Ironically, Ernest William Hornung (1866–1921), the creator of Raffles, was the brother-in-law of Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote the Holmes stories, and dedicated the first Raffles book to him: “To A. C. D. This form of flattery.” Doyle was flattered but not amused. He wrote:
“I think I may claim that his famous character Raffles was a kind of inversion of Sherlock Holmes, Bunny playing Watson. He admits as much in his kindly dedication. I think there are few finer examples of short-story writing in our language than these, though I confess I think they are rather dangerous in their suggestion. I told him so before he put pen to paper, and the result has, I fear, borne me out. You must not make the criminal a hero.”
Raffles was an internationally famous cricket player who found himself penniless and, in desperation, decided to steal. He had intended the robbery to be a singular adventure but, once he had “tasted blood,” he found that he loved it and continued his nighttime exploits when he returned to London. “Why settle down to some humdrum, uncongenial billet,” he once mused, “when excitement, romance, danger, and a decent living were all going begging together? Of course, it’s very wrong, but we can’t all be moralists, and the distribution of wealth is very wrong to begin with.”
The stories are told in first person by Bunny Manders, the devoted companion of the charming and handsome amateur cracksman who lives in luxury at the Albany. Bunny had served as Raffles’s fag, or personal servant, as an underclassman when they were in public (i.e., private) school.
Hornung wrote three short story collections about the notorious jewel thief. The first, The Amateur Cracksman (1899), was selected for Queen’s Quorum; it was followed by The Black Mask, (1901; U.S. title: Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman), and A Thief in the Night (1905). By the time of Mr. Justice Raffles (1909), Hornung’s only novel about the character, Raffles had become a detective.
Philip Atkey, using the pseudonym Barry Perowne, began to write about Raffles in 1933 (Raffles After Dark) and produced nine books and numerous short stories.
Other writers have also written parodies and pastiches about Raffles, the most famous being Graham Greene’s comic play, The Return of A. J. Raffles, produced by the Royal Shakespeare Company, which opened in London in December 1975.
“Gentlemen and Players” refers to professional versus amateur cricket players, and it is his skill as a cricketer that opens the door for Raffles to be invited to the homes of the aristocracy and the fabulously wealthy. He has had his eye on the famous Melrose necklace for years when he is invited to a dinner party at the owner’s house. Warned that thieves would make an attempt on the valuable jewels, the police have been called to protect them. A gang, led by the notorious Crawshay, has a plan—but they had not counted on Raffles.
THE FILM
Title: Raffles, 1939
Studio: United Artists
Director: Sam Wood
Screenwriters: John Van Druten, Sidney Howard
Producer: Samuel Goldwyn
THE CAST
• David Niven (A. J. Raffles)
• Olivia de Havilland (Gwen Manders)
• Dame May Whitty (Lady Melrose)
• Dudley Digges (Inspector Mackenzie)
• Douglas Walton (Bunny Manders)
The David Niven vehicle was the most elaborate film made about Raffles and had the biggest budget, but its screenplay was very close to several versions that preceded it—none of which had much semblance to the story on which it was very loosely based, though it did adopt many elements of Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, a 1903 stage play that Hornung cowrote with Eugene Presbrey. Among the major alterations was the introduction of Bunny’s sister, Gwen, with whom Raffles had once been in love and now, seeing her again, falls in love with her again. There is no sister in any of Hornung’s stories.
The first cinematic representation of A. J. Raffles was Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, a 1905 silent starring J. Barney Sherry that appears to be lost. It was followed by The Van Nostrand Tiara, an American 1913 silent film produced by the Biograph Company. It was directed by Anthony O’Sullivan with a screenplay by Clarence A. Frambers, starring James Cooley (Raffles), Claire McDowell (Kate), Harry Carey (“Society Detective”), and Hattie Delaro (Mrs. Van Nostrand). Raffles and Kate (a newly hired maid) have a perfect scheme to steal Mrs. Van Nostrand’s famous tiara but they are caught by the “Society Detective.”
The third Raffles film was also an American silent, Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, produced by Hyclass Producing Company in 1917. It was directed by George Irving with a screenplay by Anthony P. Kelly, starring John Barrymore (Raffles), Evelyn Brent (Ethel), Frank Morgan (Bunny Manders), and Mike Donlin (Crawshay). The action begins aboard a ship with Raffles stealing a pearl and diving overboard to elude capture. He is spotted and a woman attempts to blackmail him when she later recognizes him.
Two more silent films followed: Mr. Justice Raffles (1921), the first British production, starring Gerald Ames, which was based on Hornung’s 1909 novel of the same title, though the script is almost unrecognizable. House Peters starred in a 1925 American silent in which Raffles is caught but escapes with the help of a young woman so they can run away to marry.
Ronald Colman was the suave Raffles in the first sound version, Raffles, released in 1930. Sidney Howard wrote the screenplay, which he then slightly rewrote with John Van Druten for the 1939 version. In the 1930 version, Kay Francis plays Lady Gwen, the introduced love interest. The film was extremely successful and Markham, a British production company, made a lightly connected sequel in 1932 titled The Return of Raffles starring George Barraud as Raffles and Claud Allister as Bunny.
GENTLEMEN AND PLAYERS
E. W. Hornung
OLD RAFFLES MAY OR MAY NOT have been an exceptional criminal, but as a cricketer I dare swear he was unique. Himself a dangerous bat, a brilliant field, and perhaps the very finest slow bowler of his decade, he took incredibly little interest in the game at large. He never went up to Lord’s without his cricket-bag, or showed the slightest interest in the result of a match in which he was not himself engaged. Nor was this mere hateful egotism on his part. He professed to have lost all enthusiasm for the game, and to keep it up only from the very lowest motives.
“Cricket,” said Raffles, “like everything else, is good enough sport until you discover a better. As a source of excitement it isn’t in it with other things you wot of, Bunny, and the involuntary comparison becomes a bore. What’s the satisfaction of taking a man’s wicket when you want his spoons? Still, if you can bowl a bit your low cunning won’t get rusty, and always looking for the weak spot’s just the kind of mental exercise one wants. Yes, perhaps there’s some affinity between the two things after all. But I’d chuck up cricket to-morrow, Bunny, if it wasn’t for the glorious protection it affords a person of my proclivities.”
“How so?” said I. “It brings you before the public, I should have thought, far more than is either safe or wise.”
“My dear Bunny, that’s exactly where you make a mistake. To follow Crime with reasonable impunity you simply must have a parallel, ostensible career—the more public the better. The principle is obvious. Mr. Peace, of pious memory, disarmed suspicion by acquiring a local reputation for playing the fiddle and taming animals, and it’s my profound conviction that Jack the Ripper was a really eminent public man, whose speeches were very likely reported alongside his atrocities. Fill the bill in some prominent part, and you’ll never be suspected of doubling it with another of equal prominence. That’s why I want you to cultivate journalism, my boy, and sign all you can. And it’s the one and only reason why I don’t burn my bats for firewood.”
Nevertheless, when he did play there was no keener performer on the field, nor one more anxious to do well for his side. I remember how he went to the nets, before the first match of the season, with h
is pocket full of sovereigns, which he put on the stumps instead of bails. It was a sight to see the professionals bowling like demons for the hard cash, for whenever a stump was hit a pound was tossed to the bowler and another balanced in its stead, while one man took £3 with a ball that spreadeagled the wicket. Raffles’s practice cost him either eight or nine sovereigns; but he had absolutely first-class bowling all the time; and he made fifty-seven runs next day.
It became my pleasure to accompany him to all his matches, to watch every ball he bowled, or played, or fielded, and to sit chatting with him in the pavilion when he was doing none of these three things. You might have seen us there, side by side, during the greater part of the Gentlemen’s first innings against the Players (who had lost the toss) on the second Monday in July. We were to be seen, but not heard, for Raffles had failed to score, and was uncommonly cross for a player who cared so little for the game. Merely taciturn with me, he was positively rude to more than one member who wanted to know how it had happened, or who ventured to commiserate him on his luck; there he sat, with a straw hat tilted over his nose and a cigarette stuck between lips that curled disagreeably at every advance. I was therefore much surprised when a young fellow of the exquisite type came and squeezed himself in between us, and met with a perfectly civil reception despite the liberty. I did not know the boy by sight, nor did Raffles introduce us; but their conversation proclaimed at once a slightness of acquaintanceship and a license on the lad’s part which combined to puzzle me. Mystification reached its height when Raffles was informed that the other’s father was anxious to meet him, and he instantly consented to gratify that whim.
“He’s in the Ladies’ Enclosure. Will you come round now?”
“With pleasure,” says Raffles. “Keep a place for me, Bunny.”
And they were gone.
“Young Crowley,” said some voice further back. “Last year’s Harrow Eleven.”
“I remember him. Worst man in the team.”
“Keen cricketer, however. Stopped till he was twenty to get his colors. Governor made him. Keen breed. Oh, pretty, sir! Very pretty!”
The game was boring me. I only came to see old Raffles perform. Soon I was looking wistfully for his return, and at length I saw him beckoning me from the palings to the right.
“Want to introduce you to old Amersteth,” he whispered, when I joined him. “They’ve a cricket week next month, when this boy Crowley comes of age, and we’ve both got to go down and play.”
“Both!” I echoed. “But I’m no cricketer!”
“Shut up,” says Raffles. “Leave that to me. I’ve been lying for all I’m worth,” he added sepulchrally as we reached the bottom of the steps. “I trust to you not to give the show away.”
There was a gleam in his eye that I knew well enough elsewhere, but was unprepared for in those healthy, sane surroundings; and it was with very definite misgivings and surmises that I followed the Zingari blazer through the vast flower-bed of hats and bonnets that bloomed beneath the ladies’ awning.
Lord Amersteth was a fine-looking man with a short mustache and a double chin. He received me with much dry courtesy, through which, however, it was not difficult to read a less flattering tale. I was accepted as the inevitable appendage of the invaluable Raffles, with whom I felt deeply incensed as I made my bow.
“I have been bold enough,” said Lord Amersteth, “to ask one of the Gentlemen of England to come down and play some rustic cricket for us next month. He is kind enough to say that he would have liked nothing better, but for this little fishing expedition of yours, Mr.——, Mr.——,” and Lord Amersteth succeeded in remembering my name.
It was, of course, the first I had ever heard of that fishing expedition, but I made haste to say that it could easily, and should certainly, be put off. Raffles gleamed approval through his eyelashes. Lord Amersteth bowed and shrugged.
“You’re very good, I’m sure,” said he. “But I understand you’re a cricketer yourself?”
“He was one at school,” said Raffles, with infamous readiness.
“Not a real cricketer,” I was stammering meanwhile.
“In the eleven?” said Lord Amersteth.
“I’m afraid not,” said I.
“But only just out of it,” declared Raffles, to my horror.
“Well, well, we can’t all play for the Gentlemen,” said Lord Amersteth slyly. “My son Crowley only just scraped into the eleven at Harrow, and he’s going to play. I may even come in myself at a pinch; so you won’t be the only duffer, if you are one, and I shall be very glad if you will come down and help us too. You shall flog a stream before breakfast and after dinner, if you like.”
“I should be very proud,” I was beginning, as the mere prelude to resolute excuses; but the eye of Raffles opened wide upon me; and I hesitated weakly, to be duly lost.
“Then that’s settled,” said Lord Amersteth, with the slightest suspicion of grimness. “It’s to be a little week, you know, when my son comes of age. We play the Free Foresters, the Dorsetshire Gentlemen, and probably some local lot as well. But Mr. Raffles will tell you all about it, and Crowley shall write. Another wicket! By Jove, they’re all out! Then I rely on you both.” And, with a little nod, Lord Amersteth rose and sidled to the gangway.
Raffles rose also, but I caught the sleeve of his blazer.
“What are you thinking of?” I whispered savagely. “I was nowhere near the eleven. I’m no sort of cricketer. I shall have to get out of this!”
“Not you,” he whispered back. “You needn’t play, but come you must. If you wait for me after half-past six I’ll tell you why.”
But I could guess the reason; and I am ashamed to say that it revolted me much less than did the notion of making a public fool of myself on a cricket-field. My gorge rose at this as it no longer rose at crime, and it was in no tranquil humor that I strolled about the ground while Raffles disappeared in the pavilion. Nor was my annoyance lessened by a little meeting I witnessed between young Crowley and his father, who shrugged as he stopped and stooped to convey some information which made the young man look a little blank. It may have been pure self-consciousness on my part, but I could have sworn that the trouble was their inability to secure the great Raffles without his insignificant friend.
Then the bell rang, and I climbed to the top of the pavilion to watch Raffles bowl. No subleties are lost up there; and if ever a bowler was full of them, it was A. J. Raffles on this day, as, indeed, all the cricket world remembers. One had not to be a cricketer oneself to appreciate his perfect command of pitch and break, his beautifully easy action, which never varied with the varying pace, his great ball on the leg-stump—his dropping head-ball—in a word, the infinite ingenuity of that versatile attack. It was no mere exhibition of athletic prowess, it was an intellectual treat, and one with a special significance in my eyes. I saw the “affinity between the two things,” saw it in that afternoon’s tireless warfare against the flower of professional cricket. It was not that Raffles took many wickets for few runs; he was too fine a bowler to mind being hit; and time was short, and the wicket good. What I admired, and what I remember, was the combination of resource and cunning, of patience and precision, of head-work and handiwork, which made every over an artistic whole. It was all so characteristic of that other Raffles whom I alone knew!
“I felt like bowling this afternoon,” he told me later in the hansom. “With a pitch to help me, I’d have done something big; as it is, three for forty-one, out of the four that fell, isn’t so bad for a slow bowler on a plumb wicket against those fellows. But I felt venomous! Nothing riles me more than being asked about for my cricket as though I were a pro. myself.”
“Then why on earth go?”
“To punish them, and—because we shall be jolly hard up, Bunny, before the season’s over!”
“Ah!” said I. “I thought it was that.”
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br /> “Of course, it was! It seems they’re going to have the very devil of a week of it—balls—dinner parties—swagger house-party—general junketings—and obviously a houseful of diamonds as well. Diamonds galore! As a general rule nothing would induce me to abuse my position as a guest. I’ve never done it, Bunny. But in this case we’re engaged like the waiters and the band, and by heaven we’ll take our toll! Let’s have a quiet dinner somewhere and talk it over.”
“It seems rather a vulgar sort of theft,” I could not help saying; and to this, my single protest, Raffles instantly assented.
“It is a vulgar sort,” said he; “but I can’t help that. We’re getting vulgarly hard up again, and there’s an end on ’t. Besides, these people deserve it, and can afford it. And don’t you run away with the idea that all will be plain sailing; nothing will be easier than getting some stuff, and nothing harder than avoiding all suspicion, as, of course, we must. We may come away with no more than a good working plan of the premises. Who knows? In any case there’s weeks of thinking in it for you and me.”
But with those weeks I will not weary you further than by remarking that the “thinking,” was done entirely by Raffles, who did not always trouble to communicate his thoughts to me. His reticence, however, was no longer an irritant. I began to accept it as a necessary convention of these little enterprises. And, after our last adventure of the kind, more especially after its dénouement, my trust in Raffles was much too solid to be shaken by a want of trust in me, which I still believe to have been more the instinct of the criminal than the judgment of the man.
It was on Monday, the tenth of August, that we were due at Milchester Abbey, Dorset; and the beginning of the month found us cruising about that very county, with fly-rods actually in our hands. The idea was that we should acquire at once a local reputation as decent fishermen, and some knowledge of the countryside, with a view to further and more deliberate operations in the event of an unprofitable week. There was another idea which Raffles kept to himself until he had got me down there. Then one day he produced a cricket-ball in a meadow we were crossing, and threw me catches for an hour together. More hours he spent in bowling to me on the nearest green; and, if I was never a cricketer, at least I came nearer to being one, by the end of that week, than ever before or since.
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 149
