The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕

class="calibre1">not go near that dreadful man again. One thing was indisputable:

whatever I did, I must do quickly. It was nearly one o’clock by this

time, and if I wanted to see him at the rendezvous I must hurry, or

he would have gone before I reached it. In that case, what should I

do with the cab?

 

After anxious thought I came to the conclusion that I had better

find him and hand him his terrible property. Then, if I wished to

give him the slip, I could lead him to suppose I intended returning

to my hotel, and afterwards act as I might deem best for my own

safety. This once decided, I turned the vehicle round, whipped up the

horse, and set off for Hogarth Square as fast as I could go. It was a

long journey, for several times I missed my way and had to retrace my

steps; but at last I accomplished it and drove into the Square. Sure

enough at the second lamppost on the left hand side, where he had

appointed to meet me, three men were standing beside a hansom cab,

and from the way they peered about, it was evident they were

anxiously awaiting the arrival of someone. One I could see at first

glance was Nikola, the other was probably his Chinese servant, the

man who had brought me the cab earlier in the evening, but the

third’s identity I could not guess. Nor did I waste time trying.

 

As I approached them Nikola held up his hand as a signal to me to

stop, and I immediately pulled up and got down. Not a question did he

ask about my success or otherwise, but took from the second cab a

bowler hat and a top coat, which I recognised as the garments I had

left at Levi Solomon’s that evening.

 

“Put these on,” he said, “and then come with me as quickly as you

can. I have a lot to say to you.”

 

I did as he ordered me, and when my sou’wester and cape had been

tossed into the empty cab, he beckoned me to follow him down the

square. His servant had meanwhile driven that awful cab away.

 

“Now, what have you to tell me?” he asked, when we had walked a

little distance along the pavement.

 

I stopped and faced him with a face, I’ll be bound, as ashen as

that of a corpse.

 

“I have done your fiendish bidding,” I hissed. “I am—God help

me—unintentionally what you have made me—a murderer.”

 

“Then the man is dead, is he?” replied Nikola, with icy calmness.

“That is satisfactory. Now we have to divert suspicion from yourself.

All things considered, I think you had better go straight back to

your hotel, and keep quiet there until I communicate with you. You

need have no fear as to your safety. No one will suspect you.

Hitherto we have been most successful in eluding detection.”

 

As he spoke, the memory of the other murders which had shocked all

London flashed through my brain, and instantly I realised everything.

The victims, so the medical men stated, had in each case been killed

by some anesthetic: they had been found in the centre of the road, as

if dropped from a vehicle, while their faces had all been mutilated

in the same uncanny fashion. I turned and looked at the man by my

side, and then, in an unaccountable fit of rage, threw myself upon

him. The men who actually did the deeds were innocent—here was the

real murderer—the man who had instigated and egged them on to

crime. He had led my soul into hell, but he should not escape scot

free.

 

The suddenness of my passion took him completely by surprise, but

only for an instant. Then, with a quick movement of his hands, he

caught my wrists, and held me in a grip of iron. I was disarmed and

powerless, and he knew it, and laughed mockingly.

 

“So you would try and add me to your list, would you, Mr. Gilbert

Pennethorne? Be thankful that I am mercifully inclined, and do not

punish you as you deserve.”

 

Without another word he threw me from him, with the ease of a

practised wrestler, and I fell upon the pavement as if I had been

shot. The shock brought me to my senses, and I rose an altogether

different man, though still hating him with a tenfold loathing as the

cause of all my misery. Having once rid himself of me however, he,

seemed to think no more of the matter.

 

“Now be off to your hotel,” he said sharply, “and don’t stir from

it until I communicate with you. By making this fuss you might have

hung yourself, to say nothing of implicating me. Tomorrow morning I

will let you know what is best to be done. In the meantime, remain

indoors, feign ill health, and don’t see any strangers on any pretext

whatever.”

 

He stood at the corner of the Square, and watched me till I had

turned the corner, as cool and diabolical a figure as the Author of

all Evil himself. I only looked back once, and then walked briskly on

until I reached Piccadilly Circus, where I halted and gazed about me

in a sort of dim confused wonderment at my position. What a variety

of events had occurred since the previous night, when I had stood in

the same place, and had heard the policeman’s whistle sound from

Jermyn Street, in proclamation of the second mysterious murder! How

little I had then thought that within twenty-four hours I should be

in the same peril as the murderer of the man I had seen lying under

the light of the policeman’s lantern! Perhaps even at this moment

Bartrand’s body had been discovered, and a hue and cry was on foot

for the man who had done the deed. With this thought in my mind, a

greater terror than I had yet felt came over me, and I set off as

hard as I could go down a bye-street into Trafalgar Square, thence by

way of Northumberland Avenue on to the Embankment. Once there I leant

upon the coping and looked down at the dark water slipping along so

silently on its way to the sea. Here was my chance if only I had the

pluck to avail myself of it. Life had now no hope left for me. Why

should I not throw myself over, and so escape the fate that must

inevitably await me if I lived? One moment’s courage, a little

struggling in the icy water, a last choking cry, and then it would

all be over and done with, and those who had the misfortune to call

themselves my kinsmen would be spared the mortification of seeing me

standing in a felon’s dock. I craned my neck still further over the

side, and looked at the blocks of ice as they went by, knocking

against each other with a faint musical sound that sounded like the

tinkling of tiny bells. I remembered the depth of the river, and

pictured my sodden body stranded on to the mud by the ebbing tide

somewhere near the sea. I could fancy the conjectures that would be

made concerning it. Would anyone connect me with—but there, I could

not go on. Nor could I do what I had proposed. Desperate as was my

case, I found I still clung to life with a tenacity that even crime

itself could not lessen. No; by hook or crook I must get out of

England to some place where nobody would know me, and where I could

begin a new life. By cunning it could surely be managed. But in that

case I knew I must not go back to my hotel, and run the risk of

seeing Nikola again. I distrusted his powers of saving me; and, if I

fell once more under his influence, goodness alone knew what I might

not be made to do. No; I would make some excuse to the landlord to

account for my absence, and then creep quietly out of England in such

a way that no one would suspect me. But how was it to be managed? To

remain in London would be to run endless risks. Anyone might

recognise me, and then capture would be inevitable. I turned out my

pockets and counted my money. Fortunately, I had cashed a cheque only

the day before, and now had nearly forty pounds in notes and gold in

my purse; not very much, it is true, but amply sufficient for my

present needs. The question was: Where should I go? Australia, the

United States, South America, South Africa? Which of these places

would be safest? The first and second I rejected without

consideration. The first I had tried, the second I had no desire to

visit. Chili, the Argentine, or Bechuanaland? It all depended on the

boats. To whichever place a vessel sailed first, to that place I

would go.

 

Casting one last glance at the ice-bound water below me, and with

a shudder at the thought of what I had contemplated doing when I

first arrived upon the Embankment, I made my way back into the

Strand. It was now close upon three o’clock, and already a few people

were abroad. If I were not out of London within a few hours, I might

be caught. I would go directly I had decided what it was imperative I

should know. Up one street and down another I toiled until at last I

came upon what I wanted, a small restaurant in a back street, devoted

to the interests of the early arrivals at Covent Garden Market. It

was only a tiny place, shabby in the extreme, but as it just suited

my purpose, I walked boldly in, and ordered a cup of cocoa and a

plate of sausages. While they were being prepared I seated myself in

one of the small compartments along the opposite wall, and with my

head upon my hands tried to think coherently. When the proprietor

brought me the food, I asked him if he could oblige me with the loan

of writing materials. He glanced at me rather queerly, I thought, but

did not hesitate to do what I asked. When he had gone again I dipped

the pen into the ink and wrote a note to the proprietor of my hotel,

telling him that I had been suddenly taken out of town by important

business, and asking him to forward my boxes, within a week, to the

cloak room, Aberdeen railway station, labelled “to be called for.”

I chose Aberdeen for the reason that it was a long distance from

London, and also because it struck me that if enquiries were made by

the police it would draw attention off my real route, which would

certainly not be in that direction. I then wrote a cheque for the

amount of my account, enclosed it, and having done so sealed up the

letter and put it in my pocket. On an adjoining table I espied a

newspaper, which I made haste to secure. Turning to the column where

the shipping advertisements were displayed, I searched the list for a

vessel outward bound to one of the ports I had chosen. I discovered

that to Chili or any of the South American Republics there would not

be a boat sailing for at least a week to come. When I turned to South

Africa I was more fortunate; a craft named the Fiji Princess

was advertised to sail from Southampton for Cape Town at 11 a.m. on

this self-same day. She was of 4,000 tons burden, but had only

accommodation for ten first-class passengers and fifty in the

steerage. What pleased me better