Set in the 1930’s, this story was written and originally published in that era.
The Crime of Mr Benson
Benson’s hand trembled on the latch of the gate. It was a very new looking front gate, he noticed even in his agitation, and the garden, or what he could see of it in the faint light of the stars on this evening in 1938, was new looking too, and afforded unpleasantly little cover for a burglar. A burglar! A horrible word, and yet that was what he himself was, or what he would be in a few moments. He lifted the latch, walked through the gate, and tried to stride up the path with a casual air. No light in the house, that was one thing! The street lamp nearly half a block away threw but a few straggling beams through the big trees that guarded the old house next door.
And no dog he had thought, but here was a sniffing and whining that made him quicken his footsteps. Of course! The next door people must own one. The little brute now yapping at the other side of the hedge probably thought himself responsible for both houses, little dogs always did. He hurried, and found himself stumbling up on to the new little porch, felt the crispness of a new doormat under his feet. Ugh! Though it was a chilly night Mr. Benson found the sweat running down the sides of his neck in a tiny hot trickle. He paused to mop his brow with his large clean handkerchief, then replaced it carefully and drew on to his hands a pair of washleather gloves.
There! That was safer. And now for the next step. Bending cautiously over the diamond paned window next to the front door, he tried to loosen the lead with his pocket knife. Much harder this than he had imagined . . . finally his hand slipped and with a faint tinkle the glass hit the polished skirting board inside. Hs stood for a moment, shaking. But no one seemed to hear, and even the little dog next door was silent. Now another piece of glass, and another, ah, now his hand could pass easily through the hole. Silently, with infinite care, he rumbled with some kind of trumpery chain in the dusk, unhooked it, then pulled back the clasp of the door from inside.
He stood quietly inside for a moment, in the warm hush of the little house, smelling the new car-pet on the floors, the new plaster on the walls. This was indeed a newly-weds’ house, he thought grimly. It was the house of his friends, for that matter, or at least the friends of his own nephew, Kenneth. And he was about to steal from them . . . and by a mean old trick which had been used by many a sneak-thief be-fore.
He had sent them by post two days before a couple of tickets for a play, enclosing a card of good wishes signed by an unreadable squiggle of initials. The bait had apparently been taken, and now he had the house to himself. Now he dared to take the torch from his pocket, and flash it low along the hallway. Ah, this was the lounge room, He tiptoed in. his feet noiseless anyway on the carpet.
The torch gleamed like a contemptuous eye for a second on the three piece lounge suite covered in Genoa velvet, the reading lamp and the glass and chrome-steel occasional table. It swung up and around, touched the bookcase with it’s ashtray on top, and it’s few extra books balanced between chromium plated bookends, then once more around, found the mantelpiece, and hesitating, stopped.
There in the place of honour in the centre, was the one thing that made all the rest of the room look cheap and tawdry. On one side was a modern clock, on the other a float bowl full of pansies. Mr. Benson wasted no glances on them. In the centre of the mantelshelf was the thing that had made him forget dignity and honour, even friendship … a glorious Chinese vase, fashioned in the days when a potter might give the best part of his life to the completion of a single masterpiece.
“Famille verte,” murmured Mr Benson to himself. “The finest period. Never thought there was such a thing in this city, haven’t got anything like it in the Museum.”
For a second he gazed at it in silence. Then, greatly daring, he placed his kitbag on the floor, balanced the torch on the seat of the lounge, took the great vase from its place on high, and knelt with it in his hands. The torch, turned on, flashed on the perfection of its glaze, the panel of delicate ornament painted with such sureness of touch by the long-dead artist. Here were the first blossoms of spring poised on their knotted boughs. He stared at them in rapt silence, knowing each brush mark held its symbolism for those who had the clue, while his hands unconsciously caressed the beauty of its form.
And not a mark, not a flaw in it, truly it was a piece such as collectors dream of. If only he could have asked its owners, Kenneth’s young friends, to name their price for it! But, it had been their wedding gift from a wealthy relative, he knew, and Mr Benson, though an ardent collector, had but a small portion of his income to spend on his hobby. He had his house to keep up, his mother to support, and other obligations, for he was a conscientious man, or had been until this moment of overpowering temptation had mastered him. Gazing at the vase the first time he had seen it, he had known that someday, by whatever means, this beauty must be his.
And now it was in his hands, and he could gaze at it with the incredulous wonder of a mother holding her first-born. At last, collecting himself by a great effort he placed it in the kitbag, and packed it safely away. There remained the question of what else to take, to make the theft appear that of a common burglar. Mr Benson selected a brass ashtray, a pair of silver candlesticks (cheap imitations of better stuff) and a Doulton plaque. He rejected a silver cigarette box because of its initials, and the chrome terriers because they were so heavy. The rest he placed cautiously in the bag. Then he snapped it shut, upturned the occasional table to make it appear that the burglar had been disturbed while in action. Picking up the bag in his gloved hands, he left the room.
He unlatched the front door and let himself out into the uncertain light of the little front garden, where half a dozen standard roses curved towards the gate. This time the next-door dog guessed that he was there almost straight away. There was a snuffle on the other side of the old cypress hedge, a furious outburst of barking. A door opened at the back of the next door house.
Mr Benson pressed himself tight into the dark safety of the overhanging hedge, the dusty scent of cypress tickled his nostrils, and for a horrified moment, he thought he was going to sneeze. Then a disgusted voice said, “Cats again.” and the door closed with a bang. Mr Benson stood motionless for a full minute after that, his heart still hammering. A line learnt in his schooldays came back to his memory . .
“Fear at my heart as at a cup, my lifeblood seemed to sip.”
Then he walked on down the path, through the gate and down the street, making by a roundabout way for the safety of his own home.
An hour later, Betty and Stanley, rightful owners of both the vase and the house, clicked open the gate and walked up the path, arm in arm. Laughing and talking, they noticed nothing amiss until Betty’s heel crunched on a small piece of glass in the hall.
“The window!” she exclaimed anxiously when Stanley turned on the light. “Look, Stan, a bit must have fallen out.”
“Fallen? Gosh, Honey, someone’s been in here while we’ve been away, come on quickly and see.”
He broke off abruptly. Coming into the little front room, he turned on the light and they looked around.
“Aunt Bertha’s wedding present!” They gasped in unison. “And our darling silver candlesticks,” added Betty. “Oh, Stan, how could they?”
Half an hour later, having found the full extent of their loss, they were sitting together in one armchair. Actually, they were having a kind of second supper, of “coffee and milk out of a tin” and biscuits, as a kind of reviver after the shock. Betty was discussing the question of the police.
“So you see, darling, you couldn’t possibly leave me here alone while you went for them. And I’m sure I’d never have the nerve to go by myself down that way, this street is fearfully badly lit. And if we both went together the burglars might come back, whoever they are, and get away with something else. So you see it’s ever so much better to wait till morning.”
“You mean the police are less likely to find who took the stuff, if they don’t get a chance to snoop round till then. Gosh, darling, they haven’t a hope anyway, I don’t think. A few things like that could, be taken away in a suitcase, or anything.”
“Whoever it was must have known something about good stuff,” Betty interrupted in turn. “That Doulton plaque now. But as for your Aunt’s vase …”
“I know,’ groaned Stanley. ”Golly, I’ll never forget the day we got the letter from her saying she was sending us something wonderful she’d picked up in an old curiosity shop. And when we opened the case and saw the thing!”
“I tried not to show how disappointed I was,” admitted Betty. “Your Aunty thought it was valuable, the poor old thing, but it couldn’t have been, it was so hideous. And it made the whole room look out of gear, it wasn’t a bit in keeping with anything smart or modern.”
“But we had to keep it bang in the middle of the mantelpiece in case she popped in some day to see where we’d put it,” Stan ruffled his young wife’s hair.
“And everyone who saw it there thought how awful it was!” Betty shook out her curls at the memory. “Except that funny old uncle of Kenny’s. Do you remember him, Stan? Asked who gave it to us and kept looking at it the whole afternoon as if he loved it!”
Stanley grinned. “You should have offered it to the old boy as a gift, if he’d like to take the thing away with him! Better than letting a darned burglar get away with it! But anyhow, we’ve got rid of it now, and that’s the main thing!”
And Stan poured himself out another cup of coffee to celebrate the occasion.
***** End *****
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