The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  “It would be great,” cried Fergus. “But could it be done?”

  “It can be, it will be, and is being done,” replied the manager, replacing the bank revolver and sliding over the counter like a boy. A square of plain linoleum covered the floor, overlapped by a border of the same material bearing a design. Down went Macbean upon his knees, and his beard swept this border as he began pulling it up, tacks and all.

  The lamp burned brightly on the counter, its rays reflected in the burnished mahogany. All at once Fergus seized it on his own initiative, and set it on the floor before his kneeling elder, going upon his own knees on the other side. And where the plain linoleum ended, but where the overlapping border covered the floor, the planks were sawn through and through down one side of the central and self-colored square.

  “A trap-door!” exclaimed Fergus in a whisper.

  Macbean leant back on his slippered heels, his skull-cap wickedly awry.

  “This border takes a lot o’ lifting,” said he. “Yet we’ve just got to lift it every time, and tack it down again before morning. You might try your hand over yonder on the far side.”

  Fergus complied with so much energy that the whole border was ripped up in a minute; and he was not mistaken. A trap-door it was, of huge dimensions, almost exactly covered by the self-colored square; but at each side a tongue of linoleum had been left loose for lifting it; and the lamp had scarcely been replaced upon the counter when the bulk of the floor leaned upright in one piece against the opposite wall. It had uncovered a pit of corresponding size, but as yet hardly deep enough to afford a hiding-place for the bucket, spade, and pickaxe which lay there on a length of sacking.

  “I see!” exclaimed Carrick, as the full light flooded his brain.

  “Is that a fact?” inquired the manager twinkling.

  “You’re going to make a deep hole of it—?”

  “No. I’m going to pay you to make it deep for me—”

  “And then—”

  “At dead o’ night; you can take out your sleep by day.”

  “When Stingaree comes—”

  “If he waits till we’re ready for him—”

  “You touch some lever—”

  “And the floor swallows him, as I said, if he waits till we are ready for him. Everything depends on that—and on your silence. We must take time. It isn’t only the digging of the hole. We need to fix up some counterpoise to make it shut after a body like a mouse-trap; we must do the thing thoroughly if we do it at all; and till it’s done, not a word to a soul in the same hemisphere! In the end I suppose I shall have to tell Donkin, my cashier, and Fowler the clerk. Donkin’s a disbeliever who deserves the name o’ Didymus more than ony mon o’ my acquaintance. Fowler would take so kindly to the whole idea that he’d blurt it out within a week. He may find it out when all’s in readiness, but I’ll no tell him even then. See how I trust a brither Scot at sight!”

  “I much appreciate it,” said Fergus, humbly.

  “I wouldna ha’ trustit even you, gin I hadna found the delvin’ ill worrk for auld shoulders,” pursued Macbean, broadening his speech with intentional humor. “Noo, wull ye do’t or wull ye no?”

  The young man’s answer was to strip off his coat and spring into the hole, and to set to work with such energy, yet so quietly, that the bucket was filled in a few almost silent seconds. Macbean carried it off, unlocking doors for the nonce, while Fergus remained in the hole to mop his forehead.

  “We need to have another bucket,” said the manager, on his return. “I’ve thought of every other thing. There’s a disused well in the yard, and down goes every blessed bucket!”

  To and fro, over the lip of the closing well, back into the throat of the deepening hole, went the buckets for many a night; and by day Fergus Carrick employed his best wits to make an intrinsically anomalous position appear natural to the world. It was a position which he himself could thoroughly enjoy; he was largely his own master. He had daily opportunities of picking up the ways and customs of the bush, and a nightly excitement which did not pall as the secret task approached conclusion; but he was subjected to much chaff and questioning from the other young bloods of Glenranald. He felt from the first that it was what he must expect. He was a groom with a place at his master’s table; he was a jackeroo who introduced station life into a town. And the element of underlying mystery, really existing as it did, was detected soon enough by other young heads, led by that of Fowler, the keen bank clerk.

  “I was looking at you both together, and you do favor the old man, and no error!” he would say; or else, “What is it you could hang the boss for, Fergy, old toucher?”

  These delicate but cryptic sallies being ignored or parried, the heavy swamp of innuendo was invariably deserted for the breezy hill-top of plain speech, and Fergus had often work enough to put a guard upon hand and tongue. But his temperament was eminently self-contained, and on the whole he was an elusive target for the witticisms of his friends. There was no wit, however, and no attempt at it on the part of Donkin, the cantankerous cashier. He seldom addressed a word to Carrick, never a civil word, but more than once he treated his chief to a sarcastic remonstrance on his degrading familiarity with an underling. In such encounters the imperturbable graybeard was well able to take care of himself, albeit he expressed to Fergus a regret that he had not exercised a little more ingenuity in the beginning.

  “You should have come to me with a letter of introduction,” said he.

  “But who would have given me one?”

  “I would, yon first night, and you’d have presented it next day in office hours,” replied the manager. “But it’s too late to think about it now, and in a few days Donkin may know the truth.”

  He might have known it already, but for one difficulty. They had digged their pit to the generous depth of eight feet, so that a tall prisoner could barely touch the trap-door with extended finger-tips; and Stingaree (whose latest performance was no longer the Yallarook affair) was of medium height according to his police description. The trap-door was a double one, which parted in the centre with the deadly precision of the gallows floor. The difficulty was to make the flaps close automatically, with the mouse-trap effect of Macbean’s ambition. It was managed eventually by boring separate wells for a weight behind the hinges on either side. Copper wire running on minute pulleys let into grooves suspended these weights and connected them with the flaps, and powerful door-springs supplemented the more elaborate contrivance. The lever controlling the whole was concealed under the counter, and reached by thrusting a foot through a panel, which also opened inward on a spring.

  It may be conceived that all this represented the midnight labors and the constant thought of many weeks. It was now the beginning of the cool but brilliant Riverina winter, and, despite the disparity in their years, the two Scotsmen were fast friends. They had worked together as one man, with the same patient passion for perfection, the same delight in detail for its own sake. Almost the only difference was that the old fellow refreshed his energies with the glass of whiskey which was never far from his elbow after banking hours, while the young one cultivated the local excess of continual tea. And all this time the rascally Stingaree ranged the district, with or without his taciturn accomplice, covering great distances in fabulous time, lurking none knew where, and springing on the unwary in the last places in which his presence was suspected.

  “But he has not yet robbed a bank, and we have our hopes,” wrote Fergus to a faithful sister at Largs. “It may be for fear of the revolvers with which all the banks are provided now. Mr. Macbean has been practising with ours, and purposely put a bullet through one of our back windows. The whole township has been chafing him about it, and the local rag has risen to a sarcastic paragraph, which is exactly what we wanted. The trap-door over the pit is now practically finished. It’s too complicated to describe, but Stingaree has only to march into the bank and ‘stick it up,’ and the man behind the counter has only to touch a lever with his foot fo
r the villain to disappear through the floor into a prison it’ll take him all his time to break. On Saturday the cashier and the clerk are coming to dinner, and before we sit down they are to be shown everything.”

  This was but a fraction of one of the long letters which Fergus despatched by nearly every mail. Silent and self-contained as he was, he had one confidante at the opposite end of the earth, one escape-pipe in his pen. Not a word of the great secret had he even written to another soul. To his trusted sister he had never before been quite so communicative. His conscience pricked him as he took his letter to the post, and he had it registered on no other score.

  On Saturday the bank closed at one o’clock; the staff were to return and dine at seven, the Queen’s birthday falling on the same day for a sufficient pretext. As the hour approached Fergus made the distressing discovery that his friend and host had anticipated the festivities with too free a hand. Macbean was not drunk, but he was perceptibly blunted and blurred, and Fergus had never seen the pale eyes so watery or the black skull-cap so much on one side of the venerable head. The lad was genuinely grieved. A whiskey bottle stood empty on the laden board, and he had the temerity to pocket the corkscrew while Macbean was gone to his storeroom for another bottle. A solemn search ensued, and then Fergus was despatched in haste for a new corkscrew.

  “An’ look slippy,” said Macbean, “or we’ll have old Donkin here before ye get back.”

  “Not for another three-quarters of an hour,” remarked Fergus, looking at his watch.

  “Any minute!” retorted Macbean, with a ribald epithet. “I invited Donkin, in confidence, to come a good half-hour airly, and I’ll tell ye for why. Donkin must ken, but I’m none so sure o’ yon other impident young squirt. His tongue’s too long for his mouth. Donkin or I could always be behind the counter; anyway, I mean to take his opeenion before tellin’ any other body.”

  Entertaining his own distrust of the vivacious Fowler, Fergus commended the decision, and so took his departure by the private entrance. It was near sundown; a fresh breeze blew along the hard road, puffing cloudlets of yellow sand into the rosy dusk. Fergus hurried till he was out of sight, and then idled shamelessly under trees. He was not going on for a new corkscrew. He was going back to confess boldly where he had found the old one. And the sight of Donkin in the distance sent him back in something of a hurry; it was quite enough to have to spend an evening with the cantankerous cashier.

  The bank was practically at one end of the township as then laid out; two or three buildings there were further on, but they stood altogether aloof. The bank, for a bank, was sufficiently isolated, and Fergus could not but congratulate himself on the completion of its ingenious and unsuspected defences. It only remained to keep the inventor reasonably sober for the evening, and thereafter to whistle or to pray for Stingaree. Meanwhile the present was no mean occasion, and Fergus was glad to see that Macbean had thrown open the official doors in his absence. They had often agreed that it would be worth all their labor to enlighten Donkin by letting the pit gape under his nose as he entered the bank. Fergus glanced over his shoulder, saw the other hurrying, and hurried himself in order to take up a good position for seeing the cashier’s face. He was in the middle of the treacherous floor before he perceived that it was not Macbean in the half-light behind the counter, but a good-looking man whom he had never seen before.

  “Didn’t know I was invited, eh?” said the stranger, putting up a single eye-glass. “Don’t believe it, perhaps? You’d better ask Mr. Macbean!”

  And before it had occurred to him to stir from where he stood agape, the floor fell from under the feet of Fergus, his body lurched forward, and came down flat and heavy on the hard earth eight feet below. Not entirely stunned, though shaken and hurt from head to heel, he was still collecting his senses when the pit blackened as the trap-door shut in implicit obedience to its weights and springs. And in the clinging velvet darkness the young man heard a groan.

  “Is that yoursel’, Fergy?”

  “And are you there, Mr. Macbean?”

  “Mon, didn’t it shut just fine!”

  Curiously blended with the physical pain in the manager’s voice was a sodden philosophic humor which maddened the younger man. Fergus swore where he lay writhing on his stomach. Macbean chuckled and groaned again.

  “It’s Stingaree,” he said, drawing a breath through his teeth.

  “Of course it is.”

  “I never breathed it to a soul.”

  “No more did I.”

  Fergus spoke with ready confidence, and yet the words left something on his mind. It was something vague but haunting, something that made him feel instinctively unworthy of the kindly, uncomplaining tone which had annoyed him but a moment before.

  “No bones broken, Fergy?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “I doubt I’ve not been so lucky. I’m thinkin’ it’s a rib, by the way it hurts to breathe.”

  Fergus was already fumbling in his pocket. The match-box opened with a click. The match scraped several times in vain. Then at last the scene sprang out as on the screen of a magic-lantern. And to Fergus it was a very white old man, hunched up against the muddy wall, with blood upon his naked scalp and beard, and both hands pressed to his side; to the old man, a muddy face stricken with horrified concern, and a match burning down between muddy fingers; but to both, such a new view and version of their precious hole that the corners of each mouth were twitching as the match was thrown away.

  Fergus was fumbling for another when a step rang overhead; and at the sharp exchange of words which both underground expected, Fergus came on all fours to the old man’s side, and together they sat gazing upward into the pall of impenetrable crape.

  “You infernal villain!” they heard Donkin roar, and stamp his feet with such effect that the floor opened, and down through the square of light came the cashier feet first.

  “Heaven and hell!” he squealed, but subsided unhurt on hands and knees as the flaps went up with such a snap that Macbean and Carrick nudged each other at the same moment. “Now I know who you are!” the cashier raved. “Call yourself Stingaree! You’re Fowler dressed up, and this is one of Macbean’s putrid practical jokes. I saw his jackal hurrying in to say I was coming. By cripes! it takes a surgical operation to see their sort, I grant you.”

  There was a noise of subdued laughter overhead; even in the pit a dry chuckle came through Macbean’s set teeth.

  “If it’s practical joke o’ mine, Donkin, it’s recoiled on my own poor pate,” said the old man. “I’ve a rib stove in, too, if that’s any consolation to ye. It’s Stingaree, my manny!”

  “You’re right, it is, it must be!” cried the cashier, finding his words in a torrent. “I was going to tell you. He’s been at his game down south; stuck up our own mail again only yesterday, between this and Deniliquin, and got a fine haul of registered letters, so they say. But where the deuce are we? I never knew there was a cellar under here, let alone a trap-door that might have been made for these villains.”

  “It was made for them,” replied Macbean, after a pause; and in the dead dark he went on to relate the frank and humble history of the hole, from its inception to the crooked climax of that bitter hour. A braver confession Fergus had never heard; its philosophic flow was unruffled by the more and more scornful interjections of the ungenerous cashier; and yet his younger countryman, who might have been proud of him, hardly listened to a word uttered by Macbean.

  Half-a-dozen fallen from the lips of Donkin had lightened young Carrick’s darkness with consuming fires of shame. “A fine haul of registered letters”—among others his own last letter to his sister! So it was he who had done it all; and he had perjured himself to his benefactor, besides, betraying him. He sat in the dark between fire and ice, chiefly wondering how he could soonest win through the trap-door and earn a bullet in his brain.

  “The spree tonight,” concluded Macbean, whose fall completely sobered him, “was for the express pur
pose of expounding the trap to you, and I asked you airly to take your advice. I was no so sure about young Fowler, whether we need tell him or no. He has an awful long tongue; but I’m thinkin’ there’s a longer if I knew where to look for it.”

  “I could tell you where,” rasped Donkin. “But go on.”

  “I was watching old Hannah putting her feenishing touches to the table, and waiting for Fergus Carrick to come back, when I thought I heard him behind me and you with him. But it was Stingaree and his mate, and the two of us were covered with revolvers like young rifles. Hannah they told to go on with what she was doing, as they were mighty hungry, and I advised her to do as she was bid. The brute with the beard has charge of her. Stingaree himself drove me into the middle of my own trap-door, made me give up my keys, and then went behind the counter and did the trick. He’d got it all down on paper, the Lord alone knows how.”

  “Oh, you Scotchmen!” cried the pleasant cashier. “Talk of your land of cakes! You take every cake in the land between you!”

  It seemed he had been filling his pipe while he listened and prepared this pretty speech. Now he struck a match, and with the flame to the bowl saw Fergus for the first time. The cashier held the match on high.

  “You hear all the while?” he cried. “No wonder you lay low, Carrick; no wonder I didn’t hear your voice.”

  “What do you mean by that?” growled Fergus, in fierce heat and fierce satisfaction.

  “Surely, Mr. Macbean, you aren’t wondering who wagged the long tongue now?”

  “You mean that I wagged mine? And it’s a lie!” said Fergus, hoarsely; he was sitting upon his heels, poised to spring.

  “I mean that if Mr. Macbean had listened to me two months ago we should none of us be in this hole now.”

  “Then, my faith, you’re in a worse one than you think!” cried Fergus, and fell upon his traducer as the match went out. “Take that, and that, and that!” he ground out through his teeth, as he sent the cashier over on his back and pounded the earth with his skull. Luckily the first was soft and the second hard, so that the man was more outraged than hurt when circumstances which they might have followed created a diversion.