The Raffles Megapack. E.W. Hornung
ought to be better guarded than this. I shall write to the Times about it—you see if I don’t!”
All at once, yet somehow not so suddenly as to excite suspicion, Raffles had become the elderly busybody with nerves; why, I could not for the life of me imagine; and the policeman seemed equally at sea.
“Lor’ bless you, sir,” said he, “I’m all right; don’t you bother your head about ME.”
“But you haven’t even got a truncheon!”
“Not likely to want one either. You see, sir, it’s early as yet; in a few minutes these here rooms will fill up; and there’s safety in numbers, as they say.”
“Oh, it will fill up soon, will it?”
“Any minute now, sir.”
“Ah!”
“It isn’t often empty as long as this, sir. It’s the Jubilee, I suppose.”
“Meanwhile, what if my friend and I had been professional thieves? Why, we could have over-powered you in an instant, my good fellow!”
“That you couldn’t; leastways, not without bringing the whole place about your ears.”
“Well, I shall write to the Times, all the same. I’m a connoisseur in all this sort of thing, and I won’t have unnecessary risks run with the nation’s property. You said there was an attendant just outside, but he sounds to me as though he were at the other end of the corridor. I shall write today!”
For an instant we all three listened; and Raffles was right. Then I saw two things in one glance. Raffles had stepped a few inches backward, and stood poised upon the ball of each foot, his arms half raised, a light in his eyes. And another kind of light was breaking over the crass features of our friend the constable.
“Then shall I tell you what I’LL do?” he cried, with a sudden clutch at the whistle-chain on his chest. The whistle flew out, but it never reached his lips. There were a couple of sharp smacks, like double barrels discharged all but simultaneously, and the man reeled against me so that I could not help catching him as he fell.
“Well done, Bunny! I’ve knocked him out—I’ve knocked him out! Run you to the door and see if the attendants have heard anything, and take them on if they have.”
Mechanically I did as I was told. There was no time for thought, still less for remonstrance or reproach, though my surprise must have been even more complete than that of the constable before Raffles knocked the sense out of him. Even in my utter bewilderment, however, the instinctive caution of the real criminal did not desert me. I ran to the door, but I sauntered through it, to plant myself before a Pompeiian fresco in the corridor; and there were the two attendants still gossiping outside the further door; nor did they hear the dull crash which I heard even as I watched them out of the corner of each eye.
It was hot weather, as I have said, but the perspiration on my body seemed already to have turned into a skin of ice. Then I caught the faint reflection of my own face in the casing of the fresco, and it frightened me into some semblance of myself as Raffles joined me with his hands in his pockets. But my fear and indignation were redoubled at the sight of him, when a single glance convinced me that his pockets were as empty as his hands, and his mad outrage the most wanton and reckless of his whole career.
“Ah, very interesting, very interesting, but nothing to what they have in the museum at Naples or in Pompeii itself. You must go there some day, Bunny. I’ve a good mind to take you myself. Meanwhile—slow march! The beggar hasn’t moved an eyelid. We may swing for him if you show indecent haste!”
“We!” I whispered. “We!”
And my knees knocked together as we came up to the chatting attendants. But Raffles must needs interrupt them to ask the way to the Prehistoric Saloon.
“At the top of the stairs.”
“Thank you. Then we’ll work round that way to the Egyptian part.”
And we left them resuming their providential chat.
“I believe you’re mad,” I said bitterly as we went.
“I believe I was,” admitted Raffles; “but I’m not now, and I’ll see you through. A hundred and thirty-nine yards, wasn’t it? Then it can’t be more than a hundred and twenty now—not as much. Steady, Bunny, for God’s sake. It’s SLOW march—for our lives.”
There was this much management. The rest was our colossal luck. A hansom was being paid off at the foot of the steps outside, and in we jumped, Raffles shouting “Charing Cross!” for all Bloomsbury to hear.
We had turned into Bloomsbury Street without exchanging a syllable when he struck the trap-door with his fist.
“Where the devil are you driving us?”
“Charing Cross, sir.”
“I said King’s Cross! Round you spin, and drive like blazes, or we miss our train! There’s one to York at 10:35,” added Raffles as the trap-door slammed; “we’ll book there, Bunny, and then we’ll slope through the subway to the Metropolitan, and so to ground via Baker Street and Earl’s Court.”
And actually in half an hour he was seated once more in the hired carrying chair, while the porter and I staggered upstairs with my decrepit charge, for whose shattered strength even one hour in Kew Gardens had proved too much! Then, and not until then, when we had got rid of the porter and were alone at last, did I tell Raffles, in the most nervous English at my command, frankly and exactly what I thought of him and of his latest deed. Once started, moreover, I spoke as I have seldom spoken to living man; and Raffles, of all men, stood my abuse without a murmur; or rather he sat it out, too astounded even to take off his hat, though I thought his eyebrows would have lifted it from his head.
“But it always was your infernal way,” I was savagely concluding. “You make one plan, and yet you tell me another—”
“Not today, Bunny, I swear!”
“You mean to tell me you really did start with the bare idea of finding a place to hide in for a night?”
“Of course I did.”
“It was to be the mere reconnoitre you pretended?”
“There was no pretence about it, Bunny.”
“Then why on earth go and do what you did?”
“The reason would be obvious to anyone but you,” said Raffles, still with no unkindly scorn. “It was the temptation of a minute—the final impulse of the fraction of a second, when Roberto saw that I was tempted, and let me see that he saw it. It’s not a thing I care to do, and I sha’n’t be happy till the papers tell me the poor devil is alive. But a knock-out shot was the only chance for us then.”
“Why? You don’t get run in for being tempted, nor yet for showing that you are!”
“But I should have deserved running in if I hadn’t yielded to such a temptation as that, Bunny. It was a chance in a hundred thousand! We might go there every day of our lives, and never again be the only outsiders in the room, with the billiard-marking Johnnie practically out of ear-shot at one and the same time. It was a gift from the gods; not to have taken it would have been flying in the face of Providence.”
“But you didn’t take it,” said I. “You went and left it behind.”
I wish I had had a Kodak for the little smile with which Raffles shook his head, for it was one that he kept for those great moments of which our vocation is not devoid. All this time he had been wearing his hat, tilted a little over eyebrows no longer raised. And now at last I knew where the gold cup was.
It stood for days upon his chimney-piece, this costly trophy whose ancient history and final fate filled newspaper columns even in these days of Jubilee, and for which the flower of Scotland Yard was said to be seeking high and low. Our constable, we learnt, had been stunned only, and, from the moment