within me. I would welcome extinction."
As Pelegin spoke, his face blanched and he darted forward and seized Steppling's hand so tightly that the skin turned white. Never have I seen such an expression of terror on any man's face as Pelegin's at that moment.
"Why," he almost shrieked, "why did you open that window?"
For a moment, Steppling gazed on the terror-distorted face in silence. Then abruptly, he walked over and closed the window.
"Had I know that you objected," said he, "I would not have done so."
Lotario Pelegin drew himself together with a 'visible effort. "On such a night," he faltered, "death lurks in open windows. This is regular pneumonia weather."
But John Steppling had not opened the window and I was positive Pelegin knew that Steppling had lied.
Lotario Pelegin was possessed of a strangely magnetic personality. He was not attractive-looking, but he was endowed with a wonderful will power.
Had he cared to study mental telepathy, without a doubt he could have dominated the minds of most of the people with whom he came in contact. Whether or not he went in for this sort of thing I can not say, although there were several authoritative books on the subject hidden away on the shelves in his library.
As the weeks rolled on, an odd intimacy sprang up between Lotaria Pelegin and myself, an intimacy all the more queer because it was not intimate. Although we discussed many subjects, we refrained from mentioning our own personalities. I never referred to his past, because it seemed to me that a certain reticence was forced upon me even against my will. It was obvious that he desired to steer conversation away from channels which did not please him, and somehow his will prevailed over mine. Often I was on the point of questioning him point-blank, and yet something seemed to control my speech.
Pelegin lived all alone in a little old house on Thompson Street which had been the dwelling place of authors and artists for more than a hundred years. His studio was on the first-floor front and was filled with art treasures of great value, but what impressed itself most on my mind was the fact that all the pictures hung with their faces to the wall. Once, and once only, I attempted to turn one but I encountered such a look of hatred on Pelegin's face, that I immediately changed the subject; and yet no matter how hard I tried I could not banish it from my mind. The desire to view those pictures became almost an obsession to me. And yet, as I say, I never attempted to turn any, save on that one unforgettable occasion.
One night about half past ten, as I entered Pelegin's studio, I beheld him walking up and down the room as though his soul was in prison. He seemed strangely nervous and in his eyes there lurked a wild brilliancy which suggested insanity. At my entrance, he stopped abruptly in his walk and his face showed plainly that I was welcome.
"To be alone," said he, "at times, is maddening. I sometimes think that the one mistake of Creation was giving man the power to remember past occurrences. After all, when a thing is done, it's done. There matters should rest. But the trouble is in this book of Life, the author has delayed too long writing 'Finis.'"
Something of his cynicism found an echo in my heart.
"I agree with you," I told him. "A good many players continue to act even after the play is done."
Abruptly, Pelegin changed the subject.
"Come," he suggested, "lam going to finish painting a picture and you can sit beside me while I paint."
On an easel in one corner of the room stood a half-painted canvas. It was a picture of the desert, mound after mound of surging restless sand. Nowhere in the picture was there anything in sight save the sand and the sky. Pelegin seated himself before the picture and I slipped into a great armchair close by.
"To paint in colors by electric light," he declared ironically, "one must be somewhat of a genius."
"To accomplish, possibly," said I, "but not merely to attempt."
He made no answer, but commenced to paint. His manner of blocking in and the speed with which he worked was extraordinary. Not for a moment did he pause to choose a shade of color.
He reminded me of a man who walks down the same path time after time, until his feet have grown accustomed to the road. In his actions there was not the faintest touch of hesitancy. Under his hand, the painted desert changed. The sun died down, swallowed up in a great pall of blackness. And then it seemed as though the desert went mad. Waves of sand formed and swept wildly about like billows of soot.
I know I am describing the picture as though it were an actuality, but to me, at the moment, it seemed so. I could fairly feel the scorch of the burning dust upon my face. My tongue and lips felt parched. Truly, Pelegin was a genius. Never before or since have I been so affected by a picture. I felt as though I would go mad with thirst.
Then Pelegin began to speak. He did not appear to be addressing me. The tone of his voice was almost lifeless.
"And while that sandstorm was raging," he murmured, "I was virtually scalded alive. It was as hot as the interior of a volcano. The tiny bits of sand seemed to burn into my face like chips of glowing steel. And then, in the grayish-yellow blackness, something cold as death and slimy brushed against my hand!"
As Pelegin uttered the last word his voice fairly broke in a shriek. He rose from his seat and stood clawing at the air. As he did so the electric lights went out, plunging the room in utter darkness.
I sat as though stunned for several moments until I could focus my thoughts on concrete things. There seemed to be a draught throughout the room as though a window were open.
Pelegrin yelled, "My God!" and his voice seemed to end in a sickening gurgle as though he were being choked to death by some unseen horror.
And then, suddenly, the lights flared up again. Lotario Pelegin lay dead at my feet.
A deep, ghastly ridge encircled his neck and there was a faint trickle of crimson staining the carpet. But it was none of these things which froze my heart to ice. For what seemed to have sapped all life from my body was this; While the room had been in darkness something damp and cold and slimy had brushed against my hand.
I have always believed that the most
interesting branch of psychology is
the study of how people act under stated
conditions.
Had any one told me how I would have acted under the circumstances just recorded, I would not have believed them. I stooped over the prostrate body. Pelegin was dead; of this there was not the faintest doubt. What was I to do?
I realized that if I made the matter known to the police I would be accused of murder, for we two had been alone in the house. Under the circumstances there could be but one interpretation Of the murder. So I determined to slink from the house like a thief, unperceived.
And the simile is true, for, before I left, I searched through the drawer of Pelegin's desk until I found his diary. Of course I was committing a crime, but I did so without a qualm of conscience.
