In the hours between four and my appointment with Mr. Fontesque, there were many moments when I nearly abandoned my scheme. On several occasions, I thought of hurrying home to Emma, to see her one last time before I was forever parted from her. Nothing was more difficult than to contemplate leaving her without so much as a last word of good-bye. But I knew I could not hide from her the strong emotion I was feeling then, and all depended upon my remaining calm and presenting a picture of normality.
Just before eight o’clock, I went into the laboratory, and made my simple preparations. I could not bring myself to stay there, though, and began to walk around the building, making sure I was alone. The factory was empty, the machinery still. I recalled the pride I felt when I had walked through it earlier that same day. Would it die with me? Or would Higgins and the others contrive to keep it running? I thought the latter might be the case, and oddly, that made me all the more proud of the place. I turned my back on it and moved to wait in the reception area.
When Fontesque arrived, I had calmed myself. I took his coat and hung it on a hall tree near the front door. I told him that Mr. Hardwick was working in the laboratory. “He’s about to conduct a rather fascinating experiment,” I said, and offered to take him there. As we walked, I expressed my hope that Mr. Fontesque had not been forced to travel far from his hotel for this appointment.
“No,” he said, “I’m staying at the Charles.”
When I said I did not know of it, he happily supplied its location. Good of him.
I opened the door to the laboratory, and stood slightly behind it as he walked in. The display of beakers and glass tubing enthralled him long enough for me to reach for the short, thick board I had left behind the door, to raise it, and-forcing myself not to shut my eyes as I did so-to deliver the blow which killed him instantly.
I felt for his heartbeat to be sure I had not merely stunned him. There was none. Perhaps this is why there was very little bleeding.
I exchanged the entire contents of his pockets for my own, even sacrificing my watch. I picked up his drummer’s case. I carried it to the front door, setting it near the coat, and walked back to the laboratory. I moved the body to the place where I might have stood working, taking care not to let his heels drag on the floor. I went into my office, to my private safe, used the combination known only to me, and took most of the petty cash I keep on hand there, leaving some cash behind to avoid suspicion should the police break the safe open at some later date. I then had with me enough money to sustain me in a modest way for a few weeks.
I returned to the laboratory, started the fire and hurried out, putting on Fontesque’s coat and hat, carrying his large and battered drummer’s case.
The lamplighter had already passed through the streets by the time I began to make my way toward Fontesque’s hotel. I hurried along the cobblestones, trying to turn my thoughts from the destruction of all I had built. I could not look back, Augustus, not even as I heard the cries of alarm when I was several streets away. No scent of acrid smoke reached me; only Fontesque’s scent. It was the scent of his cologne and his tobacco and his sweat, his very body, some part of his skin left to line the coat, an obscene lining made to fit over my own skin. I was uncomfortable in it.
I pulled the hat low and averted my face as I passed into the hotel. It was a modest but clean establishment. The room key I found in his pocket was stamped with the number 114, and I used it to open that door.
I had not taken a liking to Fontesque, but I was struck forcibly with a sense of the monstrousness of my crime as I stood in his room. The detritus of his daily life-a lonely life, it seemed-moved me more powerfully to a sense of shame than had his lifeless body. Scattered about the desk and dresser were various small wooden and metal objects, small tools and pulleys and gears, the items by which he earned his living.
His living. The irony was not lost on me.
On the bed were a few more of the objects, and an open leather satchel with a stained handle. It contained a pair of dark stockings, one with a hole in the toe; a set of garters; a nightshirt; two cotton handkerchiefs; undergarments; a pair of black suspenders; two neatly folded shirts; a pair of trousers and two small wooden objects not unlike the others on the bed. Near the washstand was a dampened and crumpled towel, a bottle of hair oil, a simple shaving cup and brush, a rubber comb (I could not help but miss my ivory comb and its silver case), a small bottle of inexpensive cologne and a little leather kit. The kit held a razor and strop, and a pair of scissors.
There were a few sheets of paper on the desk, among them a carbon copy of a list of his company’s wares. He had evidently puzzled over some sums, for one page held crossed out numbers and columns of figures; eventually I saw that he was trying to work out his commission on an order.
Knowing I would not sleep that night-I had no desire to lie where he had lain-I began to study the list of objects, and opened up the drummer’s case. The case was much neater, being partitioned off into numbered slots. I began matching the objects to descriptions on the list of wares, and was able to place almost every item strewn about the room back into the case. In this way I occupied the worst hours, those when I most clearly realized what I had done, what I had lost. I concentrated on these objects instead of my sins.
In the end I had replaced everything but the two wooden objects I had found in his satchel. These were stained and worn, and were, I decided, most likely some sort of shim that had been returned by a customer, or which was no longer in use.
I looked with pride at the case. I did not recognize all of the various implements, but this was of little concern to me. I had already decided that I would not take up Mr. Fontesque’s business. Sooner or later I might meet someone who knew him well enough to reveal me as an impostor.
Still, it would be best if Mr. Fontesque was thought to be alive, at least until I was safely out of town.
There was no trouble on that score. I changed into his clothes, packed my own with his belongings, and waited until the last moment before leaving the room to settle his account. The desk clerk was more concerned with the faces on the crisp bills than that of a departing guest, and so I escaped undue notice. I did not want to be recognized while waiting at the station, so I timed my appearance on the platform just as the seven o’clock train pulled in with a loud whistle and a squeal of brakes, bellowing cinder-filled smoke from its stack. As the noise of its arrival subsided, I heard a paperboy calling out a headline: “Hardwick Factory Fire Kills Owner!” I kept my head lowered, purchased a paper and tucked it beneath my arm.
I boarded the train, praying that no one who knew me or Fontesque would be riding in the coach cars. The train was not crowded, and I set the cases on the seat next to me to discourage unwanted company. Oh, for a private car as I was used to! But no one molested me.
That no man greeted me as Fontesque could not surprise me. He had been a surly man, and of no importance to our community. I, on the other hand, felt sure that I might be recognized at any moment, even in Fontesque’s sorry raiment. Imagine my feelings, then, when I opened the newspaper to hide my face behind it and was greeted with what was meant to be my own likeness on the front page!
It was, to be sure, a rather poor engraving copied from an old photograph. (You remember the one in the small wooden frame which stood above the mantle in the library? Perhaps you would be so kind as to discover if some Johnny Lightfingers from the Clarion stole it from my home?) As I calmed myself, I decided that the too thin lips and enlarged nose in this depiction would be of help; perhaps I would benefit from the artist’s lack of attention to detail.