The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  “And why on earth didn’t he come to me quicker?”

  “Because he couldn’t talk to you, he could only fetch you, and it was as much as his life was worth to do that before our friends had departed. They were going by the eleven o’clock from Victoria, and that didn’t leave much chance, but he certainly oughtn’t to have run it as fine as he did. Still you must remember that I had to fix things up with him in the fewest possible words, in a single minute that the other two were indiscreet enough to leave us alone together.”

  The ragamuffin in question was watching us with all his solitary eye, as though he knew that we were discussing him. Suddenly he broke out in agonized accents, his hands clasped, and a face so full of fear that every moment I expected to see him on his knees. But Raffles answered kindly, reassuringly, I could tell from his tone, and then turned to me with a compassionate shrug.

  “He says he couldn’t find the mansions, Bunny, and really it’s not to be wondered at. I had only time to tell him to hunt you up and bring you here by hook or crook before twelve today, and after all he has done that. But now the poor devil thinks you’re riled with him, and that we’ll give him away to the Camorra.”

  “Oh, it’s not with him I’m riled,” I said frankly, “but with those other blackguards, and—and with you, old chap, for taking it all as you do, while such infamous scoundrels have the last laugh, and are safely on their way to France!”

  Raffles looked up at me with a curiously open eye, an eye that I never saw when he was not in earnest. I fancied he did not like my last expression but one. After all, it was no laughing matter to him.

  “But are they?” said he. “I’m not so sure.”

  “You said they were!”

  “I said they should be.”

  “Didn’t you hear them go?”

  “I heard nothing but the clock all night. It was like Big Ben striking at the last—striking nine to the fellow on the drop.”

  And in that open eye I saw at last a deep glimmer of the ordeal through which he had passed.

  “But, my dear old Raffles, if they’re still on the premises—”

  The thought was too thrilling for a finished sentence.

  “I hope they are,” he said grimly, going to the door. “There’s a gas on! Was that burning when you came in?”

  Now that I thought of it, yes, it had been.

  “And there’s a frightfully foul smell,” I added, as I followed Raffles down the stairs. He turned to me gravely with his hand upon the front-room door, and at the same moment I saw a coat with an astrakhan collar hanging on the pegs.

  “They are in here, Bunny,” he said, and turned the handle.

  The door would only open a few inches. But a detestable odor came out, with a broad bar of yellow gaslight. Raffles put his handkerchief to his nose. I followed his example, signing to our ally to do the same, and in another minute we had all three squeezed into the room.

  The man with the yellow boots was lying against the door, the Count’s great carcass sprawled upon the table, and at a glance it was evident that both men had been dead some hours. The old Camorrist had the stem of a liqueur-glass between his swollen blue fingers, one of which had been cut in the breakage, and the livid flesh was also brown with the last blood that it would ever shed. His face was on the table, the huge moustache projecting from under either leaden cheek, yet looking itself strangely alive. Broken bread and scraps of frozen macaroni lay upon the cloth and at the bottom of two soup-plates and a tureen; the macaroni had a tinge of tomato; and there was a crimson dram left in the tumblers, with an empty fiasco to show whence it came. But near the great gray head upon the table another liqueur-glass stood, unbroken, and still full of some white and stinking liquid; and near that a tiny silver flask, which made me recoil from Raffles as I had not from the dead; for I knew it to be his.

  “Come out of this poisonous air,” he said sternly, “and I will tell you how it has happened.”

  So we all three gathered together in the hall. But it was Raffles who stood nearest the street-door, his back to it, his eyes upon us two. And though it was to me only that he spoke at first, he would pause from point to point, and translate into Italian for the benefit of the one-eyed alien to whom he owed his life.

  “You probably don’t even know the name, Bunny,” he began, “of the deadliest poison yet known to science. It is cyanide of cacodyl, and I have carried that small flask of it about with me for months. Where I got it matters nothing; the whole point is that a mere sniff reduces flesh to clay. I have never had any opinion of suicide, as you know, but I always felt it worth while to be forearmed against the very worst. Well, a bottle of this stuff is calculated to stiffen an ordinary roomful of ordinary people within five minutes; and I remembered my flask when they had me as good as crucified in the small hours of this morning. I asked them to take it out of my pocket. I begged them to give me a drink before they left me. And what do you suppose they did?”

  I thought of many things but suggested none, while Raffles turned this much of his statement into sufficiently fluent Italian. But when he faced me again his face was still flaming.

  “That beast Corbucci!” said he—“how can I pity him? He took the flask; he would give me none; he flicked me in the face instead. My idea was that he, at least, should go with me—to sell my life as dearly as that—and a sniff would have settled us both. But no, he must tantalize and torment me; he thought it brandy; he must take it downstairs to drink to my destruction! Can you have any pity for a hound like that?”

  “Let us go,” I at last said, hoarsely, as Raffles finished speaking in Italian, and his second listener stood open-mouthed.

  “We will go,” said Raffles, “and we will chance being seen; if the worst comes to the worst this good chap will prove that I have been tied up since one o’clock this morning, and the medical evidence will decide how long those dogs have been dead.”

  But the worst did not come to the worst, more power to my unforgotten friend the cabman, who never came forward to say what manner of men he had driven to Bloomsbury Square at top speed on the very day upon which the tragedy was discovered there, or whence he had driven them. To be sure, they had not behaved like murderers, whereas the evidence at the inquest all went to show that the defunct Corbucci was little better. His reputation, which transpired with his identity, was that of a libertine and a renegade, while the infernal apparatus upstairs revealed the fiendish arts of the anarchist to boot. The inquiry resulted eventually in an open verdict, and was chiefly instrumental in killing such compassion as is usually felt for the dead who die in their sins.

  But Raffles would not have passed this title for this tale.

  TO CATCH A THIEF

  I

  Society persons are not likely to have forgotten the series of audacious robberies by which so many of themselves suffered in turn during the brief course of a recent season. Raid after raid was made upon the smartest houses in town, and within a few weeks more than one exalted head had been shorn of its priceless tiara. The Duke and Duchess of Dorchester lost half the portable pieces of their historic plate on the very night of their Graces’ almost equally historic costume ball. The Kenworthy diamonds were taken in broad daylight, during the excitement of a charitable meeting on the ground floor, and the gifts of her belted bridegroom to Lady May Paulton while the outer air was thick with a prismatic shower of confetti. It was obvious that all this was the work of no ordinary thief, and perhaps inevitable that the name of Raffles should have been dragged from oblivion by callous disrespecters of the departed and unreasoning apologists for the police. These wiseacres did not hesitate to bring a dead man back to life because they knew of no living one capable of such feats; it is their heedless and inconsequent calumnies that the present paper is partly intended to refute. As a matter of fact, our joint innocence in this matter was only exceeded by our common envy, and for a long time, like the rest of the world, neither of us had the slightest clew to the identity of the person
who was following in our steps with such irritating results.

  “I should mind less,” said Raffles, “if the fellow were really playing my game. But abuse of hospitality was never one of my strokes, and it seems to me the only shot he’s got. When we took old Lady Melrose’s necklace, Bunny, we were not staying with the Melroses, if you recollect.”

  We were discussing the robberies for the hundredth time, but for once under conditions more favorable to animated conversation than our unique circumstances permitted in the flat. We did not often dine out. Dr. Theobald was one impediment, the risk of recognition was another. But there were exceptions, when the doctor was away or the patient defiant, and on these rare occasions we frequented a certain unpretentious restaurant in the Fulham quarter, where the cooking was plain but excellent, and the cellar a surprise. Our bottle of ’89 champagne was empty to the label when the subject arose, to be touched by Raffles in the reminiscent manner indicated above. I can see his clear eye upon me now, reading me, weighing me. But I was not so sensitive to his scrutiny at the time. His tone was deliberate, calculating, preparatory; not as I heard it then, through a head full of wine, but as it floats back to me across the gulf between that moment and this.

  “Excellent fillet!” said I, grossly. “So you think this chap is as much in society as we were, do you?”

  I preferred not to think so myself. We had cause enough for jealousy without that. But Raffles raised his eyebrows an eloquent half-inch.

  “As much, my dear Bunny? He is not only in it, but of it; there’s no comparison between us there. Society is in rings like a target, and we never were in the bull’s-eye, however thick you may lay on the ink! I was asked for my cricket. I haven’t forgotten it yet. But this fellow’s one of themselves, with the right of entre into the houses which we could only ‘enter’ in a professional sense. That’s obvious unless all these little exploits are the work of different hands, which they as obviously are not. And it’s why I’d give five hundred pounds to put salt on him tonight!”

  “Not you,” said I, as I drained my glass in festive incredulity.

  “But I would, my dear Bunny. Waiter! another half-bottle of this,” and Raffles leant across the table as the empty one was taken away. “I never was more serious in my life,” he continued below his breath. “Whatever else our successor may be, he’s not a dead man like me, or a marked man like you. If there’s any truth in my theory he’s one of the last people upon whom suspicion is ever likely to rest; and oh, Bunny, what a partner he would make for you and me!”

  Under less genial influences the very idea of a third partner would have filled my soul with offence; but Raffles had chosen his moment unerringly, and his arguments lost nothing by the flowing accompaniment of the extra pint. They were, however, quite strong in themselves. The gist of them was that thus far we had remarkably little to show for what Raffles would call “our second innings.” This even I could not deny. We had scored a few “long singles,” but our “best shots” had gone “straight to hand,” and we were “playing a deuced slow game.” Therefore we needed a new partner—and the metaphor failed Raffles.

  It had served its turn. I already agreed with him. In truth I was tired of my false position as hireling attendant, and had long fancied myself an object of suspicion to that other impostor the doctor. A fresh, untrammelled start was a fascinating idea to me, though two was company, and three in our case might be worse than none. But I did not see how we could hope, with our respective handicaps, to solve a problem which was already the despair of Scotland Yard.

  “Suppose I have solved it,” observed Raffles, cracking a walnut in his palm.

  “How could you?” I asked, without believing for an instant that he had.

  “I have been taking the Morning Post for some time now.”

  “Well?”

  “You have got me a good many odd numbers of the less base society papers.”

  “I can’t for the life of me see what you’re driving at.”

  Raffles smiled indulgently as he cracked another nut.

  “That’s because you’ve neither observation nor imagination, Bunny—and yet you try to write! Well, you wouldn’t think it, but I have a fairly complete list of the people who were at the various functions under cover of which these different little coups were brought off.”

  I said very stolidly that I did not see how that could help him. It was the only answer to his good-humored but self-satisfied contempt; it happened also to be true.

  “Think,” said Raffles, in a patient voice.

  “When thieves break in and steal,” said I, “upstairs, I don’t see much point in discovering who was downstairs at the time.”

  “Quite,” said Raffles—“when they do break in.”

  “But that’s what they have done in all these cases. An upstairs door found screwed up, when things were at their height below; thief gone and jewels with him before alarm could be raised. Why, the trick’s so old that I never knew you condescend to play it.”

  “Not so old as it looks,” said Raffles, choosing the cigars and handing me mine. “Cognac or Benedictine, Bunny?”

  “Brandy,” I said, coarsely.

  “Besides,” he went on, “the rooms were not screwed up; at Dorchester House, at any rate, the door was only locked, and the key missing, so that it might have been done on either side.”

  “But that was where he left his rope-ladder behind him!” I exclaimed in triumph; but Raffles only shook his head.

  “I don’t believe in that rope-ladder, Bunny, except as a blind.”

  “Then what on earth do you believe?”

  “That every one of these so-called burglaries has been done from the inside, by one of the guests; and what’s more I’m very much mistaken if I haven’t spotted the right sportsman.”

  I began to believe that he really had, there was such a wicked gravity in the eyes that twinkled faintly into mine. I raised my glass in convivial congratulation, and still remember the somewhat anxious eye with which Raffles saw it emptied.

  “I can only find one likely name,” he continued, “that figures in all these lists, and it is anything but a likely one at first sight. Lord Ernest Belville was at all those functions. Know anything about him, Bunny?”

  “Not the Rational Drink fanatic?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all I want to know.”

  “Quite,” said Raffles; “and yet what could be more promising? A man whose views are so broad and moderate, and so widely held already (saving your presence, Bunny), does not bore the world with them without ulterior motives. So far so good. What are this chap’s motives? Does he want to advertise himself? No, he’s somebody already. But is he rich? On the contrary, he’s as poor as a rat for his position, and apparently without the least ambition to be anything else; certainly he won’t enrich himself by making a public fad of what all sensible people are agreed upon as it is. Then suddenly one gets one’s own old idea—the alternative profession! My cricket—his Rational Drink! But it is no use jumping to conclusions. I must know more than the newspapers can tell me. Our aristocratic friend is forty, and unmarried. What has he been doing all these years? How the devil was I to find out?”

  “How did you?” I asked, declining to spoil my digestion with a conundrum, as it was his evident intention that I should.

  “Interviewed him!” said Raffles, smiling slowly on my amazement.

  “You—interviewed him?” I echoed. “When—and where?”

  “Last Thursday night, when, if you remember, we kept early hours, because I felt done. What was the use of telling you what I had up my sleeve, Bunny? It might have ended in fizzle, as it still may. But Lord Ernest Belville was addressing the meeting at Exeter Hall; I waited for him when the show was over, dogged him home to King John’s Mansions, and interviewed him in his own rooms there before he turned in.”

  My journalistic jealousy was piqued to the quick. Affecting a scepticism I did not feel (for no outrage was beyond th
e pale of his impudence), I inquired dryly which journal Raffles had pretended to represent. It is unnecessary to report his answer. I could not believe him without further explanation.

  “I should have thought,” he said, “that even you would have spotted a practice I never omit upon certain occasions. I always pay a visit to the drawing-room, and fill my waistcoat pocket from the card-tray. It is an immense help in any little temporary impersonation. On Thursday night I sent up the card of a powerful writer connected with a powerful paper; if Lord Ernest had known him in the flesh I should have been obliged to confess to a journalistic ruse; luckily he didn’t—and I had been sent by my editor to get the interview for next morning. What could be better—for the alternative profession?”

  I inquired what the interview had brought forth.

  “Everything,” said Raffles. “Lord Ernest has been a wanderer these twenty years. Texas, Fiji, Australia. I suspect him of wives and families in all three. But his manners are a liberal education. He gave me some beautiful whiskey, and forgot all about his fad. He is strong and subtle, but I talked him off his guard. He is going to the Kirkleathams’ tonight—I saw the card stuck up. I stuck some wax into his keyhole as he was switching off the lights.”

  And, with an eye upon the waiters, Raffles showed me a skeleton key, newly twisted and filed; but my share of the extra pint (I am afraid no fair share) had made me dense. I looked from the key to Raffles with puckered forehead—for I happened to catch sight of it in the mirror behind him.

  “The Dowager Lady Kirkleatham,” he whispered, “has diamonds as big as beans, and likes to have ’em all on—and goes to bed early—and happens to be in town!”