Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  Raffles looked dim to me across the narrow compartment; but there was no nonsense in his look or voice. I longed to tell him all I knew, all that she had said to me and he had unwittingly interpreted; that she loved him, as now at last I knew she did; but I had given her my word, and after all it was a word to keep for both their sakes as well as for its own.

  “You were made for each other, you two!”

  That was all I said, and Raffles only laughed.

  “All the more reason to hook it round the world, Bunny, before there’s a dog’s chance of our meeting again.”

  He opened his paper the proper way up at last. The train rushed on with flying sparks, and flying lights along the line. We were getting nearer Dover now. My next brilliant remark was that I could “smell the sea.” Raffles let it pass; he had been talking of the close-of-play scores in the stop-press column, and I thought he was studying them rather silently. Or perhaps he was not studying them at all, but still thinking of Camilla Belsize, and the look from those brave bright eyes that she had never meant him to see. Then, suddenly, I perceived that his forehead was glistening white and wet in the lamplight.

  “What is it, Raffles? What’s the matter?”

  He reversed his paper with a shaky hand, and thrust it upon me without a word, merely pointing out four or five ill-printed lines of latest news. This was the item that danced before my eyes:

  TRAGIC DEATH OF FAMOUS MONEYLENDER

  Mr. Daniel Levy, the financier, reported shot dead at front gates of his residence in Thames Valley at 5.30 this afternoon, by unknown man who made good his escape.

  I looked up into a ghastly face.

  “It was half-past five when I left him, Bunny!”

  “You left him—”

  I could not ask it. But the ghastly face had given me a ghastlier thought.

  “As well as you are, Bunny!” so Raffles completed my sentence. “Do you think I’d leave him for dead at his own gates?”

  Of course I denied the thought; but it had come to haunt me none the less; for if I had sailed so near such a deed, what about Raffles under equal provocation? And what such motive for the very flight that we were making with but a moment’s preparation? It all fitted in, except the face and voice of Raffles as they had been while he was speaking of Camilla Belsize; but again, the fatal act would indeed have made him feel that he had lost her, and loosened his tongue upon his loss as something had done without doubt; and as for voice and face, there was no longer in either any lack of the mad excitement of the hunted man.

  “But what were you doing at his gates, A.J.?”

  “I saw him home. It was on my way. Why not?”

  “And you say you left him at half-past five?”

  “I swear it. I looked at my watch, thinking of my train, and my watch is plumb right.”

  “And you heard no shot as you went on?”

  “No — I was hurrying. I even ran. I must have been seen running! And now I’m like Charley’s Aunt,” he went on with his sardonic laugh, “and bound to stick to it until they catch me by the leg. Now you know what Mackenzie was doing down there! The old hound may be on my track already. There’s no going back now.”

  “Not for an innocent man?”

  “Not for such dubious innocence as mine, Bunny! Remember all we’ve been up to with poor old Levy for the last twenty-four hours.”

  He paused, remembering everything himself, as I could see; and the human compassion in his face should have been sufficient answer to my vile misgivings. But there was contrition in his look as well, and that was a much rarer sign in Raffles. Rarer still was a glance of alarm almost akin to panic, alike without precedent in my experience of my friend and beyond belief in my reading of his character. But through all there peeped a conscious enjoyment of these new sensations, a very zest in the novelty of fear, which I knew to be at once signally characteristic, and yet compatible either with his story or with my own base dread.

  “Nobody need ever know about that,” said I, with the certainty that nobody ever would know through the one other who knew already. But Raffles threw cold water upon that poor little flicker of confidence and good hope.

  “It’s bound to come out, Bunny. They’ll start accounting for his last hours on earth, and they’ll stick ominously in the first five minutes working backwards. Then I am described as bolting from the scene, then identified with myself, then found to have fled the country! Then Carlsbad, then our first row with him, then yesterday’s big cheque; my heavy double finds he was impersonated at the bank; it all comes out bit by bit, and if I’m caught it means that dingy Old Bailey dock on the capital charge!”

  “Then I’ll be with you,” said I, “as accessory before and after the fact. That’s one thing!”

  “No, no, Bunny! You must shake me off and get back to town. I’ll push you out as we slow down through the streets of Dover, and you can put up for the night at the Lord Warden. That’s the sort of public place for the likes of us to lie low in, Bunny. Don’t forget all my rules when I’m gone.”

  “You’re not going without me, A.J.”

  “Not even if I did it, Bunny?”

  “No; less than ever then!”

  Raffles leant across and took my hand. There was a flash of mischief in his eyes, but a very tender light as well.

  “It makes me almost wish I were what I do believe you thought I was,” said he, “to see you stick to me all the same! But it’s about time that we were making the lights of Dover,” he added, beating an abrupt retreat from sentiment, even to the length of getting up and looking out as we clattered through a country station. His head was in again before the platform was left behind, a pale face peering into mine, real panic flaring in those altered eyes, like blue lights at sea. “My God, Bunny!” cried Raffles. “I believe Dover’s as far as I shall ever get!”

  “Why? What’s the matter now?”

  “A head sticking out of the next compartment but one!”

  “Mackenzie’s?”

  “Yes!”

  I had seen it in his face.

  “After us already?”

  “God knows! Not necessarily; they watch the ports after a big murder.”

  “Swagger detectives from Scotland Yard?”

  Raffles did not answer; he had something else to do. Already he was turning his pockets inside out. A false beard rolled off the seat.

  “That’s for you,” he said as I picked it up. “I’ll finish making you up.” He was busy on himself in one of the oblong mirrors, kneeling on the cushions to be near his work. “If it’s a scent at all it must be a pretty hot one, Bunny, to have landed him in the very train and coach! But it mayn’t be as bad as it looked at first sight. He can’t have much to go upon yet. If he’s only going to shadow us while they find out more at home, we shall give him the slip all right.”

  “Do you think he saw you?”

  “Looking out? No, thank goodness, he was looking toward Dover too.”

  “But before we started?”

  “No, Bunny, I don’t believe he came aboard before Cannon Street. I remember hearing a bit of a fuss there. But our blinds were down, thank God!”

  They were all down now, but by our decreasing speed I felt that we were already gliding over level crossings to the admiration of belated townsfolk waiting at the gates. Raffles turned from his mirror, and I from mine, simultaneously; and even to my initiated eye it was not Raffles at all, but another noble scamp who even in those days before the war was the observed of all observers about town.

  “It’s ever so much better than anonymous disguises,” said Raffles, as he went to work upon me with his pocket make-up box and his lightning touch. “I was always rather like him, and I tried him on yesterday with such success at the bank that I certainly can’t do better to-night. As for you, Bunny, if you slouch your hat and stick your beard in your bread basket, you ought to pass for a poor relation or a disreputable dun. But here we are, my lad, and now for Meester Mackenzie o’ Scoteland Yarr
d!”

  The gaunt detective was in fact the first person we beheld upon the pier platform; raw-boned, stiff-jointed, and more than middle-aged, he must nevertheless have jumped out once again before the train stopped, and that almost on top of a diminutive telegraph boy, who was waiting while the old hound read his telegram with one eye and watched emerging passengers with both. Whether we should have passed him unobserved I cannot say. We could but have tried; but Raffles preferred to grasp the nettle and salute Mackenzie with a pleasant nod.

  “Good evening, my lord!” says the Scotchman with a canny smirk.

  “I can guess why you’re down here,” says Raffles, actually producing a palpable Sullivan under the nose of the law.

  “Is that a fact?” inquires the other, oiling the rebuff with deferential grin.

  “And I mustn’t stand between you and poor Dan Levy’s murderer,” adds my lord, nodding finally, when Mackenzie steps after him to my horror. But it is only to show Raffles his telegram. And he does not follow us on board.

  Neither did our disguises accompany our countenances across the Channel. It was at dead of night on the upper deck (whence all but us had fled) that Raffles showed me how to doff my beard and still look as though I had merely buttoned it inside my overcoat; meanwhile his own moustachios and imperial were disappearing by discreet degrees; and at last he told me why, though not by any means without pressing.

  “I’m only afraid you’ll want to turn straight back from Calais, Bunny!”

  “Oh, no, I shan’t.”

  “You’ll come with me round the world, so to speak?”

  “To its uttermost ends, A. J.!”

  “You do know now who it really is that I don’t want to see again just yet?”

  “Yes. I know. Now tell me what Mackenzie told you.”

  “It was all in the wire he showed me,” said Raffles. “The wire was to say that the murderer of Dan Levy had given himself up to the police!”

  Profane expletives flew from my lips; those of much holier men might have been no less unguardedly emphatic in the self-same circumstances.

  “But who was it?”

  “I could have told you all along if you hadn’t suspected me.”

  “It wasn’t a suspicion, Raffles. It was never more than a dread, and I didn’t even dread it in my heart of hearts. Do tell me now.”

  Raffles watched the red end of a ruined Sullivan make a fine trajectory as it flew to leeward between sea and stars.

  “It was that poor unlucky little alien who was waiting for him the other morning in Jermyn Street, and again last night near his own garden gate. That’s where he got him in the end. But it wasn’t a shooting case at all, Bunny; that’s why I never heard anything. It was a case of stabbing in accordance with the best traditions of the Latin races.”

  “God forgive both poor devils!” said I at last.

  “And other two,” said Raffles, “who have rather more to be forgiven.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Apologia

  On one of the worst days of last year, to wit the first day of the Eton and Harrow match, I had turned into the Hamman, in Jermyn Street, as the best available asylum for wet boots that might no longer enter any club. Mine had been removed by a little pinchbeck oriental in the outer courts, and I wandered within unpleasantly conscious of a hole in one sock, to find myself by no means the only obvious refugee from the rain. The bath was in fact inconveniently crowded. But at length I found a divan to suit me in an upstairs alcove. I had the choice indeed of more than one; but in spite of my antecedents I am fastidious about my cooling companions in a Turkish bath, and it was by no accident that I hung my clothes opposite to a newer morning coat and a pair of trousers more decisively creased than my own.

  But the coincidence in pickle was no less remarkable. In ensuing stages of physical devastation one had dim glimpses of a not unfamiliar, reddish countenance; but with the increment of years it has been my lot to contract short sight as well as incipient obesity, and in the hot rooms my glasses lose their grip upon my nose. So it was not until I lay swathed upon my divan that I recognised E.M. Garland in the fine fresh-faced owner of the nice clothes opposite mine. A tawny moustache rather spoilt him as Phoebus, and there was a hint of old gold about the shaven jaw and chin; but I never saw better looks of the unintellectual order; and the amber eye was as clear as ever, the great strong wicket-keeper’s hand unexpectedly hearty, when recognition dawned on Teddy in his turn.

  He spoke of Raffles without hesitation or reserve, and of me and my Raffles writings as though there was nothing reprehensible in one or the other, displaying indeed a flattering knowledge of those pious memorials.

  “But of course I take them with a grain of salt,” said Teddy Garland; “you don’t make me believe you were either of you such desperate dogs as all that. I can’t see you climbing ropes or squirming through scullery windows — even for the fun of the thing!” he added with somewhat tardy tact.

  It is certainly rather hard to credit now. I felt that after all there was something to be said for being too fat at forty, and that Teddy Garland had said it excellently.

  “Now,” he continued, “if only you would give us the row between Raffles and Dan Levy, I mean the whole battle royal that A.J. fought and won for me and my poor father, that would be something like! The world would see the sort of chap he really was.”

  “I am afraid it would have to see the sort of chaps we all were just then,” said I, as I still think with exemplary delicacy; but Teddy lay silent and florid for some time. These athletes have their vanity. But this one rose superior to his.

  “Manders,” said he, leaving his divan and coming and sitting on the edge of mine, “you have my free leave to give me and mine away to the four winds, if you will tell the truth about that duel, and what Raffles did for the lot of us!”

  “Perhaps he did more than you ever knew.”

  “Put it all in.”

  “It was a longer duel than you think. He once called it a guerilla duel.”

  “Then make a book of it.”

  “But I’ve written my last word about the old boy.”

  “Then by George I’ve a good mind to write it myself!”

  This was an awful threat. Happily he lacked the materials, and so I told him. “I haven’t got them all myself,” I added, only to be politely but openly disbelieved. “I don’t know where you were,” said I, “all that first day of the match, when it rained.”

  Garland was beginning to smile when the surprise of my statement got home and changed his face.

  “Do you mean to say A.J. never told you?” he cried, still incredulously.

  “No; he wouldn’t give you away.”

  “Not even to you — his pal?”

  “No. I was naturally curious on the point. But he refused to tell me.”

  “What a chap!” murmured Teddy, with a tender enthusiasm that made me love him. “What a friend for a fellow! Well, Manders, if you don’t write all this I certainly shall. So I may as well tell you where I was.”

  “I must say it would interest me to know.”

  My companion resumed his smile where he had left it off. “I wonder if you would ever guess?” he speculated, looking down into my face.

  “I don’t suppose I should.”

  “No more do I; not in a month of Sundays; for I spent that day on the very sofa I was on a minute ago!”

  I looked at the striped divan opposite. I looked at Teddy Garland sitting on mine. His smile was a little wry with the remnant of his bygone shame; he hurried on before I could find a word.

  “You remember that drug I had? Somnol I think it was. That was a risky game to play with any head but one’s own; still A. J. was right in thinking I should have been worse without any sleep at all. I should,” said Teddy, “but I should have rolled up at Lord’s! The beastly stuff put me asleep all right, but it didn’t keep me asleep long enough! I was awake before four, heard you both talking in the next room, remembered everythin
g in a flash! But for that flash I should have dropped off again in a minute; but if you remember all I had to remember, Manders, you won’t wonder that I lay madly awake all the rest of the night. My head was rotten with sleep, but my heart was in such hell as I couldn’t describe to you if I tried.”

  “I’ve been there,” said I, briefly.

  “Well, then, you can imagine my frightful thoughts. Suicide was one; but to get out of that came first, to get away without looking either of you in the face in broad daylight. So I shammed sleep when Raffles looked in, and when you both went out I dressed in five minutes and slunk out too. I had no idea where I was going. I don’t remember what brought me down into this street. It may have been my debt to Dan Levy. All I remember is finding myself opposite this place, my head splitting, and the sudden idea that a bath might freshen me up and couldn’t make me worse. I remembered A.J. telling me he had once taken six wickets after one. So in I came. I had my bath, and some tea and toast in the hot-rooms; we were all to have a late breakfast together, if you recollect. I felt I should be in plenty of time for that and Lord’s — if only I hadn’t boiled all the cricket out of me. So I came up here and lay down there. But what I hadn’t boiled out was that beastly drug. It got back on me like a boomerang. I closed my eyes for a minute — and it was well on in the afternoon when I awoke!”

  Here Teddy interrupted himself to order whiskies and soda of a metropolitan Bashi-Bazouk who happened to pass along the gallery; and to go stumbling over to his pockets, in his swaddling towels, for cigarettes and matches. And the rest of his discourse was less coherent.

  “Then I did feel it was a toss-up between my razor and a charge of shot! I had no idea it was raining; if you look up at that coloured skylight, you can’t say if it’s raining now. There’s another sort of hatchway on top of it. Then you hear that fountain tinkling all the time; you don’t hear any rain, do you? — It was after three, but I lay till nearly four simply cursing my luck; there was no hurry then. At last I wondered what the papers had to say about me — who was playing in my place, who’d won the toss and all the rest of it. So I had the nerve to send out for one, and what should I see? ‘No play at Lord’s’ — and sudden illness of my poor old father! You know the rest, Manders, because in less than twenty minutes after that we met.”