The Amateur Cracksman

It was half-past twelve when I returned to the Albany as a last desperate resort. The scene of my disaster was much as I had left it. The baccarat-counters still strewed the table, with the empty glasses and the loaded ashtrays. A window had been opened to let the smoke out, and was letting in the fog instead. Raffles himself had merely discarded his dining jacket for one of his innumerable blazers. Yet he arched his eyebrows as though I had dragged him from his bed.

“Forgotten something?” said he, when he saw me on his mat.

“No,” said I, pushing past him without ceremony. And I led the way into his room with an impudence amazing to myself.

“Not come back for your revenge, have you? Because I’m afraid I can’t give it to you single-handed. I was sorry myself that the others⁠—”

We were face to face by his fireside, and I cut him short.

“Raffles,” said I, “you may well be surprised at my coming back in this way and at this hour. I hardly know you. I was never in your rooms before tonight. But I fagged for you at school, and you said you remembered me. Of course that’s no excuse; but will you listen to me⁠—for two minutes?”

“Can’t you guess?” I cried. And for many seconds we stood staring in each other’s eyes.

“Have you got the pluck?” said he, breaking the spell in a tone so cynical that it brought my last drop of blood to the boil.

“You shall see,” said I, as I stepped back and whipped the pistol from my overcoat pocket. “Now, will you let me pass or shall I do it here?”

The barrel touched my temple, and my thumb the trigger. Mad with excitement as I was, ruined, dishonored, and now finally determined to make an end of my misspent life, my only surprise to this day is that I did not do so then and there. The despicable satisfaction of involving another in one’s destruction added its miserable appeal to my baser egoism; and had fear or horror flown to my companion’s face, I shudder to think I might have died diabolically happy with that look for my last impious consolation. It was the look that came instead which held my hand. Neither fear nor horror were in it; only wonder, admiration, and such a measure of pleased expectancy as caused me after all to pocket my revolver with an oath.

“You devil!” I said. “I believe you wanted me to do it!”

“Luck again,” he whispered; “nothing but luck! Now for a light.”

And the light came!

A good score of electric burners glowed red for the fraction of a second, then rained merciless white beams into our blinded eyes. When we found our sight four revolvers covered us, and between two of them the colossal frame of Reuben Rosenthall shook with a wheezy laughter from head to foot.

“Good evening, boys,” he hiccuped. “Glad to see ye at last. Shift foot or finger, you on the left, though, and you’re a dead boy. I mean you, you greaser!” he roared out at Raffles. “I know you. I’ve been waitin’ for you. I’ve been watchin’ you all this week! Plucky smart you thought yerself, didn’t you? One day beggin’, next time shammin’ tight, and next one o’ them old pals from Kimberley what never come when I’m in. But you left the same tracks every day, you buggins, an’ the same tracks every night, all round the blessed premises.”

“All right, guv’nor,” drawled Raffles; “don’t excite. It’s a fair cop. We don’t sweat to know ’ow you brung it orf. On’y don’t you go for to shoot, ’cos we ’int awmed, s’help me Gord!”

“Ah, you’re a knowin’ one,” said Rosenthall, fingering his triggers. “But you’ve struck a knowin’er.”

“Ho, yuss, we know all abaht thet! Set a thief to ketch a thief⁠—ho, yuss.”

“Why? What more could we do?” I exclaimed in soft derision, looking round, however, to make sure that we were not overheard.

“What more,” said Raffles. “Well, murder⁠—for one thing.”

“Rot!”

“A matter of opinion, my dear Bunny; I don’t mean it for rot. I’ve told you before that the biggest man alive is the man who’s committed a murder, and not yet been found out; at least he ought to be, but he so very seldom has the soul to appreciate himself. Just think of it! Think of coming in here and talking to the men, very likely about the murder itself; and knowing you’ve done it; and wondering how they’d look if they knew! Oh, it would be great, simply great! But, besides all that, when you were caught there’d be a merciful and dramatic end of you. You’d fill the bill for a few weeks, and then snuff out with a flourish of extra-specials; you wouldn’t rust with a vile repose for seven or fourteen years.”

“Good old Raffles!” I chuckled. “I begin to forgive you for being in bad form at dinner.”

“But I was never more earnest in my life.”

“Go on!”

“I mean it.”

“You know very well that you wouldn’t commit a murder, whatever else you might do.”

“I know very well I’m going to commit one tonight!”