The Amateur Cracksman E. W. Hornung (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖

that he turned his back upon me, and shambled down the road, shrugging his shoulders and muttering to himself as though I had refused him alms. A few moments I stood astounded, indignant, at a loss; then I followed him. His feet trailed, his knees gave, his back was bowed, his head kept nodding; it was the gait of a man eighty years of age. Presently he waited for me midway between two lampposts. As I came up he was lighting rank tobacco, in a cutty pipe, with an evil-smelling match, and the flame showed me the suspicion of a smile.

“You must forgive my heat, Bunny, but it really was very foolish of you. Here am I trying every dodge⁠—begging at the door one night⁠—hiding in the shrubs the next⁠—doing every mortal thing but stand and stare at the house as you went and did. It’s a costume piece, and in you rush in your ordinary clothes. I tell you they’re on the lookout for us night and day. It’s the toughest nut I ever tackled!”

“Well,” said I, “if you had told me so before I shouldn’t have come. You told me nothing.”

He looked hard at me from under the broken brim of a battered billycock.

“You’re right,” he said at length. “I’ve been too close. It’s become second nature with me when I’ve anything on. But here’s an end of it, Bunny, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going home now, and I want you to follow me; but for heaven’s sake keep your distance, and don’t speak to me again till I speak to you. There⁠—give me a start.” And he was off again, a decrepit vagabond, with his hands in his pockets, his elbows squared, and frayed coattails swinging raggedly from side to side.

I followed him to the Finchley Road. There he took an Atlas omnibus, and I sat some rows behind him on the top, but not far enough to escape the pest of his vile tobacco. That he could carry his character-sketch to such a pitch⁠—he who would only smoke one brand of cigarette! It was the last, least touch of the insatiable artist, and it charmed away what mortification there still remained in me. Once more I felt the fascination of a comrade who was forever dazzling one with a fresh and unsuspected facet of his character.

As we neared Piccadilly I wondered what he would do. Surely he was not going into the Albany like that? No, he took another omnibus to Sloane Street, I sitting behind him as before. At Sloane Street we changed again, and were presently in the long lean artery of the King’s Road. I was now all agog to know our destination, nor was I kept many more minutes in doubt. Raffles got down. I followed. He crossed the road and disappeared up a dark turning. I pressed after him, and was in time to see his coattails as he plunged into a still darker flagged alley to the right. He was holding himself up and stepping out like a young man once more; also, in some subtle way, he already looked less disreputable. But I alone was there to see him, the alley was absolutely deserted, and desperately dark. At the further end he opened a door with a latchkey, and it was darker yet within.

Instinctively I drew back and heard him chuckle. We could no longer see each other.

“All right, Bunny! There’s no hanky-panky this time. These are studios, my friend, and I’m one of the lawful tenants.”

Indeed, in another minute we were in a lofty room with skylight, easels, dressing-cupboard, platform, and every other adjunct save the signs of actual labor. The first thing I saw, as Raffles lit the gas, was its reflection in his silk hat on the pegs beside the rest of his normal garments.

“Looking for the works of art?” continued Raffles, lighting a cigarette and beginning to divest himself of his rags. “I’m afraid you won’t find any, but there’s the canvas I’m always going to make a start upon. I tell them I’m looking high and low for my ideal model. I have the stove lit on principle twice a week, and look in and leave a newspaper and a smell of Sullivans⁠—how good they are after shag! Meanwhile I pay my rent and am a good tenant in every way; and it’s a very useful little pied-à-terre⁠—there’s no saying how useful it might be at a pinch. As it is, the billycock comes in and the topper goes out, and nobody takes the slightest notice of either; at this time of night the chances are that there’s not a soul in the building except ourselves.”

“You never told me you went in for disguises,” said I, watching him as he cleansed the grime from his face and hands.

“No, Bunny, I’ve treated you very shabbily all round. There was really no reason why I shouldn’t have shown you this place a month ago, and yet there was no point in my doing so, and circumstances are just conceivable in which it would have suited us both for you to be in genuine ignorance of my whereabouts. I have something to sleep on, as you perceive, in case of need, and, of course, my name is not Raffles in the King’s Road. So you will see that one might bolt further and fare worse.”

“Meanwhile you use the place as a dressing-room?”

“It is my private pavilion,” said Raffles. “Disguises? In some cases they’re half the battle, and it’s always pleasant to feel that, if the worst comes to the worst, you needn’t necessarily be convicted under your own name. Then they’re indispensable in dealing with the fences. I drive all my bargains in the tongue and raiment of Shoreditch. If I didn’t there’d be the very devil to pay in blackmail. Now, this cupboard’s full of all sorts of toggery. I tell the woman who cleans the room that it’s for my models when I