us.
Side by side in silence we walked, the maniac keeping half a step in my
rear, and I knew all the while that he had his right hand in his side
pocket. Now and then he indicated the way we should go, and then he led
me across the Regent's Park, and so through street after street till we
reached Hyde Park Corner. We passed several policemen by the way, but,
unfortunately, none of them suspected or even particularly noticed us. I
dared not give an alarm or attract attention, for did I not know that
that dreadful hand was still in that dreadful side pocket?
Presently my companion paused, and said, as though speaking to himself:
"A member of the Royal Family would be best."
I was rather glad to hear this, because if he intended that an
illustrious personage should be his victim he was likely to be
disappointed. Royal Highnesses are not usually found walking about in
the neighbourhood of their palaces at two o'clock in the morning.
Thus we rambled to and fro near Buckingham and St. James's Palaces and
Marlborough House, need I say with no result? Not a single Prince was to
be seen anywhere, and my companion seemed slightly disgusted.
"Hum!" he muttered. "They are hiding. Let us go now to Downing Street."
He evidently thought that, failing Royalty, his next best course would
be to slay a Cabinet Minister. But neither the Premier nor any of the
Secretaries of State happened to be abroad at that hour.
Our walk down Whitehall proving uneventful, the madman next suggested
that we should "try the Houses of Parliament." Here the position seemed
more dangerous. The House of Commons could not have long adjourned--it
was in the days of late sittings--and it was quite possible that some
belated M.P. might be on his way home.
Presently, indeed, my companion made a remark that filled me with
horror.
"That looks like one," he said. "Now steady."
An elderly, respectable-looking gentleman was approaching us, walking
alone from the direction of the House, and my terrible associate was
standing under a lamp-post still with his hand in his pocket.
[Illustration: "THAT LOOKS LIKE ONE."]
My presence of mind together with my faculty of invention, here happily
came to my aid.
"Stay," I whispered; "mind what you are about, or you will make a
mistake. That is not a member of Parliament. I know him by sight but not
to speak to. He is a retail grocer who keeps a shop in Oxford Street."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite."
And so the elderly stranger passed us, little guessing what a narrow
escape he had had.
The position was truly appalling. Now we neared the Royal Academy, at
that time still situated in Trafalgar Square, and my would-be murderer
muttered something about "picking off" an R.A. or an Associate. The
wretched creature seemed well up in honorary titles. Next we wandered
along the Strand, and he thought of destroying a distinguished actor,
but the theatrical profession had doubtless long since gone to bed.
Thank goodness he had not gone far into the heart of Clubland, or he
might have found there a victim worthy of his murderous weapon.
On, on he led me, past Temple Bar, not without an eye for wandering
Judges and Queen's Counsel. Fortunately, at that hour, it was now about
four a.m., the newspapers had all gone to press, and there were no
eminent journalists about. Then he came to St. Paul's, and talked about
archbishops, bishops and canons, and I almost laughed at the idea of our
meeting a Church dignitary abroad at such a time.
Finally, we got into the heart of the City, and here I felt safe if he
had any designs on the Directors of the Bank of England or members of
the Stock Exchange.
It was in the middle of the deserted road opposite the Mansion House
that he stopped at last, and cast a fond look at the residence of the
Lord Mayor.
"He won't come out," he murmured; "none of them will, the cowards. Not
even an alderman."
[Illustration: "THEN HE CAME TO ST. PAUL'S."]
Then, after looking about him for a time--why, oh! why, were not the
suspicions of some policeman excited by our strange proceedings?--he
suddenly exclaimed, to my great joy:
"I am afraid it is no good. We shall have to give it up for to-night;
they are all in hiding, every one of them. To be sure, I might pick off
some stranger, and take my chance, but it is hardly good enough. I
should waste myself."
This was the pleasantest speech he had yet made, but his next was not so
agreeable.
"After all," he said, turning to me, "I don't think I could get anybody
better than you. You are a rather distinguished novelist, and the fact
that you write stories of crime would make it sound remarkable. What do
you say?"
I was almost too frightened to say anything. I was trembling all over,
for in a moment that dreadful hand might leap out of that dreadful
pocket, and my fate would be sealed. But, happily, my imagination once
more came to my aid.
"It is not a bad idea," I replied; "but I think you could do better.
Don't be in a hurry--there are plenty of distinguished people about, but
not at so late an hour as when you called on me last night. Come a
little earlier to-night, say at ten o'clock, and we'll see if we can't
find a Prince. I know them all by sight, and will point one out to you,
a good one. Of course, if you can't get anybody better, you can shoot
me."
[Illustration: "'THANK YOU,' HE SAID."]
"Thank you," he said, and for the first time he drew his hand out of
that horrible pocket of his, and grasped my own. "It is a good idea.
To-night then it shall be, at ten o'clock. Good morning."
I could hardly believe my senses when I saw the dreadful creature slowly
making his way towards Cheapside. But, indeed, my senses were failing
me. I turned giddy, and staggered against a lamp-post, where presently I
was found by a wandering policeman.