The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  I blushed at the intimation conveyed by his words, and was silent; and Holmes, gathering up his tools and stuffing the stomacher in the capacious pocket of his coat, bade me au revoir, and went out into the night.

  The rest is already public property. All the morning papers were full of the strange recovery of the Burlingame stomacher the following Tuesday morning, and the name of Raffles Holmes was in every mouth. That night, the very essence of promptitude, Holmes appeared at my apartment and handed me a check for my share in the transaction.

  “Why—what does this mean?” I cried, as I took in the figures; “$12,500—I thought it was to be only $10,000.”

  “It was,” said Raffles Holmes, “but Mrs. Burlingame was so overjoyed at getting the thing back she made the check for $25,000 instead of for $20,000.”

  “You’re the soul of honor, Holmes!” I murmured.

  “On my father’s side,” he said with a sigh. “On my mother’s side it comes hard.”

  “And Mrs. Burlingame—didn’t she ask you how you ferreted the thing out?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “But I told her that that was my secret, that my secret was my profession, and that my profession was my bread and butter.”

  “But she must have asked you who was the guilty person?” I persisted.

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “she did, and I took her for a little gallop through the social register, in search of the guilty party; that got on her nerves, so that when it came down to an absolute question of identity she begged me to forget it.”

  “I am dull of comprehension, Raffles,” said I. “Tell me exactly what you mean.”

  “Simply this,” said Raffles Holmes. “The present four hundred consists of about 19,250 people, of whom about twenty-five percent, go to Newport at one time or another—say, 4,812. Of these 4,812 about ten percent are eligible for invitations to the Burlingame dinners, or 480. Now whom of the 480 possibilities having access to the Burlingame cottage would we naturally suspect? Surely only those who were in the vicinity the night of the robbery. By a process of elimination we narrowed them down to just ten persons exclusive of Mrs. Burlingame herself and her husband, old Billie Burlingame. We took the lot and canvassed them. There were Mr. and Mrs. Willington Bodfish—they left early and the stomacher was known to be safe at the time of their departure. There were Bishop and Mrs. Pounderby, neither of whom would be at all likely to come back in the dead of the night and remove property that did not belong to them. There were Senator and Mrs. Jorrocks. The Senator is after bigger game than diamond stomachers, and Mrs. Jorrocks is known to be honest. There were Harry Gaddsby and his wife. Harry doesn’t know enough to go in when it rains, and is too timid to call even his soul his own, so he couldn’t have taken it; and Mrs. Gaddsby is long on stomachers, having at least five, and therefore would not be likely to try to land a sixth by questionable means. In that way we practically cleared eight possibilities of suspicion.

  “Now, Mrs. Burlingame,’ said I, ‘that leaves four persons still in the ring—yourself, your husband, your daughter, and the Duke of Snarleyow, your daughter’s newly acquired fiancé, in whose honor the dinner was given. Of these four, you are naturally yourself the first to be acquitted. Your husband comes next, and is not likely to be the guilty party, because if he wants a diamond stomacher he needn’t steal it, having money enough to buy a dozen of them if he wishes. The third, your daughter, should be regarded as equally innocent, because if she was really desirous of possessing the jewel all she had to do was to borrow it from you. That brings us down to the Duke of—’

  “‘Hush! I beg of you, Mr. Raffles Holmes!’ she cried, in great agitation. ‘Not another word, I beseech you! If anyone should overhear us—The subject, after all, is an unprofitable one, and I’d—I’d rather drop it, and it—it—er—it has just occurred to me that possibly I—er—possibly I—’

  “‘Put the stomacher in the safe yourself?’ I suggested.

  “‘Yes, said Mrs. Burlingame with a grateful glance and a tremendous sigh of relief. ‘Now that I think of it, Mr. Raffles Holmes—that was it. I—er—I remember perfectly that—er—that I didn’t wear it at all the night of my little dinner, and that I did leave it behind me when I left town’”

  “Humph!” said I. “That may account for the extra $5000—”

  “It may,” said Raffles Holmes, pursing his lips into a deprecatory smile.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING PENDANTS

  “I think,” said Raffles Holmes, as he ran over his expense account while sitting in my library one night some months ago, “that in view of the present condition of my exchequer, my dear Jenkins, it behooveth me to get busy. Owning a motor-car is a damned expensive piece of business, and my balance at the bank has shrunk to about $1,683.59, thanks to my bills for cogs, clutches, and gasoline, plus the chauffeur’s fines.”

  “In what capacity shall you work, Raffles or Holmes?” I asked, pausing in my writing and regarding him with that affectionate interest which contact with him had inspired in me.

  “Play the combination always, Jenkins,” he replied. “If I did the Raffles act alone, I should become a billionaire in this land of silk and money, your rich are so careless of their wealth—but where would my conscience be? On the other hand, if I stuck to the Holmes act exclusively, I’d starve to death; but the combination—ah—there is moderate fortune, my boy, with peace of mind thrown in.”

  Here he rose up, buttoned his coat about his spare figure, and reached out for his hat.

  “I guess I’ll tackle that case of the missing pendants tomorrow,” he continued, flicking the ash from his cigar and gazing up at the ceiling with that strange twist in his eye which I had learned to regard as the harbinger of a dawning idea in his mind. “There’s ten thousand dollars for somebody in that job, and you and I might as well have it as any one else.”

  “I’m ready,” said I, as well I might be, for all I had to do in the matter was to record the adventure and take my half of the profits—no very difficult proceeding in either case.

  “Good,” quoth he. “I’ll go to Gaffany & Co. tomorrow and offer my services.”

  “You have a clue?” I asked.

  “I have an idea,” he answered. “As for the lost diamonds, I know no more of their whereabouts than you do, but I shall be able beyond all question to restore to Gaffany & Co. two pendants just as good as those they have lost, and if I do that I am entitled to the reward, I fancy, am I not?”

  “Most certainly,” said I. “But where the dickens will you find two such stones? They are worth $50,000 apiece, and they must match perfectly the two remaining jewels which Gaffany & Co. have in their safe.”

  “I’ll match ’em so closely that their own mother couldn’t tell ’em apart,” said Holmes with a chuckle.

  “Then the report that they are of such rarity of cut and luster is untrue?” I asked.

  “It’s perfectly true,” said Holmes, “but that makes no difference. The two stones that I shall return two weeks from today to Gaffany & Co. will be as like the two they have as they are themselves. Ta-ta, Jenkins—you can count on your half of that ten thousand as surely as though it jingled now in your pockets.”

  And with that Raffles Holmes left me to my own devices.

  I presume that most readers of the daily newspapers are tolerably familiar with the case of the missing pendants to which Holmes referred, and on the quest for which he was now about to embark. There may be some of you, however, who have never heard of the mysterious robbery of Gaffany & Co., by which two diamonds of almost matchless purity—half of a quartet of these stones—pear-shaped and valued at $50,000 each, had disappeared almost as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. They were a part of the famous Gloria Diamond, found last year at Kimberley, a huge, uncut gem of such value that no single purchaser for it could be found in the world. By a syndicate arrangement Gaffany & Co. had assumed charge of it, and were in the process of making for a customer a bar with four pendants cu
t from the original, when two of them disappeared. They had been last seen in the hands of a trusted employee of many years’ standing, to whom they had been intrusted for mounting, and he had been seen to replace them, at the end of the day’s work, in the little cage-like office of the custodian of the safe in which jewels of great value were kept at night. This was the last seen of them, and although five weeks had elapsed since the discovery of their loss and Holmes’s decision to look into the matter, no clue of the slightest description had been discovered by the thousands of sleuths, professional or amateur, who had interested themselves in the case.

  “He has such assurance!” I muttered. “To hear him talk, one would almost believe that they were already in his possession.”

  * * * *

  I did not see Raffles Holmes again for five days, and then I met him only by chance, nor should I have known it was he had he not made himself known to me. I was on my way uptown, a little after six o’clock, and as I passed Gaffany’s an aged man emerged from the employees’ entrance, carrying a small bag in his hand. He was apparently very nearsighted, for he most unceremoniously bumped into me as he came out of the door on to the sidewalk.

  Deference to age has always been a weakness of mine, and I apologized, although it was he that was at fault.

  “Don’t mention it, Jenkins,” he whispered. “You are just the man I want to see. Café Panhard—tonight—eleven o’clock. Just happen in, and if a foreign-looking person with a red beard speaks to you don’t throw him down, but act as if you were not annoyed by his mistake.”

  “You know me?” I asked.

  “Tush, man—I’m Raffles Holmes!” and with that he was off.

  His makeup was perfect, and as he hobbled his way along Broadway through the maze of cars, trucks, and hansoms, there was not in any part of him a hint or a suggestion that brought to mind my alert partner.

  Of course my excitement was intense. I could hardly wait for eleven o’clock to come, and at 9:30 I found myself in front of the Café Panhard a full hour and a half ahead of time, and never were there more minutes in that period of waiting than there seemed to be then as I paced Broadway until the appointed hour. It seemed ages before the clock down in front of the Whirald Building pointed to 10:55, but at last the moment arrived, and I entered the café, taking one of the little tables in the farther corner, where the light was not unduly strong and where the turmoil of the Hungarian band was reduced by distance from fortissimo to a moderate approach to a pianissimo, which would admit of conversation. Again I had to wait, but not for so long a time. It was twenty minutes past eleven when a fine-looking man of military bearing, wearing a full red beard, entered, and after looking the café over, sauntered up to where I sat.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jenkins,” said he with a slight foreign accent. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” said I.

  “If you don’t mind, I should like to sit here for a few moments,” he observed, pulling out the chair opposite me. “I have your permission?”

  “Certainly, Mr.—er—”

  “Robinstein is my name,” said he, sitting down and producing a letter from his pocket. “I have here a note from my old friend Raffles Holmes—a note of introduction to you. I am a manufacturer of paste jewels—or rather was. I have had one or two misfortunes in my business, and find myself here in America practically stranded.”

  “Your place of business was—”

  “In the Rue de l’Echelle in Paris,” he explained. “I lost everything in unfortunate speculation and have come here to see if I could not get a new start. Mr. Holmes thinks you can use your influence with Markoo & Co., the theatrical costumers, who, I believe, manufacture themselves all the stage jewelry they use in their business, to give me something to do. It was said in Paris that the gems which I made were of such quality that they would deceive, for a time anyhow, the most expert lapidaries, and if I can only get an opening with Markoo & Co. I am quite confident that you will not repent having exerted your good offices in my behalf.”

  “Why, certainly, Mr. Robinstein,” said I. “Any friend of Raffles Holmes may command my services. I know Tommy Markoo very well, and as this is a pretty busy time with him, getting his stuff out for the fall productions, I have little doubt I shall be able to help you. By Jove!” I added as I glanced over the café, “that’s a singular coincidence—there is Markoo himself just coming in the doorway.”

  “Really?” said Mr. Robinstein, turning and gazing towards the door. “He’s a different looking chap from what I had imagined. Perhaps, Mr. Jenkins, it would—er—expedite matters if you—”

  “Of course,” I interrupted. “Tommy is alone—we’ll have him over.”

  And I beckoned to Markoo and invited him to join us.

  “Good!” said he, in his whole-souled way. “Glad to have a chance to see you—I’m so confoundedly busy these days—just think of it, I’ve been at the shop ever since eight o’clock this morning.”

  “Tommy, I want to introduce you to my friend Mr. Robin-stein,” said I.

  “Not Isidore Robinstein, of Paris?” said Markoo.

  “I have that misfortune, Mr. Markoo,” said Robinstein.

  “Misfortune? Gad, Mr. Robinstein, we look at things through different glasses,” returned Markoo. “The man who can do your work ought never to suffer misfortune—”

  “If he only stays out of the stock market,” said Robinstein.

  “Aha,” laughed Tommy. “Et tu, Brute?”

  We all laughed, and if there was any ice to be broken after that it was along the line of business of the café. We got along famously together, and when we parted company, two hours later, all the necessary arrangements had been made for Mr. Robinstein to begin at once with Markoo—the following day, in fact.

  * * * *

  Four nights later Holmes turned up at my apartment.

  “Well,” said I, “have you come to report progress?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The reward will arrive on time, but it’s been the devil’s own job. Pretty, aren’t they!” he added, taking a small package wrapped in tissue-paper out of his pocket and disclosing its contents.

  “Gee-rusalem, what beauties!” I cried, as my eyes fell on two such diamonds as I had never before seen. They sparkled on the paper like bits of sunshine, and that their value was quite $100,000 it did not take one like myself, who knew little of gems, to see at a glance. “You have found them, have you?”

  ‘“Found what?” asked Raffles Holmes.

  “The missing pendants,” said I.

  “Well—not exactly,” said Raffles Holmes. “I think I’m on the track of them, though. There’s an old chap who works beside me down at Gaflany’s who spends so much of his time drinking ice water that I’m getting to be suspicious of him.”

  I roared with laughter.

  “The ice water habit is evidence of a criminal nature, eh?” I queried.

  “Not per se,” said Holmes, gravely, “but in conjunctibus—if my Latin is weak, please correct me—it is a very suspicious habit. When I see a man drink ten glasses of water in two hours, it indicates to my mind that there is something in the water cooler that takes his mind off his business. It is not likely to be either the ice or the water, on the doctrine of probabilities. Hence it must be something else. I caught him yesterday with his hand in it.”

  “His hand? In the water cooler?” I demanded.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “He said he was fishing around for a little piece of ice to cool his head, which ached, but I think differently. He got as pale as a ghost when I started in to fish for a piece for myself because my head ached too. I think he took the diamonds and has hid them there, but I’m not sure yet, and in my business I can’t afford to make mistakes. If my suspicions are correct, he is merely awaiting his opportunity to fish them out and light out with them.”’

  “Then these,” I said, “are—are they paste?”

  “No, indeed, they’re the real thing,” said Raffles Holmes, holding up
one of the gems to the light, where it fairly coruscated with brilliance “These are the other two of the original quartet.”

  “Great Heavens, Holmes—do you mean to say that Gaffany & Co. permit you to go about with things like this in your pocket?” I demanded.

  “Not they,” laughed Holmes. “They’d have a fit if they knew I had ’em, only they don’t know it.”

  “But how have you concealed the fact from them?” I persisted.

  “Robinstein made me a pair exactly like them,” said Holmes. “The paste ones are now lying in the Gaffany safe, where I saw them placed before leaving the shop tonight.”

  “You’re too deep for me, Holmes,” said I. “What’s the game?”

  “Now don’t say game, Jenkins,” he protested. “I never indulge in games. My quarry is not a game, but a scheme. For the past two weeks, with three days off, I have been acting as a workman in the Gaffany shop with the ostensible purpose of keeping my eye on certain employees who are under suspicion. Each day the remaining two pendant-stones—these—have been handed to me to work on, merely to carry out the illusion. The first day, in odd moments, I made sketches of them, and on the night of the second I had ’em down in such detail as to cut and color that Robinstein had no difficulty in reproducing them in the materials at his disposal in Markoo’s shop. And tonight all I had to do to get them was to keep them and hand in the Robinstein substitutes when the hour of closing came.”

  “So that now, in place of four $50,000 diamonds, Gaffany & Co. are in possession of—”

  “Two paste pendants, worth about $40 apiece,” said Holmes. “If I fail to find the originals, I shall have to use the paste ones to carry the scheme through, but I hate to do it. It’s so confoundedly inartistic and as old a trick as the pyramids.”

  “And tomorrow—”

  Raffles Holmes got up and paced the floor nervously.