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

deep, square well of fog. A similar door faced it across this area, and Raffles had the lantern close against it, and was hiding the light with his body, when a short and sudden crash made my heart stand still. Next moment I saw the door wide open, and Raffles standing within and beckoning me with a jimmy.

“Door number one,” he whispered. “Deuce knows how many more there’ll be, but I know of two at least. We won’t have to make much noise over them, either; down here there’s less risk.”

We were now at the bottom of the exact fellow to the narrow stone stair which we had just descended: the yard, or well, being the one part common to both the private and the business premises. But this flight led to no open passage; instead, a singularly solid mahogany door confronted us at the top.

“I thought so,” muttered Raffles, handing me the lantern, and pocketing a bunch of skeleton keys, after tampering for a few minutes with the lock. “It’ll be an hour’s work to get through that!”

“Can’t you pick it?”

“No: I know these locks. It’s no use trying. We must cut it out, and it’ll take us an hour.”

It took us forty-seven minutes by my watch; or, rather, it took Raffles; and never in my life have I seen anything more deliberately done. My part was simply to stand by with the dark lantern in one hand, and a small bottle of rock-oil in the other.

Raffles had produced a pretty embroidered case, intended obviously for his razors, but filled instead with the tools of his secret trade, including the rock-oil. From this case he selected a “bit,” capable of drilling a hole an inch in diameter, and fitted it to a small but very strong steel “brace.” Then he took off his covert-coat and his blazer, spread them neatly on the top step⁠—knelt on them⁠—turned up his shirt cuffs⁠—and went to work with brace-and-bit near the keyhole. But first he oiled the bit to minimize the noise, and this he did invariably before beginning a fresh hole, and often in the middle of one. It took thirty-two separate borings to cut around that lock.

I noticed that through the first circular orifice Raffles thrust a forefinger; then, as the circle became an ever-lengthening oval, he got his hand through up to the thumb; and I heard him swear softly to himself.

“I was afraid so!”

“What is it?”

“An iron gate on the other side!”

“How on earth are we to get through that?” I asked in dismay.

“Pick the lock. But there may be two. In that case they’ll be top and bottom, and we shall have two fresh holes to make, as the door opens inwards. It won’t open two inches as it is.”

I confess I did not feel sanguine about the lock-picking, seeing that one lock had baffled us already; and my disappointment and impatience must have been a revelation to me had I stopped to think. The truth is that I was entering into our nefarious undertaking with an involuntary zeal of which I was myself quite unconscious at the time. The romance and the peril of the whole proceeding held me spellbound and entranced. My moral sense and my sense of fear were stricken by a common paralysis. And there I stood, shining my light and holding my phial with a keener interest than I had ever brought to any honest avocation. And there knelt A. J. Raffles, with his black hair tumbled, and the same watchful, quiet, determined half-smile with which I have seen him send down over after over in a county match!

At last the chain of holes was complete, the lock wrenched out bodily, and a splendid bare arm plunged up to the shoulder through the aperture, and through the bars of the iron gate beyond.

“Now,” whispered Raffles, “if there’s only one lock it’ll be in the middle. Joy! Here it is! Only let me pick it, and we’re through at last.”

He withdrew his arm, a skeleton key was selected from the bunch, and then back went his arm to the shoulder. It was a breathless moment. I heard the heart throbbing in my body, the very watch ticking in my pocket, and ever and anon the tinkle-tinkle of the skeleton key. Then⁠—at last⁠—there came a single unmistakable click. In another minute the mahogany door and the iron gate yawned behind us; and Raffles was sitting on an office table, wiping his face, with the lantern throwing a steady beam by his side.

We were now in a bare and roomy lobby behind the shop, but separated therefrom by an iron curtain, the very sight of which filled me with despair. Raffles, however, did not appear in the least depressed, but hung up his coat and hat on some pegs in the lobby before examining this curtain with his lantern.

“That’s nothing,” said he, after a minute’s inspection; “we’ll be through that in no time, but there’s a door on the other side which may give us trouble.”

“Another door!” I groaned. “And how do you mean to tackle this thing?”

“Prise it up with the jointed jimmy. The weak point of these iron curtains is the leverage you can get from below. But it makes a noise, and this is where you’re coming in, Bunny; this is where I couldn’t do without you. I must have you overhead to knock through when the street’s clear. I’ll come with you and show a light.”

Well, you may imagine how little I liked the prospect of this lonely vigil; and yet there was something very stimulating in the vital responsibility which it involved. Hitherto I had been a mere spectator. Now I was to take part in the game. And the fresh excitement made me more than ever insensible to those considerations of conscience and of safety which were already as dead nerves in my breast.

So I took my post without a murmur in the front room above the shop. The