The Raffles Megapack. E.W. Hornung
I called his attention to it in a whisper.
“Why, yep!” came through his nose. “Say, boy, the lady, she’s not comin’, but you leave that tackle where ’tis. If I’m liable to pay, I guess I’ll have all there is to it.”
I have never been in America, and the American public is the last on earth that I desire to insult; but idiom and intonation alike would have imposed upon my inexperience. I had to look at Raffles to make sure that it was he who spoke, and I had my own reasons for looking hard.
“Who on earth was the lady?” I inquired aghast at the first opportunity.
“She isn’t on earth. They don’t like wasting this room on two, that’s all. Bunny—my Bunny—here’s to us both!”
And we clinked glasses swimming with the liquid gold of Steinberg, 1868; but of the rare delights of that supper I can scarcely trust myself to write. It was no mere meal, it was no coarse orgy, but a little feast for the fastidious gods, not unworthy of Lucullus at his worst. And I who had bolted my skilly at Wormwood Scrubbs, and tightened my belt in a Holloway attic, it was I who sat down to this ineffable repast! Where the courses were few, but each a triumph of its kind, it would be invidious to single out any one dish; but the Jambon de Westphalie au Champagne tempts me sorely. And then the champagne that we drank, not the quantity but the quality! Well, it was Pol Roger, ’84, and quite good enough for me; but even so it was not more dry, nor did it sparkle more, than the merry rascal who had dragged me thus far to the devil, but should lead me dancing the rest of the way. I was beginning to tell him so. I had done my honest best since my reappearance in the world; but the world had done its worst by me. A further antithesis and my final intention were both upon my tongue when the waiter with the Chateau Margaux cut me short; for he was the bearer of more than that great wine; bringing also a card upon a silver tray.
“Show him up,” said Raffles, laconically.
“And who is this?” I cried when the man was gone. Raffles reached across the table and gripped my arm in a vice. His eyes were steel points fixed on mine.
“Bunny, stand by me,” said he in the old irresistible voice, a voice both stern and winning. “Stand by me, Bunny—if there’s a row!”
And there was time for nothing more, the door flying open, and a dapper person entering with a bow; a frock-coat on his back, gold pince-nez on his nose; a shiny hat in one hand, and a black bag in the other.
“Good-evening, gentlemen,” said he, at home and smiling.
“Sit down,” drawled Raffles in casual response. “Say, let me introduce you to Mr. Ezra B. Martin, of Shicawgo. Mr. Martin is my future brother-in-law. This is Mr. Robinson, Ezra, manager to Sparks & Company, the cellerbrated joolers on Re-gent Street.”
I pricked up my ears, but contented myself with a nod. I altogether distrusted my ability to live up to my new name and address.
“I figured on Miss Martin bein’ right here, too,” continued Raffles, “but I regret to say she’s not feelin’ so good. We light out for Parrus on the 9 A. M. train to-morrer mornin’, and she guessed she’d be too dead. Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Robinson; but you’ll see I’m advertisin’ your wares.”
Raffles held his right hand under the electric light, and a diamond ring flashed upon his little finger. I could have sworn it was not there five minutes before.
The tradesman had a disappointed face, but for a moment it brightened as he expatiated on the value of that ring and on the price his people had accepted for it. I was invited to guess the figure, but I shook a discreet head. I have seldom been more taciturn in my life.
“Forty-five pounds,” cried the jeweller; “and it would be cheap at fifty guineas.”
“That’s right,” assented Raffles. “That’d be dead cheap, I allow. But then, my boy, you gotten ready cash, and don’t you forget it.”
I do not dwell upon my own mystification in all this. I merely pause to state that I was keenly enjoying that very element. Nothing could have been more typical of Raffles and the past. It was only my own attitude that was changed.
It appeared that the mythical lady, my sister, had just become engaged to Raffles, who seemed all anxiety to pin her down with gifts of price. I could not quite gather whose gift to whom was the diamond ring; but it had evidently been paid for; and I voyaged to the moon, wondering when and how. I was recalled to this planet by a deluge of gems from the jeweller’s bag. They lay alight in their cases like the electric lamps above. We all three put our heads together over them, myself without the slightest clew as to what was coming, but not unprepared for violent crime. One does not do eighteen months for nothing.
“Right away,” Raffles was saying. “We’ll choose for her, and you’ll change anything she don’t like. Is that the idea?”
“That was my suggestion, sir.”
“Then come on, Ezra. I guess you know Sadie’s taste. You help me choose.”
And we chose—lord! What did we not choose? There was her ring, a diamond half-hoop. It cost L95, and there was no attempt to get it for L90. Then there was a diamond necklet—two hundred guineas, but pounds accepted. That was to be the gift of the bridegroom. The wedding was evidently imminent. It behooved me to play a brotherly part. I therefore rose to the occasion; calculated she would like a diamond star (L116), but reckoned it was more than I could afford; and sustained a vicious kick under the table for either verb. I was afraid to open my mouth on finally obtaining the star for the round hundred. And then the fat fell in the fire; for pay we could not; though a remittance (said Raffles) was “overdo from Noo York.”
“But I don’t know you, gentlemen,” the jeweller exclaimed. “I haven’t even the name of your hotel!”
“I told you we was stoppin’ with friends,” said Raffles, who was not angry, though thwarted and crushed. “But that’s right, sir! Oh, that’s dead right, and I’m the last man to ask you to take Quixotic risks. I’m tryin’ to figure a way out. Yes, SIR, that’s what I’m tryin’ to do.”
“I wish you could, sir,” the jeweller said, with feeling. “It isn’t as if we hadn’t seen the color of your money. But certain rules I’m sworn to observe; it isn’t as if I was in business for myself; and—you say you start for Paris in the morning!”
“On the 9 A. M. train,” mused Raffles; “and I’ve heard no-end yarns about the joolers’ stores in Parrus. But that ain’t fair; don’t you take no notice o’ that. I’m tryin’ to figure a way out. Yes, SIR!”
He was smoking cigarettes out of a twenty-five box; the tradesman and I had cigars. Raffles sat frowning with a pregnant eye, and it was only too clear to me that his plans had miscarried. I could not help thinking, however, that they deserved to do so, if he had counted upon buying credit for all but L400 by a single payment of some ten per cent. That again seemed unworthy of Raffles, and I, for my part, still sat prepared to spring any moment at our visitor’s throat.
“We could mail you the money from Parrus,” drawled Raffles at length. “But how should we know you’d hold up your end of the string, and mail us the same articles we’ve selected tonight?”
The visitor stiffened in his chair. The name of his firm should be sufficient guarantee for that.
“I guess I’m no better acquainted with their name than they are with mine,” remarked Raffles, laughing. “See here, though! I got a scheme. You pack ’em in this!”
He turned the cigarettes out of the tin box, while the jeweller and I joined wondering eyes.
“Pack ’em in this,” repeated Raffles, “the three things we want, and never mind the boxes; you can pack ’em in cotton-wool. Then we’ll ring for string and sealing wax, seal up the lot right here, and you can take ’em away in your grip. Within three days we’ll have our remittance, and mail you the money, and you’ll mail us this darned box with my seal unbroken! It’s no use you lookin’