Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

“I do not think he will, for he knows, or thinks, rather, that there is nothing of value left in it. But suppose he does? I hardly think that he will inform his wife, and Lady Whitechurch, and his insurers, that all is well, do you? No, he will be puzzled, no doubt of that, but delighted, too. And I fancy his delight, and his greed, will far outweigh his puzzlement. He will leave the stones where they are. Oh, he may think it as well to move them as soon as possible, lest we — or our business rivals — return, but it is the holiday season, and besides, he dare not take them openly to the bank. No, he will leave them where they are, in the unlikely event that he discovers them. In any case, I don’t think he will expect us to return so soon!”

In the event, our return visit was something of an anticlimax. We lurked in the shrubbery until the last light had been extinguished, then broke in using the side window that Raffles had jemmied the previous evening — the butler had evidently not thought it worth bolting the stable door, so to speak — opened the safe, and took the stones, which were, Raffles whispered, quite undisturbed. We did ten miles in a little over two hours and caught a workman’s train at five in the morning at a little wayside halt.

After breakfast, Raffles vanished with the stones, to return after lunch with a satisfied smile on his face.

“All done?” I asked.

“In the bank, Bunny, metaphorically and literally. I’ll give you a cheque for your share in a moment.”

“I trust you didn’t use—?” I said laughing, naming the man who had betrayed us to Morgan.

Raffles frowned. “Certainly not. I had all but forgotten him. I wonder how best he should be handled? Perhaps—” He broke off and gazed at the door of his bedroom. Putting a finger to his lips, he stood up and started towards the door, only to stop in his tracks as it was opened.

Our old friend, the senior burglar, stepped into the room. He wore his mask, but there could be no mistaking either him or the small revolver he pointed at us.

“Another small but wicked-looking revolver, Bunny!” sighed Raffles. “Are people giving them as Christmas presents this year, I wonder?”

Our uninvited guest placed the revolver on a table. “To establish my good faith, gents,” he said, with an awkward little bow.

Raffles picked up the gun, glanced at it, and handed it back. “It is duly established,” he said.

The burglar put the gun in one pocket and took a chamois leather bag from another. “We were both done!” he said shortly, throwing the bag to Raffles.

Raffles took out the necklace — the fake, of course — and examined it closely before passing it to me. “Bunny?”

“Fakes?” I said, putting what surprise I could into the word. “They are very lifelike.”

“Too — true!” said our guest. “I was fooled, but my fence wasn’t. You can have that as a souvenir, if you like.” And he turned to go.

“One moment,” said Raffles. “I happen to know that the man from whom you — we — took these stones has claimed from his insurers as if they were genuine. Honest crooks I don’t mind, but fraud is another thing altogether.” He picked up pen and paper. “I happen to know the firm is the Northern Midland, and I think, yes — ‘The enclosed, the subject of a claim against you by H. H. B. Morgan, Esq., and which came recently into my hands, may interest you.’ That will suffice, I imagine, for insurers are astute men. A cardboard box, a little brown paper — so! I’ll post that tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it on my way home,” offered our guest. “There are such things as postmarks, you know.”

“That is very civil of you,” said Raffles. “And you really had no need to go to so much trouble. Perhaps this will compensate you somewhat—” and a rustle of banknotes completed the sentence.

“You’re a good ’un!” said our guest with admiration.

“Before you go, the fence who rejected the stones was not by any chance—, was it?” and he mentioned our betrayer.

“Not — likely! Only a — fool ’ud trust ’im!”

“I trusted him,” said Raffles quietly, “and he betrayed me to my enemy.”

“Did he, now?”

“I was not after those stones by accident, nor yet of my own accord. It was suggested to me that I steal them.”

“I see.”

“And where a man betrays once, he can easily do so again. It occurred to me that perhaps some of — ’s friends might care to have a word with him, show him the error of his ways?”

“Yes, I — his friends, I mean — might just do that small thing.” Our guest nodded and let himself out, presumably via the window through which he had entered.

“You were not quite honest, you know, Raffles,” I said. “You as much as suggested that — told you to steal the stones, not Morgan.”

“Did I give that impression? The two are well matched, Bunny, and they both deserve whatever is coming to them.”

“And another thing, Raffles — that burglar chap knows who we are! You, at any rate. How on earth did he know that? And aren’t you afraid he will use that knowledge against us at some time?”