The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales. Эдгар Аллан По
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replied that I should be happy to assist him, if I could do so consistently with a due regard to my own safety.
“Promise me,” said I, “ that you will allow me to leave the house unmolested when your experiment is at an end?”
“If you will obey me promptly, you shall be at perfect liberty to leave the house.”
“You will neither give me into custody, nor take any steps to pursue me.”
“On my honour as a Designer of Dados,” said he.
“Good,” said I; “go on.”
“Stand up,” said he, “and stretch out your arms at right angles to your body.”
“Suppose I don’t?” said I.
“I send a bullet through your left ear,” said he.
“But permit me to observe “ said I.
Bang! A ball cut off the lobe of my left ear.
The ear smarted, and I should have liked to attend to it, but under the circumstances I thought it better to comply with the whimsical old gentleman’s wishes.
“Very good,” said he. “Now do as I tell you, promptly and without a moment’s hesitation, or I cut off the lobe of your right ear. Throw me that life-preserver.”
“But—”
“Ah, would you?” said he, cocking the revolver.
The “click” decided me. Besides, the old gentleman’s eccentricity amused me, and I was curious to see how far it would carry him. So I tossed my life-preserver to him. He caught it neatly.
“Now take off your coat and throw it to me.”
I took off my coat, and threw it diagonally across the room.
“Now the waistcoat.”
I threw the waistcoat to him.
“Boots,” said he.
“They are shoes,” said I, in some trepidation lest he should take offence when no offence was really intended.
“Shoes then,” said he.
I threw my shoes to him.
“Trousers,” said he.
“Come, come; I say,” exclaimed I.
Bang! The lobe of the other ear came off. With all his eccentricity the old gentleman was a man of his word. He had the trousers, and with them my revolver, which happened to be in the right-hand pocket.
“Now the rest of your drapery.”
I threw him the rest of my drapery. He tied up my clothes in the table-cloth; and, telling me that he wouldn’t detain me any longer, made for the door with the bundle under his arm.
“Stop,” said I. “What is to become of me?”
“Really, I hardly know,” said he.
“You promised me my liberty,” said I.
“Certainly,” said he. “Don’t let me trespass any further on your time. You will find the street door open; or, if from force of habit you prefer the window, you will have no difficulty in clearing the area railings.”
“But I can’t go like this! Won’t you give me something to put on?”
“No,” said he, “ nothing at all. Good night.”
The quaint old man left the room with my bundle. I went after him, but I found that he had locked an inner door that led up stairs. The position was really a difficult one to deal with. I couldn’t possibly go into the street as I was, and if I remained I should certainly be given into custody in the morning. For some time I looked in vain for something to cover myself with. The hats and great coats were no doubt in the inner hall, at all events they were not accessible under the circumstances. There was a carpet on the floor, but it was fitted to the recesses of the room, and, moreover, a heavy sideboard stood upon it.
“However, there were twelve chairs in the room, and it was with no little pleasure I found on the back of each an antimacassar. Twelve antimacassars would go a long way towards covering me, and that was something.
I did my best with the antimacassars, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that they would not help me very much. They certainly covered me, but a gentleman walking through South Kensington at 3 a.m. dressed in nothing whatever but antimacassars, with the snow two feet deep on the ground, would be sure to attract attention. I might pretend that I was doing it for a wager, but who would believe me? I grew very cold.
I looked out of window, and presently saw the bull’s-eye of a policeman who was wearily plodding through the snow. I felt that my only course was to surrender to him.
“Policeman,” said I, from the window, “one word.”
“Anything wrong, sir’?” said he.
“I have been committing a burglary in this house, and shall feel deeply obliged to you if you will kindly take me into custody.”
“Nonsense, sir,” said he; “you’d better go to bed.”
“There is nothing I should like better, but I live in Lincoln’s Inn, and I have nothing on but antimacassars. I am almost frozen. Pray take me into custody.”
“The street door’s open,” said he.
“Yes,” said I. “ Come in.”
He came in. I explained the circumstances to him, and with great difficulty I convinced him that I was in earnest. The good fellow put his own great coat over me, and lent me his own handcuffs. In ten minutes I was thawing myself in Walton Street police station. In ten days I was convicted at the Old Bailey. In ten years I returned from penal servitude.
I found that poor Mr. Davis had gone to his long home in Brompton Cemetery.
For many years I never passed his house without a shudder at the terrible hours I spent in it as his guest. I have often tried to forget the incident I have been relating, and for a long time I tried in vain. Perseverance, however, met with its reward. I continued to try. Gradually one detail after another slipped from memory, and one lovely evening last May I found, to my intense delight, that I had absolutely forgotten all about it.
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