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

“Good Lord!” I did indeed know the name. H. H. B., or Henry Harrington Barrington Morgan, to give him his full and splendid title, was no relation to the American financial dynasty of the same name, although in his early days he had never bothered to correct the frequently made assumption that he was, an assumption which doubtless did him no harm. There were those who thought that his name was assumed, deliberately chosen to have echoes of that other Henry Morgan who made himself rather a nuisance on the Spanish Main. Certainly H. H. B. had a piratical reputation in financial circles. No one quite knew how he had arrived on the London stage, or where his money came from in the early days — gold and diamonds had been hinted at, though the traders in South African shares denied any knowledge of him — but everyone knew that he now had a controlling interest in the Megalithic Investment Trust Company. He had been the darling of the city a couple of years ago, although his star was now shining a little less brightly than it had once shone. His reputation for adroitness had become a reputation for ruthlessness, and in fact there were one or two rumours circulating which came under the heading “libellous.” A friend of mine with some connections in the Square Mile had shown me the last annual report from the Megalithic earlier that year and shook his head over it. “It looks to be doing well, and the dividend is up again, but half the investments are unquoted,” said he, “and I believe that there is a good proportion of the capital which simply isn’t listed here at all. Don’t tell anyone I said as much, of course,” he added somewhat hastily, “but although the shares are up, personally I wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole.” I assured him that I would not — a promise I could keep without the least difficulty, as my investment portfolio at the time had consisted of five shillings in the post office, a sheet of twopenny stamps, and a sovereign on a 33-1 long shot in the Gold Cup.

Such, then, was the man who had invited Raffles to lunch! “I wonder why?” I mused aloud.

Raffles laughed. “You don’t think he could love me for myself, then, Bunny? Perhaps you are right. Possibly he wants me on the board of the Megalithic, to add a little lustre?”

“There are tales—” I began.

“I have heard them. You may be sure I shall walk carefully, Bunny. But he should give me a decent lunch, if nothing else, and there may well be something else. I’m only sorry you can’t come as well.”

“I’m not! There’s sure to be something else, as you put it, and I suspect it will not be entirely to your advantage, Raffles.”

He laughed at this and assured me again that he would be careful. Then, as it was near the hour of his appointment, he left me, with a promise to meet me at teatime to tell me how things had gone.

I took my own modest luncheon at an ABC teashop and passed a couple of hours looking at the bright displays in the big department stores. As the last of the daylight faded, and the Christmas lights were switched on, I returned to the Albany to find Raffles seated at his ease smoking a fat cigar.

“Courtesy of my host,” he told me, passing me another Havana. “Or perhaps I should say our host, Bunny?”

“Oh? And why that?”

“Because we are invited, you and I both, to pass the Christmas week at Morgan’s house in Oxfordshire.”

“Oh,” was all that I could manage at first. Then, “Why?”

“Ah, there we must enter the realms of speculative philosophy, Bunny. It was, as you may imagine, my own question. His answer? ‘Famous cricketer and his friend lend distinction and perhaps even an air of excitement to the house party,’ and so on and so forth. All very flattering.”

“But specious?”

Raffles frowned. “I should be inclined to think so. I have no illusions, Bunny. We are not invited for ourselves, as a rule, but for our cricket, and there is none at this time of year. The offer may be genuine; he may wish to impress his other guests. Still—” and Raffles shrugged his shoulders, and remained indifferent to any further suggestions on my part. “It should prove interesting, whatever the source of the interest. And he certainly spares no expense when he entertains,” was all he would say.

Despite my reservations, I had no intention of refusing Morgan’s invitation, for I knew I should not get another of the kind — or indeed of any kind! A few days later, then, I met Raffles at the station and we travelled together to Oxfordshire.

Whatever the motive for Morgan’s invitation, I thought, he did us very well. His carriage was there to meet us, and our rooms were everything that one could wish.