The Beetle (7 page)

The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the
handle in his hand.

He was in evening dress. He carried a small portfolio in his left
hand. If the discovery of my presence startled him, as it could
scarcely have failed to do, he allowed no sign of surprise to
escape him. Paul Lessingham's inpenetrability is proverbial.
Whether on platforms addressing excited crowds, or in the midst of
heated discussion in the House of Commons, all the world knows
that his coolness remains unruffled. It is generally understood
that he owes his success in the political arena in no slight
measure to the adroitness which is born of his invulnerable
presence of mind. He gave me a taste of its quality then. Standing
in the attitude which has been familiarised to us by
caricaturists, his feet apart, his broad shoulders well set back,
his handsome head a little advanced, his keen blue eyes having in
them something suggestive of a bird of prey considering just when,
where, and how to pounce, he regarded me for some seconds in
perfect silence,—whether outwardly I flinched I cannot say;
inwardly I know I did. When he spoke, it was without moving from
where he stood, and in the calm, airy tones in which he might have
addressed an acquaintance who had just dropped in.

'May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your
company?'

He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his
question in another form.

'Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you
here?'

As I still stood speechless, motionless, meeting his glance
without a twitching of an eyebrow, nor a tremor of the hand, I
imagine that he began to consider me with an even closer
intentness than before. And that the—to say the least of it—
peculiarity of my appearance, caused him to suspect that he was
face to face with an adventure of a peculiar kind. Whether he took
me for a lunatic I cannot certainly say; but, from his manner, I
think it possible he did. He began to move towards me from across
the room, addressing me with the utmost suavity and courtesy.

'Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are
holding in your hand.'

As he came on, something entered into me, and forced itself from
between my lips, so that I said, in a low, hissing voice, which I
vow was never mine,

'THE BEETLE!'

Whether it was, or was not, owing, in some degree, to a trick of
my imagination, I cannot determine, but, as the words were spoken,
it seemed to me that the lights went low, so that the place was
all in darkness, and I again was filled with the nauseous
consciousness of the presence of something evil in the room. But
if, in that matter, my abnormally strained imagination played me a
trick, there could be no doubt whatever as to the effect which the
words had on Mr Lessingham. When the mist of the blackness—real
or supposititious—had passed from before my eyes, I found that he
had retreated to the extremest limits of the room, and was
crouching, his back against the bookshelves, clutching at them, in
the attitude of a man who has received a staggering blow, from
which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of recovering. A most
extraordinary change had taken place in the expression of his
face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror seemed
struggling for the mastery. I was filled with a most discomforting
qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of me, and
realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god of
my political idolatry.

'Who are you?—In God's name, who are you?'

His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would
hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe.

'Who are you?—Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of
God, I bid you say!'

As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of
excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he
continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to
stand up straight. So far from exhibiting the impassivity for
which he was renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the
limbs in his body seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a
man afflicted with the shivering ague,—his very fingers were
twitching aimlessly, as they were stretched out on either side of
him, as if seeking for support from the shelves against which he
leaned.

'Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here?
what concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should
come and play these childish tricks with me? why? why?'

The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity. When he saw
that I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what
sounded to me like a stream of inchoate abuse.

'Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,—it's worse
than nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness! For that alone I could
have you punished, and I will!—and try to play the fool? Do you
think I am a boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may
try to conjure up? If so, you're wrong, as whoever sent you might
have had sense enough to let you know. If you tell me who you are,
and who sent you here, and what it is you want, I will be
merciful; if not, the police shall be sent for, and the law shall
take its course,—to the bitter end!—I warn you.—Do you hear?
You fool! tell me who you are?'

The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of
childish fury. He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that
his passion was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it.
He drew himself straight up. With a pocket-handkerchief which he
took from an inner pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips. Then,
clutching it tightly in his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness
which, under any other circumstances, I should have found
unbearable.

'Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the
role you have set yourself to play?'

His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his
character.

'If it be so, I presume that I, at least have liberty to speak.
When I find a gentleman, even one gifted with your eloquence of
silence, playing the part of burglar, I think you will grant that
a few words on my part cannot justly be considered to be out of
place.'

Again he paused. I could not but feel that he was employing the
vehicle of somewhat cumbrous sarcasm to gain time, and to give
himself the opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible,
his pristine courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me,
the mysterious utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest
foundations, was made plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole
business with a sort of cynical levity.

'To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or
through any portion of it, in that costume,—or, rather, in that
want of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street,—
would it not?—even in the Rue de Rabagas,—was it not the Rue de
Rabagas?'

He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was
wholly lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what
immediately followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in
the moon,—though I should probably have found great difficulty in
convincing him of my ignorance.

'I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas,—
that, of course;—is it not of course? The little house with the
blue-grey Venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is
there still the piano? with the tinny treble,—indeed, the whole
atmosphere, was it not tinny?—You agree with me?—I have not
forgotten. I am not even afraid to remember,—you perceive it?'

A new idea seemed to strike him,—born, perhaps, of my continued
silence.

'You look English,—is it possible that you are not English? What
are you then—French? We shall see!'

He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with
which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I
flatter myself that,—as the present narrative should show—I have
not made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to
improve my, originally, modest education, I regret that I have
never had so much as a ghost of a chance to acquire an even
rudimentary knowledge of any language except my own. Recognising,
I suppose, from my looks, that he was addressing me in a tongue to
which I was a stranger, after a time he stopped, added something
with a smile, and then began to talk to me in a lingo to which, in
a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for this time I had not
the faintest notion what it was,—it might have been gibberish for
all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he had succeeded no
better than before, he returned to English.

'You do not know French?—nor the patois of the Rue de Rabagas?
Very good,—then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow
of silence, or are you dumb,—except upon occasion? Your face is
English,—what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore,
that English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So
listen, sir, to what I have to say,—do me the favour to listen
carefully.'

He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear,
modulated tones there was a ring of something like a threat,—a
something which went very far beyond his words.

'You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten,
—that is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still
more. Go back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I
have forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour
to induce me to remember,—be very sure upon that point, say that
nothing will be gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of
delusion, of disease. I was in a condition, mentally and bodily,
in which pranks could have been played upon me by any trickster.
Such pranks were played. I know that now quite well. I do not
pretend to be proficient in the modus operandi of the hankey-
pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all the same,—one
susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your friend,
and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of his
old method,—nor of his new one either.—You hear me, sir?'

I remained motionless and silent,—an attitude which, plainly, he
resented.

'Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke
to me just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort
to measures which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.
—You hear me, sir?'

Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,—to his increased
annoyance.

'So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the
bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it
excellently well, but that you do understand what is said to you
is clear.—Come to business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the
packet of letters which you have stolen from my desk.'

He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince
himself as much as me,—and about his last words there was almost
a flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding.

'Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to
refuse?—in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will
quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me
into supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know
better.—Once more, are you going to give me that revolver and
those letters?'

Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater,—and his
agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was
not destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of
which the world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed
himself to be as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and
esteemed, as he easily could have done.

'Do you think I stand in awe of you?—you!—of such a thing as
you! Do as I tell you, or I myself will make you,—and, at the
same time, teach you a much-needed lesson.'

He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance.
He might not have been aware of it, but the repetitions of the
threats were, in themselves, confessions of weakness. He came a
step or two forward,—then, stopping short, began to tremble. The
perspiration broke out upon his brow; he made spasmodic little
dabs at it with his crumpled-up handkerchief. His eyes wandered
hither and thither, as if searching for something which they
feared to see yet were constrained to seek. He began to talk to
himself, out loud, in odd disconnected sentences,—apparently
ignoring me entirely.

'What was that?—It was nothing.—It was my imagination.—My
nerves are out of order.—I have been working too hard.—I am not
well.—WHAT'S THAT?'

This last inquiry came from him in a half-stifled shriek,—as the
door opened to admit the head and body of an elderly man in a
state of considerable undress. He had the tousled appearance of
one who had been unexpectedly roused out of slumber, and
unwillingly dragged from bed. Mr Lessingham stared at him as if he
had been a ghost, while he stared back at Mr Lessingham as if he
found a difficulty in crediting the evidence of his own eyes. It
was he who broke the silence,—stutteringly.

'I am sure I beg your pardon, sir, but one of the maids thought
that she heard the sound of a shot, and we came down to see if
there was anything the matter,—I had no idea, sir, that you were
here.' His eyes travelled from Mr Lessingham towards me,—suddenly
increasing, when they saw me, to about twice their previous size.
'God save us!—who is that?'

The man's self-evident cowardice possibly impressed Mr Lessingham
with the conviction that he himself was not cutting the most
dignified of figures. At any rate, he made a notable effort to,
once more, assume a bearing of greater determination.

'You are quite right, Matthews, quite right. I am obliged by your
watchfulness. At present you may leave the room—I propose to deal
with this fellow myself,—only remain with the other men upon the
landing, so that, if I call, you may come to my assistance.'