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Raffles, Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman

E >> E. W. Hornung >> Raffles, Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman




"He is alive!" I cried. "Nothing else matters--he is alive!"

At last I did ask whether they had got him too; but thankful as
I was for the greater knowledge, I confess that I did not much
care what answer I received. Already I was figuring out how
much we might each get, and how old we should be when we came
out. But my companion tilted his hat to the back of his head,
at the same time putting his face close to mine, and compelling
my scrutiny. And my answer, as you have already guessed, was
the face of Raffles himself, superbly disguised (but less
superbly than his voice), and yet so thinly that I should have
known him in a trice had I not been too miserable in the
beginning to give him a second glance.

Jacques Saillard had made his life impossible, and this was the
one escape. Raffles had bought the doctor for a thousand pounds,
and the doctor had bought a "nurse" of his own kidney, on his
own account; me, for some reason, he would not trust; he had
insisted upon my dismissal as an essential preliminary to his
part in the conspiracy. Here the details were half-humorous,
half-grewsome, each in turn as Raffles told me the story. At
one period he had been very daringly drugged indeed, and, in his
own words, "as dead as a man need be"; but he had left strict
instructions that nobody but the nurse and "my devoted physician"
should" lay a finger on me" afterwards; and by virtue of this
proviso a library of books (largely acquired for the occasion)
had been impiously interred at Kensal Green. Raffles had
definitely undertaken not to trust me with the secret, and, but
for my untoward appearance at the funeral (which he had attended
for his own final satisfaction), I was assured and am convinced
that he would have kept his promise to the letter. In explaining
this he gave me the one explanation I desired, and in another
moment we turned into Praed Street, Paddington.

"And I thought you said Bow Street!" said I. "Are you coming
straight down to Richmond with me?"

"I may as well," said Raffles, "though I did mean to get my kit
first, so as to start in fair and square as the long-lost
brother from the bush. That's why I hadn't written. The
function was a day later than I calculated. I was going to
write to-night."

"But what are we to do?" said I, hesitating when he had paid the
cab. "I have been playing the colonies for all they are worth!"

"Oh, I've lost my luggage," said he, "or a wave came into my
cabin and spoilt every stitch, or I had nothing fit to bring
ashore. We'll settle that in the train."


THE WRONG HOUSE

My brother Ralph, who now lived with me on the edge of Ham
Common, had come home from Australia with a curious affection of
the eyes, due to long exposure to the glare out there, and
necessitating the use of clouded spectacles in the open air. He
had not the rich complexion of the typical colonist, being indeed
peculiarly pale, but it appeared that he had been confined to his
berth for the greater part of the voyage, while his prematurely
gray hair was sufficient proof that the rigors of bush life had
at last undermined an originally tough constitution. Our
landlady, who spoilt my brother from the first, was much
concerned on his behalf, and wished to call in the local doctor;
but Ralph said dreadful things about the profession, and quite
frightened the good woman by arbitrarily forbidding her ever to
let a doctor inside her door. I had to apologize to her for the
painful prejudices and violent language of "these colonists,"
but the old soul was easily mollified. She had fallen in love
with my brother at first sight, and she never could do too much
for him. It was owing to our landlady that I took to calling him
Ralph, for the first time in our lives, on her beginning to speak
of and to him as "Mr. Raffles."

"This won't do," said he to me. "It's a name that sticks."

"It must be my fault! She must have heard it from me," said I
self-reproachfully.

"You must tell her it's the short for Ralph."

"But it's longer."

"It's the short," said he; "and you've got to tell her so."

Henceforth I heard as much of "Mr. Ralph," his likes and
dislikes, what he would fancy and what he would not, and oh, what
a dear gentleman he was, that I often remembered to say "Ralph,
old chap," myself.

It was an ideal cottage, as I said when I found it, and in it
our delicate man became rapidly robust. Not that the air was
also ideal, for, when it was not raining, we had the same
faithful mist from November to March. But it was something to
Ralph to get any air at all, other than night-air, and the
bicycle did the rest. We taught ourselves, and may I never
forget our earlier rides, through and through Richmond Park when
the afternoons were shortest, upon the incomparable Ripley Road
when we gave a day to it. Raffles rode a Beeston Humber, a
Royal Sunbeam was good enough for me, but he insisted on our both
having Dunlop tires.

"They seem the most popular brand. I had my eye on the road all
the way from Ripley to Cobham, and there were more Dunlop marks
than any other kind. Bless you, yes, they all leave their
special tracks, and we don't want ours to be extra special; the
Dunlop's like a rattlesnake, and the Palmer leaves
telegraph-wires, but surely the serpent is more in our line."

That was the winter when there were so many burglaries in the
Thames Valley from Richmond upward. It was said that the thieves
used bicycles in every case, but what is not said? They were
sometimes on foot to my knowledge, and we took a great interest
in the series, or rather sequence of successful crimes. Raffles
would often get his devoted old lady to read him the latest local
accounts, while I was busy with my writing (much I wrote) in my
own room. We even rode out by night ourselves, to see if we
could not get on the tracks of the thieves, and never did we fail
to find hot coffee on the hob for our return. We had indeed
fallen upon our feet. Also, the misty nights might have been
made for the thieves. But their success was not so consistent,
and never so enormous as people said, especially the sufferers,
who lost more valuables than they had ever been known to possess.
Failure was often the caitiff's portion, and disaster once;
owing, ironically enough, to that very mist which should have
served them. But as I am going to tell the story with some
particularity, and perhaps some gusto, you will see why who
read.

The right house stood on high ground near the river, with quite a
drive (in at one gate and out at the other) sweeping past the
steps. Between the two gates was a half-moon of shrubs, to the
left of the steps a conservatory, and to their right the walk
leading to the tradesmen's entrance and the back premises; here
also was the pantry window, of which more anon. The right house
was the residence of an opulent stockbroker who wore a heavy
watch-chain and seemed fair game. There would have been two
objections to it had I been the stockbroker. The house was one
of a row, though a goodly row, and an army-crammer had
established himself next door. There is a type of such
institutions in the suburbs; the youths go about in
knickerbockers, smoking pipes, except on Saturday nights, when
they lead each other home from the last train. It was none of
our business to spy upon these boys, but their manners and
customs fell within the field of observation. And we did not
choose the night upon which the whole row was likely to be kept
awake.

The night that we did choose was as misty as even the Thames
Valley is capable of making them. Raffles smeared vaseline upon
the plated parts of his Beeston Humber before starting, and our
dear landlady cosseted us both, and prayed we might see nothing
of the nasty burglars, not denying as the reward would be very
handy to them that got it, to say nothing of the honor and
glory. We had promised her a liberal perquisite in the event of
our success, but she must not give other cyclists our idea by
mentioning it to a soul. It was about midnight when we cycled
through Kingston to Surbiton, having trundled our machines
across Ham Fields, mournful in the mist as those by Acheron, and
so over Teddington Bridge.

I often wonder why the pantry window is the vulnerable point of
nine houses out of ten. This house of ours was almost the
tenth, for the window in question had bars of sorts, but not the
right sort. The only bars that Raffles allowed to beat him were
the kind that are let into the stone outside; those fixed within
are merely screwed to the woodwork, and you can unscrew as many
as necessary if you take the trouble and have the time. Barred
windows are usually devoid of other fasteners worthy the name;
this one was no exception to that foolish rule, and a push with
the pen-knife did its business. I am giving householders some
valuable hints, and perhaps deserving a good mark from the
critics. These, in any case, are the points that I would see to,
were I a rich stockbroker in a riverside suburb. In giving good
advice, however, I should not have omitted to say that we had
left our machines in the semi-circular shrubbery in front, or
that Raffles had most ingeniously fitted our lamps with dark
slides, which enabled us to leave them burning.

It proved sufficient to unscrew the bars at the bottom only, and
then to wrench them to either side. Neither of us had grown
stout with advancing years, and in a few minutes we both had
wormed through into the sink, and thence to the floor. It was
not an absolutely noiseless process, but once in the pantry we
were mice, and no longer blind mice. There was a gas-bracket,
but we did not meddle with that. Raffles went armed these
nights with a better light than gas; if it were not immoral, I
might recommend a dark-lantern which was more or less his
patent. It was that handy invention, the electric torch, fitted
by Raffles with a dark hood to fulfil the functions of a slide.
I had held it through the bars while he undid the screws, and
now he held it to the keyhole, in which a key was turned upon the
other side.

There was a pause for consideration, and in the pause we put on
our masks. It was never known that these Thames Valley robberies
were all com-mitted by miscreants decked in the livery of crime,
but that was because until this night we had never even shown our
masks. It was a point upon which Raffles had insisted on all
feasible occasions since his furtive return to the world.
To-night it twice nearly lost us everything--but you shall hear.

There is a forceps for turning keys from the wrong side of the
door, but the implement is not so easy of manipulation as it
might be. Raffles for one preferred a sharp knife and the corner
of the panel. You go through the panel because that is
thinnest, of course in the corner nearest the key, and you use a
knife when you can, because it makes least noise. But it does
take minutes, and even I can remember shifting the electric torch
from one hand to the other before the aperture was large enough
to receive the hand and wrist of Raffles.

He had at such times a motto of which I might have made earlier
use, but the fact is that I have only once before described a
downright burglary in which I assisted, and that without knowing
it at the time. The most solemn student of these annals cannot
affirm that he has cut through many doors in our company, since
(what was to me) the maiden effort to which I allude. I,
however, have cracked only too many a crib in conjunction with
A. J. Raffles, and at the crucial moment he would whisper
"Victory or Wormwood Scrubbs, Bunny!" or instead of Wormwood
Scrubbs it might be Portland Bill. This time it was neither one
nor the other, for with that very word "victory" upon his lips,
they whitened and parted with the first taste of defeat.

"My hand's held!" gasped Raffles, and the white of his eyes
showed all round the iris, a rarer thing than you may think.

At the same moment I heard the shuffling feet and the low,
excited young voices on the other side of the door, and a faint
light shone round Raffles's wrist.

"Well done, Beefy!"

"Hang on to him!"

"Good old Beefy!"

"Beefy's got him!"

"So have I--so have I!"

And Raffles caught my arm with his one free hand. "They've got
me tight," he whispered. "I'm done."

"Blaze through the door," I urged, and might have done it had I
been armed. But I never was. It was Raffles who monopolized
that risk.

"I can't--it's the boys--the wrong house!" he whispered. "Curse
the fog--it's done me. But you get out, Bunn, while you can;
never mind me; it's my turn, old chap."

His one hand tightened in affectionate farewell. I put the
electric torch in it before I went, trembling in every inch, but
without a word.

Get out! His turn! Yes, I would get out, but only to come in
again, for it was my turn--mine--not his. Would Raffles leave me
held by a hand through a hole in a door? What he would have
done in my place was the thing for me to do now. I began by
diving head-first through the pantry window and coming to earth
upon all fours. But even as I stood up, and brushed the gravel
from the palms of my hands and the knees of my knickerbockers, I
had no notion what to do next. And yet I was halfway to the
front door before I remembered the vile crape mask upon my face,
and tore it off as the door flew open and my feet were on the
steps.

"He's into the next garden," I cried to a bevy of pyjamas with
bare feet and young faces at either end of them.

"Who? Who?" said they, giving way before me.

"Some fellow who came through one of your windows head-first."

"The other Johnny, the other Johnny," the cherubs chorused.

"Biking past--saw the light--why, what have you there?"

Of course it was Raffles's hand that they had, but now I was in
the hall among them. A red-faced barrel of a boy did all the
holding, one hand round the wrist, the other palm to palm, and
his knees braced up against the panel. Another was rendering
ostentatious but ineffectual aid, and three or four others danced
about in their pyjamas. After all, they were not more than four
to one. I had raised my voice, so that Raffles might hear me and
take heart, and now I raised it again. Yet to this day I cannot
account for my inspiration, that proved nothing less.

"Don't talk so loud," they were crying below their breath; "don't
wake 'em upstairs, this is our show."

"Then I see you've got one of them," said I, as desired. "Well,
if you want the other you can have him, too. I believe he's hurt
himself."

"After him, after him!" they exclaimed as one.

"But I think he got over the wall--"

"Come on, you chaps, come on!"

And there was a soft stampede to the hall door.

"Don't all desert me, I say!" gasped the red-faced hero who held
Raffles prisoner.

"We must have them both, Beefy!"

"That's all very well--"

"Look here," I interposed, "I'll stay by you. I've a friend
outside, I'll get him too."

"Thanks awfully," said the valiant Beefy.

The hall was empty now. My heart beat high.

"How did you hear them?" I inquired, my eye running over him.

"We were down having drinks--game o' Nap--in there."

Beefy jerked his great head toward an open door, and the tail of
my eye caught the glint of glasses in the firelight, but the
rest of it was otherwise engaged.

"Let me relieve you," I said, trembling.

"No, I'm all right."

"Then I must insist."

And before he could answer I had him round the neck with such a
will that not a gurgle passed my fingers, for they were almost
buried in his hot, smooth flesh. Oh, I am not proud of it; the
act was as vile as act could be; but I was not going to see
Raffles taken, my one desire was to be the saving of him, and I
tremble even now to think to what lengths I might have gone for
its fulfilment. As it was, I squeezed and tugged until one
strong hand gave way after the other and came feeling round for
me, but feebly because they had held on so long. And what do you
suppose was happening at the same moment? The pinched white hand
of Raffles, reddening with returning blood, and with a clot of
blood upon the wrist, was craning upward and turning the key in
the lock without a moment's loss.

"Steady on, Bunny!"

And I saw that Beefy's ears were blue; but Raffles was feeling in
his pockets as he spoke. "Now let him breathe," said he,
clapping his handkerchief over the poor youth's mouth. An empty
vial was in his other hand, and the first few stertorous breaths
that the poor boy took were the end of him for the time being.
Oh, but it was villainous, my part especially, for he must have
been far gone to go the rest of the way so readily. I began by
saying I was not proud of this deed, but its dastardly character
has come home to me more than ever with the penance of writing it
out. I see in myself, at least my then self, things that I
never saw quite so clearly before. Yet let me be quite sure
that I would not do the same again. I had not the smallest
desire to throttle this innocent lad (nor did I), but only to
extricate Raffles from the most hopeless position he was ever in;
and after all it was better than a blow from behind. On the
whole, I will not alter a word, nor whine about the thing any
more.

We lifted the plucky fellow into Raffles's place in the pantry,
locked the door on him, and put the key through the panel. Now
was the moment for thinking of ourselves, and again that infernal
mask which Raffles swore by came near the undoing of us both. We
had reached the steps when we were hailed by a voice, not from
without but from within, and I had just time to tear the accursed

thing from Raffles's face before he turned.

A stout man with a blonde moustache was on the stairs, in his
pyjamas like the boys.

"What are you doing here?" said he.

"There has been an attempt upon your house," said I, still
spokesman for the night, and still on the wings of inspiration.

"Your sons--"

"My pupils."

"Indeed. Well, they heard it, drove off the thieves, and have
given chase."

"And where do you come in?" inquired the stout man, descending.

"We were bicycling past, and I actually saw one fellow come
head-first through your pantry window. I think he got over the
wall."

Here a breathless boy returned.

"Can't see anything of him," he gasped.

"It's true, then," remarked the crammer.

"Look at that door," said I.

But unfortunately the breathless boy looked also, and now he was
being joined by others equally short of wind.

"Where's Beefy?" he screamed. "What on earth's happened to
Beefy?"

"My good boys," exclaimed the crammer, "will one of you be kind
enough to tell me what you've been doing, and what these
gentlemen have been doing for you? Come in all, before you get
your death. I see lights in the class-room, and more than
lights. Can these be signs of a carouse?"

"A very innocent one, sir," said a well set-up youth with more
moustache than I have yet.

"Well, Olphert, boys will be boys. Suppose you tell me what
happened, before we come to recriminations."

The bad old proverb was my first warning. I caught two of the
youths exchanging glances under raised eyebrows. Yet their
stout, easy-going mentor had given me such a reassuring glance of
side-long humor, as between man of the world and man of the
world, that it was difficult to suspect him of suspicion. I was
nevertheless itching to be gone.

Young Olphert told his story with engaging candor. It was true
that they had come down for an hour's Nap and cigarettes; well,
and there was no denying that there was whiskey in the glasses.
The boys were now all back in their class-room, I think entirely
for the sake of warmth; but Raffles and I were in knickerbockers
and Norfolk jackets, and very naturally remained without, while
the army-crammer (who wore bedroom slippers) stood on the
threshold, with an eye each way. The more I saw of the man the
better I liked and the more I feared him. His chief annoyance
thus far was that they had not called him when they heard the
noise, that they had dreamt of leaving him out of the fun. But
he seemed more hurt than angry about that.

"Well, sir," concluded Olphert, "we left old Beefy Smith hanging
on to his hand, and this gentleman with him, so perhaps he can
tell us what happened next?"

"I wish I could," I cried with all their eyes upon me, for I had
had time to think. "Some of you must have heard me say I'd fetch
my friend in from the road?"

"Yes, I did," piped an innocentfrom within.

"Well, and when I came back with him things were exactly as you
see them now. Evidently the man's strength was too much for the
boy's; but whether he ran upstairs or outside I know no more
than you do."

"It wasn't like that boy to run either way," said the crammer,
cocking a clear blue eye on me.

"But if he gave chase!"

"It wasn't like him even to let go."

"I don't believe Beefy ever would," put in Olphert. "That's why
we gave him the billet."

"He may have followed him through the pantry window," I suggested
wildly.

"But the door's shut," put in a boy.

"I'll have a look at it," said the crammer.

And the key no longer in the lock, and the insensible youth
within! The key would be missed, the door kicked in; nay, with
the man's eye still upon me, I thought I could smell the
chloroform,

I thought I could hear a moan, and prepared for either any
moment. And how he did stare! I have detested blue eyes ever
since, and blonde moustaches, and the whole stout easy-going type

that is not such a fool as it looks. I had brazened it out with
the boys, but the first grown man wa too many for me, and the
blood ran out of my heart as though there was no Raffles at my
back. Indeed, I had forgotten him. I had so longed to put this
thing through by myself! Even in my extremity it was almost a
disappointment to m when his dear, cool voice fell like a
delicious draught upon my ears. But its effect upon the others
is more interesting to recall. Until now the crammer had the
centre of the stage, but at this point Raffles usurped a place
which was always his at will. People would wait for what he had
to say, as these people waited now for the simplest and most
natural thing in the world.

"One moment!" he had begun.

"Well?" said the crammer, relieving me of his eyes at last.

"I don't want to lose any of the fun--"

"Nor must you," said the crammer, with emphasis.

"But we've left our bikes outside, and mine's a Beeston Humber,"
continued Raffles. "If you don't mind, we'll bring 'em in before
these fellows get away on them."

And out he went without a look to see the effect of his words, I
after him with a determined imitation of his self-control. But I
would have given something to turn round. I believe that for
one moment the shrewd instructor was taken in, but as I reached
the steps I heard him asking his pupils whether any of them had
seen any bicycles outside.

That moment, however, made the difference. We were in the
shrubbery, Raffles with his electric torch drawn and blazing,
when we heard the kicking at the pantry door, and in the drive
with our bicycles before man and boys poured pell-mell down the
steps.

We rushed our machines to the nearer gate, for both were shut,
and we got through and swung it home behind us in the nick of
time. Even I could mount before they could reopen the gate,
which Raffles held against them for half an instant with
unnecessary gallantry. But he would see me in front of him, and
so it fell to me to lead the way.

Now, I have said that it was a very misty night (hence the whole
thing), and also that these houses were on a hill. But they were
not nearly on the top of the hill, and I did what I firmly
believe that almost everybody would have done in my place.
Raffles, indeed, said he would have done it himself, but that was
his generosity, and he was the one man who would not. What I did
was to turn in the opposite direction to the other gate, where we
might so easily have been cut off, and to pedal for my
life--up-hill!

"My God!" I shouted when I found it out.

"Can you turn in your own length?" asked Raffles, following
loyally.

"Not certain."

"Then stick to it. You couldn't help it. But it's the devil of
a hill!"

"And here they come!"

"Let them," said Raffles, and brandished his electric torch, our
only light as yet.

A hill seems endless in the dark, for you cannot see the end, and
with the patter of bare feet gaining on us, I thought this one
could have no end at all. Of course the boys could charge up it
quicker than we could pedal, but I even heard the voice of their
stout instructor growing louder through the mist.

"Oh, to think I've let you in for this!" I groaned, my head over
the handle-bars, every ounce of my weight first on one foot and
then on the other. I glanced at Raffles, and in the white light
of his torch he was doing it all with his ankles, exactly as
though he had been riding in a Gymkhana.

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