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

the soft cushions. The inside was lined with Russia leather, and was

in every way exquisitely fitted. A curious electric lamp of rather a

cumbersome pattern, I thought, was fixed on the back in such a

position as to be well above the rider’s head. A match-box furnished

the bottom of one window, and a cigar-cutter the other; the panels on

either side of the apron were decorated with mirrors; the wheels were

rubber tyred, and each of the windows had small blinds of heavy

stamped leather. Altogether it was most comfortable and complete.

“What do you think of it?” said Nikola, when I had finished my

scrutiny.

“It’s exactly like any other hansom,” I answered. “Except that it

is finished in a more expensive style than the average cab, I don’t

see any difference at all.”

“There you refer to it’s chief charm,” replied Nikola, with a grim

chuckle. “If it were different in any way to the ordinary

hansom, detection would be easy. As it is I am prepared to defy even

an expert to discover the mechanism without pulling it to

pieces.”

“What is the mechanism, then, and what purpose does it serve?”

“I will explain.”

He placed the lamp he held in his hand upon a bracket on the wall,

and then approached the vehicle.

“In the first place examine these cushions,” he said, pointing to

the interior. “You have doubtless remarked their softness. If you

study them closely you will observe that they are pneumatic. The only

difference is that the air used is the strongest anaesthetic known to

science. The glass in front, as you will observe now that I have

lowered it, fits into a slot in the apron when the latter is closed,

and thus, by a simple process, the interior becomes air-tight. When

this has been done the driver has but to press this knob, which at

first sight would appear to be part of the nickel rein-support, and a

valve opens on either side of the interior—in the match-box in the

right window, in the cigar-cutter in the left; the gas escapes, fills

the cab, and the result is—well, I will leave you to imagine the

result for yourself.”

“And then?” I muttered hoarsely, scarcely able to speak

distinctly, so overcome was I by the horrible exactness and ingenuity

of this murderous affair.

“Then the driver places his foot upon this treadle, which, you

see, is made to look as if it works the iron support that upholds the

vehicle when resting, the seat immediately revolves and the bottom

turns over, thus allowing the body to drop through on to the road.

Its very simplicity is its charm. Having carried out your plan you

have but to find a deserted street, drive along it, depress the

lever, and be rid of your fare when and where you please. By that

time he will be far past calling out, and you can drive quietly home,

conscious that your work is accomplished. Now what do you think of my

invention?”

For a few moments I did not answer, but sat upon an upturned box

close by, my head buried in my hands.

The agony of that minute no man will ever understand. Shame for

myself for listening, loathing of my demoniacal companion for

tempting me, hatred of Bartrand, and desire for revenge, all

struggled within me for the mastery. I could scarcely breathe; the

air of that hateful room seemed to suffocate me. At last I rose to my

feet, and as I did so another burst of fury seized me.

“Monster! Murderer!” I cried, turning like a madman on Nikola, who

was testing the appliances of his awful invention with a smile of

quiet satisfaction on his face. “Let me go, I will not succumb to

your temptations. Show me the way out of this house, or I will kill

you.”

Sobs shook my being to its very core. A violent fit of hysteria

had seized me, and under its influence I was not responsible for what

I said or did.

Nikola turned from the cab as calmly as if it had been an ordinary

hansom which he was examining with a view to purchase, and,

concentrating his gaze upon me as he spoke, said quietly:

“My dear Pennethorne, you are exciting yourself. Pray endeavour to

be calm. Believe me, there is nothing to be gained by talking in that

eccentric fashion. Sit down again and pull yourself together.”

As I looked into his face all my strength seemed to go from me.

Without a second’s hesitation I sat down as he commanded me, and

stared in a stupid, dazed fashion at the floor. I no longer had any

will of my own. Of course I can see now that he had hypnotised me;

but his methods must have been more deadly than I have ever seen

exercised before, for he did not insist upon my looking into his eyes

for any length of time, nor did he make any passes before my face as

I had seen professional mesmerists do. He simply glanced at

me—perhaps a little more fixedly than usual—and all my will was

immediately taken from me. When I was calm he spoke again.

“You are better now,” he said, “so we can talk. You must pay

particular attention to what I am going to say, and what I tell you

to do you will do to the letter. To begin with, you will now go back

to your hotel, and, as soon as you reach it, go to bed. You will

sleep without waking till four o’clock this afternoon; then you will

dress and go for a walk. During that walk you will think of the man

who has wronged you, and the more you think of him the fiercer your

hatred for him will become. At six o’clock you will return to your

hotel and dine, going to sleep again in the smoking-room till ten.

When the clock has struck you will wake, take a hansom, and drive to

23, Great Gunter Street, Soho. Arriving at the house, you will ask

for Levi Solomon, to whom you will be at once conducted. He will look

after you until I can communicate with you again. That is your

programme for the day. I order you not to fail in any single

particular of it. Now you had better be off. It is nearly six

o’clock.”

I rose from my seat and followed him out into the passage like a

dog; thence we made our way into the yard. To my surprise a cab was

standing waiting for us, the lamps glaring like fierce eyes into the

dark archway which led into the street.

“Get in,” said Nikola, opening the apron. “My man will drive you

to your hotel. On no account give him a gratuity, for I do not

countenance it, and he knows my principle. Good night.”

I obeyed him mechanically, still without emotion, and when I was

seated the cab drove out into the street.

Throughout the journey back to the hotel I sat in the corner

trying to think, and not succeeding. I was only conscious that,

whatever happened, I must obey Nikola in all he had told me to do.

Nothing else seemed of any importance.

On approaching my residence, I wondered how I should obtain

admittance; but, as it turned out, that proved an easy matter, for

when I arrived the servants were already up and about, and the front

door stood open. Disregarding the stare of astonishment with which I

was greeted, I went upstairs to my room, and in less than ten minutes

was in bed and fast asleep.

Strangely enough, considering the excitement of the previous

twenty-four hours, my sleep was dreamless. It seemed only a few

minutes from the time I closed my eyes till I was awake again, yet

the hands of my watch had stood at half-past six a.m. when I went to

bed, and when I opened my eyes again they chronicled four o’clock

exactly. So far I had fulfilled Nikola’s instructions to the letter.

Without hesitation I rose from my bed, dressed myself carefully, and

when I was ready, donned my overcoat and went out for a walk.

The evening was bitterly cold, and heavy snow was falling. To keep

myself warm I hurried along, and as I went I found my thoughts

reverting continually to Bartrand. I remembered my life at

Markapurlie, and the cat-and-dog existence I had passed there with

him. Then the memory of poor old Ben’s arrival at the station came

back to me as distinctly as if it had been but yesterday, and with

its coming the manager’s brutality roused me afresh. I thought of the

fight we had had, and then of the long weeks of nursing at the

wretched Mail Change on the plains. In my mind’s eye I seemed to see

poor old Ben sitting up in bed telling me his secret, and when I was

once more convalescent, went over, day by day, my journey to the

Boolga Ranges, and dreamt again the dreams of wealth that had

occupied my brain then, only to find myself robbed of my fortune at

the end. Now the man who had stolen my chance in life was one of the

richest men in England. He had in his possession all that is

popularly supposed to make life worth the living, and while he

entertained royalty, bought racehorses and yachts, and enjoyed every

advantage in life at my expense, left me to get along as best I

might. I might die of starvation in the gutter for all he would care.

At that moment I was passing a newsagent’s stall. On a board before

the door, setting forth the contents of an evening newspaper, was a

line that brought me up all standing with surprise, as the sailors

say. “Bartrand’s Generosity.—A Gift to the People,” it ran. I

went inside, bought a copy of the paper, and stood in the light of

the doorway to read the paragraph. It was as follows:—

“Mr. Richard Bartrand, the well-known Australian millionaire, has,

so we are informed, written to the London County Council offering to

make a free gift to the city of that large area of ground recently

occupied by Montgomery House, of which he has lately become the

possessor. The donor makes but one stipulation, and that is that it

shall be converted into public gardens, and shall be known in the

future as Bartrand Park. As the ground in question was purchased at

auction by the millionaire last week for the large sum of fifty

thousand pounds, the generosity of this gift cannot be overestimated.”

To the surprise of the newsagent I crushed the paper up, threw it

on the ground, and rushed from the shop in a blind rage. What right

had he to pose as a public benefactor, who was only a swindler and a

robber? What right had he to make gifts of fifty thousand pounds to

the people, when it was only by his villainy he had obtained the

money? But ah! I chuckled to myself, before many hours were over I

should be even with him, and then we would see what would happen. A

hatred more intense, more bitter, than I could ever have believed one

man could entertain for another, filled my breast. Under its

influence all my scruples vanished, and I wanted nothing but to cry

quits with my enemy.

For more than half an hour I hurried along, scarcely heeding where

I went, thinking only of my hatred, and gloating over the hideous

revenge I was about to take. That I was doing all this