Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  It had been a pleasant voyage. I was sorry it was over. Captain, officers, passengers and crew, it was probably my last night among them, and my heart turned heavy at the thought. They had been good friends to me. Should I make as good over yonder? It was too much to expect; these dear fellows had been so kind. Among them all I had made but one enemy, and he, poor devil, was not accountable. My thoughts stayed a little with Clunie, who had not spoken to me since the wet wild night when he brought up that silly forgotten matter of his rejected contribution. My thoughts had not left him when his very voice hailed me from a few feet below.

  “Sit tight, Brother John,” he cried, softly. “I’ll be with ye in two twos.”

  I nearly fell from the yard. He was within reach of my hand. His melodeon was slung across his shoulders, and he had a gleaming something between his teeth. It looked like a steel moustache. There would have been time to snatch it from him, to use it if necessary in my own defence. As I thought of it, however, his feet were on the foot-rope, and he himself had plucked the knife from his mouth. It was a carving-knife, and I could see that his mouth was bleeding.

  “Move on a bit,” he said; and when I hesitated he pricked me in the thigh. Next moment he was between the mast and me.

  He thrust his left arm through my right; his own right was round the mast, and the knife was in his right hand, which he could hardly have used in that position. For an instant my heart beat high; then I remembered having seen him throw quoits with his left hand. And I heard the look-out man give a cough deep down below.

  “Ay, we hear him,” observed Clunie, “but he won’t hear us unless you sing out. And when you do that you’re a gone coon. Fine night, is it not? If we sit here long enough we shall see Australia before morning. So that surprises you, Brother John? Thought I’d say Liverpool, now, didn’t you? Not me, you fool, not me. I’m as sane as you are to-night.”

  He chuckled, and I felt my forehead; it was cold and messy. But say something I must, so I laughed out:

  “Were you ever anything else?”

  “Ever anything else? I was as mad as mad, and you know it, too. You’re trying to humour me; but I know that game too well, so look out!”

  “You mistake me, Clunie, you do — —”

  “You fool!” said he; “take that, and get out further along the yard.”

  And he gave my leg another little stab, that brought the blood through my flannels like spilled ink. I obeyed him in order to put myself beyond his reach. This, however, was not his meaning at all. He edged after me as coolly as though we were dangling our legs over the side of a berth.

  “I’ve got a crow to pluck with you,” he went on, “and you know well enough what it is.”

  “Those verses?” said I, holding on with all ten fingers; for we were rolling as much as ever; and now the black sea rose under us on one side, and now on the other; but Clunie had straddled the spar, and he rode it like a rocking-horse, without holding on at all.

  “Those verses,” he repeated. “At least, that’s one of them. I should have said there was a brace of crows.”

  “Well, as to the verses,” said I, “you were hardly a loser. Our magazine, as you may know, died a natural death the very next week.”

  “Of course it did,” said Clunie, with an air of satisfaction which I found encouraging. “You refused my poem, so, of course, the thing fizzled out. What else could you expect? But I tell you I have a second bone to pick with you. And you’ll find it the worst of the two — for you!”

  “I wonder what that is,” said I, in a mystified tone, thinking to humour him still more.

  “I’ll tell you,” said he. “Just shunt a bit further along the yard.”

  “I shall be over in a minute,” I cried, as he forced me and followed me with the naked carver.

  “I know you will,” he replied, “but not till I’ve done with you. To come to that second bone. You had a concert to-night, and you didn’t ask me to do anything!”

  My teeth chattered. We had never thought of him. I protested, and truly, that the fault was not mine alone; but he cut me short.

  “How many concerts have you had without asking me to perform — me, the only man of you worth listening to — me, the star o’ the ship? Tell me that, Brother John!”

  “I hardly know.”

  “Count, then!”

  “I think about six.”

  “Curse your thinking! Make sure.”

  I counted with my clutching fingers.

  “Seven,” I said at length.

  “Are ye sure?”

  “Yes, perfectly.”

  “Then take that — and that — and that — and that!” And he pricked me in seven places with his infernal knife, holding it to my throat between the stabs in case I should sing out.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m going to give you a concert all to yourself. You’re going to hear the star of the Grasmere free of charge. But get you along to the point of the spar first; then you’ll be all ready. What, you won’t? Ah, I thought that’d make you!”

  I had obeyed him. He had followed me. And now the knife was back in his mouth — the blood had caked upon his beard — and the melodeon was between his hands. He played me the “Dead March.” I should not have known it, for I was past listening, but the horrid grin in his mad eyes showed me that he was doing something clever, and then I discovered what. I was now past everything but holding on and watching my man, which, as I have since thought, was better than looking down. He was wearing his beloved jersey, and he had it the right way on. Upon his legs were a pair of thick worsted drawers; but his feet were naked, and his head was bare. It was his head I watched. His hair had been cropped very close. And the stars swam round and round it as we rose and fell.

  I heard four bells struck away aft in the abyss, heard their echo from the forecastle head. It was two o’clock in the morning. As we dipped to port, Clunie suddenly lifted his melodeon in both hands, and heaved it clean over my head.

  “Hear the splash?” he hissed. “Well, there’ll be a bigger one in a minute, and you’ll hear that. You’re going to make it, Brother John!”

  His words fell harmlessly on my ears. I had heard no splash. It was as though we were poised above a bottomless abyss.

  The next thing I noted was the monotonous and altered sound in his voice. He was reciting “The Dream of Eugene Aram,” and making the ghastliest faces close to mine as he did so. But I, too, was now astride of the spar. My legs were groping in mid-air for the brace. They found it. They clung to it. I flung myself from the spar, but the lithe, thin ropes gave with my weight, and I could not — no, I durst not let go.

  And yet I was not stabbed to the heart; for there was Clunie leaning over me, with Tom Hood’s stanzas still flowing from his blooded lips, and the carver held in readiness, not for me, but for the brace when I should trust myself to it. Seeing this, I held fast to the spar. But he stabbed at the back of my hand — I see the puckered white scar as I write — and I let go as we were heeling over to port. His knife flashed up among the stars. I was gone.

  I wonder the rush of air in mouth and nostrils did not tear the nose from my face, the head from my body. I wonder the sea did not split me in two as I went into it like a stone. When I endeavour to recall those sensations, I invariably fail; but at times they come to me in my sleep, and when I wake the wonder is ever fresh. Yet many a man has fallen from aloft, and if he but cleared the deck, has lived to tell the tale. And I am one of that lucky number. When I came to the surface, there was the ship waggling and staggering like a wounded albatross, as they hove her to. Then they saved me in the pinnace, because I was still alive enough to keep myself afloat. But some may say that Clunie was as lucky as myself; for he had fallen a few seconds after me, and his mad brains splashed the deck.

  THE END

  THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN

  The Amateur Cracksman was the first short story collection to feature Hornung’s most famous character, A. J. Raffles, a gentleman thief in lat
e Victorian Britain. First published in 1899, the book was very well received and spawned three follow-ups: two further short story collections, The Black Mask (1901) and A Thief in the Night (1904), as well as the full-length novel, Mr. Justice Raffles in 1909.

  Arthur Raffles is presented as a prominent member of London society and a national sporting hero, regularly representing England in cricket Test matches. Raffles uses this cover to commit a number of burglaries, primarily stealing valuable jewellery from his hosts. In this he is assisted by his friend, the younger, idealistic Bunny Manders. Both men are constantly under the surveillance of Inspector Mackenzie of Scotland Yard, who is always thwarted in his attempts to pin the crimes on Raffles.

  Raffles is an antihero. Although a thief, he never steals from his hosts, but he helps old friends in trouble. A recurrent subtext in the tales is the problems of the distribution of wealth. According to The Strand Magazine, these stories made Raffles “the second most popular fictional character of the time,” behind Sherlock Holmes. A highlight of crime fiction, the character and stories were inspired by Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective created by Hornung’s brother-in-law, Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom The Amateur Cracksman is dedicated.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  THE IDES OF MARCH

  A COSTUME PIECE

  GENTLEMEN AND PLAYERS

  LE PREMIER PAS

  WILFUL MURDER

  NINE POINTS OF THE LAW

  THE RETURN MATCH

  THE GIFT OF THE EMPEROR

  Film poster for the 1917 film adaptation, with John Barrymore in the title role

  TO

  A. C. D.

  THIS FORM OF FLATTERY

  THE IDES OF MARCH

  I

  It was half-past twelve when I returned to the Albany as a last desperate resort. The scene of my disaster was much as I had left it. The baccarat-counters still strewed the table, with the empty glasses and the loaded ash-trays. A window had been opened to let the smoke out, and was letting in the fog instead. Raffles himself had merely discarded his dining jacket for one of his innumerable blazers. Yet he arched his eyebrows as though I had dragged him from his bed.

  “Forgotten something?” said he, when he saw me on his mat.

  “No,” said I, pushing past him without ceremony. And I led the way into his room with an impudence amazing to myself.

  “Not come back for your revenge, have you? Because I’m afraid I can’t give it to you single-handed. I was sorry myself that the others—”

  We were face to face by his fireside, and I cut him short.

  “Raffles,” said I, “you may well be surprised at my coming back in this way and at this hour. I hardly know you. I was never in your rooms before to-night. But I fagged for you at school, and you said you remembered me. Of course that’s no excuse; but will you listen to me — for two minutes?”

  In my emotion I had at first to struggle for every word; but his face reassured me as I went on, and I was not mistaken in its expression.

  “Certainly, my dear man,” said he; “as many minutes as you like. Have a Sullivan and sit down.” And he handed me his silver cigarette-case.

  “No,” said I, finding a full voice as I shook my head; “no, I won’t smoke, and I won’t sit down, thank you. Nor will you ask me to do either when you’ve heard what I have to say.”

  “Really?” said he, lighting his own cigarette with one clear blue eye upon me. “How do you know?”

  “Because you’ll probably show me the door,” I cried bitterly; “and you will be justified in doing it! But it’s no use beating about the bush. You know I dropped over two hundred just now?”

  He nodded.

  “I hadn’t the money in my pocket.”

  “I remember.”

  “But I had my check-book, and I wrote each of you a check at that desk.”

  “Well?”

  “Not one of them was worth the paper it was written on, Raffles. I am overdrawn already at my bank!”

  “Surely only for the moment?”

  “No. I have spent everything.”

  “But somebody told me you were so well off. I heard you had come in for money?”

  “So I did. Three years ago. It has been my curse; now it’s all gone — every penny! Yes, I’ve been a fool; there never was nor will be such a fool as I’ve been.... Isn’t this enough for you? Why don’t you turn me out?” He was walking up and down with a very long face instead.

  “Couldn’t your people do anything?” he asked at length.

  “Thank God,” I cried, “I have no people! I was an only child. I came in for everything there was. My one comfort is that they’re gone, and will never know.”

  I cast myself into a chair and hid my face. Raffles continued to pace the rich carpet that was of a piece with everything else in his rooms. There was no variation in his soft and even footfalls.

  “You used to be a literary little cuss,” he said at length; “didn’t you edit the mag. before you left? Anyway I recollect fagging you to do my verses; and literature of all sorts is the very thing nowadays; any fool can make a living at it.”

  I shook my head. “Any fool couldn’t write off my debts,” said I.

  “Then you have a flat somewhere?” he went on.

  “Yes, in Mount Street.”

  “Well, what about the furniture?”

  I laughed aloud in my misery. “There’s been a bill of sale on every stick for months!”

  And at that Raffles stood still, with raised eyebrows and stern eyes that I could meet the better now that he knew the worst; then, with a shrug, he resumed his walk, and for some minutes neither of us spoke. But in his handsome, unmoved face I read my fate and death-warrant; and with every breath I cursed my folly and my cowardice in coming to him at all. Because he had been kind to me at school, when he was captain of the eleven, and I his fag, I had dared to look for kindness from him now; because I was ruined, and he rich enough to play cricket all the summer, and do nothing for the rest of the year, I had fatuously counted on his mercy, his sympathy, his help! Yes, I had relied on him in my heart, for all my outward diffidence and humility; and I was rightly served. There was as little of mercy as of sympathy in that curling nostril, that rigid jaw, that cold blue eye which never glanced my way. I caught up my hat. I blundered to my feet. I would have gone without a word; but Raffles stood between me and the door.

  “Where are you going?” said he.

  “That’s my business,” I replied. “I won’t trouble YOU any more.”

  “Then how am I to help you?”

  “I didn’t ask your help.”

  “Then why come to me?”

  “Why, indeed!” I echoed. “Will you let me pass?”

  “Not until you tell me where you are going and what you mean to do.”

  “Can’t you guess?” I cried. And for many seconds we stood staring in each other’s eyes.

  “Have you got the pluck?” said he, breaking the spell in a tone so cynical that it brought my last drop of blood to the boil.

  “You shall see,” said I, as I stepped back and whipped the pistol from my overcoat pocket. “Now, will you let me pass or shall I do it here?”

  The barrel touched my temple, and my thumb the trigger. Mad with excitement as I was, ruined, dishonored, and now finally determined to make an end of my misspent life, my only surprise to this day is that I did not do so then and there. The despicable satisfaction of involving another in one’s destruction added its miserable appeal to my baser egoism; and had fear or horror flown to my companion’s face, I shudder to think I might have died diabolically happy with that look for my last impious consolation. It was the look that came instead which held my hand. Neither fear nor horror were in it; only wonder, admiration, and such a measure of pleased expectancy as caused me after all to pocket my revolver with an oath.

  “You devil!” I said. “I believe you wanted me to do it!”

  “Not quite,” was the reply
, made with a little start, and a change of color that came too late. “To tell you the truth, though, I half thought you meant it, and I was never more fascinated in my life. I never dreamt you had such stuff in you, Bunny! No, I’m hanged if I let you go now. And you’d better not try that game again, for you won’t catch me stand and look on a second time. We must think of some way out of the mess. I had no idea you were a chap of that sort! There, let me have the gun.”

  One of his hands fell kindly on my shoulder, while the other slipped into my overcoat pocket, and I suffered him to deprive me of my weapon without a murmur. Nor was this simply because Raffles had the subtle power of making himself irresistible at will. He was beyond comparison the most masterful man whom I have ever known; yet my acquiescence was due to more than the mere subjection of the weaker nature to the stronger. The forlorn hope which had brought me to the Albany was turned as by magic into an almost staggering sense of safety. Raffles would help me after all! A. J. Raffles would be my friend! It was as though all the world had come round suddenly to my side; so far therefore from resisting his action, I caught and clasped his hand with a fervor as uncontrollable as the frenzy which had preceded it.

  “God bless you!” I cried. “Forgive me for everything. I will tell you the truth. I DID think you might help me in my extremity, though I well knew that I had no claim upon you. Still — for the old school’s sake — the sake of old times — I thought you might give me another chance. If you wouldn’t I meant to blow out my brains — and will still if you change your mind!”

  In truth I feared that it was changing, with his expression, even as I spoke, and in spite of his kindly tone and kindlier use of my old school nickname. His next words showed me my mistake.

  “What a boy it is for jumping to conclusions! I have my vices, Bunny, but backing and filling is not one of them. Sit down, my good fellow, and have a cigarette to soothe your nerves. I insist. Whiskey? The worst thing for you; here’s some coffee that I was brewing when you came in. Now listen to me. You speak of ‘another chance.’ What do you mean? Another chance at baccarat? Not if I know it! You think the luck must turn; suppose it didn’t? We should only have made bad worse. No, my dear chap, you’ve plunged enough. Do you put yourself in my hands or do you not? Very well, then you plunge no more, and I undertake not to present my check. Unfortunately there are the other men; and still more unfortunately, Bunny, I’m as hard up at this moment as you are yourself!”