Raffles, receipt in hand, looked startled.
“You see, Arthur,” said Diana, “how awful it all is?”
“The whole ‘escrow’ notion,” said Mr. Jay, “was a folly, a joint folly by you both. I advised against it, Mrs. Rivenhurst, when you first told me of your unconventional notion. I also told you, Mr. Raffles, that I was surprised at your indulging Dia — Mrs. Rivenhurst in her ‘escrow’ whimsy. I further added, to you both, in my office, that I would only undertake to hold the deposits for you on the understanding that I did so without prejudice to myself.”
“I’m afraid that’s true, Arthur,” said Diana. “Mr. Jay—”
“My dear Mrs. Rivenhurst,” said the ex-Hussar, his manner growing every moment more commanding, “I number among my clients the highest in the land. I am, moreover, privileged to call them my friends. My advice to them, in arranging matters of delicacy, is always: ‘Let me do the talking!’ ”
Diana bowed her lovely head.
“Very well,” said Mr. Jay. “I’ll now take it upon myself to give you both my considered opinion. Your ‘escrow’ agreement was a joint folly. A loss has resulted from it. In my view, the only equitable thing that can be done now is for you jointly to share that loss.”
Diana looked up quickly, in alarm and surprise, at George Jay.
Raffles said, “I respect your suggestion, Mr. Jay.”
My spirits soared. We were going to get £2500!
“But, of course,” Raffles added, the receipt in his hand, “I wouldn’t dream of allowing Diana to do as you suggest.”
He struck a match, set fire to the receipt, tossed it into the grate.
My heart sank. He loved her, then. So £2500 was going up in smoke!
Diana was looking at him with shining eyes. But Mr. Jay had flushed deeply.
“I must say, Mr. Raffles, that your action is consonant,” said the agent to the aristocracy, “with everything that my inqui — everything that I’ve ever heard said of you. You are a gentleman. As one myself, however, I think you’re overlooking something. Surely, if you refuse to share your loss with Dia — Mrs. Rivenhurst, you’re placing her under an unfair moral obligation to you!”
Diana looked down at her gloves. She was biting her lip, seemingly with some vexation.
“Mr. Jay,” Raffles said slowly, “that hadn’t occurred to me. H’m!” He frowned, turned to me. “Bunny, as a gentleman and more or less a bystander in this matter, what do you think? Let’s leave the decision to you.”
“Well, frankly, Raffles,” I said, trying hard to look reluctant, “I’m obliged to agree with Mr. Jay.”
“Then that settles it,” said Raffles. “We’ll dispose of this unfortunate money matter as Mr. Jay, with Bunny Manders’ disinterested support, so sensibly advises — shall we not, Diana?”
“I suppose so,” said Diana.
Her tone was sulky. She omitted to call him “Arthur.” As for myself, a virtual stranger to her as I was, the look I received from her beautiful eyes when, having written a cheque for Raffles, she took her departure with her adviser, ex-Captain George H. Jay, was little short of lethal.
“I’m afraid, Bunny,” Raffles said, as we heard Diana’s landaulette departing, with a honk of its horn, from Albany Courtyard, “that the ex-Hussar is in for a difficult half-hour. But his behaviour was very correct. It was in the highest traditions of the Army. No wonder the aristocracy trust him! He certainly made it easy for me to do what I had to do — for Diana’s own sake.”
“Her own sake?” I said.
“As you know,” said Raffles, “I have certain scruples about marriage. So, for her own sake, I had to discourage Diana from thinking of myself in that connection. I therefore committed what’s clearly, for the prudent Diana, an unpardonable sin. I let myself be persuaded to accept a small part of her great Cottonmills fortune.”
Raffles picked up Diana Rivenhurst’s cheque, looked at it thoughtfully.
“£2500 for us to share,” I said, elated.
“Yes.” Raffles tossed the cheque back on to his writing-table. He shrugged. “Well, that’s life, Bunny,” he said. “For a small gain, a greater loss.”
“Loss?” I said. “Of what?”
“Of an illusion, Bunny. Of an illusion, as old as Eden, about a garden spellbound in moonlight,” Raffles said, “and a woman with a rose in her hair.”
The Theft of the Banker’s Ashtray
by Edward D. Hoch
© 1979 by Edward D. Hoch.
As you know, Nick Velvet, the unique thief, steals only the worthless — never anything valuable like money, jewelry, or objets d’art. And for stealing the valueless Nick’s fee is $20,000. Well, inflation has finally caught up with Nick. To filch zilch, to pinch pinchbeck, Nick now charges a minimum of $25,000. (Will we ever have a story in which someone offers Nick $1,000,000 for stealing 0? Mr. Hoch, are you listening?) In the meantime, here is one of Nick Velvet’s wiliest cases...
The bank’s headquarters were on Lexington Avenue, in a great white tower that reached toward the sky. Riding up to the 56th floor in an express elevator, Nick Velvet decided that banks had changed a great deal since his youth when the tellers were all men and the interest rate was four percent. Perhaps the ways of robbing banks had changed too. On the top floor the secretary led him past a computer room where, he imagined, it would be possible to steal $1,000,000 without ever drawing a gun.
Philip Norton’s office was different too, done in chrome and glass that would have turned old-time bankers pale. But then Philip Norton was not an old-time banker. Gaunt and graying, but with the handsome demeanor of a politician on the way up, his presence behind the desk was imposing and just a bit intimidating.
“You’re Nick Velvet?” he asked motioning toward one of the chrome and leather chairs. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Nick smiled and sat down. “I’m curious as to where you heard it. I didn’t know my fame had spread to banking circles.”
“These days bankers deal with all sorts of people. Everyone who has money becomes a bank’s customer in one way or another, and we don’t ask too many questions about where the money came from. But that’s beside the point. I called you, Mr. Velvet, for some advice. Naturally I’m willing to pay for your time.”
“Advice?” Nick asked, not quite knowing what was expected of him. “I have a service business, Mr. Norton. Naturally I assumed you knew the nature of my service.”
“I do. You steal valueless objects for a fee of twenty thousand dollars.”
“It’s twenty-five thousand now. Inflation finally caught up with me.”
The banker waved his hand. “In any event, I don’t need your services, only your expert knowledge. Something has been stolen from me — something valueless — and I need to know why.”
“I’m no detective, Mr. Norton. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“But over the years you must have come in contact with a great many motives for stealing valueless objects.”
“What has been stolen?” Nick asked.
“The heavy glass ashtray from my desk.”
“Any idea who stole it?”
“Yes — but I don’t know why. It disappeared while I was meeting with a religious quack named Parson Maybee. He’s the only one who could have taken it.”
“What did the ashtray look like?”