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Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman
Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman
Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman
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Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman

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Sophisticated mayhem from a master of crime fiction

Since his friend and partner in crime, A. J. Raffles, jumped into the Mediterranean, Bunny Manders has scraped along as best he can. At Raffles’s side, he was witness to, and participant in, the most ingenious burglaries the underworld had ever seen. Without him, Bunny is a struggling ex-convict, so down on his luck that he answers an ad seeking a male nurse and companion for a notoriously rude invalid. But when he lights the old man’s Sullivan cigarette and sees a perfect smoke ring float into the air, Bunny cries out in delight. Raffles is back, and ready for adventure.
 
In the second installment in E. W. Hornung’s crackerjack crime series, England’s greatest jewel thief is up to all of his old tricks and many ingenious new ones—none so spectacular as turning Queen Victoria herself into an accomplice.
 
This ebook features a new introduction by Otto Penzler and has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 1, 2014
ISBN9781480407763
Author

E.W. Hornung

Ernest William Hornung (1866 –1921) was a prolific English poet and novelist, famed for his A. J. Raffles series of novels about a gentleman thief in late 19th century London. Hornung spent most of his life in England and France, but in 1883 he traveled to Australia where he lived for three years, his experiences there shaping many of his novels and short stories. On returning to England he worked as a journalist, and also published many of his poems and short stories in newspapers and magazines. A few years after his return, he married Constance Aimée Doyle, sister of his friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, with whom he had a son. During WWI he followed the troops in French trenches and later gave a detailed account of his encounters in Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western Front. Ernest Hornung died in 1921.

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    Raffles - E.W. Hornung

    Introduction

    It has been speculated that E. W. Hornung (1866–1921), Arthur Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law, created Raffles, the greatest rogue in literature, to tweak the nose of the creator of the greatest detective in literature. Whatever impelled Hornung to turn his pen to the production of these Victorian and Edwardian classics has long been forgotten, but the gentleman cracksman lives on, having given his name to the English language; all successful burglars who bring elegance to their nefarious crimes are likened to Raffles—both in real life and in fiction.

    Born in Middlesbrough, Yorkshire, Hornung suffered from poor health and, at eighteen, moved to Australia in the hope that the climate would be beneficial. He remained there less than three years but absorbed the physical surroundings and atmosphere, using them as the background for many books. When he returned to England, he married Constance Doyle, the sister of Arthur Conan Doyle. He never enjoyed full health but served in World War I anyway, going to France to organize a library and rest hut under the auspices of the YMCA. His combat-zone adventures are described in Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western Front (1919). Hornung’s only son, called Oscar (his real name was Arthur, for his uncle and godfather), served in France and was killed by a shell. Shortly after the war, Hornung accompanied his wife to Saint-Jean-de-Luz and contracted a fatal chill.

    Hornung was an authority on cricket and, despite poor eyesight and health, was an excellent player, as was his most famous creation, Raffles. The exploits of the amateur cracksman, the subjects of Hornung’s best and most famous books, are not, however, his only contribution to the literature of crime and detection.

    Because of the circumstances of the colonization of Australia, stories of nineteenth-century life there often deal with crime, convicts, and bushranging, and Hornung’s are some of the best of the kind. The Boss of Taroomba (1894) is the story of a girl who, together with a German piano tuner, defends her ranch against an attack by bushrangers (escaped convicts living in the bush). The Rogue’s March (1896) is a serious novel about convicts in a chain gang in New South Wales. Cole, a gold miner on Black Hill Flats, performs some detective work in Dead Men Tell No Tales (1899). The Belle of Toorak (1900; US title: The Shadow of a Man), describes how a former convict is protected by a young man who believes the felon to be his father. Stingaree (1905) is a collection of ten stories about Tom Erichsen, a cultivated New South Wales bushranger who has some of Raffles’s characteristics. He is a man of birth and mystery, with an ostentatious passion for music, and as romantic a method as that of any highwayman of the Old World. Other romantic novels of crime and adventure in Australia are A Bride from the Bush (1890), Under Two Skies (1892), Tiny Luttrell (1893), Irralie’s Bushranger (1896), My Lord Duke (1897), Some Persons Unknown (short stories; 1898), and At Large (1902).

    In the more civilized setting of England, Hornung’s best-known non-Raffles book is The Crime Doctor (1914), a collection of stories about Dr. John Dollar, one of the first detectives to solve crimes using psychological means. Max Marcin created a psychiatrist-detective for radio in 1940. Also known as the Crime Doctor, Robert Ordway has no connection with Hornung’s Dr. Dollar (see Crime Doctor, The).

    The hero of Young Blood (1898) comes into conflict with a villain and a swindler as he tries to live down his father’s disgrace. The English clergyman in Peccavi (1900) has committed a crime and endures a tragic penance. Although a man believes the woman guilty of murdering her first husband, he marries the heroine of The Shadow of the Rope (1902), only to fall under suspicion for the crime. The Camera Fiend (1911) concerns a precocious seventeen-year-old asthmatic schoolboy who discusses psychophotography with the title character (the camera fiend) and is forced to deal with a series of intricate crimes, aided in his solutions by Mr. Eugene Thrush. Old Offenders and a Few Old Scores (1923), a posthumous collection with an introduction by Conan Doyle, contains various kinds of crime tales.

    Raffles

    There is great affection for Robin Hood and the notion of taking wealth from the rich and redistributing it to the poor (much like a socialistic government). There is an even greater fantasy of the gentleman jewel thief—an urban sophisticate (idealized in evening clothes) who is a handsome, dashing, charming member of society by day and a fearless safecracker at night, ice water in his veins.

    No character, living or fictional, has ever fulfilled this role as exquisitely as A. J. Raffles, the greatest cracksman in the literature of roguery. Raffles could have succeeded at any career, but he chose a life of crime. Once, penniless and desperate in Australia, he realized that his only salvation was to steal. He had intended the robbery, forced on him by necessity, to be his only such experience, but he had tasted blood and loved it. Why settle down to some humdrum uncongenial billet, he once asks Bunny Manders, his devoted companion, when excitement, romance, danger and a decent living were all going begging together? Of course it’s very wrong, but we can’t all be moralists, and the distribution of wealth is very wrong to begin with.

    In England, his fame as one of the finest cricket players in the world, combined with his charming personality, brilliant wit, and remarkably handsome appearance, makes him a welcome guest at the homes of the country’s wealthiest families. He is comfortable in these surroundings, wearing evening clothes as if he had been born in them, and is delighted to make the acquaintance of owners of fabulous fortunes.

    No criminal can match Raffles for courage and the ability to stay cool under the most difficult circumstances. In fact, he seems to relish situations that would unnerve many men, enjoying the thrill of the sport as much as the reward that waits behind the door of a safe. He plans most of his escapades down to the finest detail, but he is also capable of acting on the spur of the moment and pulling off a crime almost as a joke. Although he sometimes steals merely for sport, he usually has a motive—to help a needy friend, to keep the creditors from his door, or to right a wrong that the law was unable to handle.

    He lives alone in expensive rooms in the Albany, with his friend Bunny just a short distance away, and has other expensive tastes, such as smoking Sullivan cigarettes. Living by his wits and skill as a thief, he seems quite happy with his hedonistic life of absolute luxury.

    This is the Raffles who appeared in three short story collections and one novel by Hornung. Hornung and Eugene Presbrey also collaborated on a successful drama, Raffle, the Amateur Cracksman: A Play in Four Acts, produced in London with Sir Gerald du Maurier in the title role; in the United States, in 1903, a handsome matinee idol, Kyrle Bellew, played Raffles.

    A somewhat different character, also named Raffles, appeared on the scene in 1932, when Barry Perowne revived the gentleman jewel thief as a contemporary, two-fisted adventurer in a long series for The Thriller. World War II ended the life of the magazine and, temporarily, of Raffles. Beginning in 1950 Perowne again wrote tales about the amateur cracksman (for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and the Saint Mystery Magazine), but this time the adventures occur in the late Victorian and early Edwardian times in which they belong. Here too, Raffles pursues a hedonistic way of life, but he is now more socially aware; he commits crimes primarily to correct injustices, and personal profit is a secondary motivation. His ethical standards are a little higher than they were when Hornung recounted his exploits. Fourteen of the best tales were collected in Raffles Revisited, with an introduction by Otto Penzler.

    The fixed point in all the stories is Bunny, Raffles’s former schoolmate who, in those days, had idolized A.J. When he and Raffles meet again as adults, Bunny has attempted suicide to avoid financial disgrace. Raffles saves his life and steals enough to get Bunny out of debt, earning his undying devotion in the process. Bunny hates the illegal life and often tries to dissuade his friend from committing crimes, but, once involved, he is fearless and loyal. Bunny is typically English in appearance and is less than brilliant, but his journalistic background enables him to chronicle Raffles’s adventures in a lively style.

    Checklist

    By E. W. Hornung:

    1899 The Amateur Cracksman (short stories)

    1901 The Black Mask (short stories; US title: Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman)

    1905 A Thief in the Night (short stories)

    1901 Mr. Justice Raffles

    By Barry Perowne:

    1933 Raffles after Dark (US title: The Return of Raffles)

    1934 Raffles in Pursuit

    1936 Raffles under Sentence (short stories)

    1936 She Married Raffles

    1937 Raffles vs. Sexton Blake

    1939 The A.R.P. Mystery

    1939 They Hang Them in Gibraltar

    1940 Raffles and the Key Man

    1974 Raffles Revisited: New Adventures of a Famous Gentleman Crook (short stories)

    Films

    Raffles appeared in a short American film as early as 1905 and was featured in an Italian serial by 1911. In 1917 John Barrymore starred in Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman (Hiller-Wilk), and in 1925 another film with the same title (released by Universal) featured House Peters as the daring thief, a gentleman by birth, who takes only from the rich.

    Raffles. United Artists, 1930. Ronald Colman, Kay Francis, Bramwell Fletcher, David Torrence, Alison Skipworth. Raffles promises to reform, but a dear friend comes to him for aid. He needs a large amount of money in a hurry, and the only answer is for Raffles to steal a necklace during a country weekend party.

    The Return of Raffles. Williams and Pritchard (British), 1932. George Barraud, Camilla Horn, Claud Allister (Bunny). Directed by Mansfield Markham. Again reformed, Raffles attends a house party, where he is framed for the theft of a necklace actually stolen by a gang.

    Raffles. United Artists, 1939. David Niven, Olivia de Havilland, Douglas Walton, Dame May Whitty, Dudley Digges. Directed by Sam Wood. At the now-familiar weekend party, Raffles agrees to steal a necklace to help the brother of the girl he loves, but a gang beats him to it.

    Television

    In 1973 England’s Hammer Film Studios announced that its entry into television production would include a series based on Raffles and set at the turn of the century.

    Play

    The Return of A. J. Raffles, a comedy by Graham Greene, was produced by the Royal Shakespeare Company. It opened in London in December 1975.

    Otto Penzler

    NO SINECURE

    I

    I AM STILL UNCERTAIN which surprised me more, the telegram calling my attention to the advertisement, or the advertisement itself. The telegram is before me as I write. It would appear to have been handed in at Vere Street at eight o’clock in the morning of May 11, 1897, and received before half-past at Holloway B.O. And in that drab region it duly found me, unwashen but at work before the day grew hot and my attic insupportable.

    See Mr. Maturin’s advertisement Daily Mail might suit you earnestly beg try will speak if necessary —— ——

    I transcribe the thing as I see it before me, all in one breath that took away mine; but I leave out the initials at the end, which completed the surprise. They stood very obviously for the knighted specialist whose consulting-room is within a cab-whistle of Vere Street, and who once called me kinsman for his sins. More recently he had called me other names. I was a disgrace, qualified by an adjective which seemed to me another. I had made my bed, and I could go and lie and die in it. If I ever again had the insolence to show my nose in that house, I should go out quicker than I came in. All this, and more, my least distant relative could tell a poor devil to his face; could ring for his man, and give him his brutal instructions on the spot; and then relent to the tune of this telegram! I have no phrase for my amazement. I literally could not believe my eyes. Yet their evidence was more and more conclusive: a very epistle could not have been more characteristic of its sender. Meanly elliptical, ludicrously precise, saving half-pence at the expense of sense, yet paying like a man for Mr. Maturin, that was my distinguished relative from his bald patch to his corns. Nor was all the rest unlike him, upon second thoughts. He had a reputation for charity; he was going to live up to it after all. Either that, or it was the sudden impulse of which the most calculating are capable at times; the morning papers with the early cup of tea, this advertisement seen by chance, and the rest upon the spur of a guilty conscience.

    Well, I must see it for myself, and the sooner the better, though work pressed. I was writing a series of articles upon prison life, and had my nib into the whole System; a literary and philanthropical daily was parading my charges, the graver ones with the more gusto; and the terms, if unhandsome for creative work, were temporary wealth to me. It so happened that my first check had just arrived by the eight o’clock post; and my position should be appreciated when I say that I had to cash it to obtain a Daily Mail.

    Of the advertisement itself, what is to be said? It should speak for itself if I could find it, but I cannot, and only remember that it was a male nurse and constant attendant that was wanted for an elderly gentleman in feeble health. A male nurse! An absurd tag was appended, offering liberal salary to University or public-school man; and of a sudden I saw that I should get this thing if I applied for it. What other University or public-school man would dream of doing so? Was any other in such straits as I? And then my relenting relative; he not only promised to speak for me, but was the very man to do so. Could any recommendation compete with his in the matter of a male nurse? And need the duties of such be necessarily loathsome and repellent? Certainly the surroundings would be better than those of my common lodging-house and own particular garret; and the food; and every other condition of life that I could think of on my way back to that unsavory asylum. So I dived into a pawnbroker’s shop, where I was a stranger only upon my present errand, and within the hour was airing a decent if antiquated suit, but little corrupted by the pawnbroker’s moth, and a new straw hat, on the top of a tram.

    The address given in the advertisement was that of a flat at Earl’s Court, which cost me a cross-country journey, finishing with the District Railway and a seven minutes’ walk. It was now past mid-day, and the tarry wood-pavement was good to smell as I strode up the Earl’s Court Road. It was great to walk the civilized world again. Here were men with coats on their backs, and ladies in gloves. My only fear was lest I might run up against one or other whom I had known of old. But it was my lucky day. I felt it in my bones. I was going to get this berth; and sometimes I should be able to smell the wood-pavement on the old boy’s errands; perhaps he would insist on skimming over it in his bath-chair, with me behind.

    I felt quite nervous when I reached the flats. They were a small pile in a side street, and I pitied the doctor whose plate I saw upon the palings before the ground-floor windows; he must be in a very small way, I thought. I rather pitied myself as well. I had indulged in visions of better flats than these. There were no balconies. The porter was out of livery. There was no lift, and my invalid on the third floor! I trudged up, wishing I had never lived in Mount Street, and brushed against a dejected individual coming down. A full-blooded young fellow in a frock-coat flung the right door open at my summons.

    Does Mr. Maturin live here? I inquired.

    That’s right, said the full-blooded young man, grinning all over a convivial countenance.

    I—I’ve come about his advertisement in the Daily Mail.

    You’re the thirty-ninth, cried the blood; that was the thirty-eighth you met upon the stairs, and the day’s still young. Excuse my staring at you. Yes, you pass your prelim., and can come inside; you’re one of the few. We had most just after breakfast, but now the porter’s heading off the worst cases, and that last chap was the first for twenty minutes. Come in here.

    And I was ushered into an empty room with a good bay-window, which enabled my full-blooded friend to inspect me yet more critically in a good light; this he did without the least false delicacy; then his questions began.

    ‘Varsity man?

    No.

    Public school?

    Yes.

    Which one?

    I told him, and he sighed relief.

    At last! You’re the very first I’ve not had to argue with as to what is and what is not a public school. Expelled?

    No, I said, after a moment’s hesitation; no, I was not expelled. And I hope you won’t expel me if I ask a question in my turn?

    Certainly not.

    Are you Mr. Maturin’s son?

    No, my name’s Theobald. You may have seen it down below.

    The doctor? I said.

    His doctor, said Theobald, with a satisfied eye. Mr. Maturin’s doctor. He is having a male nurse and attendant by my advice, and he wants a gentleman if he can get one. I rather think he’ll see you, though he’s only seen two or three all day. There are certain questions which he prefers to ask himself, and it’s no good going over the same ground twice. So perhaps I had better tell him about you before we get any further.

    And he withdrew to a room still nearer the entrance, as I could hear, for it was a very small flat indeed. But now two doors were shut between us, and I had to rest content with murmurs through the wall until the doctor returned to summon me.

    I have persuaded my patient to see you, he whispered, but I confess I am not sanguine of the result. He is very difficult to please. You must prepare yourself for a querulous invalid, and for no sinecure if you get the billet.

    May I ask what’s the matter with him?

    By all means—when you’ve got the billet.

    Dr. Theobald then led the way, his professional dignity so thoroughly intact that I could not but smile as I followed his swinging coat-tails to the sick-room. I carried no smile across the threshold of a darkened chamber which reeked of drugs and twinkled with medicine bottles, and in the middle of which a gaunt figure lay abed in the half-light.

    Take him to the window, take him to the window, a thin voice snapped, and let’s have a look at him. Open the blind a bit. Not as much as that, damn you, not as much as that!

    The doctor took the oath as though it had been a fee. I no longer pitied him. It was now very clear to me that he had one patient who was a little practice in himself. I determined there and then that he should prove a little profession to me, if we could but keep him alive between us. Mr. Maturin, however, had the whitest face that I have ever seen, and his teeth gleamed out through the dusk as though the withered lips no longer met about them; nor did they except in speech; and anything ghastlier than the perpetual grin of his repose I defy you to imagine. It was with this grin that he lay regarding me while the doctor held the blind.

    So you think you could look after me, do you?

    I’m certain I could, sir.

    Single-handed, mind! I don’t keep another soul. You would have to cook your own grub and my slops. Do you think you could do all that?

    Yes, sir, I think so.

    Why do you? Have you any experience of the kind?

    No, sir, none.

    Then why do you pretend you have?

    I only meant that I would do my best.

    Only meant, only meant! Have you done your best at everything else, then?

    I hung my head. This was a facer. And there was something in my invalid which thrust the unspoken lie down my throat.

    No, sir, I have not, I told him plainly.

    He, he, he! the old wretch tittered; and you do well to own it; you do well, sir, very well indeed. If you hadn’t owned up, out you would have gone, out neck-and-crop! You’ve saved your bacon. You may do more. So you are a public-school boy, and a very good school yours is, but you weren’t at either University. Is that correct?

    Absolutely.

    What did you do when you left school?

    I came in for money.

    And then?

    I spent my money.

    And since then?

    I stood like a mule.

    And since then, I say!

    A relative of mine will tell you if you ask him. He is an eminent man, and he has promised to speak for me. I would rather say no more myself.

    But you shall, sir, but you shall! Do you suppose that I suppose a public-school boy would apply for a berth like this if something or other hadn’t happened? What I want is a gentleman of sorts, and I don’t much care what sort; but you’ve got to tell me what did happen, if you don’t tell anybody else. Dr. Theobald, sir, you can go to the devil if you won’t take a hint. This man may do or he may not. You have no more to say to it till I send him down to tell you one thing or the other. Clear out, sir, clear out; and if you think you’ve anything to complain of, you stick it down in the bill!

    In the mild excitement of our interview the thin voice had gathered strength, and the last shrill insult was screamed after the devoted medico, as he retired in such order that I felt certain he was going to take this trying patient at his word. The bedroom door closed, then the outer one, and the doctor’s heels went drumming down the common stair. I was alone in the flat with

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