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

you about the forest of dead gums? It looked perfectly ghostly in the moonlight. And I found it as still as I had left it⁠—so still that I pulled up there, my first halt, and lay with my ear to the ground for two or three minutes. But I heard nothing⁠—not a thing but the mare’s bellow and my own heart. I’m sorry, Bunny; but if ever you write my memoirs, you won’t have any difficulty in working up that chase. Play those dead gum-trees for all they’re worth, and let the bullets fly like hail. I’ll turn round in my saddle to see Ewbank coming up hell-to-leather in his white suit, and I’ll duly paint it red. Do it in the third person, and they won’t know how it’s going to end.”

“But I don’t know myself,” I complained. “Did the mare carry you all the way back to Melbourne?”

“Every rod, pole or perch! I had her well seen to at our hotel, and returned her to the doctor in the evening. He was tremendously tickled to hear that I had been bushed; next morning he brought me the paper to show me what I had escaped at Yea!”

“Without suspecting anything?”

“Ah!” said Raffles, as he put out the gas; “that’s a point on which I’ve never made up my mind. The mare and her color was a coincidence⁠—luckily she was only a bay⁠—and I fancied the condition of the beast must have told a tale. The doctor’s manner was certainly different. I’m inclined to think he suspected something, though not the right thing. I wasn’t expecting him, and I fear my appearance may have increased his suspicions.”

I asked him why.

“I used to have rather a heavy moustache,” said Raffles, “but I lost it the day after I lost my innocence.”

Wilful Murder

Of the various robberies in which we were both concerned, it is but the few, I find, that will bear telling at any length. Not that the others contained details which even I would hesitate to recount; it is, rather, the very absence of untoward incident which renders them useless for my present purpose. In point of fact our plans were so craftily laid (by Raffles) that the chances of a hitch were invariably reduced to a minimum before we went to work. We might be disappointed in the market value of our haul; but it was quite the exception for us to find ourselves confronted by unforeseen impediments, or involved in a really dramatic dilemma. There was a sameness even in our spoil; for, of course, only the most precious stones are worth the trouble we took and the risks we ran. In short, our most successful escapades would prove the greatest weariness of all in narrative form; and none more so than the dull affair of the Ardagh emeralds, some eight or nine weeks after the Milchester cricket week. The former, however, had a sequel that I would rather forget than all our burglaries put together.

It was the evening after our return from Ireland, and I was waiting at my rooms for Raffles, who had gone off as usual to dispose of the plunder. Raffles had his own method of conducting this very vital branch of our business, which I was well content to leave entirely in his hands. He drove the bargains, I believe, in a thin but subtle disguise of the flashy-seedy order, and always in the Cockney dialect, of which he had made himself a master. Moreover, he invariably employed the same “fence,” who was ostensibly a moneylender in a small (but yet notorious) way, and in reality a rascal as remarkable as Raffles himself. Only lately I also had been to the man, but in my proper person. We had needed capital for the getting of these very emeralds, and I had raised a hundred pounds, on the terms you would expect, from a soft-spoken graybeard with an ingratiating smile, an incessant bow, and the shiftiest old eyes that ever flew from rim to rim of a pair of spectacles. So the original sinews and the final spoils of war came in this case from the selfsame source⁠—a circumstance which appealed to us both.

But these same final spoils I was still to see, and I waited and waited with an impatience that grew upon me with the growing dusk. At my open window I had played Sister Ann until the faces in the street below were no longer distinguishable. And now I was tearing to and fro in the grip of horrible hypotheses⁠—a grip that tightened when at last the lift-gates opened with a clatter outside⁠—that held me breathless until a well-known tattoo followed on my door.

“In the dark!” said Raffles, as I dragged him in. “Why, Bunny, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing⁠—now you’ve come,” said I, shutting the door behind him in a fever of relief and anxiety. “Well? Well? What did they fetch?”

“Five hundred.”

“Down?”

“Got it in my pocket.”

“Good man!” I cried. “You don’t know what a stew I’ve been in. I’ll switch on the light. I’ve been thinking of you and nothing else for the last hour. I⁠—I was ass enough to think something had gone wrong!”

Raffles was smiling when the white light filled the room, but for the moment I did not perceive the peculiarity of his smile. I was fatuously full of my own late tremors and present relief; and my first idiotic act was to spill some whiskey and squirt the soda-water all over in my anxiety to do instant justice to the occasion.

“So you thought something had happened?” said Raffles, leaning back in my chair as he lit a cigarette, and looking much amused. “What would you say if something had? Sit tight, my dear chap! It was nothing of the slightest consequence, and it’s all over now. A stern chase and a long one, Bunny, but I think I’m well to windward this time.”

And suddenly I saw that his collar was limp, his hair