The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  “I am glad to hear that,” he remarked in a high bland voice. “I thought that man would die game.”

  “Did you know anything about him, then?” inquired Lord Thornaby.

  “I led for the Crown,” replied the barrister, with a twinkle. “You might almost say that I measured the poor man’s neck.”

  The point must have been quite unpremeditated; it was not the less effective for that. Lord Thornaby looked askance at the callous silk. It was some moments before Ernest tittered and Parrington felt for his pencil; and in the interim I had made short work of my hock, though it was Johannisberger. As for Raffles, one had but to see his horror to feel how completely he was off his guard.

  “In itself, I have heard, it was not a sympathetic case?” was the remark with which he broke the general silence.

  “Not a bit.”

  “That must have been a comfort to you,” said Raffles dryly.

  “It would have been to me,” vowed our author, while the barrister merely smiled. “I should have been very sorry to have had a hand in hanging Peckham and Solomons the other day.”

  “Why Peckham and Solomons?” inquired my lord.

  “They never meant to kill that old lady.”

  “But they strangled her in her bed with her own pillow-case!”

  “I don’t care,” said the uncouth scribe. “They didn’t break in for that. They never thought of scragging her. The foolish old person would make a noise, and one of them tied too tight. I call it jolly bad luck on them.”

  “On quiet, harmless, well-behaved thieves,” added Lord Thornaby, “in the unobtrusive exercise of their humble avocation.”

  And, as he turned to Raffles with his puffy smile, I knew that we had reached that part of the programme which had undergone rehearsal: it had been perfectly timed to arrive with the champagne, and I was not afraid to signify my appreciation of that small mercy. But Raffles laughed so quickly at his lordship’s humor, and yet with such a natural restraint, as to leave no doubt that he had taken kindly to my own old part, and was playing the innocent inimitably in his turn, by reason of his very innocence. It was a poetic judgment on old Raffles, and in my momentary enjoyment of the novel situation I was able to enjoy some of the good things of this rich man’s table. The saddle of mutton more than justified its place in the menu; but it had not spoiled me for my wing of pheasant, and I was even looking forward to a sweet, when a further remark from the literary light recalled me from the table to its talk.

  “But, I suppose,” said he to Kingsmill, “it’s many a burglar you’ve restored to his friends and his relations’?”

  “Let us say many a poor fellow who has been charged with burglary,” replied the cheery Q.C. “It’s not quite the same thing, you know, nor is ‘many’ the most accurate word. I never touch criminal work in town.”

  “It’s the only kind I should care about,” said the novelist, eating jelly with a spoon.

  “I quite agree with you,” our host chimed in. “And of all the criminals one might be called upon to defend, give me the enterprising burglar.”

  “It must be the breeziest branch of the business,” remarked Raffles, while I held my breath.

  But his touch was as light as gossamer, and his artless manner a triumph of even his incomparable art. Raffles was alive to the danger at last. I saw him refuse more champagne, even as I drained my glass again. But it was not the same danger to us both. Raffles had no reason to feel surprise or alarm at such a turn in a conversation frankly devoted to criminology; it must have been as inevitable to him as it was sinister to me, with my fortuitous knowledge of the suspicions that were entertained. And there was little to put him on his guard in the touch of his adversaries, which was only less light than his own.

  “I am not very fond of Mr. Sikes,” announced the barrister, like a man who had got his cue.

  “But he was prehistoric,” rejoined my lord. “A lot of blood has flowed under the razor since the days of Sweet William.”

  “True; we have had Peace,” said Parrington, and launched out into such glowing details of that criminal’s last moments that I began to hope the diversion might prove permanent. But Lord Thornaby was not to be denied.

  “William and Charles are both dead monarchs,” said he. “The reigning king in their department is the fellow who gutted poor Danby’s place in Bond Street.”

  There was a guilty silence on the part of the three conspirators—for I had long since persuaded myself that Ernest was not in their secret—and then my blood froze.

  “I know him well,” said Raffles, looking up.

  Lord Thornaby stared at him in consternation. The smile on the Napoleonic countenance of the barrister looked forced and frozen for the first time during the evening. Our author, who was nibbling cheese from a knife, left a bead of blood upon his beard. The futile Ernest alone met the occasion with a hearty titter.

  “What!” cried my lord. “You know the thief?”

  “I wish I did,” rejoined Raffles, chuckling. “No, Lord Thornaby, I only meant the jeweller, Danby. I go to him when I want a wedding present.”

  I heard three deep breaths drawn as one before I drew my own.

  “Rather a coincidence,” observed our host dryly, “for I believe you also know the Milchester people, where Lady Melrose had her necklace stolen a few months afterward.”

  “I was staying there at the time,” said Raffles eagerly. No snob was ever quicker to boast of basking in the smile of the great.

  “We believe it to be the same man,” said Lord Thornaby, speaking apparently for the Criminologists’ Club, and with much less severity of voice.

  “I only wish I could come across him,” continued Raffles heartily. “He’s a criminal much more to my mind than your murderers who swear on the drop or talk cricket in the condemned cell!”

  “He might be in the house now,” said Lord Thornaby, looking Raffles in the face. But his manner was that of an actor in an unconvincing part and a mood to play it gamely to the bitter end; and he seemed embittered, as even a rich man may be in the moment of losing a bet.

  “What a joke if he were!” cried the Wild West writer.

  “Absit omen!” murmured Raffles, in better taste.

  “Still, I think you’ll find it’s a favorite time,” argued Kingsmill, Q.C. “And it would be quite in keeping with the character of this man, so far as it is known, to pay a little visit to the president of the Criminologists’ Club, and to choose the evening on which he happens to be entertaining the other members.”

  There was more conviction in this sally than in that of our noble host; but this I attributed to the trained and skilled dissimulation of the bar. Lord Thornaby, however, was not to be amused by the elaboration of his own idea, and it was with some asperity that he called upon the butler, now solemnly superintending the removal of the cloth.

  “Leggett! Just send upstairs to see if all the doors are open and the rooms in proper order. That’s an awful idea of yours, Kingsmill, or of mine!” added my lord, recovering the courtesy of his order by an effort that I could follow. “We should look fools. I don’t know which of us it was, by the way, who seduced the rest from the main stream of blood into this burglarious backwater. Are you familiar with De Quincey’s masterpiece on ‘Murder as a Fine Art,’ Mr. Raffles?”

  “I believe I once read it,” replied Raffles doubtfully.

  “You must read it again,” pursued the earl. “It is the last word on a great subject; all we can hope to add is some baleful illustration or bloodstained footnote, not unworthy of De Quincey’s text. Well, Leggett?”

  The venerable butler stood wheezing at his elbow. I had not hitherto observed that the man was an asthmatic.

  “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but I think your lordship must have forgotten.”

  The voice came in rude gasps, but words of reproach could scarcely have achieved a finer delicacy.

  “Forgotten, Leggett! Forgotten what, may I ask?”

  “Locking
your lordship’s dressing-room door behind your lordship, my lord,” stuttered the unfortunate Leggett, in the short spurts of a winded man, a few stertorous syllables at a time. “Been up myself, my lord. Bedroom door—dressing-room door—both locked inside!”

  But by this time the noble master was in worse case than the man. His fine forehead was a tangle of livid cords; his baggy jowl filled out like a balloon. In another second he had abandoned his place as our host and fled the room; and in yet another we had forgotten ours as his guests and rushed headlong at his heels.

  Raffles was as excited as any of us now: he outstripped us all. The cherubic little lawyer and I had a fine race for the last place but one, which I secured, while the panting butler and his satellites brought up a respectful rear. It was our unconventional author, however, who was the first to volunteer his assistance and advice.

  “No use pushing, Thornaby!” cried he. “If it’s been done with a wedge and gimlet, you may smash the door, but you’ll never force it. Is there a ladder in the place?”

  “There’s a rope-ladder somewhere, in case of fire, I believe,” said my lord vaguely, as he rolled a critical eye over our faces. “Where is it kept, Leggett?”

  “William will fetch it, my lord.”

  And a pair of noble calves went flashing to the upper regions.

  “What’s the good of bringing it down,” cried Parrington, who had thrown back to the wilds in his excitement. “Let him hang it out of the window above your own, and let me climb down and do the rest! I’ll undertake to have one or other of these doors open in two twos!”

  The fastened doors were at right angles on the landing which we filled between us. Lord Thornaby smiled grimly on the rest of us, when he had nodded and dismissed the author like a hound from the leash.

  “It’s a good thing we know something about our friend Parrington,” said my lord. “He takes more kindly to all this than I do, I can tell you.”

  “It’s grist to his mill,” said Raffles charitably.

  “Exactly! We shall have the whole thing in his next book.”

  “I hope to have it at the Old Bailey first,” remarked Kingsmill, Q.C.

  “Refreshing to find a man of letters such a man of action too!”

  It was Raffles who said this, and the remark seemed rather trite for him, but in the tone there was a something that just caught my private ear. And for once I understood: the officious attitude of Parrington, without being seriously suspicious in itself, was admirably calculated to put a previously suspected person in a grateful shade. This literary adventurer had elbowed Raffles out of the limelight, and gratitude for the service was what I had detected in Raffles’s voice. No need to say how grateful I felt myself. But my gratitude was shot with flashes of unwonted insight. Parrington was one of those who suspected Raffles, or, at all events, one who was in the secret of those suspicions. What if he had traded on the suspect’s presence in the house? What if he were a deep villain himself, and the villain of this particular piece? I had made up my mind about him, and that in a tithe of the time I take to make it up as a rule, when we heard my man in the dressing-room. He greeted us with an impudent shout; in a few moments the door was open, and there stood Parrington, flushed and dishevelled, with a gimlet in one hand and a wedge in the other.

  Within was a scene of eloquent disorder. Drawers had been pulled out, and now stood on end, their contents heaped upon the carpet. Wardrobe doors stood open; empty stud-cases strewed the floor; a clock, tied up in a towel, had been tossed into a chair at the last moment. But a long tin lid protruded from an open cupboard in one corner. And one had only to see Lord Thornaby’s wry face behind the lid to guess that it was bent over a somewhat empty tin trunk.

  “What a rum lot to steal!” said he, with a twitch of humor at the corners of his canine mouth. “My peer’s robes, with coronet complete!”

  We rallied round him in a seemly silence. I thought our scribe would put in his word. But even he either feigned or felt a proper awe.

  “You may say it was a rum place to keep ’em,” continued Lord Thornaby. “But where would you gentlemen stable your white elephants? And these were elephants as white as snow; by Jove, I’ll job them for the future!”

  And he made merrier over his loss than any of us could have imagined the minute before; but the reason dawned on me a little later, when we all trooped downstairs, leaving the police in possession of the theatre of crime. Lord Thornaby linked arms with Raffles as he led the way. His step was lighter, his gayety no longer sardonic; his very looks had improved. And I divined the load that had been lifted from the hospitable heart of our host.

  “I only wish,” said he, “that this brought us any nearer to the identity of the gentleman we were discussing at dinner, for, of course, we owe it to all our instincts to assume that it was he.”

  “I wonder!” said old Raffles, with a foolhardy glance at me.

  “But I’m sure of it, my dear sir,” cried my lord. “The audacity is his and his alone. I look no further than the fact of his honoring me on the one night of the year when I endeavor to entertain my brother Criminologists. That’s no coincidence, sir, but a deliberate irony, which would have occurred to no other criminal mind in England.”

  “You may be right,” Raffles had the sense to say this time, though I flattered myself it was my face that made him.

  “What is still more certain,” resumed our host, “is that no other criminal in the world would have crowned so delicious a conception with so perfect an achievement. I feel sure the inspector will agree with us.”

  The policeman in command had knocked and been admitted to the library as Lord Thornaby spoke.

  “I didn’t hear what you said, my lord.”

  “Merely that the perpetrator of this amusing outrage can be no other than the swell mobsman who relieved Lady Melrose of her necklace and poor Danby of half his stock a year or two ago.”

  “I believe your lordship has hit the nail on the head.”

  “The man who took the Thimblely diamonds and returned them to Lord Thimblely, you know.”

  “Perhaps he’ll treat your lordship the same.”

  “Not he! I don’t mean to cry over my spilt milk. I only wish the fellow joy of all he had time to take. Anything fresh up-stain by the way?”

  “Yes, my lord: the robbery took place between a quarter past eight and the half-hour.”

  “How on earth do you know?”

  “The clock that was tied up in the towel had stopped at twenty past.”

  “Have you interviewed my man?”

  “I have, my lord. He was in your lordship’s room until close on the quarter, and all was as it should be when he left it.”

  “Then do you suppose the burglar was in hiding in the house?”

  “It’s impossible to say, my lord. He’s not in the house now, for he could only be in your lordship’s bedroom or dressing-room, and we have searched every inch of both.”

  Lord Thornaby turned to us when the inspector had retreated, caressing his peaked cap.

  “I told him to clear up these points first,” he explained, jerking his head toward the door. “I had reason to think my man had been neglecting his duties up there. I am glad to find myself mistaken.”

  I ought to have been no less glad to see my own mistake. My suspicions of our officious author were thus proved to have been as wild as himself. I owed the man no grudge, and yet in my human heart I felt vaguely disappointed. My theory had gained color from his behavior ever since he had admitted us to the dressing-room; it had changed all at once from the familiar to the morose; and only now was I just enough to remember that Lord Thornaby, having tolerated those familiarities as long as they were connected with useful service, had administered a relentless snub the moment that service had been well and truly performed.

  But if Parrington was exonerated in my mind, so also was Raffles reinstated in the regard of those who had entertained a far graver and more dangerous hypothesis. It was a miracle o
f good luck, a coincidence among coincidences, which had white-washed him in their sight at the very moment when they were straining the expert eye to sift him through and through. But the miracle had been performed, and its effect was visible in every face and audible in every voice. I except Ernest, who could never have been in the secret; moreover, that gay Criminologist had been palpably shaken by his first little experience of crime. But the other three vied among themselves to do honor where they had done injustice. I heard Kingsmill, Q.C., telling Raffles the best time to catch him at chambers, and promising a seat in court for any trial he might ever like to hear. Parrington spoke of a presentation set of his books, and in doing homage to Raffles made his peace with our host. As for Lord Thornaby, I did overhear the name of the Athenaeum Club, a reference to his friends on the committee, and a whisper (as I thought) of Rule II.

  The police were still in possession when we went our several ways, and it was all that I could do to drag Raffles up to my rooms, though, as I have said, they were just round the corner. He consented at last as a lesser evil than talking of the burglary in the street; and in my rooms I told him of his late danger and my own dilemma, of the few words I had overheard in the beginning, of the thin ice on which he had cut fancy figures without a crack. It was all very well for him. He had never realized his peril. But let him think of me—listening, watching, yet unable to lift a finger—unable to say one warning word.

  Raffles suffered me to finish, but a weary sigh followed the last symmetrical whiff of a Sullivan which he flung into my fire before he spoke.

  “No, I won’t have another, thank you. I’m going to talk to you, Bunny. Do you really suppose I didn’t see through these wiseacres from the first?”

  I flatly refused to believe he had done so before that evening. Why had he never mentioned his idea to me? It had been quite the other way, as I indignantly reminded Raffles. Did he mean me to believe he was the man to thrust his head into the lion’s mouth for fun? And what point would there be in dragging me there to see the fun?