AN IMPERFECT CONFLAGRATION
Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered
my father an act which made a deep impression
on me at the time. This was before my marriage,
while I was living with my parents in Wisconsin.
My father and I were in the library of our home,
dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we had committed
that night. These consisted of household goods
mostly, and the task of equitable division was difficult.
We got on very well with the napkins, towels and
such things, and the silverware was parted pretty
nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that
when you try to divide a single music-box by two without
a remainder you will have trouble. It was that
music-box which brought disaster and disgrace upon
our family. If we had left it my poor father
might now be alive.
It was a most exquisite and beautiful
piece of workmanship inlaid with costly
woods and carven very curiously. It would not
only play a great variety of tunes, but would whistle
like a quail, bark like a dog, crow every morning
at daylight whether it was wound up or not, and break
the Ten Commandments. It was this last mentioned
accomplishment that won my father’s heart and
caused him to commit the only dishonorable act of
his life, though possibly he would have committed
more if he had been spared: he tried to conceal
that music-box from me, and declared upon his honor
that he had not taken it, though I know very well
that, so far as he was concerned, the burglary had
been undertaken chiefly for the purpose of obtaining
it.
My father had the music-box hidden
under his cloak; we had worn cloaks by way of disguise.
He had solemnly assured me that he did not take it.
I knew that he did, and knew something of which he
was evidently ignorant; namely, that the box would
crow at daylight and betray him if I could prolong
the division of profits till that time. All
occurred as I wished: as the gaslight began to
pale in the library and the shape of the windows was
seen dimly behind the curtains, a long cock-a-doodle-doo
came from beneath the old gentleman’s cloak,
followed by a few bars of an aria from Tannhauser,
ending with a loud click. A small hand-axe,
which we had used to break into the unlucky house,
lay between us on the table; I picked it up.
The old man seeing that further concealment was useless
took the box from under his cloak and set it on the
table. “Cut it in two if you prefer that
plan,” said he; “I tried to save it from
destruction.”
He was a passionate lover of music
and could himself play the concertina with expression
and feeling.
I said: “I do not question
the purity of your motive: it would be presumptuous
of me to sit in judgment on my father. But business
is business, and with this axe I am going to effect
a dissolution of our partnership unless you will consent
in all future burglaries to wear a bell-punch.”
“No,” he said, after some
reflection, “no, I could not do that; it would
look like a confession of dishonesty. People
would say that you distrusted me.”
I could not help admiring his spirit
and sensitiveness; for a moment I was proud of him
and disposed to overlook his fault, but a glance at
the richly jeweled music-box decided me, and, as I
said, I removed the old man from this vale of tears.
Having done so, I was a trifle uneasy. Not
only was he my father the author of my being but
the body would be certainly discovered. It was
now broad daylight and my mother was likely to enter
the library at any moment. Under the circumstances,
I thought it expedient to remove her also, which I
did. Then I paid off all the servants and discharged
them.
That afternoon I went to the chief
of police, told him what I had done and asked his
advice. It would be very painful to me if the
facts became publicly known. My conduct would
be generally condemned; the newspapers would bring
it up against me if ever I should run for office.
The chief saw the force of these considerations; he
was himself an assassin of wide experience.
After consulting with the presiding judge of the Court
of Variable Jurisdiction he advised me to conceal
the bodies in one of the bookcases, get a heavy insurance
on the house and burn it down. This I proceeded
to do.
In the library was a book-case which
my father had recently purchased of some cranky inventor
and had not filled. It was in shape and size
something like the old-fashioned “ward-robes”
which one sees in bed-rooms without closets, but opened
all the way down, like a woman’s night-dress.
It had glass doors. I had recently laid out
my parents and they were now rigid enough to stand
erect; so I stood them in this book-case, from which
I had removed the shelves. I locked them in and
tacked some curtains over the glass doors. The
inspector from the insurance office passed a half-dozen
times before the case without suspicion.
That night, after getting my policy,
I set fire to the house and started through the woods
to town, two miles away, where I managed to be found
about the time the excitement was at its height.
With cries of apprehension for the fate of my parents,
I joined the rush and arrived at the fire some two
hours after I had kindled it. The whole town
was there as I dashed up. The house was entirely
consumed, but in one end of the level bed of glowing
embers, bolt upright and uninjured, was that book-case!
The curtains had burned away, exposing the glass-doors,
through which the fierce, red light illuminated the
interior. There stood my dear father “in
his habit as he lived,” and at his side the
partner of his joys and sorrows. Not a hair of
them was singed, their clothing was intact.
On their heads and throats the injuries which in the
accomplishment of my designs I had been compelled
to inflict were conspicuous. As in the presence
of a miracle, the people were silent; awe and terror
had stilled every tongue. I was myself greatly
affected.
Some three years later, when the events
herein related had nearly faded from my memory, I
went to New York to assist in passing some counterfeit
United States bonds. Carelessly looking into
a furniture store one day, I saw the exact counterpart
of that book-case. “I bought it for a
trifle from a reformed inventor,” the dealer
explained. “He said it was fireproof, the
pores of the wood being filled with alum under hydraulic
pressure and the glass made of asbestos. I don’t
suppose it is really fireproof you can have
it at the price of an ordinary book-case.”
“No,” I said, “if
you cannot warrant it fireproof I won’t take
it” and I bade him good morning.
I would not have had it at any price:
it revived memories that were exceedingly disagreeable.