E. W. Hornung_A J Raffles 02 (4 page)

"I'm on for any mortal thing!"

My voice rang true, I swear, but it was the way of Raffles to
take the evidence of as many senses as possible. I felt the
cold steel of his eyes through mine and through my brain. But
what he saw seemed to satisfy him no less than what he heard,
for his hand found my hand, and pressed it with a fervor foreign
to the man.

"I know you are, and I knew you would be. Only remember, Bunny,
it's my turn next to pay the shot!"

You shall hear how he paid it when the time came.

The Room of Gold, in the British Museum, is probably well enough
known to the inquiring alien and the travelled American. A true
Londoner, however, I myself had never heard of it until Raffles
casually proposed a raid.

"The older I grow, Bunny, the less I think of your so-called
precious stones. When did they ever bring in half their market
value in £. s. d. There was the first little crib we ever
cracked together—you with your innocent eyes shut. A thousand
pounds that stuff was worth; but how many hundreds did it
actually fetch. The Ardagh emeralds weren't much better; old
Lady Melrose's necklace was far worse; but that little lot the
other night has about finished me. A cool hundred for goods
priced well over four; and £35 to come off for bait, since we
only got a tenner for the ring I bought and paid for like an
ass. I'll be shot if I ever touch a diamond again! Not if it
was the Koh-I-noor; those few whacking stones are too well
known, and to cut them up is to decrease their value by
arithmetical retrogression. Besides, that brings you up against
the Fence once more, and I'm done with the beggars for good and
all. You talk about your editors and publishers, you literary
swine. Barabbas was neither a robber nor a publisher, but a
six-barred, barbed-wired, spike-topped Fence. What we really
want is an Incorporated Society of Thieves, with some
public-spirited old forger to run it for us on business lines."

Raffles uttered these blasphemies under his breath, not, I am
afraid, out of any respect for my one redeeming profession, but
because we were taking a midnight airing on the roof, after a
whole day of June in the little flat below. The stars shone
overhead, the lights of London underneath, and between the lips
of Raffles a cigarette of the old and only brand. I had sent in
secret for a box of the best; the boon had arrived that night;
and the foregoing speech was the first result. I could afford
to ignore the insolent asides, however, where the apparent
contention was so manifestly unsound.

"And how are you going to get rid of your gold?" said I,
pertinently.

"Nothing easier, my dear rabbit."

"Is your Room of Gold a roomful of sovereigns?"

Raffles laughed softly at my scorn.

"No, Bunny, it's principally in the shape of archaic ornaments,
whose value, I admit, is largely extrinsic. But gold is gold,
from Phoenicia to Klondike, and if we cleared the room we
should eventually do very well."

"How?"

"I should melt it down into a nugget, and bring it home from the
U.S.A. to-morrow."

"And then?"

"Make them pay up in hard cash across the counter of the Bank of
England. And you CAN make them."

That I knew, and so said nothing for a time, remaining a hostile
though a silent critic, while we paced the cool black leads with
our bare feet, softly as cats.

"And how do you propose to get enough away," at length I asked,
"to make it worth while?"

"Ah, there you have it," said Raffles. "I only propose to
reconnoitre the ground, to see what we can see. We might find
some hiding-place for a night; that, I am afraid, would be our
only chance."

"Have you ever been there before?"

"Not since they got the one good, portable piece which I believe
that they exhibit now. It's a long time since I read of it—I
can't remember where—but I know they have got a gold cup of
sorts worth several thousands. A number of the immorally rich
clubbed together and presented it to the nation; and two of the
richly immoral intend to snaffle it for themselves. At any rate
we might go and have a look at it, Bunny, don't you think?"

Think! I seized his arm.

"When? When? When?" I asked, like a quick-firing gun.

"The sooner the better, while old Theobald's away on his
honeymoon."

Our medico had married the week before, nor was any
fellow-practitioner taking his work—at least not that
considerable branch of it which consisted of Raffles—during his
brief absence from town. There were reasons, delightfully
obvious to us, why such a plan would have been highly unwise in
Dr. Theobald. I, however, was sending him daily screeds, and
both matutinal and nocturnal telegrams, the composition of which
afforded Raffles not a little enjoyment.

"Well, then, when—when?" I began to repeat.

"To-morrow, if you like."

"Only to look?"

The limitation was my one regret.

"We must do so, Bunny, before we leap."

"Very well," I sighed. "But to-morrow it is!"

And the morrow it really was.

I saw the porter that night, and, I still think, bought his
absolute allegiance for the second coin of the realm. My story,
however, invented by Raffles, was sufficiently specious in
itself. That sick gentleman, Mr. Maturin (as I had to remem-ber
to call him), was really, or apparently, sickening for fresh
air. Dr. Theobald would allow him none; he was pestering me for
just one day in the country while the glorious weather lasted.
I was myself convinced that no possible harm could come of the
experiment. Would the porter help me in so innocent and
meritorious an intrigue? The man hesitated. I produced my
half-sovereign. The man was lost. And at half-past eight next
morning—before the heat of the day—Raffles and I drove to Kew
Gardens in a hired landau which was to call for us at mid-day
and wait until we came. The porter had assisted me to carry my
invalid downstairs, in a carrying-chair hired (like the landau)
from Harrod's Stores for the occasion.

It was little after nine when we crawled together into the
gardens; by half-past my invalid had had enough, and out he
tottered on my arm; a cab, a message to our coachman, a timely
train to Baker Street, another cab, and we were at the British
Museum—brisk pedestrians now—not very many minutes after the
opening hour of 10 A.M.

It was one of those glowing days which will not be forgotten by
many who were in town at the time. The Diamond Jubilee was upon
us, and Queen's weather had already set in. Raffles, indeed,
declared it was as hot as Italy and Australia put together; and
certainly the short summer nights gave the channels of wood and
asphalt and the continents of brick and mortar but little time
to cool. At the British Museum the pigeons were crooning among
the shadows of the grimy colonnade, and the stalwart janitors
looked less stalwart than usual, as though their medals were too
heavy for them. I recognized some habitual Readers going to
their labor underneath the dome; of mere visitors we seemed
among the first.

"That's the room," said Raffles, who had bought the two-penny
guide, as we studied it openly on the nearest bench; "number 43,
upstairs and sharp round to the right. Come on, Bunny!"

And he led the way in silence, but with a long methodical stride
which I could not understand until we came to the corridor
leading to the Room of Gold, when he turned to me for a moment.

"A hundred and thirty-nine yards from this to the open street,"
said Raffles, "not counting the stairs. I suppose we COULD do
it in twenty seconds, but if we did we should have to jump the
gates. No, you must remember to loaf out at slow march, Bunny,
whether you like it or not."

"But you talked about a hiding-place for a night?"

"Quite so—for all night. We should have to get back, go on
lying low, and saunter out with the crowd next day—after doing
the whole show thoroughly."

"What! With gold in our pockets—"

"And gold in our boots, and gold up the sleeves and legs of our
suits! You leave that to me, Bunny, and wait till you've tried
two pairs of trousers sewn together at the foot! This is only
a preliminary reconnoitre. And here we are."

It is none of my business to describe the so-called Room of
Gold, with which I, for one, was not a little disappointed. The
glass cases, which both fill and line it, may contain unique
examples of the goldsmith's art in times and places of which
one heard quite enough in the course of one's classical
education; but, from a professional point of view, I would as
lief have the ransacking of a single window in the West End as
the pick of all those spoils of Etruria and of ancient Greece.
The gold may not be so soft as it appears, but it certainly
looks as though you could bite off the business ends of the
spoons, and stop your own teeth in doing so. Nor should I care
to be seen wearing one of the rings; but the greatest fraud of
all (from the aforesaid standpoint) is assuredly that very cup
of which Raffles had spoken. Moreover, he felt this himself.

"Why, it's as thin as paper," said he, "and enamelled like a
middle-aged lady of quality! But, by Jove, it's one of the most
beautiful things I ever saw in my life, Bunny. I should like to
have it for its own sake, by all my gods!"

The thing had a little square case of plate-glass all to itself
at one end of the room. It may have been the thing of beauty
that Raffles affected to consider it, but I for my part was in
no mood to look at it in that light. Underneath were the names
of the plutocrats who had subscribed for this national gewgaw,
and I fell to wondering where their £8,000 came in, while
Raffles devoured his two-penny guide-book as greedily as a
school-girl with a zeal for culture.

"Those are scenes from the martyrdom of St. Agnes," said he . .
. "'translucent on relief . . . one of the finest specimens of
its kind.' I should think it was! Bunny, you Philistine, why
can't you admire the thing for its own sake? It would be worth
having only to live up to! There never was such rich enamelling
on such thin gold; and what a good scheme to hang the lid up
over it, so that you can see how thin it is. I wonder if we
could lift it, Bunny, by hook or crook?"

"You'd better try, sir," said a dry voice at his elbow.

The madman seemed to think we had the room to ourselves. I knew
better, but, like another madman, had let him ramble on
unchecked. And here was a stolid constable confronting us, in
the short tunic that they wear in summer, his whistle on its
chain, but no truncheon at his side. Heavens! how I see him
now: a man of medium size, with a broad, good-humored,
perspiring face, and a limp moustache. He looked sternly at
Raffles, and Raffles looked merrily at him.

"Going to run me in, officer?" said he. "That WOULD be a
joke—my hat!"

"I didn't say as I was, sir," replied the policeman. "But
that's queer talk for a gentleman like you, sir, in the British
Museum!" And he wagged his helmet at my invalid, who had taken
his airing in frock-coat and top-hat, the more readily to
assume his present part.

"What!" cried Raffles, "simply saying to my friend that I'd like
to lift the gold cup? Why, so I should, officer, so I should!
I don't mind who hears me say so. It's one of the most beautiful
things I ever saw in all my life."

The constable's face had already relaxed, and now a grin peeped
under the limp moustache. "I daresay there's many as feels like
that, sir," said he.

"Exactly; and I say what I feel, that's all," said Raffles
airily. "But seriously, officer, is a valuable thing like this
quite safe in a case like that?"

"Safe enough as long as I'm here," replied the other, between
grim jest and stout earnest. Raffles studied his face; he was
still watching Raffles; and I kept an eye on them both without
putting in my word.

"You appear to be single-handed," observed Raffles. "Is that
wise?"

The note of anxiety was capitally caught; it was at once
personal and public-spirited, that of the enthusiastic savant,
afraid for a national treasure which few appreciated as he did
himself. And, to be sure, the three of us now had this treasury
to ourselves; one or two others had been there when we entered;
but now they were gone.

"I'm not single-handed," said the officer, comfortably. "See
that seat by the door? One of the attendants sits there all day
long."

"Then where is he now?"

"Talking to another attendant just outside. If you listen
you'll hear them for yourself."

We listened, and we did hear them, but not just outside. In my
own mind I even questioned whether they were in the corridor
through which we had come; to me it sounded as though they were
just outside the corridor.

"You mean the fellow with the billiard-cue who was here when we
came in?" pursued Raffles.

"That wasn't a billiard-cue! It was a pointer," the intelligent
officer explained.

"It ought to be a javelin," said Raffles, nervously. "It ought
to be a poleaxe! The public treasure 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."