The Amateur Cracksman - E. W. Hornung (best ebook reader for pc txt) 📗

His hands twitched; his lips quivered; the tears were in his eyes. Raffles took him roughly by the shoulder.

“Look here, you fool! If the three of us were caught here now, do you know what those consequences would be? We should swing in a row at Newgate in six weeks’ time! You talk as though we were sitting in a club; don’t you know it’s one o’clock in the morning, and the lights on, and a dead man down below? For God’s sake pull yourself together, and do what I tell you, or you’re a dead man yourself.”

“I wish I was one!” Rutter sobbed. “I wish I had his revolver to blow my own brains out. It’s lying under him. O my God, my God!”

His knees knocked together: the frenzy of reaction was at its height. We had to take him downstairs between us, and so through the front door out into the open air.

All was still outside⁠—all but the smothered weeping of the unstrung wretch upon our hands. Raffles returned for a moment to the house; then all was dark as well. The gate opened from within; we closed it carefully behind us; and so left the starlight shining on broken glass and polished spikes, one and all as we had found them.

We escaped; no need to dwell on our escape. Our murderer seemed set upon the scaffold⁠—drunk with his deed, he was more trouble than six men drunk with wine. Again and again we threatened to leave him to his fate, to wash our hands of him. But incredible and unmerited luck was with the three of us. Not a soul did we meet between that and Willesden; and of those who saw us later, did one think of the two young men with crooked white ties, supporting a third in a seemingly unmistakable condition, when the evening papers apprised the town of a terrible tragedy at Kensal Rise?

We walked to Maida Vale, and thence drove openly to my rooms. But I alone went upstairs; the other two proceeded to the Albany, and I saw no more of Raffles for forty-eight hours. He was not at his rooms when I called in the morning; he had left no word. When he reappeared the papers were full of the murder; and the man who had committed it was on the wide Atlantic, a steerage passenger from Liverpool to New York.

“There was no arguing with him,” so Raffles told me; “either he must make a clean breast of it or flee the country. So I rigged him up at the studio, and we took the first train to Liverpool. Nothing would induce him to sit tight and enjoy the situation as I should have endeavored to do in his place; and it’s just as well! I went to his diggings to destroy some papers, and what do you think I found. The police in possession; there’s a warrant out against him already! The idiots think that window wasn’t genuine, and the warrant’s out. It won’t be my fault if it’s ever served!”

Nor, after all these years, can I think it will be mine.

“Well,” said Raffles, “what do you make of it?”

I read the advertisement once more before replying. It was in the last column of the Daily Telegraph, and it ran:

Two thousand pounds reward⁠—The above sum may be earned by anyone qualified to undertake delicate mission and prepared to run certain risk.⁠—Apply by telegram, Security, London.

“I think,” said I, “it’s the most extraordinary advertisement that ever got into print!”

Raffles smiled.

“Not quite all that, Bunny; still, extraordinary enough, I grant you.”

“Look at the figure!”

“It is certainly large.”

“And the mission⁠—and the risk!”

“Yes; the combination is frank, to say the least of it. But the really original point is requiring applications by telegram to a telegraphic address! There’s something in the fellow who thought of that, and something in his game; with one word he chokes off the million who answer an advertisement every day⁠—when they can raise the stamp. My answer cost me five bob; but then I prepaid another.”

“You don’t mean to say that you’ve applied?”

“Rather,” said Raffles. “I want two thousand pounds as much as any man.”

“Put your own name?”

“Well⁠—no, Bunny, I didn’t. In point of fact I smell something interesting and illegal, and you know what a cautious chap I am. I signed myself Glasspool, care of Hickey, 38, Conduit Street; that’s my tailor, and after sending the wire I went round and told him what to expect. He promised to send the reply along the moment it came. I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s it!”

And he was gone before a double-knock on the outer door had done ringing through the rooms, to return next minute with an open telegram and a face full of news.

“What do you think?” said he. “Security’s that fellow Addenbrooke, the police-court lawyer, and he wants to see me instanter!”

“Do you know him, then?”

“Merely by repute. I only hope he doesn’t know me. He’s the chap who got six weeks for sailing too close to the wind in the Sutton-Wilmer case; everybody wondered why he wasn’t struck off the rolls. Instead of that he’s got a first-rate practice on the seamy side, and every blackguard with half a case takes it straight to Bennett Addenbrooke. He’s probably the one man who would have the cheek to put in an advertisement like that, and the one man who could do it without exciting suspicion. It’s simply in his line; but you may be sure there’s something shady at the bottom of it. The odd thing is that I have long made up my mind to go to Addenbrooke myself if accidents should happen.”

“And you’re going to him now?”

“This minute,” said Raffles, brushing his hat; “and so are you.”

“But I came in to drag you out to lunch.”

“You shall lunch with me when we’ve seen this fellow. Come on, Bunny, and