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

A. J. Raffles: Ice Cold

by John Hall

“Cold as Christmas, Bunny,” said A. J. Raffles with a shiver, turning away from the window of his flat in the Albany. He lit a cigarette, grimaced, and threw it into the fire, for it was very definitely not a Sullivan.

I passed him my cigarette case, which contained my last three specimens of the only brand. “Things are bound to get better,” I urged him, though truth to tell I had little enough confidence in my own words.

This was in those halcyon days before Raffles’s disgrace and my own imprisonment. Halcyon days? Well, we were at liberty, and under no suspicion so far as we knew, but when you had said that you had said everything. The last few months had been a succession of dull days, enlivened by the occasional disaster. My attempts at writing were selling but fitfully, and Raffles, thanks to my timidity, had not “worked” at his alternative profession for almost half a year. In summer, of course, things had been different; there had been invitations, in which I was included, and life had been relatively easy. In winter, with no cricket, and consequently no invitations — well, matters were getting desperate, and I feared that Raffles would be embroiling me in one of his schemes before too long.

“Did you contact the detective story editor you were chasing?” he asked me. “The man at Criminal Days,

or whatever it’s called?”

“Oh, him! He did a bunk. Must have taken his stories too much to heart. Owed his tailor thousands, and his wine merchant even more, so there seems little prospect of my getting my miserable five guineas.”

“I see.” Raffles looked sidelong at me. “Look here, my Bunny, it is an axiom that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Raffles—”

“Meet me here tomorrow and we’ll have lunch and talk things over.” And with that he ushered me out, deaf to all my bleats of protest.

What could I do? Raffles was right, of course, desperate action was called for, and that meant only one thing, but for all that I cursed Raffles bitterly in my mind as I walked home through the damp, foggy streets. It was a week before Christmas, but there was little enough prospect of any cheer or goodwill for us, unless we returned to our lawless ways. I had not even the wherewithal to buy a decent Christmas lunch for myself, let alone a present for Raffles.

I was at the Albany the following day, and Raffles greeted me with a rueful look on his face. “I tried to ring you, but your telephone isn’t working,” said he.

“Cut off by the Exchange,” I answered shortly.

“I see. Can I break our appointment?” were his next words.

“Oh, by all means. But why?”

For answer, he waved a note at me. “I have been asked to lunch, Bunny, and I’m afraid the invitation does not include you this time.”

“One can hardly expect every invitation to include me, Raffles. Anyone I know, though?” I added, curious.

“You’ll know the name, if not the man. H. H. B. Morgan.”