‘My name’s – Howitt. You’ll see it in the hotel register.’
‘Howitt? – I see – I’m glad I have met you, Mr Howitt. It seems that this man, Andrew Rolt, murdered his partner, a man named Douglas Colston.’
Mr Howitt was altogether oblivious of the things upon the floor. He clutched at the arms of his chair. His voice was shrill.
‘Murdered! How do they know he murdered him?’
‘It seems they have some shrewd ideas upon the point, from this.’
The stranger took from an inner pocket of his overcoat what proved, when he had unfolded it, to be a double-crown poster. He held it up in front of Mr Howitt. It was headed in large letters, ‘MURDER! £100 REWARD.’
‘You see, they are offering £100 reward for the apprehension of this man, Andrew Rolt. That looks as if someone had suspicions. Here is his description: Tall, thin, stoops; has sandy hair, thin on top, parted in the middle; restless grey eyes; wide mouth, bad teeth, thin lips; white face; speaks in a low, soft voice; has a nervous trick of rubbing his hands together.’ The stranger ceased reading from the placard to look at Mr Howitt. ‘Are you aware, sir, that this description is very much like you?’
Mr Howitt’s eyes were riveted on the placard. They had followed the stranger as he read. His manner was feverishly strained.
‘It’s not. Nothing of the sort. It’s your imagination. It’s not in the least like me.’
‘Pardon me, but the more I look at you the more clearly I perceive how strong is the resemblance. It is you to the life. As a detective’ – he paused, Mr Howitt held his breath – ‘I mean supposing I were a detective, which I am not’ – he paused again, Mr Howitt gave a gasp of relief – ‘I should feel almost justified in arresting you and claiming the reward. You are so made in the likeness of Andrew Rolt.’
‘I’m not. I deny it! It’s a lie!’
Mr Howitt stood up. His voice rose to a shriek. A fit of trembling came over him. It constrained him to sit down again. The stranger seemed amused.
‘My dear sir! I entreat you to be calm. I was not suggesting for one moment that you had any actual connection with the miscreant Rolt. The resemblance must be accidental. Did you not tell me your name was Howitt?’
‘Yes; that’s my name, Howitt – William Howitt.’
‘Any relation to the poet?’
‘Poet?’ Mr Howitt seemed mystified; then, to make a dash at it, ‘Yes; my great-uncle.’
‘I congratulate you, Mr Howitt, on your relationship. I have always been a great admirer of your great-uncle’s works. Perhaps I had better put this poster away. It may be useful for future reference.’
The stranger, folding up the placard, replaced it in his pocket. With a quick movement of his fingers he did something which detached what had seemed to be the inner lining of his overcoat from the coat itself – splitting the garment, as it were, and making it into two. As he did so, there fell from all sides of him another horde of crawling creatures. They dropped like lumps of jelly on to the floor, and remained for some seconds, a wriggling mass. Then, like their forerunners, they began to make incursions towards all the points of the compass. Mr Howitt, already in a condition of considerable agitation, stared at these ungainly forms in a state of mind which seemed to approach to stupefaction.
‘More of my pretty things, you perceive. I’m very fond of reptiles. I always have been. Don’t allow any of them to touch you. They might do you an injury. Reptiles sometimes do.’ He turned a little away from Mr Howitt. ‘I heard some particulars of this affair at Exeter. It seems that these two men, Rolt and Colston, were not only partners in the profession of the law, they were also partners in the profession of swindling. Thorough-paced rogues, both of them. Unfortunately, there is not a doubt of it. But it appears that the man Rolt was not only false to the world at large, he was false even to his partner. Don’t you think, Mr Howitt, that it is odd that a man should be false to his partner?’
The inquiry was unheeded. Mr Howitt was gazing at the crawling creatures which seemed to be clustering about his chair.
‘Ring the bell!’ he gasped. ‘Ring the bell! Have them taken away!’
‘Have what taken away? My pretty playthings? My dear sir, to touch them would be dangerous. If you are very careful not to move from your seat, I think I may guarantee that you will be safe. You did not notice my question. Don’t you think it odd that a man should be false to his partner?’
‘Eh? – Oh! – Yes; very.’
The stranger eyed the other intently. There was something in Mr Howitt’s demeanour which, to say the least of it, was singular.
‘I thought you would think it was odd. It appears that one night the two men agreed that they would divide spoils. They proceeded to do so then and there. Colston, wholly unsuspicious of evil, was seated at a table, making up a partnership account. Rolt, stealing up behind him, stupefied him with chloroform.’
‘It wasn’t chloroform.’
‘Not chloroform? May I ask how you know?’
‘I – I guessed it.’
‘For a stranger, rather a curious subject on which to hazard a guess, don’t you think so? However, allowing your guess, we will say it was not chloroform. Whatever it was it stupefied Colston. Rolt, when he perceived Colston was senseless, produced a knife – like this.’
The stranger flourished in the air a big steel blade, which was shaped like a hunting-knife. As he did so, throwing his overcoat from him on to the floor, he turned right round towards Mr Howitt. Mr Howitt stared at him voiceless. It was not so much at the sufficiently ugly weapon he was holding in his hand at which he stared, as at the man himself. The stranger, indeed, presented an extraordinary spectacle. The upper portion of his body was enveloped in some sort of oilskin – such as sailors wear in dirty weather. The oilskin was inflated to such an extent that the upper half of him resembled nothing so much as a huge ill-shaped bladder. That it was inflated was evident, with something, too, that was conspicuously alive. The oilskin writhed and twisted, surged and heaved, in a fashion that was anything but pleasant to behold.
‘You look at me! See here!’
The stranger dashed the knife he held into his own breast, or he seemed to. He cut the oilskin open from top to bottom. And there gushed forth, not his heart’s blood, but an amazing mass of hissing, struggling, twisting serpents. They fell, all sorts and sizes, in a confused, furious, frenzied heap, upon the floor. In a moment the room seemed to be alive with snakes. They dashed hither and thither, in and out, round and round, in search either of refuge or revenge. And, as the snakes came on, the efts, the newts, the lizards, and the other creeping things, in their desire to escape them, crawled up the curtains, and the doors, and the walls.
Mr Howitt gave utterance to a sort of strangled exclamation. He retained sufficient presence of mind to spring upon the seat of his chair, and to sit upon the back of it. The stranger remained standing, apparently wholly unmoved, in the midst of the seeming pandemonium of creepy things.
‘Do you not like snakes, Mr Howitt? I do! They appeal to me strongly. This is part of my collection. I rather pride myself on the ingenuity of the contrivance which enables me to carry my pets about with me wherever I may go. At the same time you are wise in removing your feet from the floor. Not all of them are poisonous. Possibly the more poisonous ones may not be able to reach you where you are. You see this knife?’ The stranger extended it towards Mr Howitt. ‘This is the knife with which, when he had stupefied him, Andrew Rolt slashed Douglas Colston about the head and face and throat like this!’
The removal of his overcoat, and, still more, the vomiting forth of the nest of serpents, had decreased the stranger’s bulk by more than one-half. Disembarrassing himself of the remnants of his oilskins, he removed his soft felt hat, and, tearing off his huge black beard, stood revealed as a tall, upstanding, muscularly-built man, whose head and face and neck were almost entirely concealed by strips of plaster, which crossed and recrossed each other in a
ll possible and impossible directions.
There was silence. The two men stared at each other. With a gasp Mr Howitt found his voice.
‘Douglas!’
‘Andrew!’
‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I am risen from the grave.’
‘I am glad you are not dead.’
‘Why?’
Mr Howitt paused as if to moisten his parched lips.
‘I never meant to kill you.’
‘In that case, Andrew, your meaning was unfortunate. I do mean to kill you – now.’
‘Don’t kill me, Douglas.’
‘A reason, Andrew?’
‘If you knew what I have suffered since I thought I had killed you, you would not wish to take upon yourself the burden which I have had to bear.’
‘My nerves, Andrew, are stronger than yours. What would crush you to the ground would not weigh on me at all. Surely you knew that before.’ Mr Howitt fidgeted on the back of his chair. ‘It was not that you did not mean to kill me. You lacked the courage. You gashed me like some frenzied cur. Then, afraid of your own handiwork, you ran to save your skin. You dared not wait to see if what you had meant to do was done. Why, Andrew, as soon as the effects of your drug had gone, I sat up. I heard you running down the stairs, I saw your knife lying at my side, all stained with my own blood – see, Andrew, the stains are on it still! I even picked up this scrap of paper which had fallen from your pocket on to the floor.’
He held out a piece of paper towards Mr Howitt.
‘It is the advertisement of an hotel – Hôtel de la Couronne d’Or, St. Hélier’s, Jersey. I said to myself, I wonder if that is where Andrew is gone. I will go and see. And if I find him I will kill him. I have found you, and behold, your heart has so melted within you that already you feel something of the pangs of death.’ Mr Howitt did seem to be more dead than alive. His face was bloodless. He was shivering as if with cold.
‘These melodramatic and, indeed, slightly absurd details’ – the stranger waved his hand towards the efts, and newts, and snakes, and lizards – ‘were planned for your especial benefit. I was aware what a horror you had of creeping things. I take it, it is constitutional. I knew I had but to spring on you half a bushel or so of reptiles, and all the little courage you ever had would vanish. As it has done.’
The stranger stopped. He looked, with evident enjoyment of his misery, at the miserable creature squatted on the back of the chair in front of him. Mr Howitt tried to speak. Two or three times he opened his mouth, but there came forth no sound. At last he said, in curiously husky tones –
‘Douglas?’
‘Andrew?’
‘If you do it they are sure to have you. It is not easy to get away from Jersey.’
‘How kind of you, Andrew, and how thoughtful! But you might have spared yourself your thought. I have arranged all that. There is a cattle-boat leaves for St Malo in half an hour on the tide. You will be dead in less than half an hour – so I go in that.’
Again there were movements of Mr Howitt’s lips. But no words were audible. The stranger continued.
‘The question which I have had to ask myself has been, how shall I kill you? I might kill you with the knife with which you endeavoured to kill me.’ As he spoke, he tested the keenness of the blade with his fingers. ‘With it I might slit your throat from ear to ear, or I might use it in half a hundred different ways. Or I might shoot you like a dog.’ Producing a revolver, he pointed it at Mr Howitt’s head. ‘Sit quite still, Andrew, or I may be tempted to flatten your nose with a bullet. You know I can shoot straight. Or I might avail myself of this.’
Still keeping the revolver pointed at Mr Howitt’s head, he took from his waistcoat pocket a small syringe.
‘This, Andrew, is a hypodermic syringe. I have but to take firm hold of you, thrust the point into one of the blood-vessels of your neck, and inject the contents; you will at once endure exquisite tortures which, after two or three minutes, which will seem to you like centuries, will result in death. But I have resolved to do myself, and you, this service, with neither of the three.’
Again the stranger stopped. This time Mr Howitt made no attempt to speak. He was not a pleasant object to contemplate. As the other had said, to judge from his appearance he already seemed to be suffering some of the pangs of death. All the manhood had gone from him. Only the shell of what was meant to be a man remained. The exhibition of his pitiful cowardice afforded his whilom partner unqualified pleasure.
‘Have you ever heard of an author named De Quincey? He wrote on murder, considered as a fine art. It is as a fine art I have had to consider it. In that connection I have had to consider three things: 1. That you must be killed. 2. That you must be killed in such a manner that you shall suffer the greatest possible amount of pain. 3. – and not the least essential – That you must be killed in such a manner that under no circumstances can I be found guilty of having caused your death. I have given these three points my careful consideration, and I think that I have been able to find something which will satisfy all the requirements. That something is in this box.’
The stranger went to the box which was on the table – the square box which had, as ornamentation, the hideously alternating stripes of blue and green and yellow. He rapped on it with his knuckles. As he did so, from within it there came a peculiar sound like a sullen murmur.
‘You hear? It is death calling to you from the box. It awaits its prey. It bids you come.’
He struck the box a little bit harder. There proceeded from it, as if responsive to his touch, what seemed to be a series of sharp and angry screeches.
‘Again! It loses patience. It grows angry. It bids you hasten. Ah!’
He brought his hand down heavily upon the top of the box. Immediately the room was filled with a discord of sounds, cries, yelpings, screams, snarls, the tumult dying away in what seemed to be an intermittent, sullen roaring. The noise served to rouse the snakes, and efts, and lizards to renewed activity. The room seemed again to be alive with them. As he listened, Mr Howitt became livid. He was, apparently, becoming imbecile with terror.
His aforetime partner, turning to him, pointed to the box with outstretched hand.
‘What a row it makes! What a rage it’s in! Your death screams out to you, with a ravening longing – the most awful death that a man can die. Andrew – to die! And such a death as this!’
Again he struck the box. Again there came from it that dreadful discord. ‘Stand up!’
Mr Howitt looked at him, as a drivelling idiot might look at a keeper whom he fears. It seemed as if he made an effort to frame his lips for the utterance of speech. But he had lost the control of his muscles. With every fibre of his being he seemed to make a dumb appeal for mercy to the man in front of him. The appeal was made in vain. The command was repeated.
‘Get off your chair, and stand upon the floor.’
Like some trembling automaton Mr Howitt did as he was told. He stood there like some lunatic deaf mute. It seemed as if he could not move, save at the bidding of his master. That master was careful not to loosen, by so much as a hair’s-breadth, the hold he had of him.
‘I now proceed to put into execution the most exquisite part of my whole scheme. Were I to unfasten the box and let death loose upon you, some time or other it might come out – these things do come out at times – and it might then appear that the deed had, after all, been mine. I would avoid such risks. So you shall be your own slayer, Andrew. You shall yourself unloose the box, and you shall yourself give death its freedom, so that it may work on you its will. The most awful death that a man can die! Come to me, here!’
And the man went to him, moving with a curious, stiff gait, such as one might expect from an automaton. The creatures writhing on the floor went unheeded, even though he trod on them.
‘Stand still in front of the box.’ The man stood still. ‘Kneel down.’
The man did hesitate. There did seem to come to him some cons
ciousness that he should himself be the originator of his own volition. There did come on to his distorted visage an agony of supplication which it was terrible to witness.
The only result was an emphasised renewal of the command.
‘Kneel down upon the floor.’
And the man knelt down. His face was within a few inches of the painted box. As he knelt the stranger struck the box once more with the knuckles of his hand. And again there came from it that strange tumult of discordant sounds.
‘Quick, Andrew, quick, quick! Press your finger on the spring! Unfasten the box!’
The man did as he was bid. And, in an instant, like a conjurer’s trick, the box fell all to pieces, and there sprang from it, right into Mr Howitt’s face, with a dreadful noise, some dreadful thing which enfolded his head in its hideous embraces.
There was a silence.
Then the stranger laughed. He called softly –
‘Andrew!’ All was still. ‘Andrew!’ Again there was none that answered. The laughter was renewed.
‘I do believe he’s dead. I had always supposed that the stories about being able to frighten a man to death were all apocryphal. But that a man could be frightened to death by a thing like this – a toy!’
He touched the creature which concealed Mr Howitt’s head and face. As he said, it was a toy. A development of the old-fashioned jack-in-the-box. A dreadful development, and a dreadful toy. Made in the image of some creature of the squid class, painted in livid hues, provided with a dozen long, quivering tentacles, each actuated by a spring of its own. It was these tentacles which had enfolded Mr Howitt’s head in their embraces.
As the stranger put them from him, Mr Howitt’s head fell, face foremost, on to the table. His partner, lifting it up, gazed down at him.
Had the creature actually been what it was intended to represent it could not have worked more summary execution. The look which was on the dead man’s face as his partner turned it upwards was terrible to see.
THE PROGRESS OF JOHN ARTHUR CRABBE by Stephen Gregory
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Page 6
