The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  “There’s a telephone installed for the purpose,” said Raffles. “I should ring them up, if I were you. Try not to look blue about it, Bunny. They’re quite the nicest fellows in the world, and what you have to tell them is a mere microbe to the camels I’ve made them swallow without a grain of salt. It’s really the most convincing story one could conceive; but unfortunately there’s another point which will take more explaining away.”

  And even Raffles looked grave enough as I nodded.

  “You mean that they’ll find out you rang me up?”

  “They may,” said Raffles. “I see that I managed to replace the receiver all right. But still—they may.”

  “I’m afraid they will,” said I, uncomfortably. “I’m very much afraid I gave something of the kind away. You see, you had not replaced the receiver; it was dangling over you where you lay. This very question came up, and the brutes themselves seemed so quick to see its possibilities that I thought best to take the bull by the horns and own that I had been rung up by somebody. To be absolutely honest, I even went so far as to say I thought it was Raffles!”

  “You didn’t, Bunny!”

  “What could I say? I was obliged to think of somebody, and I saw they were not going to recognize you. So I put up a yarn about a wager we had made about this very trap of Maguire’s. You see, Raffles, I’ve never properly told you how I got in, and there’s no time now; but the first thing I had said was that I half expected to find you here before me. That was in case they spotted you at once. But it made all that part about the telephone fit in rather well.”

  “I should think it did, Bunny,” murmured Raffles, in a tone that added sensibly to my reward. “I couldn’t have done better myself, and you will forgive my saying that you have never in your life done half so well. Talk about that crack you gave me on the head! You have made it up to me a hundredfold by all you have done tonight. But the bother of it is that there’s still so much to do, and to hit upon, and so precious little time for thought as well as action.”

  I took out my watch and showed it to Raffles without a word. It was three o’clock in the morning, and the latter end of March. In little more than an hour there would be dim daylight in the streets. Raffles roused himself from a reverie with sudden decision.

  “There’s only one thing for it, Bunny,” said he. “We must trust each other and divide the labor. You ring up the police, and leave the rest to me.”

  “You haven’t hit upon any reason for the sort of burglar they think you were, ringing up the kind of man they know I am?”

  “Not yet, Bunny, but I shall. It may not be wanted for a day or so, and after all it isn’t for you to give the explanation. It would be highly suspicious if you did.”

  “So it would,” I agreed.

  “Then will you trust me to hit on something—if possible before morning—in any case by the time it’s wanted? I won’t fail you, Bunny. You must see how I can never, never fail you after tonight!”

  That settled it. I gripped his hand without another word, and remained on guard over the three sleepers while Raffles stole upstairs. I have since learned that there were servants at the top of the house, and in the basement a man, who actually heard some of our proceedings! But he was mercifully too accustomed to nocturnal orgies, and those of a far more uproarious character, to appear unless summoned to the scene. I believe he heard Raffles leave. But no secret was made of his exit: he let himself out and told me afterward that the first person he encountered in the street was the constable on the beat. Raffles wished him good-morning, as well he might; for he had been upstairs to wash his face and hands; and in the prize-fighter’s great hat and fur coat he might have marched round Scotland Yard itself, in spite of his having the gold brick from Sacramento in one pocket, the silver statuette of Maguire in the other, and round his waist the jewelled belt presented to that worthy by the State of Nevada.

  My immediate part was a little hard after the excitement of those small hours. I will only say that we had agreed that it would be wisest for me to lie like a log among the rest for half an hour, before staggering to my feet and rousing house and police; and that in that half-hour Barney Maguire crashed to the floor, without waking either himself or his companions, though not without bringing my beating heart into the very roof of my mouth.

  It was daybreak when I gave the alarm with bell and telephone. In a few minutes we had the house congested with dishevelled domestics, irascible doctors, and arbitrary minions of the law. If I told my story once, I told it a dozen times, and all on an empty stomach. But it was certainly a most plausible and consistent tale, even without that confirmation which none of the other victims was as yet sufficiently recovered to supply. And in the end I was permitted to retire from the scene until required to give further information, or to identify the prisoner whom the good police confidently expected to make before the day was out.

  I drove straight to the flat. The porter flew to help me out of my hansom. His face alarmed me more than any I had left in Half-moon Street. It alone might have spelled my ruin.

  “Your flat’s been entered in the night, sir,” he cried. “The thieves have taken everything they could lay hands on.”

  “Thieves in my flat!” I ejaculated aghast. There were one or two incriminating possessions up there, as well as at the Albany.

  “The door’s been forced with a jimmy,” said the porter. “It was the milkman who found it out. There’s a constable up there now.”

  A constable poking about in my flat of all others! I rushed upstairs without waiting for the lift. The invader was moistening his pencil between laborious notes in a fat pocketbook; he had penetrated no further than the forced door. I dashed past him in a fever. I kept my trophies in a wardrobe drawer specially fitted with a Bramah lock. The lock was broken—the drawer void.

  “Something valuable, sir?” inquired the intrusive constable at my heels.

  “Yes, indeed—some old family silver,” I answered. It was quite true. But the family was not mine.

  And not till then did the truth flash across my mind. Nothing else of value had been taken. But there was a meaningless litter in all the rooms. I turned to the porter, who had followed me up from the street; it was his wife who looked after the flat.

  “Get rid of this idiot as quick as you can,” I whispered. “I’m going straight to Scotland Yard myself. Let your wife tidy the place while I’m gone, and have the lock mended before she leaves. I’m going as I am, this minute!”

  And go I did, in the first hansom I could find—but not straight to Scotland Yard. I stopped the cab in Picadilly on the way.

  Old Raffles opened his own door to me. I cannot remember finding him fresher, more immaculate, more delightful to behold in every way. Could I paint a picture of Raffles with something other than my pen, it would be as I saw him that bright March morning, at his open door in the Albany, a trim, slim figure in matutinal gray, cool and gay and breezy as incarnate spring.

  “What on earth did you do it for?” I asked within.

  “It was the only solution,” he answered, handing me the cigarettes. “I saw it the moment I got outside.”

  “I don’t see it yet.”

  “Why should a burglar call an innocent gentleman away from home?”

  “That’s what we couldn’t make out.”

  “I tell you I got it directly I had left you. He called you away in order to burgle you too, of course!”

  And Raffles stood smiling upon me in all his incomparable radiance and audacity.

  “But why me?” I asked. “Why on earth should he burgle me?”

  “My dear Bunny, we must leave something to the imagination of the police. But we will assist them to a fact or two in due season. It was the dead of night when Maguire first took us to his house; it was at the Imperial Boxing Club we met him; and you meet queer fish at the Imperial Boxing Club. You may remember that he telephoned to his man to prepare supper for us, and that you and he discussed telephones and treasure
as we marched through the midnight streets. He was certainly bucking about his trophies, and for the sake of the argument you will be good enough to admit that you probably bucked about yours. What happens? You are overheard; you are followed; you are worked into the same scheme, and robbed on the same night.”

  “And you really think this will meet the case?”

  “I am quite certain of it, Bunny, so far as it rests wit us to meet the case at all.”

  “Then give me another cigarette, my dear fellow, and let me push on to Scotland Yard.”

  Raffles held up both hands in admiring horror. “Scotland Yard!”

  “To give a false description of what you took from that drawer in my wardrobe.”

  “A false description! Bunny, you have no more to learn from me. Time was when I wouldn’t have let you go there without me to retrieve a lost umbrella—let alone a lost cause!”

  And for once I was not sorry for Raffles to have the last unworthy word, as he stood once more at his outer door and gayly waved me down the stairs.

  THE SPOILS OF SACRILEGE

  There was one deed of those days which deserved a place in our original annals. It is the deed of which I am personally most ashamed. I have traced the course of a score of felonies, from their source in the brain of Raffles to their issue in his hands. I have omitted all mention of the one which emanated from my own miserable mind. But in these supplementary memoirs, wherein I pledged myself to extenuate nothing more that I might have to tell of Raffles, it is only fair that I should make as clean a breast of my own baseness. It was I, then, and I alone, who outraged natural sentiment, and trampled the expiring embers of elementary decency, by proposing and planning the raid upon my own old home.

  I would not accuse myself the more vehemently by making excuses at this point. Yet I feel bound to state that it was already many years since the place had passed from our possession into that of an utter alien, against whom I harbored a prejudice which was some excuse in itself. He had enlarged and altered the dear old place out of knowledge; nothing had been good enough for him as it stood in our day. The man was a hunting maniac, and where my dear father used to grow prize peaches under glass, this vandal was soon stabling his hothouse thoroughbreds, which took prizes in their turn at all the country shows. It was a southern county, and I never went down there without missing another greenhouse and noting a corresponding extension to the stables. Not that I ever set foot in the grounds from the day we left; but for some years I used to visit old friends in the neighborhood, and could never resist the temptation to reconnoiter the scenes of my childhood. And so far as could be seen from the road—which it stood too near—the house itself appeared to be the one thing that the horsey purchaser had left much as he found it.

  My only other excuse may be none at all in any eyes but mine. It was my passionate desire at this period to “keep up my end” with Raffles in every department of the game felonious. He would insist upon an equal division of all proceeds; it was for me to earn my share. So far I had been useful only at a pinch; the whole credit of any real success belonged invariably to Raffles. It had always been his idea. That was the tradition which I sought to end, and no means could compare with that of my unscrupulous choice. There was the one house in England of which I knew every inch, and Raffles only what I told him. For once I must lead, and Raffles follow, whether he liked it or not. He saw that himself; and I think he liked it better than he liked me for the desecration in view; but I had hardened my heart, and his feelings were too fine for actual remonstrance on such a point.

  I, in my obduracy, went to foul extremes. I drew plans of all the floors from memory. I actually descended upon my friends in the neighborhood, with the sole object of obtaining snap-shots over our own old garden wall. Even Raffles could not keep his eyebrows down when I showed him the prints one morning in the Albany. But he confined his open criticisms to the house.

  “Built in the late ’sixties, I see,” said Raffles, “or else very early in the ’seventies.”

  “Exactly when it was built,” I replied. “But that’s worthy of a sixpenny detective, Raffles! How on earth did you know?”

  “That slate tower bang over the porch, with the dormer windows and the iron railing and flagstaff atop makes us a present of the period. You see them on almost every house of a certain size built about thirty years ago. They are quite the most useless excrescences I know.”

  “Ours wasn’t,” I answered, with some warmth. “It was my sanctum sanctorum in the holidays. I smoked my first pipe up there, and wrote my first verses.”

  Raffles laid a kindly hand upon my shoulder—”Bunny, Bunny, you can rob the old place, and yet you can’t hear a word against it?”

  “That’s different,” said I relentlessly. “The tower was there in my time, but the man I mean to rob was not.”

  “You really do mean to do it, Bunny?”

  “By myself, if necessary? I averred.

  “Not again, Bunny, not again,” rejoined Raffles, laughing as he shook his head. “But do you think the man has enough to make it worth our while to go so far afield?”

  “Far afield! It’s not forty miles on the London and Brighton.”

  “Well, that’s as bad as a hundred on most lines. And when did you say it was to be?”

  “Friday week.”

  “I don’t much like a Friday, Bunny. Why make it one?”

  “It’s the night of their Hunt Point-to-Point. They wind up the season with it every year; and the bloated Guillemard usually sweeps the board with his fancy flyers.”

  “You mean the man in your old house?”

  “Yes; and he tops up with no end of dinner there,” I went on, “to his hunting pals and the bloods who ride for him. If the festive board doesn’t groan under a new regiment of challenge cups, it will be no fault of theirs, and old Guillemard will have to do them top-hole all the same.”

  “So it’s a case of common pot-hunting,” remarked Raffles, eyeing me shrewdly through the cigarette smoke.

  “Not for us, my dear fellow,” I made answer in his own tone. “I wouldn’t ask you to break into the next set of chambers here in the Albany for a few pieces of modern silver, Raffles. Not that we need scorn the cups if we get a chance of lifting them, and if Guillemard does so in the first instance. It’s by no means certain that he will. But it is pretty certain to be a lively night for him and his pals—and a vulnerable one for the best bedroom!”

  “Capital!” said Raffles, throwing coils of smoke between his smiles. “Still, if it’s a dinner-party, the hostess won’t leave her jewels upstairs. She’ll wear them, my boy.”

  “Not all of them, Raffles; she has far too many for that. Besides, it isn’t an ordinary dinner-party; they say Mrs. Guillemard is generally the only lady there, and that she’s quite charming in herself. Now, no charming woman would clap on all sail in jewels for a roomful of fox-hunters.”

  “It depends what jewels she has.”

  “Well, she might wear her rope of pearls.”

  “I should have said so.”

  “And, of course, her rings.”

  “Exactly, Bunny.”

  “But not necessarily her diamond tiara—”

  “Has she got one?”

  “—and certainly not her emerald and diamond necklace on top of all!”

  Raffles snatched the Sullivan from his lips, and his eyes burned like its end.

  “Bunny, do you mean to tell me there are all these things?”

  “Of course I do,” said I. “They are rich people, and he’s not such a brute as to spend everything on his stable. Her jewels are as much the talk as his hunters. My friends told me all about both the other day when I was down making inquiries. They thought my curiosity as natural as my wish for a few snapshots of the old place. In their opinion the emerald necklace alone must be worth thousands of pounds.”

  Raffles rubbed his hands in playful pantomime.

  “I only hope you didn’t ask too many questions, Bunny! B
ut if your friends are such old friends, you will never enter their heads when they hear what has happened, unless you are seen down there on the night, which might be fatal. Your approach will require some thought: if you like I can work out the shot for you. I shall go down independently, and the best thing may be to meet outside the house itself on the night of nights. But from that moment I am in your hands.”

  And on these refreshing lines our plan of campaign was gradually developed and elaborated into that finished study on which Raffles would rely like any artist of the footlights. None were more capable than he of coping with the occasion as it rose, of rising himself with the emergency of the moment, of snatching a victory from the very dust of defeat. Yet, for choice, every detail was premeditated, and an alternative expedient at each finger’s end for as many bare and awful possibilities. In this case, however, the finished study stopped short at the garden gate or wall; there I was to assume command; and though Raffles carried the actual tools of trade of which he alone was master, it was on the understanding that for once I should control and direct their use.

  I had gone down in evening-clothes by an evening train, but had carefully overshot old landmarks, and alighted at a small station some miles south of the one where I was still remembered. This committed me to a solitary and somewhat lengthy tramp; but the night was mild and starry, and I marched into it with a high stomach; for this was to be no costume crime, and yet I should have Raffles at my elbow all the night. Long before I reached my destination, indeed, he stood in wait for me on the white highway, and we finished with linked arms.

  “I came down early,” said Raffles, “and had a look at the races. I always prefer to measure my man, Bunny; and you needn’t sit in the front row of the stalls to take stock of your friend Guillemard. No wonder he doesn’t ride his own horses! The steeple-chaser isn’t foaled that would carry him round that course. But he’s a fine monument of a man, and he takes his troubles in a way that makes me blush to add to them.”

  “Did he lose a horse?” I inquired cheerfully.