Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “It’s all right, Bunny; you do what I tell you and leave the rest to me. It’s a tight corner, but I don’t despair. What you’ve got to do is to stick to these chaps, especially if they search my rooms; they mustn’t poke about more than necessary, and they won’t if you’re there.”

  “But where will you be? You’re never going to leave me to be landed alone?”

  “If I do, it will be to turn up trumps at the right moment. Besides, there are such things as windows, and Crawshay’s the man to take his risks. You must trust me, Bunny; you’ve known me long enough.”

  “Are you going now?”

  “There’s no time to lose. Stick to them, old chap; don’t let them suspect YOU, whatever else you do.” His hand lay an instant on my shoulder; then he left me at the window, and recrossed the room.

  “I’ve got to go now,” I heard him say; “but my friend will stay and see this through, and I’ll leave the gas on in my rooms, and my key with the constable downstairs. Good luck, Mackenzie; only wish I could stay.”

  “Good-by, sir,” came in a preoccupied voice, “and many thanks.”

  Mackenzie was still busy at his window, and I remained at mine, a prey to mingled fear and wrath, for all my knowledge of Raffles and of his infinite resource. By this time I felt that I knew more or less what he would do in any given emergency; at least I could conjecture a characteristic course of equal cunning and audacity. He would return to his rooms, put Crawshay on his guard, and — stow him away? No — there were such things as windows. Then why was Raffles going to desert us all? I thought of many things — lastly of a cab. These bedroom windows looked into a narrow side-street; they were not very high; from them a man might drop on to the roof of a cab — even as it passed — and be driven away even under the noses of the police! I pictured Raffles driving that cab, unrecognizable in the foggy night; the vision came to me as he passed under the window, tucking up the collar of his great driving-coat on the way to his rooms; it was still with me when he passed again on his way back, and stopped to hand the constable his key.

  “We’re on his track,” said a voice behind me. “He’s got up on the leads, sure enough, though how he managed it from yon window is a myst’ry to me. We’re going to lock up here and try what like it is from the attics. So you’d better come with us if you’ve a mind.”

  The top floor at the Albany, as elsewhere, is devoted to the servants — a congeries of little kitchens and cubicles, used by many as lumber-rooms — by Raffles among the many. The annex in this case was, of course, empty as the rooms below; and that was lucky, for we filled it, what with the manager, who now joined us, and another tenant whom he brought with him to Mackenzie’s undisguised annoyance.

  “Better let in all Piccadilly at a crown a head,” said he. “Here, my man, out you go on the roof to make one less, and have your truncheon handy.”

  We crowded to the little window, which Mackenzie took care to fill; and a minute yielded no sound but the crunch and slither of constabulary boots upon sooty slates. Then came a shout.

  “What now?” cried Mackenzie.

  “A rope,” we heard, “hanging from the spout by a hook!”

  “Sirs,” purred Mackenzie, “yon’s how he got up from below! He would do it with one o’ they telescope sticks, an’ I never thocht o’t! How long a rope, my lad?”

  “Quite short. I’ve got it.”

  “Did it hang over a window? Ask him that!” cried the manager. “He can see by leaning over the parapet.”

  The question was repeated by Mackenzie; a pause, then “Yes, it did.”

  “Ask him how many windows along!” shouted the manager in high excitement.

  “Six, he says,” said Mackenzie next minute; and he drew in his head and shoulders. “I should just like to see those rooms, six windows along.”

  “Mr. Raffles,” announced the manager after a mental calculation.

  “Is that a fact?” cried Mackenzie. “Then we shall have no difficulty at all. He’s left me his key down below.”

  The words had a dry, speculative intonation, which even then I found time to dislike; it was as though the coincidence had already struck the Scotchman as something more.

  “Where is Mr. Raffles?” asked the manager, as we all filed downstairs.

  “He’s gone out to his dinner,” said Mackenzie.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw him go,” said I. My heart was beating horribly. I would not trust myself to speak again. But I wormed my way to a front place in the little procession, and was, in fact, the second man to cross the threshold that had been the Rubicon of my life. As I did so I uttered a cry of pain, for Mackenzie had trod back heavily on my toes; in another second I saw the reason, and saw it with another and a louder cry.

  A man was lying at full length before the fire on his back, with a little wound in the white forehead, and the blood draining into his eyes. And the man was Raffles himself!

  “Suicide,” said Mackenzie calmly. “No — here’s the poker — looks more like murder.” He went on his knees and shook his head quite cheerfully. “An’ it’s not even murder,” said he, with a shade of disgust in his matter-of-fact voice; “yon’s no more than a flesh-wound, and I have my doubts whether it felled him; but, sirs, he just stinks o’ chloryform!”

  He got up and fixed his keen gray eyes upon me; my own were full of tears, but they faced him unashamed.

  “I understood ye to say ye saw him go out?” said he sternly.

  “I saw that long driving-coat; of course, I thought he was inside it.”

  “And I could ha’ sworn it was the same gent when he give me the key!”

  It was the disconsolate voice of the constable in the background; on him turned Mackenzie, white to the lips.

  “You’d think anything, some of you damned policemen,” said he. “What’s your number, you rotter? P 34? You’ll be hearing more of this, Mr. P 34! If that gentleman was dead — instead of coming to himself while I’m talking — do you know what you’d be? Guilty of his manslaughter, you stuck pig in buttons! Do you know who you’ve let slip, butter-fingers? Crawshay — no less — him that broke Dartmoor yesterday. By the God that made ye, P 34, if I lose him I’ll hound ye from the forrce!”

  Working face — shaking fist — a calm man on fire. It was a new side of Mackenzie, and one to mark and to digest. Next moment he had flounced from our midst.

  “Difficult thing to break your own head,” said Raffles later; “infinitely easier to cut your own throat. Chloroform’s another matter; when you’ve used it on others, you know the dose to a nicety. So you thought I was really gone? Poor old Bunny! But I hope Mackenzie saw your face?”

  “He did,” said I. I would not tell him all Mackenzie must have seen, however.

  “That’s all right. I wouldn’t have had him miss it for worlds; and you mustn’t think me a brute, old boy, for I fear that man, and, know, we sink or swim together.”

  “And now we sink or swim with Crawshay, too,” said I dolefully.

  “Not we!” said Raffles with conviction. “Old Crawshay’s a true sportsman, and he’ll do by us as we’ve done by him; besides, this makes us quits; and I don’t think, Bunny, that we’ll take on the professors again!”

  THE GIFT OF THE EMPEROR

  I

  When the King of the Cannibal Islands made faces at Queen Victoria, and a European monarch set the cables tingling with his compliments on the exploit, the indignation in England was not less than the surprise, for the thing was not so common as it has since become. But when it transpired that a gift of peculiar significance was to follow the congratulations, to give them weight, the inference prevailed that the white potentate and the black had taken simultaneous leave of their fourteen senses. For the gift was a pearl of price unparalleled, picked aforetime by British cutlasses from a Polynesian setting, and presented by British royalty to the sovereign who seized this opportunity of restoring it to its original possessor.

  The incident wou
ld have been a godsend to the Press a few weeks later. Even in June there were leaders, letters, large headlines, leaded type; the Daily Chronicle devoting half its literary page to a charming drawing of the island capital which the new Pall Mall, in a leading article headed by a pun, advised the Government to blow to flinders. I was myself driving a poor but not dishonest quill at the time, and the topic of the hour goaded me into satiric verse which obtained a better place than anything I had yet turned out. I had let my flat in town, and taken inexpensive quarters at Thames Ditton, on the plea of a disinterested passion for the river.

  “First-rate, old boy!” said Raffles (who must needs come and see me there), lying back in the boat while I sculled and steered. “I suppose they pay you pretty well for these, eh?”

  “Not a penny.”

  “Nonsense, Bunny! I thought they paid so well? Give them time, and you’ll get your check.”

  “Oh, no, I sha’n’t,” said I gloomily. “I’ve got to be content with the honor of getting in; the editor wrote to say so, in so many words,” I added. But I gave the gentleman his distinguished name.

  “You don’t mean to say you’ve written for payment already?”

  No; it was the last thing I had intended to admit. But I had done it. The murder was out; there was no sense in further concealment. I had written for my money because I really needed it; if he must know, I was cursedly hard up. Raffles nodded as though he knew already. I warmed to my woes. It was no easy matter to keep your end up as a raw freelance of letters; for my part, I was afraid I wrote neither well enough nor ill enough for success. I suffered from a persistent ineffectual feeling after style. Verse I could manage; but it did not pay. To personal paragraphs and the baser journalism I could not and I would not stoop.

  Raffles nodded again, this time with a smile that stayed in his eyes as he leant back watching me. I knew that he was thinking of other things I had stooped to, and I thought I knew what he was going to say. He had said it before so often; he was sure to say it again. I had my answer ready, but evidently he was tired of asking the same question. His lids fell, he took up the paper he had dropped, and I sculled the length of the old red wall of Hampton Court before he spoke again.

  “And they gave you nothing for these! My dear Bunny, they’re capital, not only qua verses but for crystallizing your subject and putting it in a nutshell. Certainly you’ve taught ME more about it than I knew before. But is it really worth fifty thousand pounds — a single pearl?”

  “A hundred, I believe; but that wouldn’t scan.”

  “A hundred thousand pounds!” said Raffles, with his eyes shut. And again I made certain what was coming, but again I was mistaken. “If it’s worth all that,” he cried at last, “there would be no getting rid of it at all; it’s not like a diamond that you can subdivide. But I beg your pardon, Bunny. I was forgetting!”

  And we said no more about the emperor’s gift; for pride thrives on an empty pocket, and no privation would have drawn from me the proposal which I had expected Raffles to make. My expectation had been half a hope, though I only knew it now. But neither did we touch again on what Raffles professed to have forgotten — my “apostasy,” my “lapse into virtue,” as he had been pleased to call it. We were both a little silent, a little constrained, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. It was months since we had met, and, as I saw him off towards eleven o’clock that Sunday night, I fancied it was for more months that we were saying good-by.

  But as we waited for the train I saw those clear eyes peering at me under the station lamps, and when I met their glance Raffles shook his head.

  “You don’t look well on it, Bunny,” said he. “I never did believe in this Thames Valley. You want a change of air.”

  I wished I might get it.

  “What you really want is a sea voyage.”

  “And a winter at St. Moritz, or do you recommend Cannes or Cairo? It’s all very well, A. J., but you forget what I told you about my funds.”

  “I forget nothing. I merely don’t want to hurt your feelings. But, look here, a sea voyage you shall have. I want a change myself, and you shall come with me as my guest. We’ll spend July in the Mediterranean.”

  “But you’re playing cricket—”

  “Hang the cricket!”

  “Well, if I thought you meant it—”

  “Of course I mean it. Will you come?”

  “Like a shot — if you go.”

  And I shook his hand, and waved mine in farewell, with the perfectly good-humored conviction that I should hear no more of the matter. It was a passing thought, no more, no less. I soon wished it were more; that week found me wishing myself out of England for good and all. I was making nothing. I could but subsist on the difference between the rent I paid for my flat and the rent at which I had sublet it, furnished, for the season. And the season was near its end, and creditors awaited me in town. Was it possible to be entirely honest? I had run no bills when I had money in my pocket, and the more downright dishonesty seemed to me the less ignoble.

  But from Raffles, of course, I heard nothing more; a week went by, and half another week; then, late on the second Wednesday night, I found a telegram from him at my lodgings, after seeking him vainly in town, and dining with desperation at the solitary club to which I still belonged.

  “Arrange to leave Waterloo by North German Lloyd special,” he wired, “9.25 A. M. Monday next will meet you Southampton aboard Uhlan with tickets am writing.”

  And write he did, a light-hearted letter enough, but full of serious solicitude for me and for my health and prospects; a letter almost touching in the light of our past relations, in the twilight of their complete rupture. He said that he had booked two berths to Naples, that we were bound for Capri, which was clearly the island of the Lotos-eaters, that we would bask there together, “and for a while forget.” It was a charming letter. I had never seen Italy; the privilege of initiation should be his. No mistake was greater than to deem it an impossible country for the summer. The Bay of Naples was never so divine, and he wrote of “faery lands forlorn,” as though the poetry sprang unbidden to his pen. To come back to earth and prose, I might think it unpatriotic of him to choose a German boat, but on no other line did you receive such attention and accommodation for your money. There was a hint of better reasons. Raffles wrote, as he had telegraphed, from Bremen; and I gathered that the personal use of some little influence with the authorities there had resulted in a material reduction in our fares.

  Imagine my excitement and delight! I managed to pay what I owed at Thames Ditton, to squeeze a small editor for a very small check, and my tailors for one more flannel suit. I remember that I broke my last sovereign to get a box of Sullivan’s cigarettes for Raffles to smoke on the voyage. But my heart was as light as my purse on the Monday morning, the fairest morning of an unfair summer, when the special whirled me through the sunshine to the sea.

  A tender awaited us at Southampton. Raffles was not on board, nor did I really look for him till we reached the liner’s side. And then I looked in vain. His face was not among the many that fringed the rail; his hand was not of the few that waved to friends. I climbed aboard in a sudden heaviness. I had no ticket, nor the money to pay for one. I did not even know the number of my room. My heart was in my mouth as I waylaid a steward and asked if a Mr. Raffles was on board. Thank heaven — he was! But where? The man did not know, was plainly on some other errand, and a-hunting I must go. But there was no sign of him on the promenade deck, and none below in the saloon; the smoking-room was empty but for a little German with a red moustache twisted into his eyes; nor was Raffles in his own cabin, whither I inquired my way in desperation, but where the sight of his own name on the baggage was certainly a further reassurance. Why he himself kept in the background, however, I could not conceive, and only sinister reasons would suggest themselves in explanation.

  “So there you are! I’ve been looking for you all over the ship!”

  Despite the graven prohibitio
n, I had tried the bridge as a last resort; and there, indeed, was A. J. Raffles, seated on a skylight, and leaning over one of the officers’ long chairs, in which reclined a girl in a white drill coat and skirt — a slip of a girl with a pale skin, dark hair, and rather remarkable eyes. So much I noted as he rose and quickly turned; thereupon I could think of nothing but the swift grimace which preceded a start of well-feigned astonishment.

  “Why — BUNNY?” cried Raffles. “Where have YOU sprung from?”

  I stammered something as he pinched my hand.

  “And are you coming in this ship? And to Naples, too? Well, upon my word! Miss Werner, may I introduce him?”

  And he did so without a blush, describing me as an old schoolfellow whom he had not seen for months, with wilful circumstance and gratuitous detail that filled me at once with confusion, suspicion, and revolt. I felt myself blushing for us both, and I did not care. My address utterly deserted me, and I made no effort to recover it, to carry the thing off. All I would do was to mumble such words as Raffles actually put into my mouth, and that I doubt not with a thoroughly evil grace.

  “So you saw my name in the list of passengers and came in search of me? Good old Bunny; I say, though, I wish you’d share my cabin. I’ve got a beauty on the promenade deck, but they wouldn’t promise to keep me by myself. We ought to see about it before they shove in some alien. In any case we shall have to get out of this.”

  For a quartermaster had entered the wheelhouse, and even while we had been speaking the pilot had taken possession of the bridge; as we descended, the tender left us with flying handkerchiefs and shrill good-bys; and as we bowed to Miss Werner on the promenade deck, there came a deep, slow throbbing underfoot, and our voyage had begun.

  It did not begin pleasantly between Raffles and me. On deck he had overborne my stubborn perplexity by dint of a forced though forceful joviality; in his cabin the gloves were off.