The Raffles Megapack Page 5

  I produced it with a hand whose trembling I tried in vain to still, and could have died for Raffles when he made no comment on what he could not fail to notice. His own hands were firm and cool as he adjusted my mask for me, and then his own.

  “By Jove, old boy,” he whispered cheerily, “you look about the greatest ruffian I ever saw! These masks alone will down a nigger, if we meet one. But I’m glad I remembered to tell you not to shave. You’ll pass for Whitechapel if the worst comes to the worst and you don’t forget to talk the lingo. Better sulk like a mule if you’re not sure of it, and leave the dialogue to me; but, please our stars, there will be no need. Now, are you ready?”

  “Quite.”

  “Got your gag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shooter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then follow me.”

  In an instant we were over the wall, in another on the lawn behind the house. There was no moon. The very stars in their courses had veiled themselves for our benefit. I crept at my leader’s heels to some French windows opening upon a shallow veranda. He pushed. They yielded.

  “Luck again,” he whispered; “nothing but luck! Now for a light.”

  And the light came!

  A good score of electric burners glowed red for the fraction of a second, then rained merciless white beams into our blinded eyes. When we found our sight four revolvers covered us, and between two of them the colossal frame of Reuben Rosenthall shook with a wheezy laughter from head to foot.

  “Good-evening, boys,” he hiccoughed. “Glad to see ye at last. Shift foot or finger, you on the left, though, and you’re a dead boy. I mean you, you greaser!” he roared out at Raffles. “I know you. I’ve been waitin’ for you. I’ve been watchin’ you all this week! Plucky smart you thought yerself, didn’t you? One day beggin’, next time shammin’ tight, and next one o’ them old pals from Kimberley what never come when I’m in. But you left the same tracks every day, you buggins, an’ the same tracks every night, all round the blessed premises.”

  “All right, guv’nor,” drawled Raffles; “don’t excite. It’s a fair cop. We don’t sweat to know ’ow you brung it orf. On’y don’t you go for to shoot, ’cos we ’int awmed, s’help me Gord!”

  “Ah, you’re a knowin’ one,” said Rosenthall, fingering his triggers. “But you’ve struck a knowin’er.”

  “Ho, yuss, we know all abaht thet! Set a thief to ketch a thief—ho, yuss.”

  My eyes had torn themselves from the round black muzzles, from the accursed diamonds that had been our snare, the pasty pig-face of the over-fed pugilist, and the flaming cheeks and hook nose of Rosenthall himself. I was looking beyond them at the doorway filled with quivering silk and plush, black faces, white eyeballs, woolly pates. But a sudden silence recalled my attention to the millionaire. And only his nose retained its color.

  “What d’ye mean?” he whispered with a hoarse oath. “Spit it out, or, by Christmas, I’ll drill you!”

  “Whort price thet brikewater?” drawled Raffles coolly.

  “Eh?”

  Rosenthall’s revolvers were describing widening orbits.

  “Whort price thet brikewater—old I.D.B.?”

  “Where in hell did you get hold o’ that?” asked Rosenthall, with a rattle in his thick neck, meant for mirth.

  “You may well arst,” says Raffles. “It’s all over the plice w’ere I come from.”

  “Who can have spread such rot?”

  “I dunno,” says Raffles; “arst the gen’leman on yer left; p’r’aps ’E knows.”

  The gentleman on his left had turned livid with emotion. Guilty conscience never declared itself in plainer terms. For a moment his small eyes bulged like currants in the suet of his face; the next, he had pocketed his pistols on a professional instinct, and was upon us with his fists.

  “Out o’ the light—out o’ the light!” yelled Rosenthall in a frenzy.

  He was too late. No sooner had the burly pugilist obstructed his fire than Raffles was through the window at a bound; while I, for standing still and saying nothing, was scientifically felled to the floor.

  I cannot have been many moments without my senses. When I recovered them there was a great to-do in the garden, but I had the drawing-room to myself. I sat up. Rosenthall and Purvis were rushing about outside, cursing the Kaffirs and nagging at each other.

  “Over that wall, I tell yer!”

  “I tell you it was this one. Can’t you whistle for the police?”

  “Police be damned! I’ve had enough of the blessed police.”

  “Then we’d better get back and make sure of the other rotter.”

  “Oh, make sure o’ yer skin. That’s what you’d better do. Jala, you black hog, if I catch you skulkin’.…”

  I never heard the threat. I was creeping from the drawing-room on my hands and knees, my own revolver swinging by its steel ring from my teeth.

  For an instant I thought that the hall also was deserted. I was wrong, and I crept upon a Kaffir on all fours. Poor devil, I could not bring myself to deal him a base blow, but I threatened him most hideously with my revolver, and left the white teeth chattering in his black head as I took the stairs three at a time. Why I went upstairs in that decisive fashion, as though it were my only course, I cannot explain. But garden and ground floor seemed alive with men, and I might have done worse.

  I turned into the first room I came to. It was a bedroom—empty, though lit up; and never shall I forget how I started as I entered, on encountering the awful villain that was myself at full length in a pier-glass! Masked, armed, and ragged, I was indeed fit carrion for a bullet or the hangman, and to one or the other I made up my mind. Nevertheless, I hid myself in the wardrobe behind the mirror; and there I stood shivering and cursing my fate, my folly, and Raffles most of all—Raffles first and last—for I daresay half an hour. Then the wardrobe door was flung suddenly open; they had stolen into the room without a sound; and I was hauled downstairs, an ignominious captive.

  Gross scenes followed in the hall; the ladies were now upon the stage, and at sight of the desperate criminal they screamed with one accord. In truth I must have given them fair cause, though my mask was now torn away and hid nothing but my left ear. Rosenthall answered their shrieks with a roar for silence; the woman with the bath-sponge hair swore at him shrilly in return; the place became a Babel impossible to describe. I remember wondering how long it would be before the police appeared. Purvis and the ladies were for calling them in and giving me in charge without delay. Rosenthall would not hear of it. He swore that he would shoot man or woman who left his sight. He had had enough of the police. He was not going to have them coming there to spoil sport; he was going to deal with me in his own way. With that he dragged me from all other hands, flung me against a door, and sent a bullet crashing through the wood within an inch of my ear.

  “You drunken fool! It’ll be murder!” shouted Purvis, getting in the way a second time.

  “Wha’ do I care? He’s armed, isn’t he? I shot him in self-defence. It’ll be a warning to others. Will you stand aside, or d’ye want it yourself?”

  “You’re drunk,” said Purvis, still between us. “I saw you take a neat tumblerful since you come in, and it’s made you drunk as a fool. Pull yourself together, old man. You ain’t a-going to do what you’ll be sorry for.”

  “Then I won’t shoot at him, I’ll only shoot roun’ an’ roun’ the beggar. You’re quite right, ole feller. Wouldn’t hurt him. Great mishtake. Roun’ an’ roun’. There—like that!”

  His freckled paw shot up over Purvis’s shoulder, mauve lightning came from his ring, a red flash from his revolver, and shrieks from the women as the reverberations died away. Some splinters lodged in my hair.

  Next instant the prize-fighter disarmed him; and I was safe from the devil, but finally doomed to the deep sea. A policeman was in our midst. He had entered through the drawing-room window; he was an officer of few words and creditable promptitude. In a twinkl
ing he had the handcuffs on my wrists, while the pugilist explained the situation, and his patron reviled the force and its representative with impotent malignity. A fine watch they kept; a lot of good they did; coming in when all was over and the whole household might have been murdered in their sleep. The officer only deigned to notice him as he marched me off.

  “We know all about you, sir,” said he contemptuously, and he refused the sovereign Purvis proffered. “You will be seeing me again, sir, at Marylebone.”

  “Shall I come now?”

  “As you please, sir. I rather think the other gentleman requires you more, and I don’t fancy this young man means to give much trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m coming quietly,” I said.

  And I went.

  In silence we traversed perhaps a hundred yards. It must have been midnight. We did not meet a soul. At last I whispered:

  “How on earth did you manage it?”

  “Purely by luck,” said Raffles. “I had the luck to get clear away through knowing every brick of those back-garden walls, and the double luck to have these togs with the rest over at Chelsea. The helmet is one of a collection I made up at Oxford; here it goes over this wall, and we’d better carry the coat and belt before we meet a real officer. I got them once for a fancy ball—ostensibly—and thereby hangs a yarn. I always thought they might come in useful a second time. My chief crux tonight was getting rid of the hansom that brought me back. I sent him off to Scotland Yard with ten bob and a special message to good old Mackenzie. The whole detective department will be at Rosenthall’s in about half an hour. Of course, I speculated on our gentleman’s hatred of the police—another huge slice of luck. If you’d got away, well and good; if not, I felt he was the man to play with his mouse as long as possible. Yes, Bunny, it’s been more of a costume piece than I intended, and we’ve come out of it with a good deal less credit. But, by Jove, we’re jolly lucky to have come out of it at all!”

  GENTLEMEN AND PLAYERS

  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 tomorrow, 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 his 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.